As a kid we lived behind an American Legion Post that had a for-real tank out front. From my
G.I. Combat comic book collection, I was able to identify it as a M3A1 Stuart Light Tank. The neighborhood kids loved that hunk of metal. It lent a sense of realism to our war games and provided a handy meeting place since everyone knew where it was.
Having just returned from Chicago last month, I gave my sister
Mary Pat a report on the old homestead and the many changes that had occurred. She put her memories in verse:
The Tank
My good brother just told me the tank was gone
They carted it off when they tore down the American Legion
The land now holds luxury condos
That don’t know the richness of the ground they sit atop
Every summer the Legion parking lot would fill with the Ox Roast Carnival
Portable rides and games of chance would go up in a matter of days
Stay up for a matter of weeks
Across the alley from our house and in the center of the fair was that big lawn ornament
I got my first job picking up money at the game where you
Throw dimes at glassware until it goes into the glass and you kept it
People would spend 5 whole dollars
To win a glass that cost thirty cents at the Ben Franklin store
Years later I figured out why my parents refused to
Let me take the early morning job polishing the horses
On the carousel
Just me and the 7 fingered boss early every day didn’t sit well with my folks
In winter the parking lot would have all the snow plowed
Back to the alley so there was a tall mountain range of snow
Outside our back gate
We marched a path across the ridge line to the biggest pile on the corner
We would sled off into the street and start full contact snow ball fights
Some little general would form us into a fighting unit
We trained and drilled
Of course this always involved the tank
If it was our tank we would have to scramble under it to escape enemy fire
If it was an enemy tank that day we had to sabotage it
Lodge grenades in the treads
Scramble out from beneath it at top speed and seek cover behind the snow bunker
One cold winter day I came home for dinner frozen solid and full of stories
Wearing my brand new royal blue ski pants with stirrups that were the rage
There were two little holes in the knee
I cringed at the ruin to my fashion fortune and pulled up the pant leg
Bully brother sat on my left and was quite put out that I was fussing my leg
I was too heartbroken to be cowed by him and I kept up my search
My leg was a bloody mess
Bully blanched and I felt a whole lot better with that small victory
As my leg warmed up the cut started to hurt and the questions came raining
It had to be when we were crawling on our bellies under the tank
Mom said it’ll scar
It did and I stroke that place as I write this poem and wonder what they did with
The Tank
Due to my knee flaring up, I'll miss a fine tax protest today. MDW will represent the family. Taxes are particularly unfair in Hollywood. You may hardly work for years - ahem! - then sell something for a big score. The government taxes you at the highest rate, as if you'd been sweeping in the long green the whole time. 
