A Little Red Flower

When Dad came back from Viet Nam we were stationed in PA at a now long gone Air Force base (Olmsted closed in 1969). There were many things about him that were different, but it was something that we never discussed. It was about this time that he became a member of the VFW, the Highspire post. In those days the post was very active and had frequent events which we would attend as a family. We were frequent visitors there. It was the normal routine for us on a Sunday afternoon. I went because that’s what my choice was, it was very simple; we were going and that was the end of the discussion. I had become a regular, the bartender knew how to deal with me. I was particular even then. My “Shirley Temple” was always served in a tall frosted glass and never stirred. I would sit there and sip on those and eat Slim Jims, while the grownups sat and drank and talked. They talked quietly, occasionally laughed, but mostly just talked amongst themselves and drank. Old men (compared to me) telling war stories. Reliving the horrors, trying to make sense of it all. The occasional smile and good-natured backslap was the distraction from what those hollow eyes were seeing once again. Most of those events have passed from my memory, but one thing did linger, one very simple thing.

On the bar in the VFW, there was always a jar filled with little red artificial flowers. It was there that Dad bought me my first Buddy Poppy. He gave it to me and told me that it was special and important. I wore it with pride. I didn’t know the story or the real reasons why it was important. All I knew at the time was that it was a gift from Dad. My Dad didn’t do gifts, that was always mom’s domain. But this one he picked out and gave it to me. I ended up with many of these poppies over the years. But I never knew the why. This was a subject that we didn’t talk about. These little flowers of course had no aroma, but they did have an aura. They had a magical ability to attach themselves to a 10 year old's memory.

As I became older and more knowledgeable in the events of the world around me, I came to understand what the poppy symbolized. In my twenties I would see Dad in his uniform with the left side of his jacket decorated with fruit salad and was always in awe. Each of those little multi-colored tabs of fabric represented a significant accomplishment in his military career. In one of those rare times, when he would talk, he went through and explained them all. The ribbons, the oak leaves, the little stars. But he never told me about the one that was missing, the one that he refused to wear. It took me over 30 years to find out about his Purple Heart. I knew that he had been severely injured by a mortar round but knew nothing of the details.

The first mortar round hit and took out both of Dad’s knees. He was laying there in that jungle unable to move. When the second mortar came to finish the job, the Captain threw himself across Dad’s prone body and took the full impact of the mortar. Dad survived physically and got the Purple Heart. The Captain got a Purple Heart posthumously. And me, I got my Dad back and a little red flower to always remind me why.