Page 55 of When Wildflowers Bloom

“Me too.” Because I really do.

“Some termites mate for life,” he says, shifting the focus of the entire conversation. “And they have millions and millions of babies.”

I scrunch my nose. “That sounds like a lot of meatballs.”

He laughs loudly, marinara sauce staining the skin around his mouth.

When we finish our lunch, we spend the rest of the day watching videos about termites.

Nineteen

The Veterans of BlueRidge is a faded, tan-painted block building on the edge of downtown Laurel Hills.

Sam is dapper in a pair of dress slacks, shined shoes, white button-down shirt, and more cologne than usual. On top of his round bald head is a faded black cap with the words Vietnam Veteran stitched in gold. Shuffling across the parking lot, he uses his cane in one hand while I hook an arm through his other.

“We’ll be the talk of the town walking into this shindig together!” I shout-say to him with a teasing smile.

He winces then shouts, “Don’t yell, dammit, you’ll blow my eardrums out!” He points to his ear—he’s wearing his hearing aids. I don’t bother hiding my grin.

“Must be a special group if you actually want to hear them,” I say.

His eyes flick down to my outfit. A cream-colored sleeveless shirt that stops just above the waistband of a long red skirt. I pulled myhair up into a high bun, and, in the spirit of patriotism, gold stars dot my ears.

He grumbles something when he looks back to my face, no doubt about mytits, but his usual scowl is in a straight line. Sam is basically smiling.

We walk by the sign that says “Welcome to the public! We support our Vets!” as I push open the doors. Sam’s usually somewhat stooped posture straightens, as if he’s proud, and he steps inside with a swagger that isn’t usually there. Chin lifted, shoulders back, it’s still grouchy Sam next to me, but he’s also the baby-faced soldier in his photos.

I start to pull my arm out of his, thinking maybe he’d like to make this entry on his own, but when my forearm starts sliding by his, his elbow pinches it to his side as we walk. He wants me there.

Inside the block building is an open space filled with round tables surrounded by metal folding chairs. There’s a drop ceiling with watermarks, but there are also strings of bulbed lights that give it a playful, modern feel. In the corner is a stage with a guitar, drums, and a couple of microphones with tattered speakers on either side. Band members laugh as they plug in cords.

A few folks call, “Sam!” and raise their drinks to him as we walk by. In response, he nods, slightly pinching the rim of his hat toward them. He’s beaming.

There’s a small bar, a dozen people that look like Sam at different phases of life—hats embroidered, showcasing their own spots in history—laughing with beers in hand. At the tables are the oldest of the veterans—canes, walkers, and the occasional wheelchairtucked under the edges. Most of the men have round bellies, and the women beside them have white hair and bright lips.

The only way I know how to describe the scene is inspiring. Because though it looks like a building that needs work, the people that fill it do not. They are men and women like Sam, stories filled with Best Worst Days that lived to talk about them. Justlived. They came back from wherever they were sent and somehow found camaraderie on the other side. Twin flames, soul mates, other halves, whatever the right word is. Their chapters of hard truths didn’t define the rest of their lives. The symphony of voices and random bursts of laughter form a sort of triumphant anthem that covers my arms in goose bumps.

“What are we just standing here for, Bonnie? Let’s go find the boys!” Sam tugs my arm, pulling me from my thoughts.

I smile, not bothering to correct him. “Let’s do it.”

When the music starts to play, Sam has a beer, and we’re at a table with his friends. When he introduces me, he says, “This is Birdie, she’s the best I could do.” I’m so stunned at the fact he knows my name that I ignore the rest of the introduction. Everyone around the table laughs and says an assortment of, “We won’t tell anyone if you kick the cane out from under him,” or, “You must have drawn the short straw,” and my favorite, “We all ignore Sam,” when they shake my hand.

When they catch up with each other, I’m not part of the conversation but can’t stop smiling or get enough of hearing them talk to each other.

In a small patch of worn linoleum flooring, people start to dance to the classic rock covers the band plays. Due to their age and declining mobility, there aren’t big wiggles of hips or bending of knees—dancing takes on more of a shuffle—but they twist, shoulder shimmy, and snap fingers softly with smiles on their faces, lips singing every lyric.

Sam’s knee bounces as his toe and cane tap to the beat next to me.

“Do you want to dance, Sam?” I ask him.

He answers by way of a facial metamorphosis: scowl turns to flat line turns to grin.

“Do I ever!” he shouts.

The way he jumps from his chair with his cane is like a spring that’s been trapped in a small box finally set free.

We shimmy and twist and shuffle like everyone else on the dance floor. One song turns into two into five. Sam never stops smiling. This grouchy asshole of a man is the happiest I’ve ever seen him as we dance to a cover band and sweat drips down my back.

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