I remember going to the Senior Citizen’s Center in Thoreau, New Mexico with my grandparents. I remember stale green lunch trays and being surrounded by World War II veterans, including my grandfather. He used to tell me that while in Papua New Guinea, he befriended a monkey that would ride his shoulder, then flee into the jungle when fighting would break out, only to return later. I want still to believe him, and it hurts me to think it may have just been a story for fun.

There was a man (who’s name I shamefully cannot remember, and very likely may be more figment of my memory than actual man) who, with large George Burns style spectacles and perfect dentures and a full head of silver hair, taught me to play piano for the very first time, in the fun-loving, congenial way that only an old man in a country town who is not a monster can. I wish I remembered his name. He let me shoot pool with the bridge stick, a brass, crown shaped pool cue used to prop your regular pool cue at funny angles. I would just rake the balls into the pockets. He didn’t mind.

These men and their wives represented a generation of glory for our country that to children like me is so legendary it can only be overblown in its charm and nobility, like a pet monkey on the battlefield of Papua New Guinea. Truth be told, I was raped twice, viciously, in Throeau, New Mexico, before I reached the age of 7. But it was never by a World War II veteran.