I wasn't yet born on December 7th, 1941, so no matter what my understanding of that historical day, the true meaning of it cannot possibly be as alive for me as it remains for some. What does live on for me, however, is the memory of one man whose example made a great impact on my life. This is a reprint of a blog post that I wrote in 2011, titled "Luke Tucker - A Pearl Harbor Day Tribute." It remains one of the most popular blog posts on this site, so I chose to reprint it in honor of my old friend. I hope that you will enjoy getting to know the Mr. Tucker of my youth.
Luke Tucker was a wrinkled, loose
skinned man with scraggly, white hair when I met him in 1980. His arms
were hairy and covered with dark tattoos. He drank way too much, and I
could smell the alcohol wafting from his Airstream trailer before
sunrise on Sunday mornings. He had a quick wit, and would spout out
one-liners whenever I delivered his newspaper. Over time we developed a
friendship.
For the first few months, I delivered my papers from a baby stroller,
often pushing the stroller with one hand while playing a broken
harmonica (which my dad had given to me when I was four) with the other.
One day Luke gave me a sturdy, new Western Flyer wagon with high
slatted wooden sides. It was waiting at his doorstep when I came by. He
said that if I was going to be delivering papers, I needed a good wagon
or a bike to do it right. For Christmas the next year, he bought me a
chromatic harmonica. It was exactly like the one my dad had given me,
except that this one was shiny and new, and all of its reeds were in
tune. I was 10 years old, and life was good.
Luke began meeting me outside
whenever I'd come around in the afternoon. He'd sit out on the shaded
cement patio listening to the tinny sounds of an ancient transistor
radio. He would usually offer me a cup of lemonade or a 16oz glass
bottle of Coke. I would tell him about my day at school, and he always
had some new joke to tell that he had heard at the auto-shop where he
spent his days helping out.
Over time, that familiar Sunday morning smell of alcohol disappeared,
replaced by the pleasant aromas of bacon, sausage, strong coffee and
maple syrup. The Three Stooges and The Little Rascals (already old
classics by then) would be playing on his portable black and white
television, which was connected by a flat cable to a tall, old-fashioned
metal antenna outside. Canned audience laughter slid through the crack
of the thin, cold aluminum trailer door as the sun began to peek over
the eastern foothills.
Luke had long since met my mom, who correctly surmised that he was a
harmless, likeable old man. One day, he asked her if it would be o.k. to
have me over for breakfast some mornings after my route. Those old
Sunday morning programs had always been his favorites, he thought I
might enjoy them, and he would be happy to have the company. Besides, he
was already making breakfast anyway... She gave her permission, on the
condition that I didn't stop at his place until after I had finished my
morning deliveries.
From that day on, I would finish those Sunday papers by 6am. Then I
would rush back to Luke's trailer park, wagon in tow, or riding the bike
that I'd purchased with my paper route money. We'd sit and watch the
hijinks of the Stooges and the goofy humor of the Rascals. We laughed
and laughed at those corny episodes. We'd trade jokes too: the latest
that I'd heard at school and his better, grittier versions from decades
long past. Eventually, always - Luke would go outside and light up a
cigar. He would look through the smoke, into the distance, in silence.
For a few minutes he was somewhere far away, in some unreachable part of
his mind. Sometimes I'd stand out in the cold with him, quietly hoping
that he really didn't feel as alone in the world as he appeared.
It wasn't until a year or so later, when he was the subject of a full
page write-up on Pearl Harbor Day in our local paper, that I learned
that Luke Tucker, my Luke Tucker, was a Pearl Harbor vet. I was shocked.
How could I not have known? I was excited to see him again, to ask
about his experiences, and to hear his stories of adventure.
It was a weekday evening; Luke was on his patio. He was drinking. He had
had too much. I don't remember now exactly how the conversation went,
but he went off on me and called me names. I was so upset that my mother
went to his place and gave him a piece of her mind. She told him that
if he ever spoke that way to me again, that interaction would be our
last. He was either going to treat me well, or our friendship would be
over.
The next time I saw Luke, his eyes were smiling through slow, silent
tears. He was so sorry for how he had acted. I said to him, "I was just
surprised that you were a hero all this time and I never knew it. I just
wanted to hear your side of the story. I'm proud to know someone like
you." The tears began to stream, but his posture remained stoic. His
gaze was fixed straight ahead, looking at nothing. Slowly and
deliberately he said, "I'm no hero. You don't want to hear the stories
that I have to tell, and I don't want to tell them. I lost a lot of
friends in that war; they are the real heroes. It's because of them that
you'll never have to know the things that I know."
His big, leathery hand clasped mine for the first and only time. He
looked me straight in the eye, and told me that I deserved all the best
that life had to offer. He said that he was thankful to know that a
child of this generation could live with so much joy. "You are a good
kid and I'm proud to be your friend." Then he asked me to please, never
ask him about that war, ever again.
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