said.
“Why?” Liz asked. “We’re losing the war.”
“We’re losing the war here at home with all these goddamned spoiled draft-dodging protesters,” Uncle Clarence said. “We’re not losing the war over there. Our boys
are just trying to figure out how to win. They’re doing a hell of a fine job. Truman himself says so.” He turned on his heel and stalked off.
“I didn’t mean to upset him,” Liz said. “Doesn’t everyone know we’re losing?”
We all started walking up Holladay Avenue toward the hill. “People have different views,” Aunt Al said. “It’s a touchy subject around here. There’s a tradition of
service in these parts. You do what your country asks you to do, and you do it with pride.”
“I’m enlisting when I graduate,” Joe said. “Not waiting to be drafted.”
“My Clarence was in Korea,” Aunt Al went on. “So was your daddy, Bean. Got the Silver Star.”
“What’s that?”
“A medal,” Aunt Al said. “Charlie was a hero. He ran out into enemy fire to save a wounded buddy.”
“You’re enlisting?” Liz asked Joe.
“That’s what guys around here do,” Joe said. “I want to fix helicopters and learn to fly them, like Truman.”
Liz stared at him in disbelief, and I was afraid she was going to say something sarcastic, so I changed the subject. “We’re going to go looking for jobs,” I told Aunt Al.
“That’s a tall order,” she said. There was not a lot of work around Byler these days, she explained. The folks on the hill sure didn’t have money to spare. She and
Clarence couldn’t even afford a car, and neither could a lot of the neighbors. Over on Davis Street and East Street, where the doctors and the lawyers and the judges and the bankers lived,
most people had coloreds who did the cooking and washing and gardening. However, there were retired folks around town who may have the odd job or yard work.
“Sometimes I get little jobs, but I make more money selling fruit and scrap metal,” Joe said.
“Still,” Aunt Al added, “you might land something, God willing and the creek don’t rise.”
Liz and I spent the next couple of days knocking on doors all over Byler. Most of the folks on the hill apologetically explained that in times like these, they were lucky if
they could pay their bills each month. They couldn’t afford to fork over hard-earned cash to kids for jobs that they could do themselves. Our luck wasn’t much better at the fancier
houses on East Street and Davis Street. A lot of times, black maids in uniforms answered the doors, and some of them seemed surprised when they learned we were looking for the kind of work they
were doing. One older lady did hire us to rake her yard, but after two hours’ work she gave us only a quarter each, acting like she was being extravagantly generous.
At the end of the second day, Liz decided to check out the Byler Library and I rode over to the Wyatts’ to tell Aunt Al that the job search wasn’t going so well.
“Don’t be discouraged,” she said. “And wait right here. I got a surprise for you.” She disappeared down the hall and came back with a ring box. I opened it, and
hanging from a little red, white, and blue ribbon was a star-shaped medal.
“Charlie Wyatt’s Silver Star,” she said.
I picked up the medal. The star was gold and had a small wreath in the middle surrounding a tiny second star that was silver. “A war hero,” I said. “Did he have a lot of war
stories?”
“Charlie was quite the talker, but one thing he never did like to talk about was how he got this Silver Star. Or, for that matter, anything about that danged war. Charlie never wore that
star, and he never told people about it. He saved one buddy, but there were plenty others he couldn’t save, and it weighed on him.”
Little Earl, who was sitting next to Aunt Al, stretched out his hand, and I passed the medal to him. He held it up, then put the star in his mouth. Aunt Al took it back,
“Why?” Liz asked. “We’re losing the war.”
“We’re losing the war here at home with all these goddamned spoiled draft-dodging protesters,” Uncle Clarence said. “We’re not losing the war over there. Our boys
are just trying to figure out how to win. They’re doing a hell of a fine job. Truman himself says so.” He turned on his heel and stalked off.
“I didn’t mean to upset him,” Liz said. “Doesn’t everyone know we’re losing?”
We all started walking up Holladay Avenue toward the hill. “People have different views,” Aunt Al said. “It’s a touchy subject around here. There’s a tradition of
service in these parts. You do what your country asks you to do, and you do it with pride.”
“I’m enlisting when I graduate,” Joe said. “Not waiting to be drafted.”
“My Clarence was in Korea,” Aunt Al went on. “So was your daddy, Bean. Got the Silver Star.”
“What’s that?”
“A medal,” Aunt Al said. “Charlie was a hero. He ran out into enemy fire to save a wounded buddy.”
“You’re enlisting?” Liz asked Joe.
“That’s what guys around here do,” Joe said. “I want to fix helicopters and learn to fly them, like Truman.”
Liz stared at him in disbelief, and I was afraid she was going to say something sarcastic, so I changed the subject. “We’re going to go looking for jobs,” I told Aunt Al.
“That’s a tall order,” she said. There was not a lot of work around Byler these days, she explained. The folks on the hill sure didn’t have money to spare. She and
Clarence couldn’t even afford a car, and neither could a lot of the neighbors. Over on Davis Street and East Street, where the doctors and the lawyers and the judges and the bankers lived,
most people had coloreds who did the cooking and washing and gardening. However, there were retired folks around town who may have the odd job or yard work.
“Sometimes I get little jobs, but I make more money selling fruit and scrap metal,” Joe said.
“Still,” Aunt Al added, “you might land something, God willing and the creek don’t rise.”
Liz and I spent the next couple of days knocking on doors all over Byler. Most of the folks on the hill apologetically explained that in times like these, they were lucky if
they could pay their bills each month. They couldn’t afford to fork over hard-earned cash to kids for jobs that they could do themselves. Our luck wasn’t much better at the fancier
houses on East Street and Davis Street. A lot of times, black maids in uniforms answered the doors, and some of them seemed surprised when they learned we were looking for the kind of work they
were doing. One older lady did hire us to rake her yard, but after two hours’ work she gave us only a quarter each, acting like she was being extravagantly generous.
At the end of the second day, Liz decided to check out the Byler Library and I rode over to the Wyatts’ to tell Aunt Al that the job search wasn’t going so well.
“Don’t be discouraged,” she said. “And wait right here. I got a surprise for you.” She disappeared down the hall and came back with a ring box. I opened it, and
hanging from a little red, white, and blue ribbon was a star-shaped medal.
“Charlie Wyatt’s Silver Star,” she said.
I picked up the medal. The star was gold and had a small wreath in the middle surrounding a tiny second star that was silver. “A war hero,” I said. “Did he have a lot of war
stories?”
“Charlie was quite the talker, but one thing he never did like to talk about was how he got this Silver Star. Or, for that matter, anything about that danged war. Charlie never wore that
star, and he never told people about it. He saved one buddy, but there were plenty others he couldn’t save, and it weighed on him.”
Little Earl, who was sitting next to Aunt Al, stretched out his hand, and I passed the medal to him. He held it up, then put the star in his mouth. Aunt Al took it back,
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