Hallowed Ground

The engine of my dad’s ‘59 Chevy Impala Wagon rumbles deeply as it kicks over. I’ve overheard talk about getting a new muffler. Why? I think it sounds cool just like it is. I listen as our car backs out of the driveway and heads slowly down the street. As my dad motors away, I open one eye. I hold a finger in front of the open eye and assess the blurriness factor. Checking my eyesight used to be fun. Now it’s kind of ho-hum. But I do it anyway. Why not? I dig my fingernail into the sleep that made its home in the corners of my eyes while I dreamt. Why do they call it sleep, anyway? My friend Knuckles calls that junk eye boogers.

My dreams come rolling back to me. I’ve had last night’s dream a hundred times. I’m on the team train with the Yankees. Not just any Yankees. The Babe Ruth Yankees. We’re heading to Boston in a first-class travel car. I’m playing cards with Lou, Babe, and Tony Lazzeri. Tony looks like a gangster. Lou is handsome like a movie actor. The Babe, well, he’s just the Babe. I win the first hand. Tony gives me a dirty look and grinds his cigar between his teeth. Lou and Babe tell him to “leave the kid alone.” Then I wake up. I remember winning three bucks.

I roll over and stick my intertwined fingers behind my head and take a quick gander at the crack in the ceiling. My imagination tells me there’s something up there in the attic. I haven’t figured out how to get at it yet. But I will. My thought is interrupted by streaming rays of sunshine that edge through waxy, yellowed shades which are held together by pieces of equally yellowing tape. My ears perk up as the cardinal nesting just outside the window sings out a morning greeting. I can’t help but smile. It’s the first day of summer. Life is good.

Downstairs my baby sister is fussing. I hold my nose in the air as the nasty odor of a dirty diaper says, “Good morning, Kid.”

“Yuck.”

Why do babies poop their pants so much?

I hear my mother’s footsteps trudge toward the baby. I can tell she’s tired by the way her foot drags. Outside, a horn honks twice. I move my head. The rising sun coming through the edge of the window shades nearly blinds me. I stop and think about the words I’ve just used: The Rising Sun.

I’ve heard it a million times because of the Second World War. That war is sixteen years gone, but even thinking the words rising sun brings images of Pearl Harbor with its sunken ships and Kamikaze pilots with their aviator glasses and leather helmets to my mind. It all happened eons before I was born, but people still talk about it like it happened yesterday.