The Seeds of War

“And what will be the end, Michael, and what’s the use, I say Of fightin’ if whoever wins, it’s us that’s got to pay?

It’s them that’s up above, mother, it’s them that sits and rules; We’ve got to fight the wars they make, it’s us as are the fools…”

                                                   —Robert Service

          Michael and I sat on the porch steps, their blistered paint and warped boards reminding us that the place needed some work.
          “Another beer?”
          “Yes, sir.”
          I reached back into the cooler and pulled out another cold one for both of us.
          “You know, Pop, someday we need to cut the grass.”
          “Well, let’s wait until the dandelions seed up. I like watchin’ those puff ball things blowin’ in the wind.”
          A grin broke out on Michael’s face, and he started to chuckle. He thought I did it just to piss off the neighbors whose lawns were manicured and weed free. One year my next-door neighbor started a petition that he took to the D.A.’s office. He was trying to get the courts to force me to spray herbicide on my lawn, saying the seeds blew over into his yard and, well, you know what happens then. They denied his request—apparently no city ordinance existed that pertained to dandelions.
          “Yea. Mom never did understand it,” Michael said. “You’d always pitch a fit if she wanted to put weed killer out.”
          I took a swig of beer, letting the coolness of it relax my tongue.
          “She never really understood the connection. Hell, Agent Orange sounded like something out of a spy novel to her. A person never can get over that smell.” Just the thought of it made me want to take a deep breath of clean, fresh air. “They sprayed us with it, you know, soldiers right out in the jungle. Of course, nobody ever owned up to it. ‘Mist drift’ they called it; said it wasn’t enough to hurt anybody. Sure was enough to hurt your brother though.”
          Danny had been born with spina bifida. It took 24 years, a divorce, and bankruptcy before the government acknowledged it was directly related to my exposure to Agent Orange. Then, in 1995, I received a diagnosis of chronic lymphocytic leukemia: “an automatic inclusion for benefits.” That’s what they finally said in 2003; for eight years I was shit out of luck.
          We sat silently, looking out at our peacefully growing lawn of green clover, seeding grasses, and yellow perennials. Occasionally, a breeze would blow a tuft of those seeding dandelions into the air. My heartaches seemed to fade and mute into nothing more than bad dreams when I sat out on the stoop.
          The crunch of gravel caused us both to turn our heads; the postman was part of our daily ritual. Inside the house, boxes lined the hallway. On the right and stacked shoulder high were my boxes—filled with my requests and subsequent denials from the government for veteran’s benefits since 1974—first for Danny, then for me.
On the left of the hallway, and ever growing, were Michael’s boxes. Not long after he graduated from high school, we had one hell of an argument. Next thing I knew the phone rang.
          “Pop,” he said, “I’ve joined the Army.” Just like that.
          “You won’t last two weeks,” I said. I was so angry I couldn’t think of anything else.
          Then the Army shipped him off to the Gulf War. Within six months of returning home, he started flushing-out unexpectedly into complete body rashes that caused him excruciating pain. Because he was unable to wear any clothes, I would lay him out on a clean white sheet and gently lay cool, moist cloths across him. Within a year the joint pain started. I have to admit, when I heard him cry out at night I thought hideous things. The government said Gulf War Syndrome didn’t exist. That same government—my government—said they had no record of him serving overseas—the records had been “lost.”
          Now I have had two sons ravaged by the seeds of war. I’ll be damned if I’ll kill those dandelions.

Dedicated to C. Creger

Autumn Doucet is a full time student at Wenatchee and has her eyes focused on a degree in English. She is obsessed with the nuances of syntax and punctuation and loves to write and edit. Where writing is concerned, “Social injustices compel me to put my pen to paper and the art of the essay keeps it there.”