Memorial Day, 2006

"The first note was clear and absolutely certain. There was no question or stumbling in this bugle. It swept across the quadrangle positively, held a fraction of a second longer than most buglers hold it. Held long like the length of time, stretching away from weary day to weary day. . . . This is the song of the men who have no place, played by a man who has never had a place, and can therefore play it. Listen to it. You know this song, remember?"

From Here to Eternity
James Jones

A National Guardsman with a chestful of combat medals played Taps at my father's funeral on Saturday morning. It was sunny and hot as only Memphis in the summer can be hot, so stifling it's like a fever in the brain. Afterwards, when the two Gaurdsmen had finishing folding the flag and presented it to my father's wife, I thanked them for their service, then went to shake the bugler's hand. Thank you, I said, for honoring my father.

He held onto my hand. "You have it wrong, son," he said. "I am the one who is honored to play for one of his generation."

This is, I think, a good place for the story to end, except to say that yes, I did manage to get to Tennessee minutes before he passed.

And because it was easier for eveyone involved, the next day I also picked up my inheritance: One (1) Automatic Pistol, Caliber .45 1911A1, Remington Rand Inc., plus magazine. It is the only inheritance I ever wanted, or asked for, and as perhaps befits my father, it was loaded with WWII ball when I pulled it out of a sock. I can think of nothing more fitting.

Which got me thinking about a person in my will destined to receive one of my guns. Life is, indeed, short, so tomorrow I'm shipping my nephew one of my cherished custom 1911s — in fact, the semi-lengendary Rex the Wonder Gun, my first custom pistol. My nephew Ryan is 22 years-old, a confirmed "gun-guy" (now there's a surprise...LOL), been deer hunting since he was five and is getting ready to start a new family, so I figure it might be a while before he can come up with the scratch to play the custom 1911 game. Rex'll get him started, and maybe he and I, along with his father Rick, can do some shooting together down the line.

I think my father would like that.

Before I go, a "thank you" for the comments posted on my last blog message. I read those comments every morning and every night while I was in Tennessee, and they were, indeed, a comfort. I meant to respond every evening, but it just wasn't time. I am also blessed by friends whom I practically had to beg to keep them from flying to Tennessee to keep me company. Taken together, those things make me the luckiest person I know.

Tomorrow, I promise, back to the usual routine of gossip, malicious nonsense, insults and guns!