“Sir! You takin’ pictures?”
Indeed I was. It was the 4th of July. Boston has the Marathon on Patriot’s Day. Little Rock has the Firecracker Fast 5K on Independence Day. The race is so named because the course is almost completely downhill. The longest stretch of it rolls through Van Buren Street as it meanders its way through the main artery in the People’s Republic of Hillcrest down to War Memorial Stadium at the bottom of the hill. Due to bad back, my running days are confined to a treadmill nowadays. But if I am in town on the 4th, I like to stand out on Van Buren and take pictures of the runners and endure my alleged friends while they taunt me as they pass by my house.
The race was over when I heard the call. The young man that had called out to me and his companion were hoofing it back up to The Heights along with hundreds of other runners. They walked over to where I was standing. Young black guys. We shook hands.
“This is my brother,” he said. “I’m in the service, and I came here to Little Rock to see him before I get deployed,” he said. “Would you take a picture of us? It sure would mean a lot to me, Sir.”
“Why, hell yes I’ll take your picture, Son,” I said.
I have become avuncular in my dotage. I address all young men as “Son.”
Turn and face the light. Arms around each other’s shoulders. Smiles. Click.
“You work for the paper?” the soldier asked. “You got a website where I can get a copy of this to put in my phone? I really want this picture. I want to look at it when I get over there.”
At that point, his brother produced a Smartphone. I gave him my email address. He typed it in. He told me he would send me an email. I told him I would send their image back.
“Thank you, Sir,” said the soldier as he shook my hand. “I really appreciate it.”
“No. It was my honor to do it.”
I put my left hand on his shoulder. I drew my face closer to his.
“Thank you for your service, Son. Thank you and good luck.”
Damn it,” I thought as they walked off. “Why do they have to be so young?”
But my own father was even younger than this kid when he got a free trip to the Pacific Theatre courtesy of the United States Navy during World War II. Like most guys who saw serious stuff, he didn’t talk about it much. He was a Seabee. He went in behind the Marines after they took over the Islands. The Seabees built airstrips and put up telephone poles. My father climbed the damn things with a machine gun hanging off of him.
Buck told me this as well. He told me that, in times of peril, perils he wouldn’t describe, he would reach into his pocket and pull out the key to his home back in Indiana. He said he would look at it to remind him of home.
“I would stare at that key,” he said. “And I would tell myself how happy I would be to go back home.”
I got the email from the soldier’s brother. I attached the picture and hit “send.”
Here’s what I got back: “Thank you very much! Enjoy your Holiday Weekend! God Bless and Godspeed!” This was consistent with what I have been made to understand about military correspondence. They like to use exclamation points.
I was just glad that I was in the right place at the right time. I’m also glad that Nikon makes a really good auto-focus. It’s hard to see what you are doing when there are tears in your shooting eye.
“God bless and Godspeed to you, young fella,” I replied when I hit send again.
I am just a civilian. I never wore the uniform. But my dad was a vet. And he told me how a key in his pocket gave him hope. I hope that, like the key to my father’s house, the picture I took that day gave the young man a happy memory of being with his brother back in Little Rock.
I took that kid’s picture on the 4th of July.
Thank you, Son. And thank you, Buck.
Thank you from the bottom of my heart.