Valentine’s Day celebrated everyone knows but I’m not very sure I have one of those so I’m writing to you to celebrate red.
Red is good for many things.
Keeping the robin warm in rain springs and telling the tomato how to make a burger look yum and making barns less boring and Texas tourists call the fire department when they see fields on fire with all the Indian paintbrush.
Red is always reminding us where we are.
A red dot in a crowded mall or a red blot on a cursed tree.
He stared at the German anti-aircraft gun, his mind filled with flames, remembering.
The starboard wing had snapped off just before he jumped.
Then swimming in ink.
His parachute inhaling the night.
The muddy lights of occupied Paris pulling him down, through the exploding sky.
The boy at his side was pointing and saying something.
His thoughts were pulled into the present.
Today was Sunday, and Paris was sunbathing.
August 13th, 1944. A holiday, Assumption Day.
The City of Light was pretending especially well today.
Pretending they had enough to eat.
Pretending they didn’t mind the Crooked Cross streaming blood-red from every monument top.
Pretending they weren’t hiding an American pilot.
They had drawn him in as a breath.
Quietly holding their secret as Nazis paraded in the street.
His defiant host, Louis Berty, was a local pork butcher.
For 10 weeks he’d kept the gangly American pilot folded away.
Today was different. All of Paris was breathing today.
The German jackboot wasn’t pressing her throat, at least.
A good day to walk the wrinkles out.
“You can’t visit Paris with you not see the sights! Today we tour, Wehrmacht scum or no!”
So Berty the butcher, his seven-year-old boy and the leggy American sought the sights.
The pilot stretched his full frame to six feet and three inches.
The sun and the Seine filled his eyes.
Dressed as a local stone mason, Lieutenant Bob Woodrum almost didn’t fit in.
Gawking at the anti-aircraft gun crews wasn’t helping.
The would-be incognito sightseers sought a less supervised scene.
Near the place du Trucadéro, the French Naval Museum yawned a casual welcome.
Inside, Lieutenant Woodrum shrugged off the gun crew and his blistered memories.
Waves of timeless talent washed the walls here, a good place to loosen your mind.
Then an officer stomped in.
His Iron Crosses glinted angrily in the timid light.
Faces and furniture twisted in reflection.
The German officer took special interest in the American sculpture wrapped as a Parisian mason.
His interrogating eyes prodded the pilot, measuring the blond hair, blue eyes, towering form…
A painting there by Claude Joseph Vernet became frighteningly, critically interesting, to Bob.
Woodrum stared straight, trying the melt the colors with his gaze.
He wanted to wriggle through the oil and join the smiling subjects in the painting.
Then he could stand on the rock and wave, happy as they.
Together they would watch the liquid tricolor follow her ship to sea.
The sun would drop through the sky and all would be well.
The boy at his side brought him back.
Louis Berty’s seven-year-old son was staring at the canvas too, and silently slipped his small hand into the large American one.
Lieutenant Woodrum held the boy’s hand and poured his face into the painting.
The brown uniform barked a sparkling question in German. Then French.
The American stared ahead and breathed with those souls in the image, not at all.
The boy twisted around to look into the German face.
“My father is deaf and dumb.” He said.
—
On August 25th, French and American forces wrested from Nazi control, the City of Love.
On August 26th, Lieutenant Bob Woodrum greeted the champagne sunrise wearing his American uniform and carrying on his shoulders Louis Berty’s seven-year-old boy.
The king’s daughter needed rescue. One problem: It was a suicide mission.
The Scots remember everything in this brooding ballad. I offer my translation.
Note: Reading this will feel like washing the dishes. You’ll have a warm, fuzzy feeling when the work is done. And softer hands, guaranteed.
Sir Patrick Spens: A Ballad The king sits in Dumferlin town Drinking the blood-red wine: Oh where will I get a good sailor To sail this ship of mine? Translation: Alcoholic king in a church says “I need a brave heart, is there any who loves me with all of his?”
Up and spake an eldern knight, Sat at the king’s right knee: Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor That sails upon the sea. Translation: A wise guy says “I know of one, and worthy is the man.”
The king has written a broad letter And signed it with his hand, And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, Was walking on the sand. Translation: The king’s word goes through all the earth, and does not return empty.
To Noroway, to Noroway, To Noroway o’er the foam, The king’s daughter to Norway, ’Tis thou maun to bring her home. Translation: “My beloved is lost, only in you may she be found.”
The first line that Sir Patrick read A loud laugh laughed he; The next line that Sir Patrick read, A tear blinded his eye. Translation: For the joy set before him, her savior would suffer.
Make haste, make haste, my merry men all, Our good ship sails the morn. Oh say not so, my master dear, For I fear a deadly storm. Translation: His followers said “Master, do you not care that we will perish?”
Late, late yestreen I saw the new moon With the old moon in her arm, And I fear, I fear, my master dear, That we will come to harm. Translation: They guessed “we will be killed all day long.”
They hadna sailed a league, a league, A league but barely three, When the air grew dark, and the wind blew loud, And growly grew the sea. Translation: They guessed right.
Oh who is this has done this deed, This ill deed done to me, To send me out this time of the year, To sail upon the sea? Translation: “My king, why have you forsaken me?”
Oh our Scots nobles were right loth To wet their cork-heeled shoon, But long ere all the play were played Their hats they swam aboon. Translation: Hats float. Humans don’t.
Half o’er, half o’er to Aberdour It’s fifty fathoms deep, And there lies good Sir Patrick Spens With the Scots lords at his feet. Translation: And darkness was over the face of the deep.
Some say, fifty fathoms is the end of the story. Others say, it’s only half o’er.