Standing in the center of the terrace, mounted on an elevated pedestal of polished native fieldstone beneath a bronze pavilion, was the 1947 Indian Chief.
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The olive-drab paint gleamed beneath a fresh coat of beeswax; the teardrop fuel tanks were whole and clean; and on the stone pedestal beneath the tires was a bronze plaque that caught the morning light:
UNITED STATES ARMY ORDNANCE ASSET 1944-W-004.
"THE BASTOGNE DISPATCH."
RIDDEN BY 1ST SGT. THOMAS WHITFIELD (1918–1981).
PRESERVED BY CAPT. HAROLD WHITFIELD.
"SOME THINGS CANNOT BE SOLD FOR SILVER."
Standing beside the front wheel of the motorcycle, wearing a clean leather jacket and jeans, holding a brass torque wrench, was my son, Thomas.
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He had retired from his industrial manufacturing job two years ago, serving as the executive dean of our vocational academy, his face tanned golden by the mountain sun, radiating an unshakeable, profound peace.
Beside him stood ten-year-old Benjamin, wearing his miniature mechanic’s overalls, his brown eyes bright, fearless, and filled with that deep, miraculous intelligence that belonged to three generations of mountain builders.
