McMuffins and Marines

I told him I'd pick him up at 8:30 on the morning of one of the primary voting days in his county. When I drove up, there was my father, sitting on his rolling walker in the sun to the right of his driveway: all nine decades of him, with the pilled and saggy sweater that he won't give up, the huge '80s glasses that are "still perfectly good," and one of the many baseball caps he started wearing out of embarrassment just a few years ago when his beautiful head of hair finally thinned out.

He'd insisted on going to vote early in the morning, to beat the crowd he was so certain would be there. (I knew otherwise, but I agreed that it was probably good to get a jump on the other voters. You know how everyone's always elbowing each other out of line to vote in the primaries.) When I got out to help him into the car, he said, "There might be too much traffic right now. Want to go to McDonald's and get breakfast first?"
 
Once there, he headed toward the condiments section to grab enough napkins for 40 people. I sat him down at a lime-green table, folded up his walker and put it aside, and went to get our order. Shortly after I returned, a tall gentleman, around 80, stopped by the table and introduced himself as "Rick," then asked if my dad had been in the service. "6th Marine Division," said my father. "29th Regiment." Rick smiled and winked, said, "I hate Marines," and then pulled out a colorful coin and popped it down on the table. "Ah, Master Sergeant," said my father, who saw at a glance what the coin meant. "Yep, career marine," says our new friend, pulling up his shirt so my father could see his belt buckle with the eagle, globe and anchor insignia. "Enjoy your breakfast!" And with that, he moved on, the Mayor of McDonald's, meeting and greeting his McCitizens.

With my father fed and ready to vote, I install him once more in my car and turn on the ignition. There's a knocking at my window. It's Rick, so I lower the glass and he says to my father, "We're up here 8-10 every morning but Sunday, me and some other guys who were in the service. We're all in our 70s and 80s. You should come sit with us once in awhile."

The look on my father's face - this man who has lost his wife and all of his contemporaries, who is so lonely despite the best efforts of his four daughters - was a gift. You bet I'll get him up there.

© 2016 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie