September 14
Tribute Park
Tribute, Texas
Nearly half the town had turned out for the dedication ceremony. Dixie was beside herself with curiosity. So was Pops. Ben and Tate were wild. They knew the new monument had something to do with their dad. That would be their real dad, not the new stepdad they were getting the very next day when their mom and Wade got married.
Wade was nervous and trying not to show it. The nerves, he knew, were a sign of how important the community acceptance and approval of this monument was to him. He’d worked tirelessly these past few months, researching town records, talking to residents, coming up with the names and circumstances of other local people who’d done heroic deeds outside of war. Ordinary citizens who’d committed extraordinary acts.
Between working on that and taking over as the new owner, publisher and editor-in-chief of the Tribute Banner, and spending time with his future family, he’d been…what was it they said around here? Busy as a one-armed paperhanger. Or maybe, busy as a one-legged man at a butt-kicking contest?
The latter seemed more unfortunate than busy, but he would get the hang of this Texas talk, eventually. To brush up on his skills, he turned to his parents, who, along with his sisters and their families, had come down to see Wade and Dixie get married tomorrow, and said, “How y’all doing?”
His father chortled.
His sisters laughed.
His nieces and nephews mimicked him in singsong voices. “How y’all doin’? How y’all doin’? Y’all. Y’all. Y’all.”
Wade’s mother gave Dixie a mock glare. “Did you teach him that?” Mrs. Harrison demanded.
“Who, me?” Dixie claimed innocently, with a hand to her chest. Then she leaned closer to her future mother-in-law. “You’re getting a kick out of this. Admit it.”
Myrna Harrison’s lips quirked. “I’ll do no such thing, daughter.”
On the riser built beside the new monument for the occasion came a loud squeal of speakers not adjusted properly. “Ladies and gentlemen!” called the mayor. “It’s time to begin, so corral the kids and gather round. I’m sure you’ve noticed the new sign renaming this area more fittingly as Tribute Park. You’ve all seen and shared in the pride of the two monuments to our war dead on the other side of the park. Always we honor those who give the ultimate sacrifice so that we might live in freedom.
“But a person need not be in a war to be a hero. Sometimes, an ordinary citizen is called upon to do the extraordinary and steps forth to accomplish it without complaint. These heroes, too, must be honored and remembered. Today, thanks to a private endowment, we dedicate this new monument to our civilian heroes.
“We’ve researched in detail to come up with the names of people we believe belong on this memorial, but I’m sure there are some we missed. If any of you know of someone who’s done something truly heroic, write down what they did and why they belong on this monument and send it to city hall. All decisions as to inclusion are made by the town council.”
Wade wiped his damp palms along the thighs of his jeans. A moment later he felt Dixie’s small hand slip into his and squeeze. He looked down into those blue, blue eyes and felt the encouragement she offered in those eyes, in her hand, in her smile.
She hadn’t seen the monument yet. No one had except the workmen. Even Wade hadn’t seen it. He’d created the concept on paper. The council had approved the drawing and the granite he’d suggested. But he hadn’t seen the finished product, and it was killing him.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the mayor, “I give you the Tribute Wall.”
One of the council members pulled on a rope, and the canvas covering that hid the monument rose up and back to reveal a five-foot-high by twelve-feet-long curving wall of smoky granite. Carved top center ran the words: Tribute to Heroes. Similar to other memorials, it was divided into several equalsize panels.
The first name on the first panel was Melba Throckmorton, a local schoolteacher whose heroic efforts saved a classroom of students from a deadly tornado, at much risk to herself, in 1901.
Next came a grocer named Wendell Stoklasa. In 1923, unarmed, he faced down armed bank robbers to shield a pregnant woman whom he’d never met. He took the bullet meant for her. He survived the ordeal, but lost his leg as a result.
There were a couple of others listed, but Wade pulled Dixie and their families to the second panel. Wade stood in front of the wording so no one could see, and motioned to someone in the back of the crowd.
Dixie turned to look but didn’t recognize the strangers, two men and a woman, who came to stand beside him.
“Dixie, Pops, Ben, Tate, I’d like you to meet some newfound friends of mine. This is Harvey Willard, John Bates and Justine Adams. And now—”
“But, Wade, who—”
“Just read, Dix. Just read.”
So, Dixie read.
Because of his generosity and courage, in 2004 James Donald McCormick saved the lives of five people, gave sight to a sixth and made the lives of four others infinitely more livable. He was an organ donor. Justine Adams, John Bates, Wade Harrison, Martin Letterman and Harvey Willard thank you, Jimmy Don, for their lives. Constance Easly thanks you for her sight. Kim Jenkins, Patricia Bardo, Eve Miles, and Pete Richmond thank you for the grafts and ligaments you donated. You’re our hero.
Wade read every word twice, making sure there’d been no mistakes. Then he turned to Dixie.
She stood with both hands over her mouth, tears streaming down her face. “Oh, Wade. It’s…it’s wonderful. Pops? Do you see?”
Pops saw but couldn’t speak.
“Boys.” Dixie put a hand on the back of each of their necks. “Can you read all that? That’s your dad. See? Your dad’s a genuine hero. It says so right there on the new wall.”
“Golly.” Ben’s eyes were huge.
“For real?” Tate asked, slightly confused.
“For real,” Dixie assured him.
Wade’s mother stepped forward and kissed her son on the cheek. “I’m so proud of you for doing this.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
Dixie led the boys over to the other transplant recipients and told them these were their donor’s sons. There were handshakes and hugs and tears. And the inevitable laughter that comes when children are involved.
“You got my dad’s liver?” Tate asked Mr. Bates.
“Yes, son, I did, and it saved my life, so I’m mighty grateful to your dad.”
“Listen up, folks,” Pops said loudly to their little group of family and friends. “Wade’s done a fine thing, getting this memorial built for the folks who deserve to be remembered. We’re all proud of him for doing it, proud of Jimmy Don for deserving it. Now, that’s enough of this gloomy-Gus sad stuff. These two young folks, Dixie and Wade, are getting married tomorrow. I say we go get us a good supper over at the diner, then rest up for the big day.”
Wade leaned over and whispered in Pops’s ear. “Good going. Thanks.”
Pops, with Ben and Tate in tow, led the way out of the park and down the block to Dixie’s Diner. Trailing behind the large group of McCormicks and Harrisons, way behind, Wade and Dixie held hands and gazed into each other’s eyes.
“I love you,” he told her.
“And I love you,” she answered.
“Let’s get married tomorrow.”
“Yes. Let’s.”
And they did.