I clutched the small key in my right hand for comfort. As much as I squeezed it, I did not feel any better. He did not look like I had remembered. His face no longer retained that glow the sun kissed him with and I could not see the smile that was always on his face. I tried to look for it as I stared for minutes just at his lips, praying that I had somehow missed it. I hadn’t. To this day my mother claims it was there, but I cannot seem to remember. “That’s not him,” I tried to convince myself. He was neither the man I admired nor the man I tried so hard to make proud. I had attempted to repeat this to myself over and over for as long as I could, but the more I looked the more real it became. He did not seem sad, but I wanted to comfort him anyway. All I wanted was to wrap my arms around him and never let go. He never let me hug him like that, I wished so badly I could go back in time for one last embrace. He was taken from me and everyone else. I reached for his hands. They were so cold. As I placed my warm hands on top of his, it sent a shock through me, a shock that interrupted my denial. I knew it was him and all I could do was cry. Last summer, this day seemed out of reach. Benny Goodman’s notes filled the air from the tired radio on the corner of the porch. The smell of freshly boiled corn,
cucumbers soaked in vinegar, and some sort of pork permeated through the walls of the small cement house. There was a faint sound of shoes tapping along to the music. One pair of brown tattered work boots moved especially well and slow to the music, while another pair of worn out loafers matched its exact steps. I admired those shoes and watched them every summer since I could remember. Every year, the steps got slower, but the rhythm that the shoes held never failed. I could watch that forever, I thought to myself. The man with the brown tattered shoes danced towards me, grabbed my small fragile hands and proceeded to teach me the fox trot. I remember telling him how old his hands felt; he only laughed and continued to dance. “BANG!” The first gunshot sounded like the thunder that roared and shook the house during summer storms. I clung to my mother just as I had clung to the old man in the tattered boots so many times before. The first time I heard thunder, my little size 4 feet ran frantically around the small cement house. I was screaming until the man knelt down to my level and grabbed my hand. My yelling ceased immediately. He led me to the kitchen, picked me up, and set me down on a wooden chair far too large for me. He proceeded to walk to the fridge and grab the vanilla ice cream that was tightly packed into a box and some A&W Root Beer. I watched him as he slowly scooped two scoops of vanilla into a cup and then topped it off with the A&W. He slid it across the counter and it ended up perfectly in my cupped hands. “I’m scared,” I whimpered. “It’s just a root beer float! No need to be afraid of that,” he joked. “No of the banging coming from outside!”
“As long as I’m with you and even when I’m not, I’ll never let that noise or anything else hurt you.” I nodded and then gulped down the remainder of the root beer. There was a reassurance I felt from his words, and from that moment on I knew even when I was not with him, he would always be looking out for me. “BANG!” The second shot was fired. It made me think of how little he talked about the war. It was something he never talked about and something we knew not to bring up. I asked my grandmother why we never discussed the war. She told me that, “the war changes men. Men of that generation never talk about the war. He came home when the war was over and did not say anything about it, and I did not care. I was just glad he was home safe.” I understood what she meant, but I still wanted to know more about the man in the tattered work boots. I knew him for many years, yet did not know anything about him. One day in August, we drove through the paths woven in the fields of fresh Iowa corn. The paths were covered in dead corn that we ignored and drove over anyway. The corn created a barrier to the outside world. It was just me, the man and the tattered boots, and the rows of corn that blocked us in. As we drove without hurry through the corn, I asked him why he never talked about it. He took time with his answer; he slowed down the car and brought it to a complete stop. “It was a horrible time, and it just makes me sad,” he admitted quietly, “why should I be sad when I have so much to be happy about? Some things are better left in the past so you can enjoy the things happening around you in the present.” I digested this as we retraced our path through the corn in silence. I listened to the wheels kick up the dirt and occasionally a few rocks. His hands moved slowly, he turned the wheel of the tractor without haste and effortlessly. I
regretted asking this question immediately, but it did not seem to affect him like it did me. I kept glancing over at him and to my surprise every time I looked he was smiling. He was not upset or angry. He just sat there, pleased. How on earth could this man be happy when I just asked him such an upsetting question? As the tractor slowly pulled up in front of the cement house on the cement driveway the man rustled my hair from the drivers seat. I knew he was trying to rid of my guilt. He leaned over and said, “kid, you’re the first person to ask me that question for a long time.” I tentatively sat in the tractor awaiting the tongue- lashing I expected to receive. “I saw many men die…many men that were my friends, many men that weren’t.” “I’m sorry,” I managed to mutter under my breath. I meant it. The pain in his voice was unlike anything I had ever heard. In my lifetime I never heard this man yell or show any emotion besides joy. I wanted to cry and tell him I was there for him. But he was stronger than I gave him credit for. He did not need a hug or an apology. I waited to hear more, but he just sat there with a slight smirk. I got off of the tractor and thanked him for the ride. We never spoke of it ever again. The third “bang” sounded like the backfire of his three- wheeler. It was as old as he was. It was known as the “The Truckster” for as long as I could remember. It was a hunter green and had several chips on its left side. The seats you could tell used to be a nice fabric. When I climbed into the front seat the grey cushions were covered in rips and tares. Yellow foam had clearly shown through the fabric and there were traces of mud stains all over them. I gripped the steering wheel with two hands. I had never driven in my life, let alone driven a stick shift. My knuckles turned white as I squeezed the wheel. The man in the tattered boots climbed into the passenger seat. He handed
me the key to “The Truckster”. It was small and tarnished. There were scratches all over it and dirt that wouldn’t seem to rub off. Shaking, I put the key into the ignition and turned it. He began walking me through the steps of how to work a stick shift. He explained when to use the different gears and how it is more fun than driving an automatic. I did my best to retain everything he was relaying to me. Tentatively I pushed the clutch in. I flinched followed every move I made. My foot pressed on the break and I moved my right arm to put it into the first gear. The small green vehicle was moving! I made “The Truckster” move! As I tried to follow through with the steps, I messed up and lost control of the three- wheeler. He shouted orders at me and I did my best to take charge of the vehicle. It spun out of control. I let go of the wheel and the car plummeted straight into the pristine rows of corn. One row, two rows, three rows and so on of corn collapsed right under the wheels of “The Truckster.” I shielded my eyes from the debris and so did he. I screamed the whole way through. It finally came to a stop at the end of the hill. Tears started streaming down my face. I had just cost him hundreds of dollars worth of corn. Cautiously I looked over at him, the man in the tattered boots clutched his stomach and let out a huge laugh. I apologized profusely, but he could not stop laughing. “Stop laughing!” I tried not to let out a giggle. “I’m serious! I feel horrible.” While laughing he reached into the back of the vehicle without looking and pulled out two glass bottles of Coca Cola. He twisted the caps off without difficulty and shoved one into my hands. “You could use a drink,” he said as he kicked up his feet on the hood of the threewheeler. He rested his head back on the old fabric seats and sipped his soda. We sat
there for at least an hour, laughing and joking about my poor driving skills. After that, we got up and began to walk through the “Rebecca-made path.” He put his arm around my shoulder and gave me a little squeeze. This only lasted for a few seconds, but it felt great. I felt a small push the next morning, but I chose to ignore it. More shoves came after the first one and I ignored those as well. The next thing I felt was cold and wet. I jumped up from bed completely drenched in water. I wiped my eyes vigorously to regain my eyesight that was lost after hours of uninterrupted sleep. Once I could see clearly, I realized the man was standing over me with an empty glass of water and a massive grin. “We’re going driving,” he whispered excitedly. I glanced around still in a daze and saw that everyone else was still fast asleep. “This early?” I asked in disbelief. “It’s only six, get up! I’ll meet you in the garage in five minutes.” Groggy, I threw on the first pair of jeans and work boots I could find and stumbled into the cold garage. He was sitting patiently in the passenger seat and once he saw me enter the room he patted the drivers seat several times until I finally made my way to the death seat. “I’m not giving up on you, by seven o’clock this morning you will be able to drive.” I put the old key into the ignition and pushed the clutch in and left the driveway. He did not let me down. By 6:50 am, I drove like a seasoned professional. When we pulled back into the driveway, he patted me on the back and sent me into catch up on the hour of sleep I missed out on. He stopped me before I had reached the door and tossed me the old key.
“You earned this one, I have plenty more copies. Think of it as a souvenir.” He chucked. I smiled and went to crawl back into the warm bed. I held the sheets close to my face. “I did it,” I thought to myself. The men in uniform shot their rifles 18 more times. The pain intensified with every shot. Uncontrollable tears poured out of my eyes and the eyes of everyone around me. The final gun sound reminded me of the last time I saw him. We were standing outside of the cement house on the cement driveway. The warm wind was blowing heavily and the air smelled like summer. The sun was shining brightly on all of us and goodbyes were loudly being said inside the house. The man in the tattered boots grabbed me by the shoulders and said “Whatever you’re doing, just keep on doing it.” Those were the last words I heard him say. I knew he was proud of me. I hugged him goodbye and ran to the car to head to the airport. I glanced out the back window of the car as we pulled out and watched him fade away. “Say your final goodbye” my mother said to me and pushed me in the line. My sobs were loud and wounded. It was my time to say goodbye. I looked at the man one last time and reached for his hands. I gently placed mine on top of his. They were so cold. I knelt down next to his ear and managed to control my tears. In the mist of my pain, I had a moment of clarity. I looked at him one last time. He looked peaceful and happy, just like I had left him that summer. I clutched the key one last time and then slipped the key I was holding into his hands. I knew he was the one that earned it. I did not need it anymore. “I love you grandpa,” I whispered to him as I let go of his hands.
A few minutes later the casket was shut. I sat in the church, only left with my memories.