I had to be about five years old and was busy sweeping the small walk that led to the sidewalk in front of our bungalow home.
A truck full of soldiers came up the slight rise from Poplar Level Road and one called out to me, “Sweep good, Blondie!” As the truck rounded the bend, others in the open back truck waved and yelled their “Hellos’. I ran inside to tell my mother that soldiers were here.
She said she did not know where they were going, but probably to Fort Knox.
We moved to McKay Street and then the war was over. There were no more blackout shades or kerosene stoves. Instead, we had nice white shades, a coal furnace in the basement, and a gas propane tank on s wooden frame on the opposite side of the house from the driveway.
I often wonder what happened to the soldiers who called out to me that day. I hope that someday they went home to enjoy life with their families. After I wonder, I say a small prayer for each of them. I close my eyes and see that truck going around the bend. For one brief moment, I was the little sister they left behind and for a very long time, they are the big brothers I will always remember.