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He had been there, contemplating, for two hours or, ignoring the chill and watching the day unfold. How he hated this Sunday each year, hated the march of veterans, but was drawn in some morbid fascination annually. Each year, he observed the file of crippled soldiers, long since passed their usefulness to a society, doing it's best to forget for the other three hundred and sixty four days, except in the glorified films of heroic deeds with John Wayne, or another popular actor, leading a squad of crack troopers into an impossible confrontation, overwhelming odds, somehow beaten at the loss of one or two, good men. The silver screen could not convey the disease, shit, fear and boredom of warfare.He had watched the ruins of buildings rebuilt, almost in unseemly haste, as if to purge the lingering scars of destruction from sight, from memory. Mental scars could not be expunged from the mind so easily. Time is the only healer, and that, not very successful.Every year, the ever dwindling. She knows the registrar of deeds,” I informed him.“I’ve already arranged to give it to her. It would be better, if I have mom do it. That way I can swear you never had it in your possession,” John said.“Okay,” I said. I missed the days when two men shook hands and wrote contracts on scraps of notebook paper.That morning started a couple of weeks of decision making, and bleeding cash. After two weeks in which I had a new roof put on my new home at a cost of $1,110 cash. Then it was a gas burner installed in an old pot bellied wood stove I found stored under the building. It wasn’t going to be the most efficient, but it would do for a while. That little bit of nostalgia was another $500. I paid it to a guy I busted for making liquor two years before. In the winter time he refitted wood stoves, so it was a no brainer. Then there was the portable 15,000 btu electric air conditioner. The unit was over $400 and it required an electrical update another $550.Then there was the kitchen and.
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