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   t h e    p o s t -w a r    y e a r s

--- W I L L I A M   V A N   W E R T

Je ne ferai pas la guerre
contre vos moulins.

I remember the first TVs; Friday Night at the Fights, Gillette commercials, louder than the blue-collar crowd, blue cellophane over the screen, to block out the snow.

Hot summer nights, scaling perch, my dad in his boxer shorts and shirt, passing out beers. The smell of pine outside, streetlights dimmed by ten o'clock.

The Eisenhower years. Wealth and baggy-pants Republicans. A flocked look of potpourri, gaze without purpose, national calm. The doldrums.

Interrupted Milton Berle. They'd fried the Rosenbergs at last. She took four times. She was the stronger one, I thought.

The Tigers were mired in last place. Couldn't get out. Ferris Fain, good glove, no hit, all finesse. We thought he was queer.

Anata-no namae-wa, nan desu-ka?

Japanese fathers, kept in the camps in California. Just in case. The war never ended. They kept right on bowing their heads. We took it as a sign of their quilt.

Verde, que te quiero verde. Sad-eyed Lorca died too soon, long ago, far away, before TV.

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