Soldier Boy Comes Home
It is unknown when the soldier-boy light switch made his debut on the bedroom wall of my childhood home, where my parents moved in on their wedding night in 1962 and never left.
I just remember it always being there.
My sister had a girly switch in her bedroom, and it went away about the time she went off to college.
I insisted that soldier boy stay, and my parents honored the request. It served as fond reminder of a closed childhood chapter. It was also kind of funny.
The Houston home underwent a number of transformations over the years. New tile was installed. Carpets and furniture came and went. The kitchen was extensively remodelled.
After Dad died in January 2007, Mom went on a remodeling rampage, as some widows do in their grief as they try to start their lives anew. In my old bedroom, the old wooden shelves that Dad built were removed. New carpet was installed. Tile was put down in the closet. A new coat of paint came, too.
The soldier-boy switch remained.
This past Saturday, I entered the house for only the second time since Mom's sudden death to pancreatic cancer. The home was frozen in time. The covers were still as they were when she wheeled out of bed for the last time, unable to withstand the stomach pain any longer and knowing she needed to go to the hospital. The TV remote lay just as she left it. A glass with evidence of evaporated water sat on the night stand.
It was spooky quiet, but the house and back yard seemed alive with the ghosts of family memories.
I had come to do the dreaded task of removing furniture and various belongings. Knowing my sister would be doing the same soon, I left the place a little disheveled to minimize the impact the old home would have on her.
After everything was loaded on the truck, I had one more task before locking up the house and perhaps never seeing its interior again.
I removed the soldier-boy light switch.
All the furniture, wall hangings and photographs are one thing, but the image that remained burning in my brain as I drove away in the truck was that empty cavity the soldier boy guarded for more than 40 years. His relief from duty there ends a life chapter. The house will never be the same.
The soldier boy's mission, though, is not over. Somewhere out there, he'll stand vigil on a wall of a home that our boys will have to clean out some day. 
I just remember it always being there.
My sister had a girly switch in her bedroom, and it went away about the time she went off to college.
I insisted that soldier boy stay, and my parents honored the request. It served as fond reminder of a closed childhood chapter. It was also kind of funny.
The Houston home underwent a number of transformations over the years. New tile was installed. Carpets and furniture came and went. The kitchen was extensively remodelled.
After Dad died in January 2007, Mom went on a remodeling rampage, as some widows do in their grief as they try to start their lives anew. In my old bedroom, the old wooden shelves that Dad built were removed. New carpet was installed. Tile was put down in the closet. A new coat of paint came, too.
The soldier-boy switch remained.
This past Saturday, I entered the house for only the second time since Mom's sudden death to pancreatic cancer. The home was frozen in time. The covers were still as they were when she wheeled out of bed for the last time, unable to withstand the stomach pain any longer and knowing she needed to go to the hospital. The TV remote lay just as she left it. A glass with evidence of evaporated water sat on the night stand.
It was spooky quiet, but the house and back yard seemed alive with the ghosts of family memories.
I had come to do the dreaded task of removing furniture and various belongings. Knowing my sister would be doing the same soon, I left the place a little disheveled to minimize the impact the old home would have on her.
After everything was loaded on the truck, I had one more task before locking up the house and perhaps never seeing its interior again.
I removed the soldier-boy light switch.
All the furniture, wall hangings and photographs are one thing, but the image that remained burning in my brain as I drove away in the truck was that empty cavity the soldier boy guarded for more than 40 years. His relief from duty there ends a life chapter. The house will never be the same.
The soldier boy's mission, though, is not over. Somewhere out there, he'll stand vigil on a wall of a home that our boys will have to clean out some day.
posted by Brian Pearson at 12:11 PM
2 Comments:
Great stuff Brian...Hang on, there's something in my eye.
This reminds me of a light switch cover I once had. It had Snoopy on it, dressed as a cowboy, and the words sun up at the top and sundown at the bottom. Up until reading this, I had forgot all about it. Makes me wonder what my parents did with that thing.
And I agree with Pete, by the way ... great stuff.
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