|Marcel at breakfast on Day 1... 18, March, 2011|
He was truly the walking wounded suffering, perhaps, the self-criticism of a suspicion that he might have been ill used in pursuit of an unethical and overweening pecuniary foreign policy. A sane man takes his atrocity pretty hard... quite apart from buckling down and getting on with what is necessary for God and Country, eh? A toll will be paid.
He was slow walking and even shuffling, sometimes. I had to assist him up and down curbs. Still, and not at my urging, we chatted.
He wondered upon the inevitability of war where there was war and the quality of the peace where there was peace. He wondered on the length and breadth of a vast universe known and unknown and beyond any knowing at all.
He considered the memory the alien artifice he'd held and turned in his trembling hands that dark summer night in 1947 New Mexico when his father, Jesse Senior, woke him to witness the unnamable, his highly respected and capable father's eyes dancing as he grinned widely with astonished delight at a pile of flying saucer parts he thought to show his son. To their dying day the two of them maintained that the material they'd held in their hands was, "...not of this Earth..."
Jesse Marcel, Junior, 1936-2013... he'd held a starship in his hands.