Bloodless Coup

Armistice Day. Having been in Spain the past week I've been sufficiently disconnected from the swing of things that I pure forgot until after the silence. I think I was silent - I was alone - but maybe I was murmuring or chewing my pen. This seems to happen to me more years than not; you'd think that 11th /11th /11th motif would stick, eventually.

BTW, if you click through to my site you will discover how I stumbled upon yours. Great minds, eh? (and yes, I concur with the spelling difference, and it was intended - see the explanatory comment in the sidebar for more.) kudos for a thoughtful site. I'm an Anderson man, myself. Just.

Alex, welcome! Great minds indeed. Our "Bloodless" comes from a long battle with political science geekiness. It's long been the name of my band which over the years, has been largely hypothetical though currently has a more than slightly inactive lineup. In the end, blogging takes less time than practicing, so here we are. We shall add you to our link list on next update!

p.s. interesting that you should mention "favela style" in your statement of purpose. I spent a good bit of time in them myself.

Nice post.

Armistice Day always makes me think of my mother - it's her birthday.

And Alex, thanks for the kudos.

Lovely post, Binky. I have no living relatives who served in wartime (although in some sense I think everyone served during the WWII era, which makes my statement suspect on my own terms), but as a former bartender who knew neither of his biological grandfather's, I had a number of surrogate grandfathers over the years.

My favorite was Hal, may he rest in peace, an old alcoholic WWII vet who had made and lost several modest fortunes, been married twice, and lived hard enough that the years told on every inch of his skin, in his pellucid blue eyes, in the rasp of his avuncular voice, a slur that suggested inebriation even when he was sober.

He was a daily guest of mine, of ours, for lunch, often for dinner, and sometimes later for a nightcap or four. He worked and lived nearby, holding down a clerical job into his 70's because he'd long ago squandered any semblance of retirement security.

I fancy that he liked the way I made his screwdriver best among our staff, although, no doubt, we were all his grandsons in some sense or another -- the idealistic and thus perennially inflamed english major (me), the would-be brewmaster, the burned out commodities trader, the owner's nephew who couldn't find his ass with a map and a flashlight, the hippy actor, and the others. He'd regale us with stories from the Italian theatre, and talk wistfully, in his grizzled voice, about his "Number 1 Son" and his "Number 2 Son," whose real names I never knew.

So there I was, young man with a father who did not serve in Vietnam, with two grandfathers (one also a vet) who had passed before I was born, in some sense hearing about war for the first time from someone with face-down-in-the-mud experience. It was an eye-opening dose of reality, especially coming from someone toward whom I felt such an affinity, onto whom I couldn't help but project so much, and who even in his worst moments (and nobody knows a drinker's worst moments any better than his regular barkeep, especially if that bar's in a small town) exuded such affability and integrity that he was impossible not to admire. Even his war stories, even the serious and incipiently dark ones, sparkled with Hal's mischievous and inchoate wit.

I could go on and on, but it's enough for me to remember my unqualified pleasure each day when I'd hear the back door squeak open and see his stooped form gathering himself for a moment in the shadows just inside the restaurant before properly entering, a ritual of inveterate dignity. I wouldn't be able to help my grin upon seeing him amble toward me, even if while he approached I continued to cut limes or mix a drink. He'd swim inside his slightly oversized clothing and suede jacket, his smile beaming out from beneath his thick sweep of snow-white hair, his every movement imbued with quiet pride . . .

"Set me up," he'd grumble amiably, as he climbed into a stool. I'd pour him his screwdriver, the way he liked it, and set it on a coaster before him. He'd extend a wizened hand up over the bar to me and take mine in his firm grasp.

And on Armistice Day, each year, I'd hold his hand a little longer, and say "This one's on me, Hal. Thank you."

So this one's on me, Hal. I hope you're in a happy place. Thank You.