“An army’s bravest men are its cowards. The death which they would not meet at the hands of the enemy, they will meet at the hands of their officers, with never a flinching.

Monday, final day of our shortest month, a long, cold, snowy February. The trees and bushes are covered with heavy crust as a limb-busting, uprooting rain pelts a slim, exposed slice of flagstone terrace fronting the house under a dense four-foot mound of snow from the slate roof. Audible splashes splatter the clapboards, clearing an inset, two-foot granite face fronting interior cellar bricks. The front-yard bushes and ornamental trees are drooping ominously to the ground, shiny, straining not to snap, frozen in duress until rain and sun removes the tiring snow and unlocks nature’s frozen grip. A perfect day to isolate indoors, let the wheels spin, risky indeed. Never know where it’ll lead a man like me.

So here I sit in my comfortable study, thinking, 9-pointer peering over my head, flames dancing and cordwood crackling in the Rumford fireplace, tall, brass, Federal andirons casting a radiant, orange glow. Having read Jane Kramer’s “Cowbow,” John McPhee’s “Travels in Georgia” and, of all things, a Peter Kropotkin essay on anarchism, I’ve just returned from the mailbox, nothing exciting. But now my shoulders are wet, my wool socks worse, totally my fault. Keen Kreeks are made for stream crossings on summer treks, not tiptoeing through slushy driveway puddles during winter rainstorms. I walked right past a pair of warm, dressed Gokey boots standing beside the hot soapstone stove. Never even considered half-lacing them on. Stupid, I guess. Either that or plain stubborn. Must be that obstinate Yankee streak I’ve coddled for a lifetime, hopefully will only reinforce as I age. Why obey rules and regs when nobody’s here to enforce them? That’s my motto. Guess it must be the Kropotkin in me. A proud Kropotkin at that. I find that stern law-and-order crowd stifling, unimaginative, not for me. I value living in a free country, one that’s getting less free by the minute, if you allow it. I don’t. Refuse. Even find myself fantasizing about retiring at the end of a secluded dirt road somewhere, only the sun, the moon, the stars and critters watching.

My knees are still stiff, tender and cranky after snowshoeing to a Saturday ice-fishing gig on southern Vermont’s Harriman Reservoir. I went with fellas who choose secluded, toasty duck blinds and ice shanties to bring out their little boy within, away from critical eyes. Me, well, I still enjoy a taste of the past now and then. Can’t deny it. But I don’t really need to isolate on a frozen lake or hidden pond to break free; am defiant, I guess, unafraid to occasionally “let go” in the comforts of home. Again, must be the independent, sometimes irascible Yankee in me, god love him. But who knows? It may have nothing to do with colonial rascals or the austere Puritan deacon with a Quaker wife in my background. Could just as easily be the wild-Irish blood of Great-Uncle Dan — a man his Keane siblings spoke of with a twinkle of feigned shame in their eyes — or maybe even the maritime merchants and fishermen from my Nova Scotia roots. They were Acadian French of the name Comeau, their seaside Bay of Fundy hamlet called Comeauville. How could there not have been free spirits among them, probably many more than their women would ever admit, even posthumously? Myself, I have nothing to hide, am what I am, say take it or leave it. Some take. Many have left. But my philosophy has led me to places few “respectable” men have visited, and I do believe I’m a better man for it. Many would disagree. Why argue? It’s pointless. Even my most ardent detractors will praise this free country. They just interpret that bromide different than me, try to strip freedom from and fill prisons with those they say can’t “handle it.” But who are these people, anyway, and who is it they protect? Those are the questions I ask. The answer doesn’t always settle right with me … which brings me to my late son and a pair of war veterans I know, born a generation apart.

First my namesake son, who left this imperfect world three months ago, age 28, far too young. His wife, still numb with heartache, re-posted some of his music videos overnight on Facebook. I just now watched them to rekindle poignant memories and procrastinate a bit, must admit I’m gleaming with pride at his open defiance. Yes, it’s true he had matured and softened his rebellious ways before passing, but there were authority figures from his past he would never forgive, or forget. I wish I could play his lyrics to the rigid flock he scolds, the same people I myself have battled and will continue dismissing as hypocrites and frauds till my final breath. I’d like to tell them to listen carefully, that he’s speaking to them, looking them square in the face, no fear, trying to point them toward the faded path to empathy and understanding, not prosecution and punishment. I accept his views as sound and just, but the people he’s speaking to are not listeners. They’re guardians of convention and conformity, often devoted to a Christian doctrine that places us here temporarily to suffer for a better life after. Yes, we’re supposed to listen to them, and kneel in devout reverence. This vindictive, judgmental lot prefers to sit in private lunchrooms to proclaim to any who’ll listen that the kid’s parents were his problem, and theirs, and the world’s. Their colleagues nod in solemn agreement. Dr. Phil — that tiresome Texas bore, champion of American housewives — would agree.Not me. I’m proud to be of a different persuasion.

I’m reminded of a Facebook tribute posted the day after Gary died, one written by a man I remember as a boy at my house after school, weekends, you name it, a friend of my younger son. He was acting up in school as a teen and, his parents said, heading down the wrong path. They intervened at graduation time and pushed him into the Army, which took him to Iraq, a place from which few have escaped unscathed. Some boys go off to war, buy-in and return to law-enforcement, security, sales jobs and National Guard units throughout the land. Others travel to faraway nations to “save” oppressed people and are greeted by hateful, penetrating eyes that scream, “Go away!” and force them to ask “Why am I here?” When these young men of conscience return home, they tend to drop out, drown their sorrows, get sober and carry the mail, silent and sad, confused, trying to piece it all together. I have known such men who  served in Vietnam, now this boy from the next generation, smart, sensitive, insightful. His day-after tribute to my son read: “Gary was the first person to teach me that authority figures can be jerks. He was right. Still is. R.I.P., Gary.” This a remark fresh from the hot sands of hell by someone sent there for “seasoning” and to learn about respect and obedience, no less. Looks like the men barking orders couldn’t break him.

That young man is similar to the college roommate, teammate and roadmate I befriended a generation ago. An illegitimate twin with a selfish stepdad, he was dropped as a 17-year-old virgin in the late 1960’s onto an Air Force base overlooking Da Nang from a high, sacred mountain. He returned home an angry young man addicted to the best heroin money could buy. Although buried deep, his resentment and fury would surface after nights of heavy drinking. We’d retire to our frat house, apartment or motel after a long night carousing and talk till the sun came up. The conversation would go back to “Nam,” to Lackland Air Force Base, to the officers who ruled him. He’d get agitated, squint his hateful green eyes and scoff, “Give ’em a half a thimbleful of brains and one more stripe than you, and you have to do what they say. They’re in for 10 years and have one more stripe you.” Despite this bias, he held a curious fondness for one “lifer” he would have typically detested. The man was a captain or major whose wife had taken a shine to my friend, a tall, handsome bad-boy with a reputation as a surly, hair-triggered slugger on the base’s fast-pitch softball team. The weekly base newsletter had only to publish a photo of his shorts, tube-socked calves and cleats and everyone knew it was “Mr. Incorrigible,” known up and down the East Coast for towering home runs that disappeared into white summer clouds and landed far behind outfield fences. Everyone else wore their uniform. A steamy and scandalous affair with this officer’s wife ultimately led to a vicious scrap at the officers’-club bar where my friend did not belong. He was promptly cuffed and stuffed and spent 33 days in the brig, what he often called the best 33 days he spent in the Air Force. He faced a court martial for his crimes and settled for an early-out general discharge. The Air Force was happy to be rid of him and the feeling was mutual. But get this: Two or three years after the incident  had rocked the base, the officer-husband he had beaten up came to Amherst annually as my buddy’s weekend guest for the UMass homecoming football game.

I never really asked any probing questions or tried to sort it all out, just watched the two men interact like old friends, with warm eye contact, roars of convivial laughter and playful banter in one loud, smoky bar after another, never so much as an angry word or glance. It was confusing to me, but my friend could not understand why. “I’m grateful to him.” he’d explain. “All I wanted was out, and he helped me.”

You can’t make it up. Impossible. But how to make sense of it all? That’s the question. Or, better still, and more pertinent, how did I ever wander off into this rainy-day ramble on February’s final day? Just came to me, I guess, like a cold draft under the woodshed door. It tickled my nostrils with an evocative scent that wafted me away on a sweet little ride fueled by fond memories.

It’s over now but will come again, perhaps liberating another entombed sliver of unconventional, unpopular perspective from this sovereign soul.