c. 2026 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(4-26)
Evergreen Estates was not a neighborhood populated by trendy, stylish residents like some of the more affluent communities along Lake Erie. It was a trailer enclave known for gritty, blue-collar folk, with few resources, and little formal education. Yet an ability to innovate and adapt in an environment shaped by hardship and sacrifice. But as reports of conflict in the Middle East echoed from television sets and radios, around the rural development, a sense of patriotic fervor took hold. Yard signs soon dotted the streets, with crude slogans that used four-letter words. Flags of all kinds flew at nearly every home. Either the venerable Stars & Stripes, or other ensigns such as the Gadsden standard, Gonzalez, Pine Tree, or repurposed Confederate adaptations. There was a sense that should any enemy invade the perimeter of this crumbling property, they would immediately be thrashed in a righteous fit of American rage.
But at the lot occupied by Darden Polanski, none of these signature emblems were present. Most inhabitants of the distant oasis assumed that he was among the oldest of their number. A fact not confirmed by numerical evidence, but supported through the retelling of tales about serving in Vietnam. A habit for which he was well known.
With the summer holidays drawing nearer, and weather patterns at last beginning to turn more hospitable, the ritualistic parade of off-road motorcycles, four-wheelers, and big-tired Jeep varieties had begun. A clatter of mechanical motion could be heard, from sunrise to sunset. With an inevitable tilt toward consuming budget brews that were light on flavor, yet easy to afford. Or cheap liquor, CBD gummies, and other contraband substances.
By the evening, sobriety anywhere in the park was rare.
The seasoned veteran enjoyed resting on his homemade deck. A platform literally constructed from discarded pallets, acquired at a warehouse where one of his grandsons was employed. The raised, flat space had redwood rails along its sides, and a tarp hanging overhead. To provide shade during hot days, and keep rain at bay when storms passed through the area.
He had been outside for only a few minutes, with a pitcher of sun tea, when a lifted, three-quarter ton Chevrolet pickup truck blew diesel exhaust across his driveway. At the wheel, a young buck with many tattoos and a shaved head honked the horn frantically. His amusement took on an edge of agitation, while leaning out of the driver’s window.
A sticker in the back window boasted with confidence about manhood and independence.
“I’m from the Heartland, I don’t dial 911!”
With a grin that exposed gapped teeth, he shouted for attention.
“OLD MAN! ALL YA DO IS SIT THERE, DAY AFTER DAY! GAWDAMN! WE’RE HAVIN’ A PIG ROAST UP BY THE MAINTENANCE GARAGE! IT’S GONNA BE A GOOD TIME, C’MON OVER! WE’LL BE HAVIN’ SOME TARGET PRACTICE WITH RAGHEAD DUMMIES HANGIN’ BY A ROPE! HAW HAW HAW! BRING ONE OF YER RIFLES, IT’LL BE A HOOT! WE’RE GONNA BUST THOSE FREAKS RIGHT IN THE CHOPS! I SAY, ‘KILL ‘EM ALL!’”
Darden felt his gut begin to churn. He had no interest in playing games with the junior kid. Instead of offering a verbal reply, he simply nodded and raised his glass.
Pastor Cabe Forester from the Church of Our Lord Jesus in Heaven, on their township square, spoke at the beginning of the community gathering. He offered a prayer as the crowd lowered their heads, in unison.
“Father, we are in a time of great challenges. But you have gifted us with leaders in Washington who are wise and just, and willing to pursue your holy cause. We ask that you bless and protect them. Give them wisdom as they go forward. And keep them strong in Christian faith! Amen!”
Gunfire rocked the concourse, by their park office. Country music blared loudly from speakers in the garage. Hog meat and potato salad filled paper plates that waited for hungry revelers. But the old vet kept his distance. He preferred the solitude of his hillbilly singlewide. And the taste of tea spiked with a lemon wedge, and a splash of Kentucky bourbon.
Later that night, the youthful rebel reappeared with his red, jacked-up rig. He had managed to pilfer drinks from coolers brought to the roast by other residents. Despite being underage and out of work.
“WHAT’S UP GRAMPS? YA STILL SITTIN’ ON YER ASS OVER THERE? I FIGURE YER NOT INTO HAVIN’ FUN. BUT WHAT’S WORSE IS I DON’T SEE NO FLAGS ON YER PORCH. NO SIGNS IN YER YARD. YA DON’T COME TA COOKOUTS, OR CHURCH FUNCTIONS. WHAT THE FRIG, MAN? I THINK YA GOT A STICK UP YER ASS!”
Darden was dressed in camouflage attire, faded from years of being worn. His beard carried many strands of gray and white. He was shaggy and callused, and stooped over with disability canes. When he stood up, prosthetic limbs came into view, below his knees. A permanent reminder of having answered the call of his nation, in the 1960s.
In his hand was a tattered copy of the VVA Ritual Book. A manual of prayers and services published for those like himself, who had served and survived, to honor the memories of their fellow warriors.
“Son, do you know anything about combat? About fighting a real war? About losing your brothers and sisters in arms, one by one, to enemy fire? About burying the best and brightest of your generation? About the sorrow and sadness of realizing that you might never get home again?”
The undisciplined yob snorted and spun the wheels of his rig, sending a cloud of smoke and debris into the air. He was unimpressed and disinterested.
“AWW, SHUT UP GRANDDAD! YER BEIN’ A DAMN WHINER! I’D BE GLAD TA GO OVERSEAS AND KICK SOME ASS! BELIEVE ME, SHIT WOULD GET REAL, MIGHTY FAST!”
The wizened veteran opened his volume, and found a passage written to commemorate fallen heroes, at a funeral.
“In the rising of the sun and in its going down, we remember them.
In the blowing of the wind and in the chill of winter, we remember them.
In the opening of buds and in the rebirth of spring, we remember them.
In the blueness of the skies and in the warmth of the summer, we remember them.
In the rustling of the leaves and in the beauty of autumn, we remember them.
In the beginning of the year and when it ends, we remember them.
When we are weary and in need of strength, we remember them.
When we are lost and sick at heart, we remember them.
When we have joys and special celebrations we yearn to share, we remember them.
When we see our nation’s young marching behind our flag, or hear ‘taps’ played, we remember them.
So long as we live, they too shall live, for they are part of us. And when we answer the final roll, we know that they will fulfill their duty, and greet us with the words of compassion and friendship, peace and love: ‘Welcome home!’”
Inexplicably, this memorial moment struck a resonant chord. Silence stilled the stifling bellow of black exhaust. Without another word of protest, the rebellious kid hung his head, shifted the truck into gear, and drove away.
Darden closed his book, and folded both hands.
“Amen.”
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