35 Years

Daddy in about 1978 or 1979.

photographer unknown

It's been thirty-five years since my daddy died. There's a lot I don't remember about him. It's weird knowing that most of my stories about him are second-hand ones told to me by Mom or Nana or other relatives.

Here's what I do remember. We used to have an above-ground pool by my grandmother's house. It had yellow sides and was about three feet deep. You had to climb the ladder to get in. Unless you were Daddy. He climbed over the sides. Every time.

Daddy was a good swimmer.  He could swim underwater for what seemed like forever. In reality it was probably only a minute or two, but he would let me climb on his back and ride while he swam around. I can still remember the way the water beaded up on his back.

He used to take me with him sometimes to his favorite beer joint in town. All the old men there would buy me Cokes and M&Ms and tell each other stories. I'm sure none of those stories were fully on the side of truth. I wish I could remember them, but I was too busy eating chocolate to pay much attention. It's possible they played cards or dominos, but again, chocolate clouds my memory.

He built me a treehouse one afternoon because I asked for it. Before I left for school, I said I wanted a treehouse. When I came home, I had one. It occurred to me only later (much, much later) that he was only home because he was sick. I cannot imagine how exhausted building that treehouse made him, but he did it. And it wasn't poorly built either. It lasted for years.

His was the first funeral I remember attending. It rained. Not a heavy rain, but enough to be noticed.

Because he was a Marine Corps veteran, his coffin was draped in the flag. I remember at least two Marines were at the funeral, and they folded the flag and presented it to Mom. I didn't fully understand the significance of that at the time.

After the funeral, when people were still visiting and reminiscing, Mom asked me and my niece to take the flag to the car. We were almost there when footsteps came pounding up behind us. It was the Marines!

"We folded that wrong," one of them said and took the flag.

The stripes were visible and not the stars. Being only eight, I had no idea there was a right way and a wrong way to fold a flag. I still wonder if that's true for every country, or if it's an American thing.

The Marines quickly refolded the flag--stars out--and handed it back to us. It felt less solemn that time. But I think Daddy would have gotten a kick out it.

Movie Review: 1917

1917, directed by Sam Mendes

image from Internet Movie Database

Can a war film be called beautiful? Because that’s the only word to describe Sam Mendes’ film 1917. That beauty is all thanks to Roger Deakins’ superb cinematography.

1917 tells the story of two soldiers—Blake (Dean-Charles Chapman) and Scofield (George MacKay)—who are tasked with delivering a message calling off an attack. Blake is selected because his brother is in the division facing certain slaughter. He chooses Scofield to go with him, seemingly because Scofield is the first soldier he sees.

In another film this might lead to friction between the two men and tell a story of them having to come together to complete an almost impossible task. But the script by Mendes and Krysty Wilson-Cairns is smarter than that. There is some quick pleading to think things through before rushing off into No Man’s Land, but they have a job to do. And, with that British stiff upper lip the two men head over the top.

I say men but both actors are so youthful in appearance that we’re reminded how young the soldiers in the Great War truly were. Even more than Peter Jackson’s remarkable 2018 documentary They Shall Not Grow Old, Chapman and MacKay simply feel too young to be part of this globe-spanning conflict. They should be home with their families.

The film does not shy away from some of the more gruesome elements of World War I. Bodies in various stages of decay are everywhere and some are used as markers by the other soldiers, a tragic detail based in reality. Other small details fill the backgrounds of scenes—stretchers lining a trench wall before battle, mud everywhere, dead horses and other animals, a dog mascot for a unit, and rats. So many rats. Rats were a fact of life in World War I. They were big and fat from gorging on the dead, and the movie even has a joke about their size.

That’s another aspect of soldier life in World War I the movie nails—the morbid humor the men used to help them through. One scene with Andrew Scott is quite funny.

But back to the beauty. It’s not all Deakins’ work making an unimaginably grim war beautiful. Mendes’ direction is also assured. Much has been made of the use of long, single takes throughout the film. I can't add any more to that discussion, except the technique works. Not one background is wasted. Like our two soldiers, we don’t know what will be around the next corner or over the next rise. The tension is palpable, but it never feels like a gimmick. We are right there with Blake and Scofield as they discover a well-built German bunker or search a seemingly abandoned farm.

1917 is stunning. A breathtaking, high-wire act that manages to tell a compelling war story without superhero-like acts of bravery or strength.

I decided to dust off my review writing skills from college. Back then I was the arts and entertainment editor for my university’s newspaper and often wrote movie reviews. 1917 compelled me to write more than my usual tweet-length review. I hope you enjoyed it.