We are fortunate daughters and sons. John Fogerty sang, I ain’t no fortunate son.’ Just now I passed a house that exploded a couple of days ago. A person was killed, and kindling was left. Police tape for a wide circle. Devastation. We drop a lot of bombs on others. It is different when you see it up close. War is not something to play rock and roll music to. War is hell!

White Heron is back. He knows school is starting and needs to get his supplies. White Heron is a Brooks Pond enthusiast. He knows not of war; he understands fish. Fireworks make him nervous. The first Friday in August. The Custodians have prepared the floors. All is shining. They look like mirrors. You can comb your hair in their reflection. It is a good Friday for a trip to Ponds Hollow. Monday will be the hot classroom. Window fans are moving hot air. The teacher has a smile maskoon that she purchased for Halloween. She was not ready for school. The teacher went on a Caribbean cruise and wanted to stay on an island. Mr. B quit his gas pumping job today. He needed the money in the summer. No one gets rich teaching kids.

The usual cliques formed again as if summer had not happened. Bullies were there, a bit subdued, until the teacher tested the waters. Chet had on his ballcap. Mrs K told him to take off his hat in the house, a universal theme in the early 60s.  Debbie’s uncle was in Vietnam as well as Bill B’s cousin.

Chet watched the body count on the CBS Evening News with Walter Cronkite each evening as he ate Oscar Mayer Weiners. Morley Safer and Ed Bradley crouched low as gunfire sang over their heads in the rice paddy. A little Vietnamese girl ran down the road naked, burned by Agent Orange.  It was an award-winning photo. Children wept alongside their mothers as their thatch roofs were set ablaze. General Westmorland said all we needed was more troops to be the victors in Vietnam. President Johnson sent more and more and more. Victory was just around the corner. Communism had to be defeated no matter how many lives were lost. A just cause, we were told nightly. Walter Cronkite said the war was unwinnable.

‘New Boss same as the Old Boss,’ the poor man said. ‘The poor fight and die; the rich get the glory for something that they caused,’ the poor man proclaimed. ‘Iran says they may agree to open the Strait of Hormuz if we agree to their terms. ThetStrait was open until we started bombing; no regime change, no magical thinking,’ the Poor Man observed.

The Fog of War blinds many eyes. The children cry. Good people die. We trusted a lie.

‘I love swimming,’ Billy B said. ‘I could swim every day and twice on Sunday,’ Billy B danced. ‘School starts Monday, but next week will be easy; teachers will have workshops, and we will get out early,’ Billy B splashed. ‘Watch me as I float in the deep water,’ Billy B winked. ‘I sure hope we do not have to go to Vietnam, as it is a fight without purpose,’ Billy B said. ‘It is a big ask to require a person to lay down their life for a President’s ego,’ Billy B noted.