I remember coming home from a year in Vietnam,
stepping into the salty fog of San Francisco,
and jumping into a cab for my father’s office.
Arriving in my starched Marine Corps khakis,
I asked the receptionist if I could see Dr. Layne.
“Dr. Layne is at the Oakland office today, but you can see Dr. Oakley.”
“Is there a chance we could call Dr. Layne?
I’d like to thank him for a kindness he did me.”
“Well, sure, let’s try…”
I drummed on the counter in anticipation while she dialed.
“Yes, this is Leslie calling from the San Francisco office.
We have a young Marine here who would like to speak to Dr. Layne.
Apparently, he wants to thank him for something.
He’s in? Oh, good. Sir, Dr. Layne is on the line.”
She handed me the phone.
“Corporal Night Train Layne here, Dad,
reporting home from Vietnam.
Can we meet for lunch?”
Leslie’s face softened in a look of delight.
She had known me as a child,
and a tear ran down her cheek.
I can see that tear even today,
fifty-eight tears now,
for those who could not make it home…
— Want to hear McAvoy Layne tell it? Go here for an audio version of this poem.
For more than 35 years, in over 4,000 performances, columnist and Chautauquan McAvoy Layne has been dedicated to preserving the wit and wisdom of “The Wild Humorist of the Pacific Slope,” Mark Twain. As Layne puts it: “It’s like being a Monday through Friday preacher, whose sermon, though not reverently pious, is fervently American.”
