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Welcome to the Work Week:
Sep. 16th, 2013 10:36 am
Sep. 16th, 2013
Life After War Time
Sep. 16th, 2013 09:48 pmSpent the last hour packing all my father's wars from a tiny closet in the den into several plastic tubs in order to store them in mom's attic tomorrow. Here lies marshaled L'Armee Francaise from the 'Age of Eagles'. Platoons of majestic Aztec Jaguar Knights and Eagle Priests from the campaigns of Conquistadors. The proud 93rd Highlanders who served during 1857's Indian Mutiny. The Royal Navy's Grand Fleet at the Battle of Jutland. The history of the world as told in blood, maps and steel - all packed tight for the dark in which they'll rest.
My heart pounded with each book, each set of rules, each package of unpainted 25mm solider, each counter and dice that passed my hand. Sometimes I'd just stand there stupidly flipping through the pages of a book written in French displaying the uniforms of colonial infantry that my father loved to paint or trying to discern the campaign tactics of some long dead baron. The facts were beyond my retaining, what I wanted was some small measure of the man who studied these words, illustrations and atlases of combat. As if I could accidentally hold it the way he did, stumble across a dog-eared page or feel the weight of the tome in my hand a part of him would come back to me. Be here again. Be my father once more, even if only for a second.
But no. Only the smell of old books and an ancient coffee cup stain on a page for a glimpse of the man in whose shadow I travel.
I knew this would be the hardest part of the move. As it is I made sure to do all this while mom was catching up on her shows after a long day of work. She would need to cry, to talk, to drink and reminisce. I'm sorry, but there's been plenty of tears already. My father wasn't one for any of that. He rarely cried but laughed often. He didn't talk to people much, but those few that he did never forgot him or his humor or intelligence. He wasn't much for drinking, disdained it actually, preferring a tightly rolled joint for his evening's indulgence while studying the tactics of Grand Marshal Ney. As for remembering, he was not a man that forgot lightly. All that I know, all that I've learned, all that I've seen and made-up is but a shelf compared to the library he kept in his head.
Both my parents were of exceptional intelligence, I met them halfway with an exceptional imagination to fill in the blanks my impatience denied me. So this boxing of a 100 wars then shall be between us, dad. I won't cry or drink or talk maudlin to another soul tonight. Instead all the world's legions, empires and fleets gather at the foot of my bed to see you off in what was once your den, I salute you.
My heart pounded with each book, each set of rules, each package of unpainted 25mm solider, each counter and dice that passed my hand. Sometimes I'd just stand there stupidly flipping through the pages of a book written in French displaying the uniforms of colonial infantry that my father loved to paint or trying to discern the campaign tactics of some long dead baron. The facts were beyond my retaining, what I wanted was some small measure of the man who studied these words, illustrations and atlases of combat. As if I could accidentally hold it the way he did, stumble across a dog-eared page or feel the weight of the tome in my hand a part of him would come back to me. Be here again. Be my father once more, even if only for a second.
But no. Only the smell of old books and an ancient coffee cup stain on a page for a glimpse of the man in whose shadow I travel.
I knew this would be the hardest part of the move. As it is I made sure to do all this while mom was catching up on her shows after a long day of work. She would need to cry, to talk, to drink and reminisce. I'm sorry, but there's been plenty of tears already. My father wasn't one for any of that. He rarely cried but laughed often. He didn't talk to people much, but those few that he did never forgot him or his humor or intelligence. He wasn't much for drinking, disdained it actually, preferring a tightly rolled joint for his evening's indulgence while studying the tactics of Grand Marshal Ney. As for remembering, he was not a man that forgot lightly. All that I know, all that I've learned, all that I've seen and made-up is but a shelf compared to the library he kept in his head.
Both my parents were of exceptional intelligence, I met them halfway with an exceptional imagination to fill in the blanks my impatience denied me. So this boxing of a 100 wars then shall be between us, dad. I won't cry or drink or talk maudlin to another soul tonight. Instead all the world's legions, empires and fleets gather at the foot of my bed to see you off in what was once your den, I salute you.