BY GARRET K. WOODWARD
HOT PICKS 1 2 3 4 5
“For ‘Papa’ Jack”
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Smoky Mountain News
The Denture Shop
September 11-17, 2013
He slinked by, turned and glanced at me. “Well, hey there, you must be Jack, eh?” I said to him. He raised his head, strode over to my front porch, and The inaugural Shining Rock Riverfest will be extended a handshake. I had Sept. 14 at Camp Hope in Cruso. heard I was getting a new upstairs neighbor, and there he was standing before me. Poet Karen Kay Knauss will discuss her new Living above me for the better work The Thorny Truth and Their Civil War on part of this year, “Papa” Jack was Sept. 14 in Waynesville. a beautiful, troubled soul. Growing up in Virginia, he got The Pickin’ On The Square summer concert into some mishaps and was series continues with Earl Cowart and the kicked out of his house at age 14. Heart of the South on Sept. 14 in Franklin. From there, he worked in the orange fields in Florida, then Seven Clans Rodeo runs from Sept. 13-15 in enlisted in the Army after more Cherokee. run-ins with the law and eventually became a sharpshooter during Vietnam. The Macon Aero Modelers BBQ will be Sept. “Well, my job was to kill. I did 21-22 in Otto. that, then went to bed, everyday,” he told me through saddened eyes. inhale deeply and exhale while leaning back After the war, he developed severe postinto the musty couch with a sigh. traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), which Before and after becoming a journalist, overtook the latter years of his life, resulting I’d crossed paths with numerous Vietnam in alcoholism and drug abuse. Add that to being a roofer for 30 years and his body paid veterans. Not that their stories are better or worse than those from other wars, but their the price. He’d routinely stop by my porch faces and sentiments stuck out more. They and chat, always wanting to know, “What’s didn’t get a “ticker tape” parade upon in the news today?” returning home or were properly diagnosed The last time we crossed paths, he and I when something went wrong, physically or sat on the porch and shot the bull. We just mentally. They came back and dealt with talked and watched the world drift by. I’ll themselves and their thoughts, many-a-time never forget his eyes, which were full of alone with nobody to turn to. regret and loss. He’d light his cigarette,
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Courtesy of www.warhistoryonline.com I’ve always been an advocate of the phrase, “You may not support the war, but support the troops.” Being 28 years old, from a military family, I’ve seen plenty of my high school classmates enlist and be deployed into Afghanistan and Iraq. Many came home ready to take on the day, while a handful never seemed to ever want to arise from bed again. It’s heartbreaking. “Papa” Jack carried his traumas with him like Tattoos on his chest in faded black ink a bag of weights. He was broken soul among Covering his heart and lungs thousands of similar folks, people we all come Like marks of past transgressions across day in and day out. Recently, I was strolling Main Street in downtown Waynesville And burnt from infinite cigarettes during their Labor Day weekend “Block Party.” In shaky hands and lonely lips Two polished, large sapphire pools My friend Louie approached me. Tucked behind wrinkled flesh “Jack died yesterday, had a heart attack. Permanent lines and creases Dead as a doornail, so I just thought you From rare laughter in a rowdy bar should know,” he said before disappearing From often sorrow in an empty room back into the crowd as fast as he appeared. Another night on sweaty sheets I’ll never forget “Papa” Jack, and I hope, Another night of fear through this poem, that you won’t either… From twilight visions he cannot escape Grab for the bottle The pill The smoke And blur the madness He moved like a man carrying two full suitcases Swaying back and forth, laboring up the stairwell Head upon his pillow Back to his sweaty bed and coffee-stained carpet Eyes upward and out the window Branches sway in southern winds Sheets unwashed due to a lack of quarters One day he won’t wake up alone And lack of energy to make the two-block walk A day he’ll never witness from his empty room And sit there at the coin laundry with faces For he’ll already be in that wooden box As ragged, distraught and demoralized As tattooed skin, wrinkles and creases As what he saw every morning in the mirror And a broken heart Tattoos on his chest of soldiers fallen Will dissolve where only bone remains And remembered by those, and him The common denominator of a man Who was bittersweet about being lucky enough Forgotten by the land he was birthed from To not come home in a wooden box
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