not all heroes wear capes
A comic book and a bar of soap in a corn flakes box. Wrapped in newspaper. Tied with twine. The soap threw you off guessing, his brother winked. Alan’s brother received a bicycle. Not new, but new from a 2nd hand store. He had a paper route. After graduation, he would enlist.
There was so much going on that year. The ballpoint pen and teflon. Freeze dried coffee in a can. Oil found under Saudi sand. War of the Worlds on the radio and Robin Hood at the Bijou. Lou Gehrig belted a grand slam that would stand for three-quarters of a century.
Anyway, Alan liked the airplane on the box and soap was already scarce. War is coming, the newspaper read in large letters. Over there, it’s exciting—for all an 8 year old knew of war. The comic book hero could lift a Chrysler and stop bullets. He cost a dime. He could stop the war.
Alan left the comic in a trunk in an attic, lost to time. He lost his brother in the war. Heroes don’t always come home, but sometimes they send gifts from far away. From three-quarters of a century, Alan recovered the comic. Museum condition. Sweet as the cedar trunk.
His grand-daughter had his brother’s eyes. Now she had the proceeds of what a caped hero brought at auction. Proceeds for a fight against hunger, ignorance, and fear; the roots of war. Maybe his brother wore a cape after all, pitching newspapers in the summer of ’38.
