Love, War and the Henry Ford

I’m going to start this blog with what might sound like whining, but please bare with me - it’s part of the story I wish to tell.

I’m not feeling well. Much of that not well has to do with the tear in my left shoulder rotator cuff muscle. I’ve been lifting five pound weights to strengthen it, and for some reason it went into panic yesterday and pretty much froze up, making my left arm useless. It’s a bit better this morning, and I can almost comfortably write this email.

I didn’t write that introduction for your concern about me or for self pity. I have a physical injury and I’m dealing with it. It’s not comfortable, sometimes its downright painful, but in the whole realm of well-being its not such a big deal.

Last week I spent the morning at ‘the Henry Ford.” I wrote a little bit about this tourist destination in a previous blog - but honestly, it wasn’t the Model T’s driving around, or the old buildings filled with antiques, or all the hoopla and attention given to Thomas Edison that got my attention. I’ll remember those things, but I walked away from that park that day with the vision of a real injury, a not-so-pretty vision I’ve seen several times in my journey across America. A vision of war . . . and love.

Roaming around the Henry Ford stimulated my appetite, so I decided to have lunch in a tavern that was originally built in 1831 - The Eagle Tavern. The costumed host informed me that they served the same “Bill of Fare” here as they did over 175 years ago. He apologized for the inflation in price. The pan-fried trout sounded good, the ambiance intriguing, so I went in. There were no modern lights - only candles and natural rays of the noon-day sun filtered through the windows. The customers shared long tables. I asked the costumed waiter about the food. That too was patterned after how it would have been here back then. The food was raised or grown locally, changed seasonally and for the most part was organic. In fact the old farm houses on display in the Henry Ford had real organic gardens along the sides and in the back yards. The Eagle Tavern, inside the family park, served Michigan Corn Whiskey and a pretty long list of alcohol from that time in history. I ordered some odd sounding beer that came in a Grolsch-like bottle. It was good. The trout was 10 inches long and filled the plate. It lay on a bed of home fried red potatoes, with an ear of corn-on-the-cob. The meal also included a basket of fresh baked bread. All for the ridiculous price of $12.50.

Truthfully, the lunch I had as a captive audience inside an tourist park, was as good as any fish dinner I would pay $25-$30 for at most fine restaurants anywhere. I was impressed - but this is not what I really wanted to write about.

Sitting on the benches of the table next to mine was a family of about eight. They appeared like average mid-west white Americans. Looking up from my meal, I was again reminded of the perfect placement of people, places, times and events, orchestrated for my benefit. Directly across from me sat a young soldier, a man who I have seen in different forms in malls and coffee shops in America, and in a TV special about a common tragedy of this war in particular. He was one of thousands who unfortunately drove over or stepped on a land mine in Afghanistan. I looked at him. He never looked at me. He wasn’t blind - he just couldn’t. For a half-hour he stared into space, safely strapped in his wheel-chair. His chunky wife looked over at him now and then. She would smile and straighten his hair that didn’t need straightening, or move his paralyzed hands to what seemed to her to be a more comfortable position. He must have had to eat another way, because they ate and he didn’t. I couldn’t imagine him chewing.

Most important - I could feel her heart. She loved her man. No matter what. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind. I couldn’t tell, only sense, that he too loved her, and appreciated everything she does to make his lost life normal. I could barely see, maybe I only imagined, the faint hint of a smile when she touched him. It moved my heart.

Love, war and the Henry Ford.

For all of us who can move our eyes, who can turn our heads to look and see the sky and the surrounding beauty we often take for granted, who can walk to the store, or meander in the park or even find the way to the bathroom, for all of us who have working arms that can touch and feel, arms that can be lifted and wrapped around another in a hug, hands with eight fingers and two thumbs that work in domestic or creative ways, for all of us who don’t live with a death sentence like one of my dearest friends with hepatitis C - or have Aids or cancer - for all of us who have a full range of body parts that work, all I can say is - be careful about complaining about the little things. Let’s count our blessings.

With love from one so blessed.

Dakan