NOVEMBER 11, 1934
ARMISTICE DAY. HARD to believe. The head was up before me this morning.
He was staring out the window from his perch on my desk. I picked him up and moved him to the sill so he could get a better view, but there wasn’t much to see. The parade in the Welcome Mat was pretty sad. A few downtrodden, middle-aged men in their business suits with medals pinned on from the Great War. A couple of older geezers from Spain and the Philippines trailed them in wheelchairs.
“Does all that mean anything to you?” he said when I came into the office.
I didn’t really come anywhere, of course. The mattress was in the corner of the office, but we liked to pretend there were a variety of rooms. When he was in the foyer, for instance, I couldn’t hear him over in the billiard parlor.
“All
