ON EACH AND EVERY WEDNESDAY by ANNE CONNORS He’s part of a gathering of ancient warriors, veterans of similar wars. He continues to come to the coffee shop at the same time every Wednesday. He never misses. He’ll come of course… until he can’t. Old Bill, as he’s affectionately called, was born in 1916. He is a man of diminished stature, the curve of his back confirming his age and infirmities. His fingers, like parakeet’s feet, clutch the arms of an aluminum walker behind which he shuffles with baby steps. Clean shaven, he dresses in a beige zip-up jacket, smartly creased gray trousers and laced white tennis shoes. He’s the picture of conservatism, except for the bright red felt Fedora hat he wears, his trademark flag of attitude. Faded cataract-blue eyes behind light tortoiseshell-framed glasses search a clear path...