We planned it all out together, Troy and I so we would not miss his flight out. Troy is my oldest biological son (as opposed to Junior, who is my oldest son, but is adopted. He started out as a foster kid of ours, along with his four brothers and sisters, but that is a different story for a different post.). He is 18 years old now, and has just finished up his first year at Northern Arizona University where he is majoring in journalism. I started out with a journalism major, too, but switched to beer research as soon as I turned 21, but that is a story for a different post. He spent the first couple of days after school ended couch surfing at our house, but had plans to visit my parents in New Hampshire over the summertime.

My brother got him a summertime job and bought his airplane tickets from his frequent flier account. Thank you brother. Anyway, Troy never told me the real reason he is going to New Hampshire for a summer. Crazy maybe? Wanted to see how his father really lived when he was young? Curiosity? I'll ask him some day.

We got to the airport about an hour early for his flight. TSA says we should arrive two hours early, but this is never necessary at Sky Harbor Even when they murder someone, TSA seems to be able to get flights out of Phoenix on time. One hour is plenty. We checked his bag, and made sure that nothing expensive was left in his checked baggage. There is a reason why some cynics have said that TSA stands for Thieves who Steal Anything. After the check, we went upstairs to hang out on the main concourse before Troy got on his flight. We looked at the airplane hanging from the ceiling. We used the automatic paging machine to page an imaginary character from a book Troy had read. And we chatted about nothing in particular as our final half hour together dwindled away to nothing. At last, it was time for good-bye, and he got in line with the handful of other people waiting to be patted down by the bored thugs at the security line. I went out and got back into the taxi.

On the way out of the airport, a strange feeling of loss came over me. I texted him that I missed him already, and it was true. Even when he left for college last summer, I didn't feel this way. There was that sort of empty feeling in the pit of my stomach, and a sense of certain finality, that at long last this kid's childhood was over, and he was no longer a kid. I get the sense that when he comes back, he will still be my son, but different in a grown up sort of way.

I glanced at the Ford's dashboard, and reality intruded on me. The little yellow "low fuel" light had come on. Unless I got gas quickly, I would end up walking. So, I exited the airport on the east side. The gas stations are a little closer there, and, as anyone can tell from my gut, I am allergic to exercise. The first gas station's price was too high. $3.85 per gallon is a bit steep. Yes, I know that is low compared to other areas of the country, but around here you can still get it for $3.67 if you look hard. The next gas station was a bit cheaper, so I nosed the cab into the station. there were no cars at the pumps, and I quickly noticed why. The station was out of gas completely. As I headed out to a third station, I began to wonder if this were a stupid manager's mistake, or a harbinger of things to come.

Anyone with a lick of sense knows that the real reason gasoline is so high is threefold: Increased demand from developing countries, the "war premium" of higher oil prices caused by the idiocy going on in the Middle East. But primarily the drop in the value of the dollar, again, due to the war and the profligate spending of this administration. I wondered if things would get worse in the Middle East, and if the rocket scientists in DC would need a draft to pull off their world improvement plans.

Let us hope not. But if they do, let it be known that my sons will not be playing along. I will not let my child join the armed forces of the United States government, and will do anything possible to keep the blood soaked hands of George Bush and company off of my son's life.

You see, one of my regular customers is a Viet Nam vet who was exposed to agent orange. After years of denials for treatment, the government is finally giving him the medical care he needs. But his body is a wreck. And getting decent service from the VA is like pulling teeth.

And my closest personal friend in the whole wide world now sleeps with thousands of other victims of government, veterans all, in the Phoenix Memorial Park. While I lived with my best friend Skip, he was plagued by nightmares, and would wake up four times a week screaming. He tried everything, but nothing would make the demons leave.

Then there are the folks I have picked up from time to time at the VA hospital. Men without legs, men without eyes, men without arms, men without minds.

Sorry George. I had a hard enough time seeing my son off into adulthood. I will not tolerate seeing him being dragged into veteranhood. My son is not coming back from a useless foreign war with half a body or half a mind. My son will never experience the thousand yard stare or the terrors of PTSD.

My son will never be a Memorial Day memory.