Medals and Memorials

by Paul E. Jamison

 

Johnny's Bar and Grill was a small establishment a few miles outside of Saskatoon.  It was a pleasant place.  Pictures of hunting and fishing parties and a lot of hockey teams hung from the wall, and windows let in the light of a Summer afternoon.  What patrons there were relaxed and enjoyed their Molsons.  Johnny, owner and bartender, was using the slack time to clean some beer glasses.

 

When the stranger came in, it was easy to tell that he was American. He was dressed entirely too warm for the weather.  Most Americans couldn't grasp the concept of a warm Summer day in Canada.

 

The stranger wasn't very polite, either.  He walked up to the bar and said, "Gimme a beer, man."  Johnny had anticipated this and pulled a bottle of Bud Lite out of the special stock for Americans – they never ordered Molson's – pulled the top off and set it in front of the American.  "Here you go, sir."

 

The American was a young man, slightly built but projecting what the Yanks called "attitude".  He took a swig from the bottle and didn't say, "Thank you".

 

Johnny went back to cleaning the glasses and asked, "You here for the fishing, sir?"  He liked talking to customers.

 

The American shook his head and replied, shortly, "Nah".  He set the bottle down and looked at Johnny.  "I might have some business to do, though.  Anybody here buy gold coins?"

 

Johnny put the glass down and looked at the stranger with more interest.  "Maybe.  I'm not sure.  Are you looking to sell some?"

 

"Yeah. One. Here."  He pulled something out of his pocket and held it out.

 

Johnny took the coin from the stranger and studied it more closely. It wasn't a coin – it showed no monetary value.  But it was gold.

 

Johnny realized what it was, and his manner went cool.  He looked at the American and said, "This isn't a coin – it's a medal."

 

The young man shrugged.  "Yeah, coin, medal, whatever – I wanta sell it, so what does it matter what it is?"  He didn't seem to notice how icily polite Johnny had become.

 

Johnny turned to a rough-looking man sitting at a nearby table and called out, "Hey, Morris, you might want to look at this!"

 

As Morris got up and walked to the bar, the young American said, "What, this guy a coin collector?"

 

Johnny replied, "No – he's a stonemason."

 

Morris stood beside the young man, on his right, and cheerfully said, "Specialize in gravestones – if you ever need one, let me know."  He looked at the medallion and his face went blank.  He took it from Johnny and studied it more closely.

 

Finally, Morris looked at Johnny and softly said, "The Kowalskis."

 

Johnny nodded.  "I thought I recognized it."  He and Morris looked at the young man.  "Where did you get this, boy?"

 

The young American looked at them and completely failed to feel the chillness in the air.  He replied, "Hey – some guy sold it to me a few days ago.  I need some money now, so I wanna sell it!  Anything wrong with that?"

 

"What's going on here, Johnny?"  An older man, dressed in a mackinaw and wearing a Stetson, came up to the bar on the young man's left. The hair beneath the Stetson was brown, just going grey, and his face was slightly creased with wrinkles, mainly from several years of flashing a goofy smile at a moment's notice.

 

Johnny replied, with a slight touch of respect, "Oh, nothing serious, Mr. Turnbull.  Just that this Yank has something interesting."

 

Turnbull sighed.  "Please, Johnny, it's not 'Mr. Turnbull' anymore. I've retired from politics and it's just plain Renfield in here."  He thought for a moment.  "Though Turnbull would do in a pinch.  I certainly wouldn't like 'Rennie', though – it sounds too silly..."

 

Johnny replied, "Well, old habits die hard, sir."

 

The young man scowled at Turnbull's Stetson and said, "Not that it's any of your business, cowboy!"

 

Johnny, with that cool politeness, said, "Now, fella, I don't know how it is with you folks down South, but up here we treat former Prime Ministers with the respect they're due.  And, believe me, Mr. Turnbull has earned our respect!"

 

Turnbull blushed at the compliment.  His had been one of the better administrations for Canada, and he still got praise from time to time.

 

At this point, the front door flew open and two people came in.  The first was a man that looked about five or six years older than Turnbull.  His face was criss-crossed with fine wrinkles and his hair was mostly silver-grey.  And after all these years, he still favored an experimental haircut.

 

As he strode toward the bar, the man almost snarled, "Where is he?  We know he's here, 'cause we tracked him here!  Where is he??"

 

The person that followed him wore the red serge and campaign hat that marked the traditional dress of the RCMP.  As the mountie took off the hat, she revealed honey-blonde hair done up in a practical bun, with silver threads liberally scattered among the gold.  Her face showed little evidence of age.

 

Morris calmly said, "Hello, Stan, Maggie.  Nice to see you again." He held out the gold medallion.  "I think this belongs to you."

 

The young man tried to snatch the medallion back, but Stan was too fast. He took the little gold disc and held it in his palm.  The name "Max" went through his mind.

 

Then Stan held it out for the mountie to take and turned around to look at the young American.  He didn't have to ask.

 

Abruptly Stan grabbed the young man by the lapels and slammed him back against the bar.  Stan Kowalski was, at his age, still quite strong. Living for so many years in the Canadian forests had been good to him.

 

Stan pulled the young man close and hissed in his face.  "You thief... You spineless little worm!  How dare you steal from him?  How dare you desecrate his grave?!  How dare you??"

 

Some people think that they can brazen their way out of a difficult situation by telling an outrageous lie.  They're usually wrong.  The young man squawked, "Hey, man!  I didn't steal that!  You sold it to me, fair and square!  You're tryin' to scam me, man!"

 

The mountie leaned forward and politely said,  "I can assure you that my husband would never lie about something like this."

 

The young man tried further brazening.  "Hey, it was right out there in the open!  Anybody coulda come along and taken it!  Beside, it's a stupid animal cemetery!  What's up with putting a gold coin on some stupid pet's grave?"

 

Then the young man saw the look in Stan's eyes, and it started to dawn on him that he was in serious trouble.  He tried moving but Stan had him pinned to the bar.  The young man's eyes widened and he started to squawk.  "Get this nut away from me!  He can't do this to me!  Get him away!!"

 

Johnny leaned forward and said, "Stan, please don't do anything to the punk in here; I had the place renovated not too long ago.  If there's gonna be a dust-up, could you take it outside?"

 

Stan took a deep breath, let go of the young man and stepped back. There was still a glint in his eyes.  "Yeah.  Yeah, right, Johnny. Don't wanna bust up your place.  You!"  Stan scowled at the young American. "We're gonna settle this out there!  Follow me!"  Stan headed for the door.

 

The young man relaxed and sneered.  "What, you think I'm gonna go out there?  I'm safe in here and you can't touch -"

 

Morris and Turnbull grabbed the young man and proceeded to frog-march him after Stan.  The young man began to use some colorful language, but it didn't persuade them to let him go.  Nobody else in the bar tried to stop them.  On the other hand, nobody else went out to watch; some things require privacy.

 

The mountie turned the medal over in her hands.  It was a miniature replica of two that hung in a place of honor over their mantelpiece. This medal hadn't been harmed beyond some scratches around the edges; most of the damage had been done to the headstone.  That was fine; headstones could be replaced – the medal couldn't.

 

Some adhesive still clung to the reverse side.  The motto on the obverse read simply "For bravery and heroism".

 

Johnny, wiping down a glass, asked, "So, how's those kids of yours doing, Maggie?"

 

Maggie Kowalski looked up and, like so many mothers are wont to do, smiled at the thought of her children.  "Oh, they're doing fine! Francine is growing like a weed – we just bought her some new clothes at the Bay before school started, and she's already growing out of them!  She's doing fine in school – looks like her brother Benjamin all over again when it comes to smarts!"

 

"Benjamin's almost ready to graduate, isn't he?  About time to think about college?"

 

Maggie nodded.  "Next year.  He's been doing some serious thinking about what to do with is life.  I don't know what he's decided yet."

 

Johnny put down the glass and looked at her thoughtfully.  "You know, I looked at Benjamin the other day and it struck me who he reminds me of."

 

Maggie nodded.  "I know.  My brother, Benton.  Odd how genetics works out, isn't it?"

 

"That's true.  But there's some of you in him, too.  And of Stan."

 

There was a loud thump as something hit the outer wall of the bar. The fishing expeditions and hockey teams danced against the wall.

 

"Speaking of my headstrong husband, I'd better go out there and rein him in."  Maggie put her Stetson back on.  "We don't want this fine establishment to fall down."

 

"Ah, the building's in good shape, so no worry there.  But I think Stan has made his point.  It's good that you folks got the little guy's medal back.  Take care, Maggie – don't be a stranger!"

 

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In a clearing in the middle of a grove of Scotch Pine, not far away from the Kowalski cabin, there is a small cemetery.  Right in the center is a large stone, bearing the label "THE KOWALSKI WEASEL PATROL – TO PROTECT, SERVE AND STEAL SOCKS"; around it were several small stones, each bearing a name and dates.  To one side was a medium-sized stone which read, "IN MEMORY OF BENTON FRASER, RAYMOND VECCHIO AND DIEFENBAKER – Friends Always".  The clearing is neat and well-kept.

 

Stan Kowalski came up the path to the cemetery.  He figured that sooner or later old age would creep up on him and the walk up here would get harder.  That didn't seem to be happening yet.

 

Stan began cleaning up the clearing.  This consisted mainly of picking up a few fallen tree branches.  For some reason, the birds and the beasts never soiled the clearing or spotted the headstones – maybe they could sense the reverence of this place.

 

Once he'd cleaned up the place, Stan talked to his friends.

 

He stood in front of the medium-sized stone and smiled.  "Hey, Fraze – Vecchio!  Hope you're doing okay – wherever you are.  Wanted to tell you, I went into Saskatoon the other day for my annual checkup.  Doc said I'm as healthy as a horse – no problems now and no signs of any down the road."  Stan grinned.  "I figure I'll see you guys again someday, but it looks like it's gonna be a long time yet.

 

"Fraze, your sister's doing pretty good, too.  Still a fine figure of a woman – or should I be saying that to her brother?"  He shrugged. "Oh, well, not that you can do anything about it."

 

Stan frowned.  "Ray, after all these years, I still haven't worked out what relation you and I have to each other.  Spouse-in-law, maybe? We'll have to work that one out someday.

 

"Dief, wanted to tell you – I saw a timber wolf the other day.  Looked a little bit like you – not much, but a little.  I was sitting on the front porch and he walked into the yard.  Came up real close, too.  We just looked into each other's eyes for the longest time.  Beautiful critter."

 

Stan moved over to the smaller stones.  He stopped in front of one that said, "Yertle the Turtle – Honorary Weasel".  Stan bent down and brushed some pine needles away.  "Hey, Yert'.  You getting enough lettuce where you are?  I'm betting they have a limitless supply. More than you can put away, I'll bet!"  Stan smiled.  "What with all the fuzzbutts in the house, I hope you know that I didn't love you any less.  Too bad turtles aren't much for cuddling."

 

There were stones side by side for Marge and Gower.  Stan didn't know where they were really buried – he'd let the animal hospital in Chicago take care of that so long ago.  But Stan had figured that his first two ferrets had rated headstones of their own, and if their bodies weren't here, some part of their spirits had to be.  Three more headstones marked the graves of Gene Kelly, Cyd Charisse and Donald O’Connor, the first members of the Kowalski Weasel Patrol.  And there were many more stones as well.  Stan had something to say to all of them.

 

Finally he came to one marked "Max, the Wonder Weasel."  Stan sat down and cleaned away minute pieces of debris from the stone and the ground.  He didn't like to play favorites, but this one was special.

 

Morris had carved a new headstone to replace the old one.  Max's medal for heroism was now set into this one; Morris had made sure that it fit more snugly and more deeply than before, to discourage more vandalism.  The gold medal shone in the Canadian sunshine.

 

"I hope the new stone meets with your approval, kid.  Morris did a real good job with it.  The thief is in jail now.  Looks like he'll be extra- extrad- sent back to the States.  I'm glad he didn't get away with your medal.  I don't think I could've coped with that."

 

Stan sat back and looked at Max's headstone.  "Maybe I should've buried your medal with you, kid.  It'd make it harder to steal."  He thought for a moment, and finally shook his head.  "Nah.  I was always proud of you earning it, and I want the world to know.  We'll keep a better eye on it for you from now on, I promise."

 

Stan shifted around to a more comfortable position.  "Ya know, Max, once in awhile I've wondered if I shouldn't've buried your wheelchair thing with ya.  Not that you need it now, of course, but it was yours, after all.  Some people thought I was strange for hanging onto it, but I figured it might come in handy someday.  You know all this – I've bent your ear about it before."  He smiled.  "Well, you know what?  I was right!  We're using your wheely gizmo again!

 

"Maggie and me were in Winnipeg a few weeks back and stopped in at the ferret shelter, and they had a little girl there with a spinal injury. Sweet little kid, real friendly.  The shelter operator said she was unadoptable because of her injuries, but what's that mean?  I ended up adopting you, didn't I?

 

"Well, she came home with us, and guess what, Max – she loves that wheelchair of yours!  Fits her just fine, and the other furbrats are having a tough time keeping up with her!

 

"I thought you ought to know, Max.  I'm sure you'd approve."

 

There were sounds of someone coming up the path.  Stan turned around and saw his son.  Benjamin Kowalski smiled and waved.  "Hey, Dad!"

 

Stan waved back.  His son had grown into a fine, strapping young man, with the dark hair that reminded Stan so much of his friend of long ago.  "Hey, Benny!  What's been going on?"

 

"Mom's coming up here shortly with the Starfish.  Francine's doing her homework – you know how that is; I don't think anything short of a bomb would drag her away."  Benjamin bent down and brushed some pine needles from a headstone; there were several of his own animal companions buried here, too.  "I've been doing a lot of thinking, as you know, Dad.  About what I want to do.  I think I've come to a decision."

 

Stan asked, softly, "What did you decide?"

 

Benjamin moved to another headstone and looked down at it; it was for a cat called Mungojerry, a particular favorite of his.  He replied, "Well, it was a no-brainer, really.  I want to do what you and Mom have done."

 

Stan thought for a moment.  Nobody had taken a shot at him in years. "Well... That's your choice.  The RCMP can always use a few good men. You have to realize that it's dangerous, though -"

 

"No, Dad, that's not it.  I'm not talking about you working in law enforcement.  It's what you two have done with animals."  He waved his arm around, indicating the many headstones.  "It's all this; it's how much you've cared for furry types over the years."  He looked at his Father.  "I want to help animals, too.  I want to become a veterinarian, Dad."

 

Stan looked up at his son and slowly smiled.  He remembered how little Benny had brought home a sick bird when he was four and had cheered when it flew away, healthy and strong, six weeks later.  He had learned to clean litter boxes when he was six and to give Duck Soup to an ailing ferret when he was eight.  Benjamin was good with animals.

 

Stan stood up and said, "Good choice, Benny!"  The boy was slightly taller than him.  Stan felt something catch in his throat.   "I think you'll make us proud."  Father and son moved together and shared a hug.

 

"Hello, you two, mind if we join you?"  Maggie Kowalski came walking up the path.  She wasn't wearing her uniform now.  Stan had been right about her – she was still a fine-looking woman.

 

She held a leash in her hand, and at her side trundled a petite Dark-Eyed White ferret, with its hind legs were strapped into a wheeled device.  Little Starfish was a happy ferret, who loved a stroll through the woods – as long as the ground wasn't too rocky for the wheels.  She was also a Daddy's Girl; she chirped happily when she saw Stan.  Maggie bent down to unsnap the leash, and Star sped toward Stan.

 

Stan turned to his wife and grinned.  "Hi, hon, I just heard some good news!"  He placed his hand on Benjamin's shoulder.  "Our boy's figured out what he's gonna do!"

 

"I know – he told me earlier."  Maggie came up and kissed her son on the cheek.  "That's very good news – there can never be too many veterinarians.  The animals need all the help they can get."

 

Star hopped around on her front legs at Stan's feet.  He crouched down and picked her up, wheels and all.  In return, he got happy ferret kisses.

 

As he cradled Star in his arms, Stan said, "Yeah.  Maybe they can figure out what to do to help fuzzies like her walk again."

 

Benjamin said softly, "I'll do my best, Dad."

 

Stan smiled.  "I know you will.  I know you'll make us proud.  You've already made us happy as it is."  He looked around at the many headstones.  "I'll bet they're happy, too."  Stan enjoyed the feeling of closeness – closeness to his family and closeness to the animals that he'd always love.

 

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Somewhere, far away – how far, nobody can really say – underneath a beautiful bright rainbow, a large group of animals are gathered around a pond.  There are some cats and dogs, some hamsters, and a turtle with a quiet, shy smile.  But there are mostly ferrets.  The surface of the pond is as smooth as glass, and the animals are watching Stan, Maggie, Benjamin and Star as they stand by the animal cemetery.

 

Max's hind legs are whole and strong now – and they will be that way for all time.  The sable ferret loves it that he can use his legs again; he's gotten the reputation for being one of the best dancers under the Rainbow Bridge.

 

Now Max looks down on the image of the human that he loves so much. He's proud to see that his wheelchair is being used to help another needy soul.  Max smiles and says, "Oh, yes, Daddy, we're happy, too. We're all happy."

 

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And somewhere else, on the other side of the Rainbow Bridge, who can say what's going on?  Is there another observing place?  Is someone else watching Stan Kowalski, his family, and their latest furry companion?  Are there two men watching, with a wolf at their side? Does one of the men look a lot like Benjamin, and does the other man not look a thing like Stan Kowalski, no matter how people tried to pretend otherwise?

 

Who can say?

 

THE END

 

DISCLAIMER

 

This story is for entertainment purposes only and is not intended to infringe on copyrights held by Alliance Communications Corp., CBS and CTV or any other copyright holders of "due South".