At some point I was thinking back on Joe's house, where we would eventually consummate the dove hunting by eating a spectacular dinner. Three storied, three generational in it's design and intent, a carbon copy of my grandfather's and other "uncles" homes, with sweeping roman arches of stucco walls, musty hand-knitted doilies adorning the durable, pre-depression furniture, and aromatic, garlic and oregano kitchens; but nearly empty now. American children simply did not, as was the original intent, live upstairs with their parents in early marriage, eventually moving down to the main floor with growing children; the now grandparents themselves upstairs or to the basement as they retired from dominance into dependence and senility. And suddenly I remembered a stand by the door to the kitchen with a primitive picture upon it of a teenage Joe, unrecognizable at first in his makeup of youth and arrogance, leaning like the tower of Pisa to the right as the camera was not leveled. In uniform. Holding a rifle militarily by his side. My mind made some calculations. "Joe....how old were you when you came to America?" "1922", he replied instantly. It was a year to remember, an answer he had recalled a million times in the past when it mattered more to people, a fact like a scar he wore as a part of his personality. "That picture in the hallway, the little one on the stand. What kind of uniform was that?" Now the wheels turned more slowly, creaking into more rusty thoughts. "Italian army." This was said slowly. I didn't notice completely the change in the mood even though the sun was still out and the road still swept grandly round the river meanders. "Were you in the war?" He nodded, looking down at his hands and liver spots. I plunged on. "What were you, in the army?" "Caribinieri, an infantryman." He rolled the "rrr" slowly, grudgingly. Time in the cab of the truck seemed suddenly frozen. I waited but he did not offer. So I had to ask. "What happened?" His head stayed down. "I fought in one battle and I was taken prisoner." The wound was palpably open, the unspoken, the unspeakable. In my youthful arrogance I had kicked it open as easily as I shot a dove. There was no stopping now. "You were a prisoner of war?" It was unthinkable to me, my Joe. "For how long?" "Three years."
									More Text =>
			<= Back
		Table of Contents				Fishtales Start		Order/Contact