Commentary by Bill the Butcher
Who knows the heart of a child. Psychologists probe their understanding, before they can articulate or explain the plethora of information still formulating in their young minds that seems to be of no direction. A world filled with their own reality, images, shapeless forms, angels and demons. Tooth fairies leaving quarters beneath a pillow, and fat men coming down the chimney with Jesus nowhere in sight. A world of vast possibilities. Possibilities that disappear one by one as the harsh realities of life intrude upon their magic world and they begin the lifelong march to the grave. Could it be that in the end we return to the magic world where we should have been all along.
But glimmers of light appear to children. Special people that attach to the children. And these people can do no wrong. Their every word, every action represents truth, reality and understanding to the forming mind inside a tiny little head. And in that first three years the soul is formed. The soul is created at conception, but it is formed by those special people. A village? Family? Friends? Perhaps only one. One very special soul that imparts a bit of itself like leaven in bread the takes reality, mixed with a spoon of magic and creates a person. And that person is what it will be until the day that it dies. No psychology, no medicine, no religion can ever change that. It is what it is.
Joe was little Steve’s leaven. Steve, nicknamed “New Baby,” hung on Joe and his every word. Joe watched cartoons with Steve, made scrambled eggs for him, corrected him when he’d done wrong, but was always there. A safe port in life’s storms, such as they were for a child. And Steve would say that each day was wonderful. And some days were “wonderfuller!”
But all wasn’t perfect. Joe was a well decorated Vietnam Vet. And Agent Orange was drinking his blood, one drop at a time. And the doctors called it depression, dementia, age, or Parkinson’s, it was reality intruding on the magic world Joe was giving to Steve. Joe was one of the last casualties of a forgotten war. Some names on the wall you cannot see.
Joe was a wood worker. More than that he was an artist. In his wood shop he could carve images into square wooden tiles of family and friends to give out freely. 3D memories. His front door on his house was one solid piece of wood. And his priest set the chalice on the altar that Joe built!
And Joe made toys! In the weeks before Christmas Joe would retreat to his wood shop and make the most wonderful toys. Trucks, doll houses, with dolls that had no faces, waiting to be completed by the imagination of a little girl. Durable toys that didn’t fall apart or continue to need batteries. Toys that could be given when the child had a child or grandchild who was struggling through their own magic world. And little Steve knew when Joe disappeared into his shop as winter stole summer that toys were being born. And he would knock on the door to the shop and eventually Joe would appear. And he’d get the first toy. And the jungles of Vietnam would be hauled away in a little wooden dump truck.
But this year was different. Six months prior Joe was called for his last assignment. And reported for duty at a VA hospital where all old soldiers go to fade away. What the Vietcong started, his own government finished, and Agent Orange did what it was always designed to do.
Stevie didn’t understand. He would wander through the shop among the saws and hammers and become immersed in fascination at the machinery. For if they were there, Joe was there! No one could take that magic away.
Christmas Eve found friends and relatives on the expansive porch that Joe had built. The funeral had been six months ago and as they say, time heals all wounds. As they celebrated there was a tapping sound coming from the yard. Tap tap tap. Little Steve was tapping on the woodshed door, holding his little truck from last Christmas.
And the grownups watched. And the wine glasses set on the table. As they watched a little boy tap on a woodshed door. An unanswered knock on a door that will never be opened. And one more little bit of magic left the world.
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The Liberty Beacon Project is now expanding at a near exponential rate, and for this we are grateful and excited! But we must also be practical. For 7 years we have not asked for any donations, and have built this project with our own funds as we grew. We are now experiencing ever increasing growing pains due to the large number of websites and projects we represent. So we have just installed donation buttons on our websites and ask that you consider this when you visit them. Nothing is too small. We thank you for all your support and your considerations … (TLB)
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