Fathers and Sons Granddaddy stared at war news he couldn't choose but watch. Two elbow stubs after World War One pumped to make cold metal move, lightweight aluminum with thumbs, remote control from his mind like the past.  He babbled and hugged us, teasing candy canes from our collars, behind our ears.  I know now how he did it, but all of his tricks seemed magic.  After Grandmother's ham and yams, after patted tummy and sighs, he saved the best for last, model planes he whittled with claws, oak blocks in a vise he sliced and sanded smooth until we swore those planes could fly--Hellcats, Mustangs, battle planes of World War II, his four sons' war. My father and uncles returned without harm or night sweats, I thought when I was nine, until I flew off to Saigon and back, and my son left last month for boot camp. When Our Children Believe Us As a bride, our daughter phoned home often with questions about God, how to boil water, how to raise happy babies, how to spot bad babysitters and teachers. Our grandson was in trouble with the law of algebra, again. She burned the phone lines up, pilgrim seeking answers in Tibet, as if we're an aging, chubby couple calm as Buddha.  For years she begged to know what's wrong, why hamsters eat their young, why God lets neighbors' children die. She was like our child again when she was five and we were wise. And then the phone calls stopped, trickle of a mountain stream in drought--we'd stalled long enough, humming into the phone, ohh, oh no, ohh-my.  She calls sometimes at night after her children sleep, patient as we complain and sigh about the red oak dying, how our knees and ankles ache after walking only two miles, no longer able to jog, asking how long before her family can fly home. (c) Walt McDonald 2001
	Walt McDonald Walt's second appearance in Another Sun.  He was a U.S. Air Force pilot, taught at the U.S. Air Force Academy, and was Texas Poet Laureate for 2001. Four of his books received Western Heritage Awards from the National Cowboy Hall of Fame (USA).