1950
by Edward Palumbo

The ample, red bench seat nestled Tommy’s tiny frame. The pickup coursed over the dirt road that linked a half dozen gray farmhouses and a trail of dust marked the passage. Eddy approached a rise and he increased his speed in effort to negotiate the incline as well as to give Tommy a brief thrill.

"This is like riding in an air-o-plane,” Tommy said with a smile.

“You been in an airplane, boy?"

“No, sir, but I can imagine it."

“Imagination is a good thing,” Eddy replied, “don’t ever let her get away. No matter how old you might get, don’t ever lose that."

“Mama says you been in an airplane lotsa times—in the war."

“That’s right.”

“And that you was a hero.”

Eddy peered out the driver’s window if for no other reason than to avoid the child’s gaze.

“I don’t know if I was a hero,” Eddy said, “just a man in a bad time who had to do his job and he did it. I didn’t like what I had to do, but I did it.”

“Was you scared, Uncle Eddy?”

“When I went in the Navy, I didn’t have a gray hair on my head. When I came out, I was as gray as a ghost. I suppose fear did that. I’m not the man I was when I went in the service. Never will be that man again."

“Mama says you got medals and such, will you show me some time?”

“Yes,” Eddy promised, “yes I will.”

“Mama has my daddy’s medals, but she only showed me them once or twice. She doesn’t like to show them.”

“Well, your mama knows what is best.”

“Was my daddy a hero?” Tommy asked. 

 “Yes, son—yes he was.”

“Mama says my daddy was handsome, but that you’re the most handsome man she ever laid eyes on.”

“She’s knows her business,” Eddy conceded,“anyway, I wouldn’t argue her the point.”

Tommy laughed and slapped his thigh. The boy sat up, as they passed a horse farm. 

“Will you teach me to ride a horse some day, Uncle Eddy?”

“I don’t mind. I don’t mind at all.”