My friend.
He landed at Omaha Beach and watched his friends die. He came back to become a union leader, to raise a family, to work, despite the shrapnel in his legs. To slowly go blind, to slowly lose movement in his legs.
To try to find help at the VA. "Well, we can't prove that it's completely service related." Translation: no pension for you.
He sits patiently in his wheelchair in the corridor, waiting for his turn, comforting the younger vets. Of Vietnam, of Korea, of Desert Storm. All so much younger.
Memory so strong: March of 2003. We sit silently watching the invasion of Baghdad. At his insistence, the sound of the sycophants at MSNBC is turned off. Tears roll down his cheeks.
He curses, over and over. He doesn't smile for several days. Finally he smiles, listening to Mike Malloy rail against the war machine. "That boy has it right," he says.
He listens to Kucinich speak of a different world, and we buy a huge DK banner for the front yard, and send what little money is left over. He knows it won't work, but is happy with the gesture. He subsidizes little acts we won't mention now to object to the war quietly, by night. Nothing changes. He speaks less of the past than ever.
Update: I would not honor him properly if I didn't include the union label.