Refrain from anger

My grandfather’s voice cracked as he spoke, and I leaned closer better to hear. It was 1969 with my brother and best friend, Sonny, being deployed to Vietnam. Grandfather had been telling me of life at home when Sonny’s and my father joined the Merchant Marines and survived four years in the North Atlantic and Pacific on munition ships in the previous war. But then, his brow had furrowed and his thoughts of a sudden had moved to 1919 and the memory of a good friend.

The friend was an Italian immigrant, a man of fine character who was esteemed by the town’s people. The friend still retained some of the customs brought from the homeland. After a day’s work at the factory, he would take a bath, dress for supper, and then go for a walk before retiring. The way he dressed was somewhat of a curiosity. He dressed as if he were going to an opera in Florence or Milan with a long-tailed black coat, white starched shirt and black tie, and with a cane dangling from his arm. On his head he placed a tall black opera hat.

Grandfather’s friend presented a strange sight for the backwoods town where they lived. And it happened one late afternoon as he was walking down the street that he caught the eye of some street urchins who began following him, making comments, and mocking him. Until one of the boys came up with the fun of idea of running up behind the Italian immigrant and knocking his hat to the ground. The children laughed. It was great fun.

Grandfather’s friend picked up his hat and put it back on his head. Then he asked the boys to leave him alone to enjoy his relaxing after dinner walk. But the boys paid him little mind. And soon afterwards another boy ran up behind him and knocked the hat off. Again, he implored them to leave him alone. But another and then fourth followed in the game. The man became more and more nervous. But the children continued to mock him. A fifth boy ran up and knocked the hat to the ground again. And at that point, Grandfather’s friend pulled a knife out of his pocket and plunged it into the boy’s chest, killing him on the spot.

When he realized what he had done, Grandfather’s friend began throwing himself headfirst against a brick wall, crying aloud, “Oh, my God, what have I done? My God, what have I done?”

Now, Sonny survived Vietnam and continues as before, a calm and loving person, admirable in every way. And Grandfather never explained why that memory of his Italian friend came to him at that time. But I’ve wondered over the years, if it wasn’t dread about what can happen spiritually to people when pushed to certain depths that made his voice crack and brow furrow.

“Refrain from anger and forsake wrath. Anger tends only to evil.” (Psalm 37:8)

James Dawsey with recollections also of Cyrus B Dawsey, December 2023