One day in May in the early 80s, when I was about 14 or 15, my grandmother told me to go across the street and visit for a bit with old Mr. Drum, who she told me had recently asked about me and how I was doing.
As a typically self-centered, surly teenager, I balked at the order; after all...old people’s houses, man...come on! They all smelled dry and musty and faintly like old potatoes, and have that “don’t-you-dare-touch-anything” feel of a shrine.
Besides, what could I possibly have to say to Mr. Drum, who was by that time ill and well into his 90s? But grandma, God bless’er, wouldn’t be denied, so I walked across the street and pasted on a smile as I knocked on the aluminum storm door.
Mr. Drum was seated in his wheelchair, his day nurse changing his IV; he looked at the door and waved me to come in.
Now, Mr. Drum may have been sick and weak, but he was still as sharp as a tack, and always had been.
He had been a successful local businessman and was always very well-read and could discourse intelligently on any number of subjects. I had to admit, grudgingly, that he was sometimes a lot of fun to talk to.
“How’ve you been?” he asked me, sizing me up with eyes that were sharp despite the obviously advancing weakness in his body.
We discussed school, my parent’s health, my membership on my high school football team, several different things.
Mr. Vernon Drum was a combat veteran of the First World War, and proudly displayed his service medals in an elegant wooden, velvet-lined, glass-topped case on the living room wall.
Mrs. Drum had, years before, placed a beautifully-framed picture of him, in his uniform, on the mantel. There were, on top of the TV console, and on the end tables and such, other, later pictures of him in his VFW cap. These were taken with other vets in their caps and even a few noted politicians and celebrities of the time that he had met at conventions and meetings. He had for many years been very active in local and state veteran’s activities and groups, even serving for some time as commander of his VFW chapter, I believe.
He had a handyman, Carl, who performed the usual handyman chores for him. Carl came into the living room as we were talking, and said, “Vern, Monday is Memorial Day, and I’m not gonna be here…..you want me to put out your flag now?”
Mr. Drum stopped right in the middle of his sentence, looked dead at Carl and firmly said, with utterly no trace of weakness,
“Damn right; and long may she wave!”
He then looked back at me and picked up where he left off.
Carl chuckled and nodded, turning to go.
Mr. Drum’s seven-word remark that had so amused Carl had a much greater effect on me.
That visit with Mr. Drum, which had so annoyed me at first, had somehow kindled in me a new and fierce patriotism, and a new pride in my country and its way of life.
Before then, I was rather dilatory as concerning my country; it was just the country I lived in, you know.
Suddenly, a new seed had been sown. I loved my country, and I still do.
My love of country only grew from there. From that day on, I looked at our flag and the nation it represents with a new respect and appreciation.
It was as a result of that seemingly insignificant moment in Mr. Drum’s living room that I, two years later, accepted a formal award from the American Legion for a impassioned, patriotic letter I wrote for the July 4th edition of the local paper. I still have it, too; it’s hanging beside my desk with other awards I’ve gotten over the years.
Early the next year, I proudly found myself sitting in the office of an Army recruiter, watching as my dad affixed his signature to my enlistment papers.
If it hadn’t been for a seizure I later suffered in Basic, I have no doubt that I’d still be in, serving and defending my country with pride and devotion.
It was also as a result of that day that I found myself, on a windy Memorial Day 1986, standing before a crowd of nearly 500 people....far more than were expected. They had come to attend the dedication of our local Vietnam War memorial.
This ceremony was the culmination of a project that I, personally, had founded several months before I left for Basic, and I hadn’t expected to be able to be there for the dedication ceremony. It was one of the greatest moments of my life, though, and I’m glad I was.
The offhand words of an old man had birthed a change in my soul. I left Mr. Drum’s house that day a different person, and I thank God to this day that I listened to grandma.
I tip my cap and raise my glass to the memory of Mr. Vernon Drum and all the other war veterans who’ve left us for the next stage of life. Thanks, folks, for all you’ve done for us. God bless you all, and happy Memorial Day.