A Window I Knew Well
Sitting. Just Sitting.
Sitting. Just sitting. That’s all a man seems capable of in a place like this. Sure they put you in the commons room to socialize and join in activities, but all it is is just a bunch of sitting. First I sit up in bed, then I sit on the stair lift, then I sit in an overstuffed armchair. After a few hours of checkers or arts and crafts or TV game shows I sit in a wicker deck seat for lunch. Then back to the stair lift and bed for nap time. Wakey wakey back to the armchair for late night TV game shows and supper out on the deck. Then straight to bed and start all over in the morning.
Sitting. Yep, nursing homes do less of nursing you than they do of boring you. The only thing I need nursed is a sore bottom.
I’d been sitting in this god-forsaken home for nearly ten years. I think it surprised the staff that I lasted this long. I should be pushing up daisies by now. But that’s not me. I’m a survivor. I’ll live as long as God wills me to. So I’ll continue to sit till I hear those trumpets sound.
I heard it- the trumpets. It was a Saturday morning and I was sitting by the big bay window (that I knew well) that faces Main Street. I was wondering why the normal noonday traffic was absent when I heard, as clear as day, the blaring start to “Stars and Stripes Forever”.
I was puzzled to no end when a staff member entered the room and announced the local school band was about to march by. I had no idea that it was Memorial Day and the parade was starting. You would think that should have been bigger news. As a veteran myself I was immediately gratified to see the youngsters pay tribute to the community’s service men and women.
Like and eager puppy I waited and listened to the band as it proceeded down the street. My first glimpse of the approaching mass was a splash of red, white, and blue. It was a banner honoring the day being carried by what must have been the two smallest members of the band. They nearly dragged it along while a woman chased after them trying to keep it off the ground.
The band had arrived with baton girls and rifle twirlers. I admired the agility needed to spin and toss and catch such objects. Of course the rifles were not regulation weapons. I would know having spent much of my young life twirling one myself.
I closed my eyes to the festivities and drifted back to that time. It took quite a bit of effort to stay there as it was not a likable experience for me.
I was twenty one the first time I held a rifle. I had little knowledge of guns. I was born and raised a city boy with city thinking and expectations. I never dreamt I’d have to hold a killer in my hands.
The draft took many of my friends and relatives to war but I was the only boy that made it out with scratches. I had taken shrapnel to the face and was carted off to a hospital for treatment. Then I was sitting. Sitting in a hospital bed waiting for bandages to be removed and dreading the news that I had to return to the war.
I spent weeks in that room staring out the small, barred window. I watched men of all ages and injuries carried in and never let out. I came to know that window well enough to despise it. I didn’t want to see ambulances packed to the breaking point, or smoke filled skies, or terrified women and children. I wanted to forget. I wanted the war to be over.
But sadly it wasn’t yet and I was set right as rain and sent back to my duty. I survived the remaining years and returned home to fanfare and parades and “Stars and Stripes Forever”.
I opened my eyes to the afternoon sun shining through the big bay window (that I knew well). The parade was over and the other old folks were going about their routines as usual. I sat up straight and shook my head to be rid of any lingering memories that might try to torture me. Then I went about my own routine of sitting, sitting, and more sitting.
That’s all a man seems capable of in a place like this. And, now that I’ve thought on it, I am perfectly happy to just sit.
Sitting. Yep, nursing homes do less of nursing you than they do of boring you. The only thing I need nursed is a sore bottom.
I’d been sitting in this god-forsaken home for nearly ten years. I think it surprised the staff that I lasted this long. I should be pushing up daisies by now. But that’s not me. I’m a survivor. I’ll live as long as God wills me to. So I’ll continue to sit till I hear those trumpets sound.
I heard it- the trumpets. It was a Saturday morning and I was sitting by the big bay window (that I knew well) that faces Main Street. I was wondering why the normal noonday traffic was absent when I heard, as clear as day, the blaring start to “Stars and Stripes Forever”.
I was puzzled to no end when a staff member entered the room and announced the local school band was about to march by. I had no idea that it was Memorial Day and the parade was starting. You would think that should have been bigger news. As a veteran myself I was immediately gratified to see the youngsters pay tribute to the community’s service men and women.
Like and eager puppy I waited and listened to the band as it proceeded down the street. My first glimpse of the approaching mass was a splash of red, white, and blue. It was a banner honoring the day being carried by what must have been the two smallest members of the band. They nearly dragged it along while a woman chased after them trying to keep it off the ground.
The band had arrived with baton girls and rifle twirlers. I admired the agility needed to spin and toss and catch such objects. Of course the rifles were not regulation weapons. I would know having spent much of my young life twirling one myself.
I closed my eyes to the festivities and drifted back to that time. It took quite a bit of effort to stay there as it was not a likable experience for me.
I was twenty one the first time I held a rifle. I had little knowledge of guns. I was born and raised a city boy with city thinking and expectations. I never dreamt I’d have to hold a killer in my hands.
The draft took many of my friends and relatives to war but I was the only boy that made it out with scratches. I had taken shrapnel to the face and was carted off to a hospital for treatment. Then I was sitting. Sitting in a hospital bed waiting for bandages to be removed and dreading the news that I had to return to the war.
I spent weeks in that room staring out the small, barred window. I watched men of all ages and injuries carried in and never let out. I came to know that window well enough to despise it. I didn’t want to see ambulances packed to the breaking point, or smoke filled skies, or terrified women and children. I wanted to forget. I wanted the war to be over.
But sadly it wasn’t yet and I was set right as rain and sent back to my duty. I survived the remaining years and returned home to fanfare and parades and “Stars and Stripes Forever”.
I opened my eyes to the afternoon sun shining through the big bay window (that I knew well). The parade was over and the other old folks were going about their routines as usual. I sat up straight and shook my head to be rid of any lingering memories that might try to torture me. Then I went about my own routine of sitting, sitting, and more sitting.
That’s all a man seems capable of in a place like this. And, now that I’ve thought on it, I am perfectly happy to just sit.