VETERAN’S DAY—IT IS cool, clear. The sky is not crying. It is dawn. It is nearly a year. I have four small flags with me, maybe six-by-ten inches, on small wooden dowels. Would it in some way have defiled them, those who served, had I brought up eight, one for each grave?
There’s a sugarbush over the west ridge there. Can you imagine that spirit, that hope and trust which is optimism. I am the spirit, the will. I can control the will, see, read, taste the wind. From up here with the sun rising at your back you can see most of the place—the pond, so peaceful; the big barn and the small, the house, still unfinished; the vineyard, the high meadow, the knoll and orchard and cliff and dam. Out that way is the drive with the gate and the hinges I forged that first winter when I didn’t want to speak to anyone. Over the hills, down there, is the town. You can see the breaks in the trees though without their leaves the breaks are less distinct. The first one is the Old Mill, then the New Mill, then the warehouse area down by the river. And you can see the steeples, the square one of St. Ignatius. Across the river, in what used to be Hobo Hollow, is the mall, then South Hill, New New Town, Old New Town, Creek’s Bend, and way up to the left the Kinnard/Chassion plant. Out to the right is the old steel truss bridge. The White Pines Inn with its small array of solar collectors is just downriver.
The town sure has changed in the years since I first came to High Meadow, has changed greatly since the years of my boyhood. Still, perhaps it has not changed as much as the country. The entire perspective, the ideals, the hopes and projections ... Perhaps that is why I’m here. To carry it forward ... for you, Bobby, back here behind me. Next to Grandpa. And your grandmother. And with ol’ Josh here with you, too.
Robert Janos Wapinski died 14 December 1983 at 5:57 A.M., less than an hour before first light, less than a year ago. I accompanied his body back, stayed with him through the wake, the funeral, the burial. We put him in the ground on Sunday the 18th, lowered him with his grandpa and grandma on one side and his aunt on the other. The two workers and Ty and Kenneth Moshler, who’d been crushed by that panel truck, and Josh, too, are in the row behind them. The sky didn’t cry that day, either, but Noah did. Noah sobbed for days. He was angry, hurt. He took it out on Sara. “He needed you. Why didn’t he need me?”
Paulie reacted differently. He didn’t cry at all. He barely spoke except I heard him say to Noah, “Please don’t cry.” Maybe he said it to me. “It scares me when you cry.”
Am cried. Not like Noah. She clung to Sara. It really was too much to expect of her, to be there, to understand. We too. Isn’t that the origin, the nest, of rites and rituals?
Bobby’s funeral was really something. I did not let happen to me what happened when Jimmy died. I’ve grown, I guess. The will that died with Jimmy survived him to die with Bobby yet it survives him and lives on in you and me. There must have been four hundred people there. Six of us, the core group, Van Deusen, Gallagher, Mariano, Wagner, Denahee and I, carried the flag-draped pine coffin up the hill, with Father Tom Niederkau, and the deacons, the altar boys, family, extended families, vets, friends, even a TV crew from Channel Five all trailing.
Father Tom was eloquent.
In death there is life. In dying we are reborn. Evidence of the resurrection is less in the stories of the Bible than in every blade of grass that browns, every leaf that falls, then returns in the spring.
We recall his face, his struggles, our shared laughter. We celebrate, we commemorate, not this man’s life, not his death, but his spirit which has been reborn. We honor his altruism, his willingness to risk himself to help others. Bobby sent me a note, a quote from Lincoln. It was during the period when he was very ill. “It is for us, the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here thus far so nobly advanced.”
He wished for us to continue advancing that unfinished noble work. He wanted us to remember the whys, the causes, the principles. He had accepted the torch, the light, had carried it gallantly. Now he has passed the torch to us, the work of spiritual love, of freedom, justice, equality, integrity, friendship, godliness.
Godliness! There was only one thing that to me that day, those days, was ungodly—Miriam Cadwalder-Wapinski. The evening before, she had come to the wake, thrown herself on the casket, sobbed, wailed, “My baby, my son. My dearly beloved.” I went to assist her, comfort her. I thought ... She rose, turned, vengeful, pushed me aside, confronted Sara. “You bitch,” she snapped. “Why didn’t you tell me he was so sick?”
The entire room was stunned, silent. Miriam yelled like a drill instructor. “You did it. You did this to him. You ...” Thorpe, Rodney Smith, Rifkin, surrounded her. “You’ll regret this,” Miriam boomed. “You’ll regret—” Rodney turned her. Sara was on her feet. Noah had frozen in his chair. Rifkin and Thorpe grabbed Miriam’s arms, escorted her, she screaming, cursing all the way, out.
At the funeral Miriam seemed contrite. She stood just before Stacy Carter. Stacy had sent a large flower arrangement with a ribbon with the words “... imagine me and you ...” She could not have looked more beautiful, more tormented. Sometime that day she said to me, “We were supposed to wait for each other. My ... I hope he forgave me. I hope I can be Sara’s friend.” I told her, “I’m sure he did. And I’m sure you will be. After that.”
Father Tom had finished. Lea, Linda’s sister, was about to lead the gathering in song when Miriam huffed loudly, “Godliness! He was filthy. He and his floozies ...” And Stacy Carter swung a roundhouse right and caught Miriam upside the head and knocked her down, and right there on Channel Five’s camera Rodney and I and Ty’s brother Phillip stepped in, grabbed Miriam, and Rodney said, loud, to the camera, “Tha’s not his mother. Who is she? Get this lady outa here.” And Bobby’s brother—his sister, Joanne, had not come—but Brian, to the far side, covered his face and shuddered and shuddered again as Rodney and Al Palanzo escorted Miriam down the hill, she screaming all the way. “Sell it. Sell it. Give me my money.”
Peace, godliness, returned with song. They had chosen it because he’d been a Screaming Eagle of the 101st Airborne. And I couldn’t believe it, me a Marine, getting blubbery over the song. I couldn’t control my tears but I controlled my voice. The refrain:
And He will raise you up on eagle’s wings,
Bear you on the breath of dawn,
Make you shine like the sun,
And hold you in the palm of his hand.
I flashed back to Manny, to Ty, to Moshler, to Wildman, to Fuzzy, to so many guys. And to Jimmy. The third and fourth verses.
You need not fear the terror of the night,
Nor the arrow that flies by day;
Though thousands fall about you,
Near you it shall not come.
For to His angels He’s given a command
To guard you in all of your ways;
Upon their hands they will bear you up,
Lest you dash your foot against a stone.
After the others had retreated to the house—the vets, led by Mike Treetop and John Cannello, had prepared an elaborate meal complete with apple fritters and maple syrup—I lingered here, at the family cemetery. I wanted to tell Bobby a few things—word from Hieu, word from Sherrick. Cards, letters. Every day for months they’d been piling up. Success stories. Guys who’d become what you would call “solid citizens.” “Man, you got to be proud,” I said. I did a little dance, a little jig. “Remember Ortez? Remember Peckham and Quinn? They’ve opened a small vet center in Chicago. Okay, they’re not financiers or physicians but they’re making it. Helping others to make it, too. Remember Ianez? Hawley? Bailer?” I sang a little tune, changed some words, an Elvis tune, “We can’t stop lovin you ...”
Life continued. Hardships. The farm was given to Bobby under a tenancy-for-life agreement, which meant upon his death Miriam, Joanne and Brian owned a controlling interest, and they forced it to be put up for sale. Sara was exhausted, at the point of a nervous breakdown. She wanted to run away. She packed up the most personal items, and she and the children moved to Sonoma, California. For a long time she didn’t answer calls, didn’t write. When I did hear from her she told me she had been praying, that on the day she felt the lowest she heard a song on the radio that went—
Got a dollar in my pocket,
got your letter in my shoe.
Fresh out of the Infantry,
I’m tryin to find you.
Old ’43 is slowing down to roll around the bend.
I’m ON MY WAY TO SEE YOU AGAIN.
And she wrote that Noah had taught himself how to ride a bike.