Spitball Army

A few weeks ago, I noticed that there were an awful lot of black hash marks on my swimming chart. Counting them, I found that I was closing in on one hundred miles.

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“One medium hot tea,” said I. “Our medium’s large.” She showed me a paper jug. “OK, small.” Eight ounces later, I ordered another.

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Where did you serve? I asked. Fort Dix, Fort Bragg in North Carolina, he replied. Mm, I hmmed. He paused. And 476 days in Vietnam.

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Father never spoke of the War, except to show off his appendix scar to impressionable kids, like me, as “where that Jap got me.”

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The crown of the city felt big on his head, but when he examined its fit in the mirror, he saw possibilities for growth. (detail from front cover of Birmingham Weekly, November 5-12, 2009)

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Orange and yellow burst violently from branch tips, with the same fervor as a yank on the bed covers before a long night of sleep.

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