The West Point Bicentennial, A View From the Ground

I had a little more than an hour to change into my tux and make my way back to West Point for the bus to Carnegie Hall. There was only one other occupied table in the surprisingly spacious diner where I’d stopped to have a late breakfast. Scraping together the surviving remnants of my Nova Scotia lox and onion omelette, I sensed, more than noticed, the other table’s customers preparing to leave. Then I caught a movement from the corner of my eye.

The old man was shuffling slowly – painfully slowly – past my booth. When he noticed he’d gained my attention, he smiled.

“See, my friend’s waiting for me. I got this bad leg so I don’t move too fast. It wasn’t always this bad, but I still get around OK, I guess.

“My name’s Jim.

“I’m retired. My wife has a job, though. She’s there now.” He grinned, “I’m here having lunch.” He gestured toward the door, “My friend and I come here every day for lunch. They take good care of us. But I don’t work no more. My wife, she’s got the job.

“My name’s Jim. What’s yours?”

I told him.

Suddenly he was animated, “Oooh, you’re an Irish boxer! I know Irish. I go to church. When we got here, we was looking for a church. Found one. Pastor’s a big guy, kinda faggy, but alright. He grabbed me when he saw me and said, ‘who are you looking for?’, I said, ‘you’. His name’s O’Brien”.

He stopped, hooked a thumb into his belt and looked at the floor. Slowly he pulled a handkerchief from his trousers, inched it toward his face, and blew his nose. I marveled at the road map of veins across his bridge and wondered what travels might have etched such deep ruts. He wiped his nostrils from side to side, then returned the handkerchief to its pocket.

“I don’t hate nobody.”

I allowed that to hate was a waste of energy.

“That’s right”, he smiled. “I don’t hate nobody.”

He paused, began to speak, then thought better of it and shuffled a bit farther. He turned his head…

“My name’s Jim. Did I tell you that? Course I did. See…”, he tapped his temple, “…my mind’s going.”

I watched him slowly move away until he opened the door and his glowing twilight was swallowed by the sun of my day.

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The bicentennial celebration was nothing short of spectacular. It was a once in a lifetime event and those of us whose lives it touched, whether because we were physically at West Point or because we were represented there by our hearts, could not fail but be moved by the spirit of the occasion.

From the fellowship of those at West Point, to the celebrations around the Globe, to a speech made by a jock who artfully silenced those who’d had the temerity to ask, “Why him?”, the Long Gray Line firmly gripped hands.

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After a late meal on a surprisingly cold night, I realized that I was driving over the mountain toward the Academy for the last time on this trip.

“I hate to leave.” It was more a statement of resignation than complaint.

“A lot of Grads that come back feel that way”, returned my passenger.

I was acutely aware of a sad and empty feeling. It was the same feeling I had experienced as a Cadet when, saying goodbye to home and loved ones, I had prepared to return to West Point.

~ Dempsey 🌵