Soft Dreams
                   Another Episode in Tales From the Front

"Isn't the news awful?", a soft voice inquired at my elbow, as I cast a
bleak gaze at the Sunday headlines, fraught with the war in the Middle East.
A young waitress with chinaberry blue eyes, dressed in a light tan uniform
sporting a fresh red rose in the lapel, stood patiently at my elbow, waiting
with coffee at the ready. She gave me a winsome smile, the separation
between her front teeth adding a level of honesty to her words as she added,
"I think war is a terrible thing, but then, perhaps the alternative is not
much better, I guess, with Hussein and all."

The news covering the front page of the Sunday Spokesman-Review lay between
us in two inch bold print-- managed news, well-orchestrated news; news
prepared by clean-shaven military men thousands of miles away. I could not
bring myself to tell a young waitress with a fresh red rose, a cute smile
and brilliant blue eyes the horrid implications, the dreadful omens that
military censorship implies, nor of the danger that Saddam Hussein poses to
the world. Somewhere, within myself, I lack the fortitude to bring my world
of angst crashing down on someone so innocent.

"My husband wants to join the service, but they won't let him," she added,
turning her face away momentarily. "because he's handicapped. He had polio
when he was a kid."

"But we've got two young boys who are healthy and strong. Both of them want
to join the marines when they grow up," she added softly as she put my
ticket on the table beside my coffee. "They want to serve our country."

"My husband sometimes talks to me about not being able to walk when he was
growing up. When each of the boys were born, I checked to see that they had
toes and fingers that all worked."

There are those who, by their very presence, can transform a simple,
low-level headache into a handful of highly-motivated, specialized cerebral
demons, each capable of unmentionable torture. Yet there are others who can
elevate the darkest mood, who, with a look, can soothe the most troubled
heart. I once had a kindly, genial grandmother who, with years, obtained
wisdom and patience to deal with even the most mercurial moods. Whenever
Grandpa would start talking war and rattling old sabers from two world wars,
her bright blue eyes would flash.

"There'll be no talking war at the dinner table!" she would softly say, but
with steel authority, and that was the end of that.

"But you know, you shouldn't read THAT kind of news when you're eating a
meal," the waitress added circumspectly, as she moved off to serve another
table.

Pardon me, but I think another generation of wise grandmothers, replete with
bright blue eyes, has already begun claiming their place among us old
curmudgeons.