Scar

by HarryT

The year was 1951. I was eleven years old. Larry, my best friend, pointed down the sidewalk and said, “Hey, guys, look who’s coming this way.”

George, a WW I vet, was ambling toward us as we sat on the steps of a bungalow porch on a sunny summer afternoon on the Southside of Chicago. The four of us guys, Dom, Rich, Larry and I, were engaged in a game of penny-poker, duces wild. It was a good day for me. I was up 74 cents.

Larry gave me a poke in the arm as George was about to amble past our poker conclave. “Watch this.”

Scraggly, gray beard, George, attired in his usual shabby manner; baggy pants, red suspenders, plaid shirttail hanging out, and always, the beat-up, blue Cubs baseball cap askew on his head. The kids on the block discovered George was upset by yelling, “Cubs stink,” whenever he walked by. George’s immediate reaction was to shout a defensive rebut, “Sox stink! Sox stink!” as he ran down the sidewalk away from his tormentors.

Later, a neighbor who had witnessed our behavior told me George was a war hero. He returned from France afflicted with a torment that people then called “shell shock.” Today, the lingering pain is diagnosed as posttraumatic stress disorder or PSTD, which is caused by a psychological condition resulting from the stress a soldier experiences during battle.

I am ashamed that I never gather the strength to apologize to George for the ugly act we committed. I still carry the guilt, and I don’t know why, as kids, we thought to bully this old man was a hilarious thing to do. George sacrificed his mental acuity to protect my freedom, and my pathetic response to his bravery was to taunt him.

We weren’t bad kids. The only excuse that I had at the time was the eternal kid excuse. All the kids were doing it. However, on my soul, I carry a George scar. It serves as a reminder that kindness is what we owe our neighbors.

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Poor behavior as a boy still haunts me.

Scar

by HarryT

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