North Star Writers Group

I slowed, quickly re-reading the message as I passed the house. It caught my eye because if memory serves me right, I’ve never read that message on a yard sign before.

Let me note right here that I’ve always been an enthusiastic reader of signs.

Sometimes when I see an especially funny sign message, I even jot it down in a little notebook I keep in the glove box of my car.

Not long ago, I spotted a restaurant sign that declared, “Potato Salad is Back.”

I immediately added that one to my notebook because I didn’t even realize potato salad had gone anywhere. And, besides, if it did go somewhere, where did it go? And why?

Then, of course, there was the message I found on a billboard in front of a service station – it’s in my notebook, too – that proclaimed “Stop In and Ask About Our Brake Special.”

That one caught my eye because if the reader had a real need for new brakes, he or she might not be able to stop in without crashing headlong into the service station.

During my 67 years on this planet I’ve also seen plenty of messages on yard signs.

But most are uninspiring little come-ons like “Lots for Sale”, “Free kittens” and “Apartment for Rent.”

The “Home Of A Soldier” message, however, was different than all of those other messages.

I mean, hey, it was just four simple little words in a magnificent language that boasts such beautifully melodic words as “scintillating” and “scrumptious” and my personal favorite “mellifluous.”

After reading the “Home Of A Soldier” yard sign, I found myself wondering all sorts of things.

What is this soldier’s name? Bill? Susan? Mary Lou? Eddie?

And where is this soldier defending the freedom of his or her country?

Inspired by the words, I had an overpowering urge the stop at the house with the sign in its yard, knock on the door, introduce myself to the occupants and tell them I appreciate the efforts of this soldier I don’t even know.

But then I realized that would be an invasion of their privacy, and given my intense disdain for door-to-door salespeople and obnoxious telemarketers, I decided not to do it.

But, even as I drove slowly away, all sorts of thoughts were racing around in my head.

After driving two more blocks, I turned around in a factory parking lot and drove back the house with the sign in its yard. This time when I passed, I honked my horn eight times to spell out the words “T-H-A-N-K Y-O-U.”

Then, with that accomplished, I made another quick U-turn and headed for home feeling a whole lot better about living in the middle of America on a sun-splashed summer afternoon.

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