Nelson Gables

Nelson Gables loved to walk along the river. Each day during his walk he would stop by the hotdog stand in the park. There he would purchase a Coney dog and a big orange drink. Then he would walk over to a park table, sit and eat. The only days he missed his trek was when it snowed very hard, or the rain blew in such a way that walking along the river was too difficult.

Nelson never bothered anyone, didn’t speak, and didn’t seem to have acquaintances. Nobody seemed to notice Nelson, so the day he quit coming to the hot dog stand, there was nobody around to inquire about his absence.

The river rolled on, excited children purchased Coney dogs and sweet drinks, and the city moved at the same pace it had before Nelson quit walking.

A few weeks later, the hot dog vendor opened the newspaper and read a headline to an article on the second page. It said, “Remains of elderly man found in abandoned house.”

The article went on to say that the remains were of Nelson Gables, a WWII veteran; a man who had lived in the village all of his life after the war. He had no known occupation, belonged to no civic groups, and was known only by his church affiliation list.

The probate judge said there was enough in his bank account to bury him; so a committee asked the Baptist church for donations and the VFW organized a grave-side service. Three older men fired rifles in the air. And a woman from the auxiliary placed a small American flag next to the plain headstone.

When the probate judge ordered his bank-box unsealed they found only three boxes and folded piece of paper. The boxes held two purple hearts, and the paper was a Presidential citation signed by Roosevelt. The contents were sent to the local historical society, where they were put into a drawer with other WWII memorabilia.

The Veterans disability check showed up for two more months. A court appointed estate attorney who begrudgingly sent the checks back, listed the house for the sheriff’s tax sale, and hired a junk man to clean out the house.

A year later, an elderly woman entered the bank one day claiming to be Nelson Gables half sister. She was directed to the courthouse, and managed to speak with the appointed attorney. The last anyone saw of her was when she left the courthouse and drove away.

For years after that, a small flag and a single rose decorated the Gable’s grave—at least every Memorial Day. Eventually, that practice too, stopped.

A couple of years ago the state decided to widen the highway. The tiny village graveyard was in the way. Amid much ado the families of the deceased were all notified and arrangements for relocation of the graveyard were made. That is, except for Nelson Gables.

The cheap marker had crumbled away, and although the authorities knew that someone was buried there they could not identify the plot; so, they had the grave moved to a section of the new cemetery designated for unknown individuals. A white cross was driven into the soil at the head of his grave.

Now, as cars drive by, Coney dogs are consumed, and the river rolls on, the forgotten remains of Corporal Nelson Gables stand their final watch.