The Beauty of the Days Gone By - Best Work Contest

A Story by M6P347

This short story is told through the reminiscence of an elderly man named Gordon as he sits in the park.

83. I have been on this earth for 83 years 4 days and 7 hours. In all that time, I never stopped to look back. Always pushing forward. The breeze feels nice sitting here, on this wooden bench. The rustle of leaves and pleasurable cries of children interrupt the quiet. I remember vaguely the park by my childhood home in Bently, Pennsylvania. The past"boy, does that bring on a rush of memories.

Growing up in Bently was difficult. My three sisters, Maggie, Ann, and Charlotte, and I lived with our father in a creaky, antique shack in the foothills of the Appalachians. I was the youngest of the four. Mags and Lottie were good a deal older than I and abandoned Ann and me when I was fourteen. It was less than year later that Ann left our home and I was alone. Our father, Eli, was rarely home. When he was, you could bet your bottom dollar he would be stumbling in the door. It was always the same routine, Eli would bound in through the doorway, the reek of the bar still clinging to his clothes. If I got caught in his path, I'd be lucky to leave with just a bruise. Thank God he never did lay a finger on the girls; he wouldn't dare.

I was sixteen when I left Eli. It was 1945. World War II was still raging and the drafts were circulating the town. While walking by the butcher shop I heard the news, "Join the navy! Sign up today in Bently Square! Defend your country!" It was my ticket out of that dreadful house! Oh, but I was not yet eighteen! Is age not simply a number? To leave Bently was to break these wretched chains clamped around my wrists. I was joining the navy.

The square was bustling. My cap was pulled down over my eyes as I slinked into the crowd. In a small town like Bently I couldn’t be too careful in hiding my identity. I remember the faces floating by in the blur. Standing in line I snuck glances into the crowd. Mrs. Fink cried, holding onto Arthur as a last attempt to make him stay. Mark and Sammy Rutherford from Pigeon Street were feigning courage but I could see the fear in their eyes. Before I knew it, the officer was asking for my name. I thought to give him a fake surname but, stumbling over my words, the truth spilled out. "And how old are you, son?" he asked. I reckon my face was red as the badge on his uniform when I blurted out "I'm eighteen, sir." That was the first time I ever lied to a figure of authority and I never did again.

Life in the American Navy was brutal. I was booked aboard the U.S.S. Corregador CVE58. Many young, chipper soldiers boarded the ships. I made dear friends on those voyages: Arnold Hopkins, Gene Leonard, and Rooney Maxwell. We entered the war with a sense of pride and boyish confidence but that pride soon diminished as we sailed into battle. Death was all around us. Soldiers I had grown fond of were slain in the war. By 1946, I had lost both Arnold and Gene in the Battle of the Atlantic. 36,200 men perished in those six years. My crew arrived home grim. In that time, we had all grown. I had aged only a single year in that time, but I had grown into a man.

After my service in the war, I moved to Boston, Massachusetts. Times were tough but I kept my head up. Mr. McCreery accepted me into his home; in return, I worked in his corner store. The day she first walked in I barely batted an eye. She was just the girl who came by once a week to have a pleasant conversation with Mr. McCreery and pick up a bag of ice. It wasn’t until she grabbed a Nesbitt’s orange soda pop and strolled over that I took notice of her. Her smile did it, her stunning smile encircled by her beautiful red lips. She handed me a dime, flashed me that killer smile, and sashayed out of the store. It took only a moment but, from that moment on, Monday was my favorite day.

My mission was clear"she had to be mine. After a month of abasing gazing, I followed her out the door. I jogged to her side and introduced myself in a charming manner. (To be honest, my words were a jumbled mess and nowhere near charming.)

“Excuse me miss,” I huffed, “I don’t believe I got your name.”

She slowed her trot to a walk and eyed me curiously.

“My name is Carolyn.”

“Hello Carolyn, I’m Gordon.”

Her stare softened and that dashing smile formed at her lips.

“It’s nice to meet you Gordon.”

What a beautiful name Carolyn was.

That had been only the beginning. Two years later, I made that girl my wife. Carolyn was everything I could have dreamed of and more: saucy, eloquent, and gorgeous inside and out. Nine months passed and I realized how wrong I was. I held in my arms “everything I could have dreamed of” plus one. Carolyn had given me the world, but the price was devastating. That night Carolyn was taken from me, her life for Bonnie’s.

You never know how fast life goes until you watch your child mature. Bonnie grew into young woman overnight it seemed. I watched her celebrate her first birthday and, now, her 22^nd. Raising Bonnie on my own was struggle. She lit my world in a dark time. I didn’t accept the reality of Bonnie’s aging until that April. That spring, Bonnie was married to a gent named David Kline. She and he crossed paths at William and Mary College in Virginia. David is a well-to-do man with a stable income and smashing good looks. It is no wonder my baby girl fell for him. The wedding was blue and white. I gave Bonnie away with a tear brimming in my eye. The true tears came when I laid eyes upon my petite granddaughter for the first time. She was small and red like infants are. She was perfect. She was Carol.

Dr. Sullivan’s voice rang in my ears. The news came as a shock. How could it be? The doctor elaborated, explaining that it was common among Navy veterans between 1930 and 1980. The soldiers were often exposed to asbestos and the cases can remain dormant for decades. I needed to sit down. My legs gave way beneath me and I plummeted in the chair in the corner of Sullivan’s office. I had mesothelioma cancer.

A vehicle’s alarm blares in the parking lot. My mind snaps back to the present and I look about myself. Time has barely ticked on. The squeals of the children go on and the wind never ceased. A day has passed since my visit with Dr. Sullivan. My secret has yet to be discovered; I intend to conceal it for the time being.

“Great Grandpa Gordon, watch me do a cartwheel!” Dustin hollers in my direction from the field.

Alyssa flies by on a bicycle, narrowly missing Baxter, the family dog. I hear a chuckle beside me and rotate myself to face Carol.

“Hey, Gramps.” She plants a kiss on my cheek and with a joking tone says, “Have those two made you miserable yet?”

I smile up at her, “Not at all. I don’t take in the rotten parts of life. I get more fulfillment at the end of the day when I take in the beauty of the days gone by.”