A Memorial Day Prayer.

Today I find myself browsing the recesses of the mind of my youth.

Wandering into Isom's department store on Saturday afternoon as a young boy, watching intently as Mr. Isom carefully checks and remarks the prices from his shoe catalog.

Many of those shoes had one, two, even three lower prices marked through. All replaced as new annual catalogs arrived with Mr. Isom carefully peering at the replacement prices over those black rimmed glasses that seemed to do nothing. Peering between the glasses and the ever present black felt hat. Near or far he always seemed to be looking over, rather than through those glasses.

On this particular day I recall how he he looked up, with a salesman's smile, as two young men who could have easily passed for James Dean and Dennis Hopper walked through the store. They lowered their own dark glasses and peered around as intently as Mr. Isom had been reviewing his price list. They were looking at the air, the door, the thin curtain that hid the three by three foot dressing room.

As I rested my hands on a very slightly yellowed, albeit brand new shirt I noticed a thin brown uniform slip silently through the open front door.

Duck-walking behind the counter Deputy Stewart shushed me when I began to open my mouth.

Drawing his long-nosed 38 revolver from the crisp polished holster, the quite snap of the hammer strap on the black holster sounded like thunder to me in that store but in reality there was no noise at all except the huge pole fan that served nothing but to blow the sweltering Alabama air.

"STOP IN THE NAME OF THE LAW!" he shouted.

Deputy stood braced like the outriggers of an A-frame barn, Legs so far apart that he was scarcely taller than I, arms locked, drawing a bead on the two as they bolted for the faded red curtain that divided the public area from the stock room and back door to freedom. Stewart, stood erect, re-holstered the side arm, threw his head to one side popping the bones in his neck. This time the sound was drowned beneath the sound of the big fan blades whipping the morning air.

"Police business son" - he said to my wondering eyes. And returned to the waiting Green '57 Plymouth Cruiser with the single red bubble gum dome. Only Broughton Isom dared venture into the dark back room of the long, thin, store to see if they might still be there.

That my friend and gentle reader, Is the way of life we must morn this Memorial Day weekend. Our soldiers gave their life to protect America the Beautiful, One Nation, Under God, With Liberty and Justice for all. And to protect with a little wink and a grin for both the law and the lawless who offended a deputy this day by outrunning his six cylinder green Plymouth with the three speed on the column.