Written by Amos   

Just back from my annual Veterans' Day salute (something I've done for years), anonymous visits to three old friends, eternally residing on the NE lawn of the Raleigh Capitol grounds. The spot breathes inspiration and cause.

I'm told, “good authors need neither. They just write.” OK. I'm not a good author, but I sure as hell know what happened this particularly humbling day. Today has been a one of a kind, a keeper, no do overs, things as they stand, sort of monumental day.

Not only did I visit my friends in the NE, I visited friends on the South side who sprouted, bloomed and blossomed, all in one, cold, windy November day to welcome me and mine. They call themselves occupiers, the 99%, Occupy Raleigh. I call them all patriots. And now, I must share two little anecdotes from my day.

I stood close to the curb holding my Veterans for Peace placard, reading, “How is the war economy working for you?”, hoping to eye-laser the message and meaning into each passing auto. I reminisced with a fellow aging vet, wagering on the reasons for loss of hair and gain of weight. Suddenly, I detected an ever so slight tug at the left pant leg of my faded “dress blues.”

I thought, “Oh, Lord! One deep breath and these trousers will become a permanent part of the flora, fauna and general landscape of the North Carolina capitol grounds.” (not really, but it was something like that.)

I'm easily thirty pounds heavier than the day that suit was issued.

I sucked in my gut, held my breath, took the call and knelt to search for the source of the snag. But, when I leveled my head, I came eyes to eyes with the two most precious towheaded, blue-eyed angels ever conceived by mortal (wo)man. I was laid low by their delicately chiseled, porcelain features. Rembrandt would have been so smitten.

The larger of the two was speaking but, I fear the delight beaming from my face caught the child by surprise, as she became mute.

I apologized, “Excuse me, Darlin'. I hadn't noticed you two way down here. Please, go on with what you were saying.” Her innocence and charm poured out.

“OK. I said, thank your for your service, Sir,” she sang. I looked at her mittened-n-scarfted mate in tow as she echoed her big sister --- same words, tinier voice.

I blinked to hold back tears and discovered that grinning hard doesn't work. In the background, I spied Mother (a ten year Navy veteran) bearing three placards of her own, two pint-sized and one adult. And, of course she wore the Moms' smile of pride.

Have you ever attempted to tell a child that, at that very instant, they are an angel; arrived by wing; from far away; and are very, very special? Have you felt the need to tell them how much you love them, repeatedly? Well, don't bother. They already know. It's what angels do. Little acts of love for love's sake, only. Perhaps, with a nudge. It's their innocent little ways of saying, “Well, Duh!”

I asked the larger of the two pixies, how it was that a three and five year old came to be in this place. (You see? I'm still certain that they just flew in on a white dove's wings.)

She puckishly replied, “Oh, we came here in Momma's truck.”

I was hopelessly lost and stranded somewhere between profound tears and uncontrollable laughter, on probably the most hopeful Veterans Day I've experienced in quite a while.

Thank you, VFP (Eisenhower Chapter), and you, Occupy Raleigh!

amos