Memorial Day, originally Decoration Day, was first celebrated in 1868 to honor fallen Union soldiers in the Civil War. The date was picked to fall near the date of reunification of our country. After World War I the holiday was expanded to include all fallen soldiers who lost their lives in service to our country. Almost 1.5 million American soldiers have died during wars our country has participated in, dating back to the Revolutionary War. There are so many more soldiers not in that number that have lost their lives without dying as a result of these wars. Wilbur is one of them.
From his own account, Wilbur is 75 years old. Or 66. Or 59. Or 22. He was born in Alabama, about 50 miles south of Birmingham and grew up picking cotton and strawberries. He volunteered for the Vietnam War, “because they would have drafted a black man anyway”. When he returned from the war he moved to Hackensack, New Jersey. He started a band, Wilbur and the Invaders, who got the chance to open for Patti LaBelle once on Seventh Avenue in New York.
Wilbur has lived on Forrest Avenue for more than 10 years now. He sits on his porch four or five days a week singing along with his radio, his “box”. The neighborhood is serenaded with Sam Cooke, The Drifters, James Brown, Fats Domino. Wilbur sings and drinks, and drinks and sings, until he passes out on the porch. He suffers from dementia, arthritis, alcoholism. His (second, or maybe fourth) wife Elizabeth hides in the house, ashamed of her husband.
Yesterday Wilbur’s box was broken. I went to his porch to fix it, but it was finished, just like the other 3 boxes on the porch. I let him borrow our box until he could get a new one. I could hear Wilbur singing as we ate and drank and enjoyed ourselves yesterday. He seemed to be enjoying himself as well. Only a handful of people were left at our party last night when the improbable happened.
I’ve lived in this neighborhood since January, 2 doors down from Wilbur, and I’ve never seen him outside his yard. The gate is padlocked shut, and he roams the yard like an old, toothless lion in a cage at the circus, on display for the thirtysomethings pushing strollers and walking their dogs down our street. But here he was, standing on our porch, box in hand. He had decided he should bring our radio back before he broke it like he had his own. We invited him in and hit play on our Motown playlist. Wilbur sang along. He danced in our dining room. We sat on the front porch and he dispensed wisdom that only his life would allow.
“You was born a man, you gone die a man. Live like a man.”
“There is no next war. Don’t run off on this one.”
“Never say bye. You say bye in Vietnam, you don’t come back.”
About eleven we had to send everyone home. Tanya had to be up early for work, so we needed to cut the party off. Wilbur hugged everyone left on the porch and we walked to the end of the driveway together.
“You know, I thought I pissed you off, now I think you might like me.”
“I don’t just like you Wilbur, I respect you. You deserve respect.”
“I thoroughly enjoyed myself. I love you, but not like a faggot.”
We hugged, and he walked home. I hope Wilbur can come to our Memorial Day party next year. He’s a man who deserves to be honored for his service to our country. If he’s not with us next year or is too frail to come over, I know he’ll be in my mind every Memorial Day for the rest of my life.
