Farewell PFC Polk: The End of a Nightmare (In the Valley of Hope Book 2)

by Richard Weirich

  Bobbie Jean offered yet another plan. “Me and Trudy can sit next to Buddy. Donnie, come on over here and sit by your friend.”

  Wendy could not have sat any closer to Donnie and when Buddy saw the strained look on his friend’s face, he nearly laughed out loud.

  “Are you guys a couple?” asked Trudy.

  Simultaneously Wendy said “yes” and Donnie said “no” resulting in chuckles from Buddy and the girls…and a feeble attempt at an explanation of their relationship by Donnie.

  “We’ve known each other for a long time. I was invited to her birthday party…”

  “12th birthday,” interrupted Wendy.

  “Right. 12th birthday. Anyway, we were playing Spin the Bottle and I lost and then they made me kiss her.”

  “You mean, you won,” said Wendy, none too happy about Donnie’s perception of the event. “The winner gets to kiss the girl and boy did he ever let me have it. Wet and loud.”

  “Show us, Donnie, said Trudy while laughing. “Was it like this?” which she followed by making a loud smacking sound with her mouth.

  “Seem to recall it was louder than that,” said Wendy while snuggling up even closer to Donnie.

  This was not the version of the story that Buddy had been told previously. Donnie’s alternate saga maintained that Wendy cornered him in a passionate embrace behind the cafeteria at the Homecoming Dance.

  “Do you guys need anything over here?” asked Lula Mae, the waitress. After handing them separate checks, she turned her attention to Buddy. “We still meeting for that kiss when I get off?”

  “Don’t expect so,” replied Buddy. “If I were to get my first kiss tonight it would spoil all of Donnie’s fun.”

  “Break my heart, why don’t you?” she said still laughing as she walked away.

  “Do you think she was serious?” inquired Donnie while inspecting his check.

  “Of course not,” replied Buddy. “She was just playing along with your stupid joke.”

  “Time to put that baby to bed, Donnie. I for one am tired of hearing about it,” said Trudy, who then kissed Buddy on the right cheek while Bobbie Jean followed suit kissing him on the left.

  The friends were so wrapped up in their good time that they didn’t see the police officer standing beside them. “Looks like you kids are having fun. Don’t believe that was one of your qualifications for making Eagle Scout, was it, Buddy?”

  Buddy feared that they were about to be called down for being too rowdy. “No, sir. Never got that merit badge.”

  Officer Tommy Clem, Strasburg’s one and only policeman, was also the Boy Scout Leader for Troop 57 and at the top of Buddy’s most-admired list. “Need to talk to you for a minute, Buddy. And don’t you all worry. He ain’t done nothing wrong. Just need his help with a little problem. But he will need to tell you ‘good night.’ Meet me outside.”

  Before Buddy left his friends, Bobbie Jean retrieved a pencil and a piece of paper from her purse. “Call me,” she said while writing her name and number.

  “Might just do that,” said Buddy before pulling some change from his pocket and leaving a tip for Lula Mae. “You all leave her a little something if you can.”

  His given name was Charles Fletcher Polk, Jr., but everybody knew him as Buddy. He was the kind of boy that every mother wanted: polite, compliant, friendly, well-mannered, and popular with young and old alike. Buddy Polk seemingly had it all together. Few people knew about the heavy burden that he carried.

  When Buddy walked out of the restaurant Officer Clem was standing across the street in front of the First National Bank. “Follow me,” called the policeman.

  “That’s twice this week,” said Buddy.

  “You need to get him help before he hurts himself…or somebody. He’s already in the car sleeping it off,” said the officer as he handed the car keys to Buddy.

  Sunday Dinner – November 9, 1952

  Aging does more to a married couple than just alter physical appearance. Beyond the visible wrinkles…bulging waistlines, graying hair, and sagging skin are internal changes evidenced by altered personalities, irascible dispositions, and negative attitudes. Romantic closeness and intimacy are replaced by enmity, strife, and distance.

  So it was with Mable and Charlie Polk. The early years were filled with joy and happiness but gradually, after the untimely death of two children, the devastating effects of the Great Depression which resulted in the end of Charlie’s prestigious farming career at Strathmore, and Mable’s heart attack, the love that brought them together eroded into pitiful nonexistence. The only common ground was their love for family.

  On this chilly November morning, Mable was up early preparing for the weekly Sunday-after-church meal. There was much to do before her departure for the 8:30 Matins at St. Paul’s Lutheran Church. Buddy’s regular Sunday morning chore was to knead the yeast rolls while his mother prepared a variety of side dishes, desserts, sweet tea, and no less than two kinds of meat. A pork roast was already in the oven leaving only fried chicken to be prepared when she returned at 9:30.

  As they worked, she gave Buddy the third degree on what transpired on the previous evening. Charlie Polk’s drinking problem had escalated and she feared that he was becoming just like his father, Bill. “I didn’t listen to God and this is what I get. Should never have married that man.”

  Frequently, when Charlie did something wrong, Mable repeated the story of how she asked God for a sign to determine whether she should accept his marriage proposal. If it rained on the designated day, then she was to tell him “no.” It rained cats and dogs, but she married him anyway.

  “You don’t mean that, Mama,” said Buddy while wiping his hands with a towel.

  “Yes, I do. It’s been hell on earth.”

  Mable was as close to moral perfection as humanly possible. Her only fault was that she was an excessive worrier which caused her to agonize over the direction of Buddy’s moral compass. She questioned him incessantly about his daily activity. “Where were you?” “Where did you go?” “Who were you with?” “How much did you spend?” “What did you spend it on?”

  She was also particularly concerned about hussies. “Watch out for them, Buddy? They’ll ruin your life.” When watching her favorite daytime soap opera, The Guiding Light, she was quick to identify the women of ill repute. “You hussy,” she would say emphatically. “You old slut.”

  The years had not been kind to Mable’s figure or her health. Two years previous she suffered a heart attack which was linked to obesity. That brush with death scared her into a radical low-calorie diet on which she lost nearly 100 pounds. Despite the diet, she still continued to cook for family and friends.

  “Donnie wants to come over tonight to watch Red Skeleton,” said Buddy in an attempt to stop the steady stream of questions.

  “Not a problem if your daddy’s wrestling’s not on, but I’m not about to be cooking for that boy.”

  Whenever somebody came through the front door; family, friend, or stranger…Mable was persuaded that they expected her to cook them a meal. They never asked. She just did it. Then, after they left, she complained about the rude guests who came expecting her to cook for them. Charlie told her to stop cooking and maybe they’ll stop coming. She never took his advice.

  “You coming with me or going to the 11 o’clock service?” asked Mable retrieving her purse from a kitchen cabinet.

  “Eleven,” replied Buddy.

  “You had a bath yesterday morning. Don’t go wasting water,” she said while dutifully stuffing two dollars into a church envelope. Then Mable grabbed her winter coat, checked the stove to make sure that it had been turned off, and headed out the front door to begin the two block walk to the church.

  Buddy hated the bathing rule that had been in force since he came into the world. Saturday was bath day and only one was permitted per week. The mandate was a carryover from a time when bathing was conducted in the kitchen. Water was pumped or carried from a well, heated on the stove
and then poured into a metal tub. Family members took turns using the same water which was then carried outside and dumped in the yard. And now, even though they had running hot water and a bathroom with a bathtub, the practice continued. It appalled Charlie and Mable to think that they should have to pay for water. They believed that water, like air, should be free like it was back on the farm.

  By the time Mable returned from St. Paul’s, Charlie was resting in his red vinyl recliner watching one of his favorite Sunday news programs.

  “Missed you at church,” said Mable to which Charlie responded by humming a few notes from an unrecognizable song. It was the way he always answered when he was annoyed or displeased. In fact, the two of them seldom ever said anything to each other. She was afraid of him and he wanted little to do with her. She quickly retreated to her safe haven, the kitchen, which had become more than just a place for meal preparation. There she cold think and absorb herself in work she loved.

  Shortly after 12:30, Buddy returned from church. “Hey, dad. What you watchin’?”

  “Meet the Press,” said Charlie smiling with no mention of the drunken incident the previous evening.

  “Who’s the guest?”

  “A congressman from up north. John Kennedy.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Seems pretty smart but he talks funny.”

  “Man, that fried chicken smells good,” said Buddy, who then headed for the kitchen as a car pulled in the driveway. “Hey, Mom. Helen and her bunch just showed up.”

  “Everything’s ready,” said Mable while Buddy made short order of a fried chicken leg.

  From the living room came the sound of excited voices as Charlie greeted his daughter’s family. Although he had little to say to Mable, Charlie was a gracious host. Visitors brought the best out of him. His 4-year-old grandson, Dickie sat on his lap. “You’ve got a birthday coming up,” said Charlie. “How old you gonna be?”

  Dickie held up five fingers. “Five,” he said which was followed by several minutes of rib-tickling from his grandfather.

  Meanwhile, Helen headed for the kitchen to talk to her mother while her husband, Woody Weirich, spoke to Charlie about his favorite topic, other than livestock, politics. “Ike, made it. Sure glad about that. Stevenson scared me.”

  “Couldn’t have been much worse than Woodrow Wilson.”

  “You’re right about that.”

  Woody, real name Elwood, was from Reliance, a small community in Warren County, about 15 minutes from Strasburg. He worked at the American Viscose Corporation factory in Front Royal, along with Charlie and his father, Ray Weirich. When Helen first brought Woody home to meet her parents, Charlie was unimpressed with her perspective husbands’ physical appearance. “My God, Mable,” he said. “That man looks older than me.”

  What Woody Weirich lacked in good looks he more than made up for it with his friendly and fun personality. Everyone knew when he was near due to his booming bass voice and loud laughter. There wasn’t much bad that could be said about him except that he cussed like a sailor, which didn’t exactly endear him to the saintly Mable, at least not a first. Eventually, she saw beyond the loud and often uncouth exterior and saw a man of generosity, integrity, and kindness.

  “Where’s my hug,” shouted Mable from the kitchen.

  Dickie jumped off his Drendaddy’s lap and ran to the kitchen into the loving arms of Mammaw.

  “You all get in here and eat before it gets cold,” she said while hugging Dickie.

  When Charlie entered the kitchen, he walked to the sink and retrieved his plate and eating utensils from beside the kitchen sink. He had used the same plate, one-pronged broken fork, and spoon for 15 years. The practice began when Mable complained that she never got any help in the kitchen. Since that disagreeable event on Mable’s birthday in 1937, Charlie finished every meal by rinsing his tableware in the sink and then placing his utensils in a drainer until the next meal.

  Charlie also had a rule for what he considered proper etiquette at the dinner table. No talking. Not that his prohibition was strictly followed. Helen was his wild child and was never one for going by the book. And she got away with it because…she was daddy’s girl.

  “We’re going to move to Middletown,” said Helen while Mable piled mashed potatoes on Dickie’s plate. “Mama, that’s too much. He’s already too fat.”

  Undaunted by her daughter’s instruction, Mable continued to pile food on her grandson’s plate. “What’s in Middletown that so special?”

  “Just need some space.”

  “Space from what?”

  Charlie hummed, signaling his displeasure with the discussion.

  Woody spoke up. “She’s got it in her mind that she lives too close to her parents.”

  That declaration of intent prompted more than just a hum from Charlie. “What? What’s wrong with living near us?”

  “Woody, that’s our business. Why would you tell ‘em that?” said Helen glaring angrily at her husband.

  “Because it’s true,” said Woody. “You’ve been fussin’ about it for a year.”

  Helen marched to the beat of a different drum and living near her parents stifled her desire to be different. She held her own in cussing contests with Woody, smoked excessively, and occasionally imbibed alcoholic beverages…behavior that was completely unacceptable to her mother. Even Charlie, the chain smoker, and borderline alcoholic, maintained a “don’t do as I do but do as I say” philosophy. Thus far she had kept her errant conduct from her parents but believed that she was living on borrowed time.

  Helen and Woody’s disagreement escalated into a full blown and loud argument causing Dickie to cry. Helen responded by slapping her son on the back of his head and telling him to shut up.

  “Whoa, Sis. What is your problem?” said Buddy putting his arm around his nephew. “Sometimes grownups act stupid.”

  “That child didn’t do anything wrong,” objected Mable. “Don’t ever hit him in the head again. That’s not right. You need to tell him you’re sorry.”

  “Come on, Dickie. Let’s you and me go out and play with Inky,” said Charlie pushing his chair away from the table and taking Dickie by the hand. Inky was Buddy’s dog, mostly poodle with ultra-fuzzy black fur.

  “That’s it. That’s it right there. That’s why I need space to get away from your meddling. Dickie would already rather be here with you and Daddy than with Woody and me. Come on, Woody. It’s time to go.”

  “But we haven’t finished eating.”

  “Oh, yes we have. Go get your son and let’s get out of here.”

  Mable responded by quickly packing food for them to take home. “You need to think about what you’re doing Helen. And then she said words that cut through her daughter like a knife. “Have you prayed about it?”

  “Mama, you need to get your head out of the dark ages. Your rules don’t apply anymore. I gave up trying to please you a long time ago. Can’t be done.” And with those words Helen handed the basket of food back to her mother, slammed the front door behind her, and yelled to Woody that it was “time to leave. Now.”

  Get a Job – April 1, 1953

  Buddy and his classmates joined the assembly of 10th through 12th graders as they filed into the Strasburg High School gymnasium for Career Day, 1953. Representatives from state businesses, institutions of higher learning, and the US military were on hand to recruit and promote their interests.

  “Cookies and dames,” declared Donnie while shoving Buddy toward the refreshments. “First things first.”

  School Guidance Counselor, Wilbert Bromley, appeared on the stage and yelled to get the noisy crowd’s attention. “When I call your name, come see me at the table in front of the girls’ locker room.”

  Wilbert had been on staff at Strasburg High School since it first opened its doors in 1926. His round body, bald head, caterpillar eyebrows, bright red suspenders, and intermittent stuttering led to no small amount of jokes and pranks. Most often, when he appeared i
n a school hallway, someone would call out, “Wuh-Wuh-Wuh-Wilbert,” which started a chain reaction of the brutal mockery until Principal Bob White yelled for order.

  Assemblies at Strasburg High School were often disrupted by calls of “Wuh-Wuh-Wuh-Wilbert” and “Bob White, Bob White.” Order was quickly restored as perpetrators were singled out and sentenced to hard labor, which meant scrubbing the boys’ bathroom floor on all fours for a week. Butch Abercrombie, a serial offender, had been relegated to the unpleasant punishment so many times that the boys’ bathroom was called the Abercrombie.

  “Quick,” said Donnie when he spotted Wendy Williams. “Electrolux is headed this way. Let’s go talk to the Marines.” Then he grabbed a handful of chocolate chip cookies, grabbed Buddy’s arm, and pulled him to the table assigned to a United States Marine Corps recruiter.

  “Donnie Turner, please report to the Guidance Counselor’s table. Donnie Turner,” called Wilbert Bromley.

  “Crap,” said Donnie disappointed that his greatly anticipated meeting with the Marine recruiter had been delayed. What he didn’t know was that he was about to get some terrible news that would hinder his dream of joining the Corps. He was failing math and science and, even with extra work, there was no hope of graduating with his class.

  With Donnie out of the way, Buddy quickly turned his attention to other vocational opportunities. Although Donnie had been pushing hard, he had no interest in the Corps. Buddy had heard plenty of horror stories about Marine Boot Camp. Even though he kept himself in good condition and was fairly athletic, Buddy just couldn’t see himself succeeding in something so mentally stressful and physically demanding. Maybe the Air Force was a possibility, but the prospects of living outside of the good old U S of A seemed unpleasant at best.

  He made his way through the crowd to an exhibit for the American Viscose textile operation in Front Royal. He stared at the display for a moment and when the representative asked him if he was interested in the Viscose Corporation, he flashed back to a tour that his dad had given him of the facility. He didn’t like it then and he was pretty sure that he wouldn’t like it now. “No sir. Not today, but thanks.”