As I gardened this weekend, musing about Memorial Day in light of the journey I have been on in the past year and a half, I remembered this. It is a story about my godson, three years ago, when he was eight. We had gone to visit the family and to attend the spring fair at the children’s school. I wrote this a few days after I came home.
“What’s the problem?” Coyote looked up from his novel. Tony Hillerman, I noticed.
I myself was reading about a murder in Savannah, Georgia, and I was keeping track.
“Well, it just seems like some people have a prejudice against them and I am pretty sure it’s not justified.” I was afraid I was picking a fight but I didn’t care. I wanted to get this straightened out.
“Listen to this, for instance,” I continued before Coyote could get a word in. “It’s a sentence in this book I’m reading. ‘This was the hole allegedly made by Danny Hansford during his rampage through the house a month before he was killed.'” Read more
The men sit, brooding, waiting, exhausted. If they are told to do something, they are ready to do it, their equipment close by. Their weapons and personal belongings – is there a distinction? – are bundled into packs. For the moment their helmets are cast aside. The man in the foreground wears what he called a “hard-core hat.” Read more