Lamar Howell's Weblog

Where’s my GI Joe? My two-year old son’s first sentence. The almost-six-inch camouflage green, or white, or black-uniformed soldiers with hinged hips, elbows, and knees, always squeezed by Jonny’s baby-fat fingers. His little regiment of toy soldiers lived in crowded and merciless toddler-service in a shoebox quanson hut under little Jonny’s bed.

Devil take the stuffed teddy bear and Marvel action-figures. GI Joes were all he wanted. They were his true buddies in his little world of combat, soldier baby-talk, and heroism.

One day he left one at church. He took them there to hear the sermon  and to watch them respond to church. But oh! The panic and separation-anxiety that consumed him when he realized that Sergeant Charlie Sniper was missing-in-action. We sacrificed our lazy Sunday afternoon, drove the ten miles back to the church and crawled under pews, all for the salvation of Jonny’s soldier.

Years passed and I caught Jonny lying on the floor of his room, rehearsing battle plans and making his reluctant soldiers converse – maybe about some silly disagreement, or praise his lofty American ideals of patriotism, liberty, and sacrifice.

Now Jonny’s a US Marine – an almost-six-foot, real-life soldier. One day he is traipsing through an endless desert sandbox, or passing a palmed sand castle on an Asian beach. We never know for sure.

Back here, in the corner of a closed, rarely-frequented closet – one with the old pull-string light – in his old room at our house, lies a shoebox with whole bodies and pieces of his reserve six-inch army platoon. Where they’ll end up, I think I know. He’ll pass them down to his own son one day, when he turns the magical and responsible age of two. Until then, I must avoid the closet sanctuary. It’s my duty of honor.

My job is to keep flipping the news channels, browsing the newspapers, magazines, and books about our men in uniform, and in contemplative silence, keep raising this question skywards: “Where’s my GI Joe?”