{"id":2763,"date":"2023-07-24T08:55:36","date_gmt":"2023-07-24T12:55:36","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/thepetigrureview.com\/?page_id=2763"},"modified":"2023-07-24T08:55:36","modified_gmt":"2023-07-24T12:55:36","slug":"carrying","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/thepetigrureview.com\/?page_id=2763","title":{"rendered":"Carrying"},"content":{"rendered":"\n
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Ginny Foard<\/h2>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n
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Issue 16<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n

Flash Fiction<\/p>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n

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Willis wanted a box. He wanted to carry his box with him. Always. This thought kept him alive from one day to the next in the prisoner of war camp. It was his plan for after he was free again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Each morning, he woke. He thought, today, I will survive to the end of the day<\/em>. He often reflected on his state motto, While I breathe, I hope<\/em>. He briefly imagined the food inside his box of the future. In the camp, his group had stopped sharing their food fantasies out loud. Instead, they carefully split the Red Cross\u2019s food equally among them. This mutual sharing was deadly serious and bonded them together in an almost religious ritual. Then they ate the camp\u2019s daily bread roll and gruel. As days turned into months, their bones protruded from the rags of their airmen\u2019s uniforms.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Willis planned what food to keep in his box. He revised. Every few hours in the camp, he\u2019d reconsider. He loved the dark, heavy German bread roll. He wasn\u2019t sure he could do without it. He would find a place in the box for his mom\u2019s bacon lard, a thing that in his childhood had been discarded. He thought of the chocolate bar that he\u2019d not thought to eat while floating in his parachute down to enemy territory, after his plane was shot. He wished he\u2019d eaten that candy bar before the German farmers took it from him, along with his gun, when he\u2019d hit the ground. There was so much inside his box. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Willis considered how he would keep the box by his side as he went through a normal American\u2019s daily life. Maybe he would have to check his luggage when traveling for business. He wouldn\u2019t let them take his box from him. His box would stay in his hand. Within reach. Thinking about how close he would keep his box, his thoughts again wandered inside it and explored the luscious foods that one day would be within fingertips\u2019 reach.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Willis survived, thinly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And Willis carried. He carried on, he carried forward, he carried the box.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Years later, at home in Sherman, Texas, Willis heard people excited about needing to carry a gun. He thought back to floating under his parachute over German territory, descending in a hail of artillery fire into probable hostile territory, spraining an ankle badly in a tricky landing. During the war, the airmen constantly debated whether to keep or to get rid of their guns if they were shot down. Some felt that having the gun would guarantee they\u2019d be killed immediately when captured; others felt the gun might help them survive. For Willis\u2019 captors, his gun didn\u2019t matter. Their fierce readiness to kill him subsided only after they\u2019d verified that he was not circumcised and they\u2019d found a Saint Christopher\u2019s medal attached to his dog tag. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Willis thought of the gun he carried then, but mostly, he thought of that chocolate bar in his pocket. He imagined carrying that chocolate bar into those months after he\u2019d been captured, inspected, interrogated and imprisoned. His mouth watered. He felt his waistline expand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

At age seventy, Willis wrote about his months imprisoned as a young man. He still carried his imaginary box. He never let it leave his reach. In it, an overload of memories. Willis put the happiest ones on top, adding more every day. He chose what to carry.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n

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Ginny Foard<\/strong>\u00a0wonders about a lot. What might it be like to live through different things or to see things from another angle? She recently reread the memoir of a family friend and Clemson graduate, Willis Hastings, who spent the last nine months of World War II as a prisoner of war. It led to this piece, \u201cCarrying.\u201d For Ginny, stories sometimes unexpectedly bring us wisdom for life in a bumpy world.<\/summary>\n

<\/p>\n<\/details>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n

<\/div>\n\n\n\n
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\"\"<\/a>
Read “Death Roll<\/a>“<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n\n\n
\"\"<\/a>
Read “Ancestry<\/a>“<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n\n\n
\"\"<\/a>
Read “The Gathering<\/a>“<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n<\/figure>\n\n\n\n
<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Ginny Foard Issue 16 Flash Fiction Willis wanted a box. He wanted to carry his box with him. Always. This thought kept him alive from one day to the next in the prisoner of war camp. It was his plan for after he was free again. Each morning, he woke. He thought, today, I will survive to the end of the day. He often reflected on his state motto, While I breathe, I hope. He briefly imagined the food inside his box of the future. In the camp, his group had stopped sharing their food fantasies out loud. Instead, they carefully split the Red Cross\u2019s food equally among them. This mutual sharing was deadly serious and bonded them together in an almost religious ritual. Then they ate the camp\u2019s daily bread roll and gruel. As days turned into months, their bones protruded from the rags of their airmen\u2019s uniforms. Willis planned what food to keep in his box. He revised. Every few hours in the camp, he\u2019d reconsider. He loved the dark, heavy German bread roll. He wasn\u2019t sure he could do without it. He would find a place in the box for his mom\u2019s bacon lard, a thing that in his childhood had been discarded. He thought of the chocolate bar that he\u2019d not thought to eat while floating in his parachute down to enemy territory, after his plane was shot. He wished he\u2019d eaten that candy bar before the German farmers took it from him, along with his gun, when he\u2019d hit the ground. There was so much inside his box.  Willis considered how he would keep the box by his side as he went through a normal American\u2019s daily life. Maybe he would have to check his luggage when traveling for business. He wouldn\u2019t let them take his box from him. His box would stay in his hand. Within reach. Thinking about how close he would keep his box, his thoughts again wandered inside it and explored the luscious foods that one day would be within fingertips\u2019 reach. Willis survived, thinly. And Willis carried. He carried on, he carried forward, he carried the box. Years later, at home in Sherman, Texas, Willis heard people excited about needing to carry a gun. He thought back to floating under his parachute over German territory, descending in a hail of artillery fire into probable hostile territory, spraining an ankle badly in a tricky landing. During the war, the airmen constantly debated whether to keep or to get rid of their guns if they were shot down. Some felt that having the gun would guarantee they\u2019d be killed immediately when captured; others felt the gun might help them survive. For Willis\u2019 captors, his gun didn\u2019t matter. Their fierce readiness to kill him subsided only after they\u2019d verified that he was not circumcised and they\u2019d found a Saint Christopher\u2019s medal attached to his dog tag.  Willis thought of the gun he carried then, but mostly, he thought of that chocolate bar in his pocket. He imagined carrying that chocolate bar into those months after he\u2019d been captured, inspected, interrogated and imprisoned. His mouth watered. He felt his waistline expand. At age seventy, Willis wrote about his months imprisoned as a young man. He still carried his imaginary box. He never let it leave his reach. In it, an overload of memories. Willis put the happiest ones on top, adding more every day. He chose what to carry.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-2763","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"aioseo_notices":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepetigrureview.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/2763","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepetigrureview.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepetigrureview.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepetigrureview.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepetigrureview.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=2763"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/thepetigrureview.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/2763\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepetigrureview.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=2763"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}