War Stories

Once a month or so during the summers on the island, Uncle Sherry came to visit and pass the time.   Despite one conspicuously empty sleeve, he stood tall and straight and almost always arrived with a burlap bag slung over his other shoulder - usually scallops fresh from the docks at Digby, sometimes lobsters - and one memorable morning in August, an honest to God swordfish.

If you're gon' ask a pretty woman to cook for you, he would tell my grandmother with a broad wink, Then it's best to bring provisions!

Sherry, you ol' one armed bandit! she would exclaim, I'd about given you up for lost...carry your ragged ass into this house this minute!

By then the dogs had heard his voice and stormed the back door in a frenzy - he always carried rib bones in the pocket of his overcoat - and they nearly knocked him down in their excitement.  My daddy was right behind them, shirtless and with shaving lather still on his face.

Sherry! he shouted, You old horse thief!  What took you so long!

They had grown up together, so Nana said, boyhood friends who had joined the Canadian Armed Forces and served together in France along with my Uncle Vern.  The war had not been kind, certainly not what they'd expected and only my daddy came home intact - Uncle Vern had lost a leg to a landmine and Sherry's arm had been blown off my a grenade - but it had also cemented their friendship.  After an overnight stay, they would be off to the Valley for a daytrip to see other old friends - the big reunion was held in the fall but these three gathered each summer - for old times sake, my daddy said, to reminisce, drink bourbon and tell not so gently edited war stories.  It was fascinating to hear and see them slip so easily into the past with tales of French barmaids and foxholes and lazy afternoons in sidewalk cafes.  And while there was always a drink to the ones who didn't come home, there were no stories of landmines or grenades or amputated limbs.  To hear them tell it, France had been one long, glorious adventure of wine, women, song and patriotism.

My mother, horrified that no one would pretend not to notice Sherry's empty sleeve and more than a little jealous of the bonds that held the men together, made herself scarce for these small reunions.   

We managed without her.  

Convinced that a one armed man could hardly fend for himself, Nana sent Sherry off the following morning with a veritable trunk full of provisions - quarts of chowder, loaves of bread tightly sealed in saran wrap, fried chicken and spare ribs, a basket of sweet corn - he protested but was no match for my iron-willed, grey haired grandmother. 

Wars and families make strange bedfellows.