[Ohio-Communities-of-Faith] FW: A Time For Heroes

Sun May 30 16:59:55 UTC 2021

From: Larry Perry [mailto:larryperry at performancepress.ccsend.com] On Behalf Of Larry Perry
Sent: Sunday, May 30, 2021 12:11 PM
To: mmoore11 at kent.edu
Subject: EXT: A Time For Heroes

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Letter from Larry

Sunday

May 30, 2021

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Good Sunday Afternoon Everyone:

Tomorrow is Memorial Day...a day in the United States that we celebrate and 

honor those who have lost their lives in service to our freedoms and our country.

Today's story honors those and their families.

***

A Time for Heroes

I leaned against an oak at the side of the road, wishing I were invisible,

keeping my distance from my parents on their lawn chairs and my

younger siblings scampering about.

I hoped none of my friends saw me there. God forbid they caught me

waving one of the small American flags Mom bought at Woolworth's 

for a dime. At 16, I was too old and definitely too cool for our small 

town's Memorial Day parade.

I ought to be at the lake, I brooded. But, no, the all-day festivities were

mandatory in my family.

A high school band marched by, the girl in sequins missing her baton 

as it tumbled from the sky. Firemen blasted sirens in their polished 

red trucks. The uniforms on the troop of World War II veterans looked

too snug on more than one member.

"Here comes Mema," my father shouted.

Five black convertibles lumbered down the boulevard. The mayor was 

in the first, handing out programs. I didn't need to look at one. I knew

my uncle Bud's name was printed on it, as it had been every year since

he was killed in Italy. Our family's war hero.

And I knew that perched on the backseat of one of the cars, waving

and smiling, was Mema, my grandmother. She had a corsage on her

lapel and a sign in gold embossed letters on the car door: "Gold Star 

Mother."

I hid behind the tree so I wouldn't have to meet her gaze. It wasn't because

I didn't love her or appreciate her. She'd taught me how to sew, to call

a strike in baseball. She made great cinnamon rolls, which we always

ate after the parade.

What embarrassed me was all the attention she got for a son who had

died 20 years earlier. With four other children and a dozen grandchildren,

why linger over this one long-ago loss?

I peeked out from behind the oak just in time to see Mema wave and

blow my family a kiss as the motorcade moved on. The purple ribbon 

on her hat fluttered in the breeze.

The rest of our Memorial Day ritual was equally scripted. No use trying

to get out of it. I followed my family back to Mema's house, where there

was the usual baseball game in the backyard and the same old reminiscing

about Uncle Bud in the kitchen.

Helping myself to a cinnamon roll, I retreated to the living room and 

plopped down on an armchair.

There I found myself staring at the Army photo of Bud on the bookcase.

The uncle I'd never known. I must have looked at him a thousand 

times—so proud in his crested cap and knotted tie. His uniform was 

decorated with military emblems that I could never decode.

Funny, he was starting to look younger to me as I got older. Who were

you, Uncle Bud? I nearly asked aloud.

I picked up the photo and turned it over. Yellowing tape held a prayer 

card that read: "Lloyd 'Bud' Heitzman, 1925-1944. A Great Hero." 

Nineteen years old when he died, not much older than I was. But a great

hero? How could you be a hero at 19?

The floorboards creaked behind me. I turned to see Mema coming in

from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron.

I almost hid the photo because I didn't want to listen to the same stories

I'd heard year after year: "Your uncle Bud had this little rat-terrier named

Jiggs. Good old Jiggs. How he loved that mutt! He wouldn't go anywhere

without Jiggs. He used to put him in the rumble seat of his Chevy

coupe and drive all over town.

"Remember how hard Bud worked after we lost the farm? At haying 

season he worked all day, sunrise to sunset, baling for other farmers. 

Then he brought me all his wages. He'd say, 'Mama, someday I'm going

to buy you a brand-new farm. I promise.' There wasn't a better boy in the 

world!"

Sometimes I wondered about that boy dying alone in a muddy ditch

in a foreign country he'd only read about. I thought of the scared kid 

who jumped out of a foxhole in front of an advancing enemy, only to be 

downed by a sniper. I couldn't reconcile the image of the boy and his dog

with that of the stalwart soldier.

Mema stood beside me for a while, looking at the photo. From outside 

came the sharp snap of an American flag flapping in the breeze and the 

voices of my cousins cheering my brother at bat.

"Mema," I asked, "what's a hero?" Without a word she turned and walked 

down the hall to the back bedroom. I followed.

She opened a bureau drawer and took out a small metal box, then sank 

down onto the bed.

"These are Bud's things," she said. "They sent them to us after he died." 

She opened the lid and handed me a telegram dated October 13, 1944. 

"The Secretary of State regrets to inform you that your son, Lloyd Heitzman,

was killed in Italy."

Your son! I imagined Mema reading that sentence for the first time. I didn't

know what I would have done if I'd gotten a telegram like that.

"Here's Bud's wallet," she continued. Even after all those years, it was

caked with dried mud. Inside was Bud's driver's license with the date

of his sixteenth birthday. I compared it with the driver's license I had

just received.

A photo of Bud holding a little spotted dog fell out of the wallet. Jiggs. 

Bud looked so pleased with his mutt.

There were other photos in the wallet: a laughing Bud standing arm in 

arm with two buddies, photos of my mom and aunt and uncle, another 

of Mema waving. This was the home Uncle Bud took with him, I thought.

I could see him in a foxhole, taking out these snapshots to remind himself

of how much he was loved and missed.

"Who's this?" I asked, pointing to a shot of a pretty dark-haired girl.

"Marie. Bud dated her in high school. He wanted to marry her when 

he came home." A girlfriend? Marriage? How heartbreaking to have a

life, plans and hopes for the future, so brutally snuffed out.

Sitting on the bed, Mema and I sifted through the treasures in the box:

a gold watch that had never been wound again. A sympathy letter 

from President Roosevelt, and one from Bud's commander. A medal

shaped like a heart, trimmed with a purple ribbon. And at the very 

bottom, the deed to Mema's house.

"Why's this here?" I asked.

"Because Bud bought this house for me." She explained how after his

death, the U.S. government gave her 10 thousand dollars, and with it 

she built the house she was still living in.

"He kept his promise all right," Mema said in a quiet voice I'd never 

heard before.

For a long while the two of us sat there on the bed. Then we put the 

wallet, the medal, the letters, the watch, the photos and the deed back

into the metal box. I finally understood why it was so important for 

Mema—and me—to remember Uncle Bud on this day.

If he'd lived longer he might have built that house for Mema or married

his high-school girlfriend. There might have been children and 

grandchildren to remember him by.

As it was, there was only that box, the name in the program and the

reminiscing around the kitchen table.

"I guess he was a hero because he gave everything for what he believed," 

I said carefully.

"Yes, child," Mema replied, wiping a tear with the back of her hand. 

"Don't ever forget that."

I haven't. Even today with Mema gone, my husband and I take our 

lawn chairs to the tree-shaded boulevard on Memorial Day and give 

our three daughters small American flags that I buy for a dollar at 

Walmart.

I want them to remember that life isn't just about getting what you 

want. Sometimes it involves giving up the things you love for what 

you love even more. That many men and women did the same for

their country—that's what I think when I see the parade pass by now.

And if I close my eyes and imagine, I can still see Mema in her regal

purple hat, honoring her son, a true American hero.

*****

May God Bless and keep you and yours and remember all 

those who gave their lives for us!!!

Larry

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