*Repository:* a place, room, or container where something is deposited
or stored.

*War:/ /*Middle English /werre, /from Old North French, of Germanic
origin; akin to Old High German /werra /*strife*; akin to Old High
German /werran /*to confuse.*

/ /Of the twenty or so towns and villages that constitute rural Lanscomb
County, all but one draws at least a few dozen tourists every summer.
Wilbur Falls has an annual music festival; Dunbar hosts a big
agricultural fair; Putnam Corners boasts the largest family restaurant
within three counties; and Shelbyville's popular B&B brings honeymooners
from all over the state. The only place no one from outside ever
visits---except perhaps during hunting season---is the little hamlet of
New Blackenburg, nestled at the base of a mountain twenty-eight miles
from the next nearest pocket of civilization. No one goes to New
Blackenburg because there's absolutely nothing there. Nothing, at any
rate, that would entice a tourist to drive half an hour out into the
mountains on a really bumpy road to a place where you won't even find a
place to get a decent cup of coffee.

Because summer tourism is the lifeblood of some of these economically
strapped little towns, they sometimes fall into competition with one
another over which one is able to draw the most outside visitors. The
mayor of New Blackenburg formed a committee to come up with ideas on how
to attract newcomers, and especially tourists to at least pass by the
little mountain community. "We need the income. We need new blood
around here!" he wailed. "How can we get people to come here? What can
we offer them that no other town in the county has?"

No one had a clue. The only suggestion proposed---by
Randall Perdue, the village's retired postman---got a lukewarm
reception. Randall had the idea that New Blackenburg should offer some
sort of little country museum---perhaps in someone's barn---that would
house a collection so unusual it would draw people from all over the
county. "But Pine Ridge already has a museum," the mayor reminded
him. It was true---the town of Pine Ridge had a tiny fossil museum but
virtually no one visited it except the occasional geology student.
"People don't go there to see the rock museum, they go there to go hang
gliding, and because of that fancy new sports bar," said the fire chief,
echoing the belief shared by many at the table that museums, by
definition, are boring. "What people want is fun," he added. "Why
should we have just another museum that no one's going to come to?"

"Because our museum will be unique," said Randall. "In fact," he
continued, "it'll be the first of its kind in the entire country, if not
the world."

The others exchanged puzzled glances. Randall cleared his throat, and
rose---a bit unsteadily because of his age---from his seat to explain.
"Here he goes again," one council member whispered to another. "Maybe
museum's not the right word," Randall said, sensing their scepticism.
"But it would function as one. Really, all we need is some place to
hold the items."

"Items? What items?," a committeeman asked. "What kind of museum are
you talking about, Randall?" What the old, retired postman proposed was
to construct what he called a */War Repository/*, a place whose sole
purpose would be to house the military paraphernalia brought home by
soldiers returning from war, or kept by their families if they had been
killed in battle. "You mean like medals and guns and bullets and
shrapnel and stuff?," the fire chief asked. "Well, I got news for you,
Randall," he chuckled. "There's nothing unique in that. I got a bunch
of 'em myself in the attic. Saved 'em all, even my old uniform---which
still fits, by the way. Don't know who would actually pay to see 'em,
though." The others nodded in agreement.

"No, no, that's not what I mean," Randall said. "This museum will be a
collection of artefacts reflecting what war has meant, in deeply
personal terms, to soldiers who survived, or to the families of the ones
who didn't make it back."

Everyone stared at Randall, still not comprehending. "That seems a bit
intrusive, if not downright macabre," the mayor suggested, grimacing at
the words 'deeply personal.' "Some people might not want these hurtful
memories reawakened, much less publicly displayed," he continued. "And
who would give you such personal items anyway?"

"We'll interview veterans, family members, comb through military
obituaries, not just here but countywide,"--- Randall continued, oblivious.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," the fire chief interjected. "Who's got time to do
all that?"

"Who gets to decide whose war 'recollections' go into this so-called
museum, is what I want to know,", the fire chief wondered aloud.

"Me," said Randall, to both questions.

"Well, I know for a fact, people in New Blackenburg don't want to be
bothered giving interviews, especially to someone they see every day,"
the mayor said. "I just don't know why you think anyone would be
interested in somebody's private personal war recollections anyway."

After brainstorming for more than three hours, Randall's having been the
only suggestion proposed, despite their collective misgivings, and
because they didn't want to admit to failing to solve the no-tourists
problem, the following week the mayor scheduled a public meeting at the
firehouse in which everybody was invited to give an opinion. Sixteen
villagers showed up but in the end were as confused as the committee had
been about Randall's unusual proposal. The villagers, not surprisingly,
rejected the proposal for a war repository.

Randall was not a man to be deterred, however. He still thought it a
good idea, and if the town would not sponsor or help, he would do it
himself. He was convinced that if such a place existed, not only would
people come, but it would generate interest in and provoke discussion
about the reality of war, something he thought a lot about these days.
The villagers of Blackenburg, however, had other, more pressing concerns
(like surviving economically), and preferred that Randall keep his war
opinions to himself. They liked their former postman, but age and old
war wounds and his deteriorating health had taken a toll on him, and
some suspected, had affected his mind as well.

* * *

Five years later, a visitor arrives to New Blackenburg and stops to eat
at the local diner. After paying the bill, he asks, in passing, "Do you
know where I might find a place called 'The War Repository'"? The young
waitress shakes her head. "Never heard of it. You sure you have the
right town?" One of the diners in the back booth, overhearing the
query, shouts from across the room: "He means Randall's museum. That's
on the road down past the reservoir."

And indeed it is. Randall's entire "museum" is a large single room in a
former abandoned schoolhouse, which he renovated himself. The first
year he removed the twenty-seven scratched, worn desks bolted to the
classroom floor and laid down new tiles. The second year he painted the
walls and ceiling and replaced the broken windows, covering them with
hand-painted, miniature battle scenes. The third year he hooked up the
electricity, hoisted up a gigantic American flag and brought in three
large display cases from his cousin's jewellery shop that had gone out
of business. The last two years he has spent collecting items for the
museum.

No one in town pays much attention to Randall's personal project, first
because it has taken forever to even get off the ground, and second, no
one thinks anything will ever really come of it. Nor is anybody
particularly curious to see it, which would be surprising anywhere but
in New Blackenburg. But the villagers are kind to their former
postman. "How's it going?," they ask him when he passes by, hoping he
won't make them stop and listen again to the lecture he's prepared for
when the museum opens and the tourists come. Everyone has already heard
it, at least twice, but they still don't understand what the heck he's
talking about.

Fourteen people in the village have computers so that's how they figured
word about Randall's "museum" must have gotten out. But in truth, it
was the simple web site Randall's cousin made for him, giving the name
and address of the Repository, and the flyers Randall put on cars in the
Pine Ridge municipal parking lot and left on a table at the Shelbyville
library on his way back from his cousin's last spring. The stranger is
the first person to ever ask about, much less actually drive all the way
out to visit the museum.

The stranger follows the old dirt road, as instructed, toward the
reservoir and finds the building the waitress had described. It is
rather shabby, hardly a place tourists would flock to unless they were
really, really bored and desperate. But he's come this far---maybe it's
different inside. He parks the car and walks up to the entrance, over
which a crooked, hand-painted sign announces, in sombre brown lettering,

THE WAR REPOSITORY. WELCOME.

It's actually not very welcoming. But he's seen quaint places like this
in country villages---out-of-the-way refurbished garages or barns or
garden sheds reborn as little antique havens where you can sometimes
find unusual or valuable items if you venture past the sometimes tacky
décor. Who knows, there might be some real treasures in there. The
stranger enters the building and is immediately taken aback. From the
imposing edifice outside, he thinks there ought to be more to the
museum, not just this one room.

Randall is sitting at a small table in the back, reading a newspaper.
The one and only visitor who has ever come to look at the Repository
and you might think Randall would jump out of his seat in excitement,
usher the man in, show him his collection. But he just sits there,
raises a cup to his lips, takes a sip of coffee, nods to the stranger,
smiles, and says: "Hello there."

The stranger nods in return and walks uncertainly toward the big display
case in the center of the room. Two other cases, dusty and
neglected---and both empty---are jammed against an adjacent wall. He
bends over to peer in at the three shelves, each of which contains only
a single item. He frowns and straightens back up. Randall cannot read
thoughts but he can see that the man's initial interest has suddenly
waned. The stranger cannot hide his disappointment in having been
fooled into thinking the War Repository was worthy of inspection.
Surely this is a joke. "You have only three items here," he says
accusingly.

Randall gets up from his chair and hobbles over to the stranger,
extending his hand. "I'm the curator of the museum, Randall Perdue. A
pleasure to meet you." The man shakes Randall's wrinkled hand, holding
back the laughter rising in his throat that threatens to explode over
the word "curator". Curator of an empty room with three items, right.
Surely he has gotten the wrong information. He clears his throat and
stammers, "Well I saw the website about this place, was just curious,
you know. Doesn't look like you got much here, buddy. You closing up
shop---or just not ready to open yet?" He begins to suspect that his
host is not quite all there.

"Would you like a cup of coffee?," Randall offers, glancing over at the
desk where the coffeepot sits percolating.

"Well, no, actually, I was just passing through. Don't really have a
lot of time." The stranger fakes a concerned glance at his wristwatch,
pretending to be late for something, turns and starts walking toward the
door. "Thanks anyway, though. Maybe next time around."

"This scarf, for example," Randall continues, as if he has not heard the
stranger, "has a very interesting history." He's opened the display
case, carefully extracted a faded red scarf, and places it gently on top
the case, along with the other two items---a worn leather notebook and a
velvet box containing what looks like a small bone.

Succumbing to curiosity, the stranger stalls momentarily. He can't
decide if Randall is just some crazy old man---in which case he should
probably not hang around there---or if, despite the bizarre
circumstances, there might actually be something highly interesting
here. He seems harmless enough, the stranger acknowledges. Maybe he
should at least listen to what the old guy has to say. If nothing else,
it would make a great story at the next office Christmas party.

"Sit down," Randall says, pulling out the only other chair in the room.
The stranger sits down awkwardly, as Randall straightens up and
positions himself importantly by the display case to give his little
lecture.

"This scarf was found wrapped around the neck of a soldier in the First
World War," he declares solemnly, "or so his great granddaughter tells
me." But the stranger is staring at the little bone on top the display
case. "They thought at first he may have been strangled," Randall
continues, "by a woman"---he pauses for effect---"but it turns out the
real cause of death was a bullet in the back." Randall gently refolds
and returns the scarf back to the display case.

It's just a stupid scarf, the stranger thinks.

"The second exhibit is this leather notebook," Randall continues. "It
was brought home by a nurse serving in a surgical unit in Germany during
World War II." Randall hands the notebook to the stranger. Its
yellowed pages contain, in scribbled pencil, what looks to be someone's
"To Do" list: "Buy gauze pads." "Feed cat." "Tell E. about M." "Do
laundry." Hardly a "war" diary! Again---of what possible relevance, to
anyone other than its owner, the stranger cannot fathom.

"And the last, and best in my opinion"---Randall's eyes suddenly light
up as he picks up the box with the tiny bone---"is this." The
stranger's curiosity is reawakened. Randall cradles the bone in the
palm of his hand and offers it for the stranger's view.

"What is it?" asks the stranger, suspecting it is a finger bone but
pretending it isn't.

"Why, it's a bone," says Randall. "It was a finger."

The stranger rises from his chair to take a closer look. He's suddenly
feeling uneasy, as if his succumbing to mere curiosity has suddenly
unleashed a sinister element in the universe that will trigger some
unforeseen horror. "Whose finger is it?", he asks.

"I don't know," says Randall, caressing the bone.

"Where'd it come from? I mean, where'd you get it?" the stranger
probes, masking his unease with a burst of agitation.

"I found it," says Randall.

"Found it where? Where'd you find it?"

"I can't tell you," says Randall.

"Why not?" The stranger is in no mood for games.

"But I can tell you what war it came from." Randall lowers his eyes and
smiles.

The stranger realizes he's been hoodwinked---first by a prank website
about a museum that doesn't really exist, and now by a mysterious old
man who may or may not be rip-roaring crazy. He glances around the
room, wondering if there's a hidden camera somewhere, like in that old
TV show "Candid Camera", filming his astonished reactions. "Really,
I've got to go," he repeats, wanting now only to save himself further
embarrassment and get the heck out of there. Wherever the little bone
came from is anyone's guess. It could be from the old guy's dead cat
for all he knows. The stranger no longer really cares. "Hey, but
thanks for the little tour."

"It's from World War Three," says Randall.

The stranger stops and looks back at the old man. "What? What did you
say?"

"It's from World War Three," Randall repeats.

"Mister, there hasn't been a World War Three," the stranger laughs,
confirming that the whole bizarre episode---the old man, the museum, the
little bone---falls into the category of "my weird summer adventure out
in New Blackenburg"---which definitely he's going to tell them about at
the office on Monday. He walks briskly to his car, shaking his
head. There's no hidden camera---just a bored, wacky local, spinning
his fantasies. The guy's a fruitcake, a friggin' fruitcake!

Randall puts the little bone back in its box and returns it and the
leather notebook to their respective places in the display case, pours
himself another cup of coffee, and sits back down.

"Who, really, did that bone belong to?," he wonders. "Why can't I
remember?" He recalls that it was in the tin box with the rusted medals
and old Japanese currency that Corporal Westerman's widow had given
him---wasn't it? But the last time he checked, he found instead, a
plastic button and a half-smoked cigar. "Why would I throw away the
coins and medals?, he wonders. He scratches his head, confused, and
looks down at his shoes, as if the answer can be found there. "And why
the hell did I tell that guy the bone was from World War III?

A siren suddenly shrieks, rattling the colourfully painted windows and
shaking the walls. Randall, startled, falls from his chair, sending his
coffee cup careening into the window of the display case, shattering
glass all over the floor. He struggles to get up, cutting the heel of
his hand on a piece of glass. Kneeling in the spilt coffee, his trouser
leg wet and stained, he suddenly clasps his hands over his ears and
screams; he screams and screams and screams, so loud it drowns out all
awareness of anything but his pounding, racing heart.

"Wake up, Mr. Perdue, you've had another nightmare," says the nurse,
noting that he's wet himself again.

"I need my coat," Randall wails, thrashing back the covers, getting his
IV entangled in the process. "Give me my coat, I gotta go." One bony
leg dangles helplessly over the side of the bed.

"Go? Go where? Where exactly is it you have to go, Mr. Perdue? You
need to just calm down," says the nurse.

"I have to go to my museum," he screams. His frail arms sputter and
flail like two trapped fish. "I have to go and get my bone!"

Mary, the nurse, sighs. It is 11:30 PM, her shift is ending, and all
she wants to do is go home and get to bed.

"What's all this about a bone?", her replacement laughs, overhearing
them from the hallway. "What's Mr. Perdue mean, he has to go out and
get a bone? A T-bone steak---that what he wants now? Our meatloaf not
good enough for him anymore? Ha ha. Ha ha. Ha ha ha." She helps
Mary put Randall back into bed.

Mary is tired. "I'll explain later," she says.

War objects as "collectibles"---Randall thought he could take it one
step further. He wanted visitors to his museum to get beyond the
objects, to get into the minds and hearts of the soldiers themselves,
the living as well as the dead---and those who loved them most. Randall
got no medals for his military service but felt compelled to create an
imaginary museum to house the ghosts of battle---his and theirs---not to
celebrate a victory but to exorcise the pain. In the end, who's to say
that one's public mantelpiece of honor---or private box of anguish---is
any more or less profound than another's?

He chose to exhibit a whimsical set of artefacts from random, forgotten
personal histories; what the visitor saw instead, were Randall's mental
wounds. Oh yes, Mary knows all about wounds. She deals with them
every day, with broken bodies and tortured minds, racked with pain,
howling for lost limbs. They whisper scenes of carnage that just won't
leave, that scream, incessantly, the insanity of war.

Patch and reassemble. Rehabilitate. Console. Preserve and honor
what's left of them. Discharge and prepare for the next batch.

Randall was wrong, though, in believing that his little museum was
unique, Mary thinks, clocking out for the night. In the end, we are all
war's repositories.

THE END