“Ah, Mr. Harmon, welcome!” Phil Yancy, wearing his U.S.S. Hornet ball cap, pulled out a clipboard and made a check mark. “Nice to see you here. You’re in Section D with the other wood pieces. Janet’s there to help you find your spot.”
“Thanks, Phil, see you.”
Dennis Harmon, master wood carver, made his way through the crowd of artists and artisans. The Veterans of Foreign Wars annual fundraiser was an arts contest. The venue was huge, but he quickly found Section D. Janet pointed him to a table with remarkable lighting.
“I remembered your sculpture, Mr. Harmon, and I thought this table was best.”
“Thanks, Janet.” Dennis put a wooden box on the table, opened it, and lifted out a Bonsai tree; both the tree and its container meticulously carved from a single block of walnut. The tree itself was painstakingly oiled, an intricate fence of barbed wire surrounded it, and on its naked branches were four strategically placed leaves. He upended the box, arranged a velvet drape over it, and placed the tree on top. The light from above made it gleam. Dennis stood back, satisfied.
Janet handed him a card. It read: ‘Bonsai in Walnut; a study of my life.’ In the corner was his name.
“We didn’t put in any other information, as you requested, Mr. Harmon.”
“Thanks, Janet, it’s perfect.”
Dennis looked at the tree, the result of ten years of his life. He reached into his pocket and felt the whittling knife that he always carried.
“Listen, son, you cannot run your thumb straight down the knife to test the sharpness. You have to test like this,” his father flicked his thumb back and forth against the blade of the knife. “You can feel the edge of a well honed blade. Here feel this.” Dad held out the knife and Denny flicked his thumb across the blade. “Now, feel this,” Dad picked up another knife from the table. “I haven’t sharpened this one yet.” Denny flicked his thumb across the blade. He couldn’t feel the difference between the two blades.
Dad continued to hone his knife, the one he used to carve the Thanksgiving turkey, and made a big deal out of sharpening. Denny heard him humming and knew it was some special knife honing song. Dad had a song for everything he did with tools. He hummed over tuning the car engine. He sang as he nailed fence slats. He told Denny once that humming or singing kept him from cussing. Denny heard that the day his father changed a flat tire. He thought about testing a blade for sharpness. Was his father’s way the absolutely right way? Maybe not. So, should he pass up the opportunity to try a new way? He didn’t think so.
Dad held the knife out and said, “So, is it sharp?” Denny ran his thumb straight down the edge of the knife. It clattered to the linoleum. Blood welled up out of the wound and dripped onto the knife. Dad let out a roar, leaped to his feet, grabbed a dish towel, and squeezed it tightly around Denny’s thumb. Then he started cussing. Denny heard words he never heard before. Mom came when she heard the roar. They got the wound clean, found it wasn’t as deep as it looked, and put butterfly bandages on it to hold the skin closed. Mom put gauze on it and told him to sit in the kitchen chair and hold his hand above his head while Dad cleaned up the blood. Denny understood that they wanted to see if the bleeding would stop and the wound close. If it got infected, she’d have to see if the doctor could see him without payment. They had no insurance.
Hey, Dad?”
“What?” His father glared at him.
“The knife is sharp.”
“It’s the last one you’ll ever touch in my house.”
Dad was as good as his word and Dennis learned a valuable lesson. He smiled, took a soft brush from his shirt pocket, and flicked a speck of non-existent dust from the tiny fence posts.
The sign read “No trespassing.” It also read “Trespassers will be prosecuted.” It hung on a rusty, barbed wire fence. The barbed wire was there to cut trespassers to shreds; the rust implied the shreds would become horribly infected. Denny found the hole in the fence and, since he didn’t pay attention to anyone much less a sign, he went in. He was hungry and when your stomach is empty, and your father’s paycheck exhausted, food was food. He knew he could face the tiny dinner after a meal of nuts.
The windfall was gone, eaten in previous visits. Today, he went further into the orchard and found unbroken walnuts. He brought nut cracking rocks. He didn’t hear the farmer coming.
The farmer yelled and Denny took off running. He was fast but the farmer had a rock. The rock hit Denny square in the back. He fell into the barbed wire, clawed through the hole, and ran straight home.
Mom was hopping mad. The evidence of the rusty fence was damning: bloody, filthy, scratches, torn and dirty jeans, and damaged shoes. He could get lockjaw, she said. He could die, she said. She dragged him to the emergency room. The doctor cleaned and bandaged his arms. The nurse gave him a shot. His mother paid with money from the vacation envelope and coins from his piggy bank.
When they got home, she put him in the bath and then in pajamas. She held his head as he vomited up the walnuts, a reaction to the tetanus shot. She put him to bed. Denny found out later his dad brought home a cash bonus. He missed the feast of meat loaf and mashed potatoes.
Dennis put the brush back in his pocket and peered at each tiny, green leaf. The individual leaves had taken time and patience to affix to the tree.
The jungle smelled rotten. His team was lined up head to foot, as he dug his whittling knife into the loamy earth in front of him.
Nothing.
He stretched his left hand forward, slowly abrading the dirt, trying to feel for something that didn’t belong there.
Nothing.
The clearing was ahead. They needed to get to the landing zone to contain it for the choppers. But the moment Denny found the wire on the path, they dropped to the ground and began the painful job of finding the device the wire belonged to. The NVA didn’t just drop valuable material. His Pathfinder unit had to secure that LZ. The job demanded his undivided attention.
“Clear.” He whispered. He heard his word echoing softly along the line of soldiers. Then he pulled himself forward until his nose was level with his outstretched fingers. Probed again with his knife, containing his anger to focus on the task. Denny had been assured the area was clear. He’d had a gut clench when he heard those words, but the intelligence came from someone he trusted. He had learned his lessons well – obey your leaders, read the signs, don’t eat anything you didn’t pick yourself, and always carry a sharp knife. His time in country taught him to believe in his four-man team. They should all get out alive.
The knife found nothing buried in the jungle floor. He reached out and probed with his fingers, one more time. “Clear,” Denny whispered again. The damn wire had to be American and Denny would have words with the C.O. when he got back to base. Now, they were at the LZ. He heard Ron and Albert begin to low crawl to his right. They would secure the perimeter so Jake could set the flares. Denny would call the choppers. The drop would be made on time. Jake, on his left, started to stand, froze, and dropped flat.
Jake put his mouth to Denny’s ear and breathed, “Four man ambush team right of the LZ.” Denny raised four fingers pointing to the right. Jake rolled off to the left. Denny knew that Albert and Ron had rolled right. His target was the second man from the left. The first shot would be his, signaling the others to take down their man. He fired and hit his target, the other three going down within seconds. He slowly backed up, knowing his team was doing the same. They needed to make time down the path, giving themselves distance so they could safely call the LZ ‘hot.’ There would be no landing here today, but they would all go home.
Dennis stood back and looked at the little tree on display. He turned to find Janet standing behind him. She put out her hand.
“Thank you for bringing it, Mr. Harmon. It could win the grand prize, you know.”
Dennis shook her hand firmly. “Thanks, Janet. For me, it already has.”
Becoming Writer 2016 Anniversary Contest 