” Fermata”

One moment you are in the midst of a beautifully lit late-winter day, doing what you usually do on your day off, running errands, getting groceries, enjoying a cafecito on the ride home on the back roads to the house, without a care or worry in the world. The next moment you are pushing your car to its mechanical limits getting your husband to the emergency ward of the VA, because he refuses to call 911 and have EMS come get him. Maybe because he was still conscious, could breathe and walk (but not deeply – the breathing part and for long periods of time – the walking part) or maybe because he is just a stubborn guy and to admit he needed an ambulance meant his life was threatened (which it was). To this day, I cannot tell you what logic (debatable) he used, all I know is I was able to get him to the VA without him losing consciousness. He wouldn’t let me drop him off at the entrance, while I parked, or get him one of the fifty wheelchairs that sat outside the mechanical doors, so he would not have to walk in what was becoming obviously an effort to do.

It wasn’t a heart attack, as he first thought. It was a blood clot in his lung. A pulmonary embolism. We knew first hand how serious this was. We had lost our friend two years before to a clot that traveled to her heart. When the young doctor told us what we were dealing with, we shared a look, thinking of Karen. We talked quietly as they made arrangements to transport him across the street to ICU at Duke Medical Center. I finally sat down after four hours of standing by his bedside and what he told me next really made me want to strangle him myself.

We had parted ways that morning, me to get my nails done and run errands, he to the golf course. I remember him saying he was tired when he got up from bed and started to get ready. I remember thinking he had been up late, after a night at judo practice, so it was reasonable he was tired. I knew he had been up late the last couple of nights, dealing with the onset of insomnia that comes with this time of year. I was not overly concerned. He tells me he was fine the first five holes. He had a birdie putt on the sixth hole and was walking back to his cart when one of the guys he was playing with him asked him if he was alright. He replied he was, but when he tried to get into the cart, he knew he was not. He grabbed onto the railing so he would not fall and tried to sit down, but actually slid down into the cart. He prayed for help to get through what was happening, telling God he was prepared to go if it be His will, but if it was not yet his time, to help him get through it. His golf buddies are Veterans. They call my husband “Guny”. So when my husband heard one ask “Guny, you want us to call 911?” He told them no. They wouldn’t get there in time. They were ten minutes out-of-town in the country on a golf course, he figured, they would get their too late to save him from a heart attack. Remember I mentioned logic in the beginning of this post, because what happens next certainly stretches the definition.

He continues to ride in the cart, but does not play. He gets out of the cart once or twice and realizes he cannot breathe well, so he gets back in the cart. He continues to watch his partners finish their games. Now, this particular golf course passes by the clubhouse and his car on the 9th hole and he tells me, as he is laying in front of me in the emergency room with oxygen to help his breathing. He remembers thinking for a moment, he should just call it a day and come home so I can take him to the VA, but because he was still “fine”, he squelched that thought and continued on the next NINE HOLES. At the end of the game, does he then decide to get in his car and drive home, which in itself, was risky, given he might lose consciousness and hurt himself or others? My Marine decides to give a few lessons to the young golfer who had joined them to play. Granted, from the cart, but still…Three hours after his first incident on the course and five hours since he started playing, he drives himself home. He tells me he never panicked that morning or later that day, with all that had happened until he pulled up in the driveway and realized I was not home. He called me as I was driving out of Raleigh and was on the back roads, oblivious to what he had been through.

I couldn’t be mad at him. Anyone who knows us, knows I love my husband madly. Knows the sun rises and sets with this man. Besides, how would that look, wife going off on husband in emergency room while he lay incapacitated by a blood clot? Seriously, though, I was thinking if he ever does this to me again, I will kill him myself. Not that it would matter, my being frustrated with how he handled himself, how he may have done his body more harm than good. I looked at him with all the ambivalence of emotions and just said “I don’t know what to say”, which was a lie. I had plenty to say and plenty of emotion to go with it, but I was silent. He knew it too, because his next words put out all the fire inside my heart over what he had put himself through, what could have or might have happened, all the uncertainty of what would happen from this point on. He said simply “Just say “thank you”".

Humbled, I did. I thanked God for getting him through his day without harm to anyone and further harm to himself. I thanked God for the doctors of the VA and Duke Medical Center and their staff who took such good care of my Marine. I thanked God for our family and friends who checked in with us, supported us, offered to do whatever they could to help. I thanked God for the faith that sustains us in dark and uncertain times. I thanked God for the blessing of our marriage and our life together that we both knew could have ended that beautiful sun-filled winter day.

I walked across the street from Duke after I had seen him get settled in ICU. I remember thinking how we arrived seven to eight hours before, anxious, facing the unknown, but surprisingly never panicking, never losing composure. It seemed as if in another time in our life, not just hours before. I drove up to our home and took a picture because, for some reason in the process of the moments of getting him from the house to the car and to the VA, he had remembered, or out of habit, left the porch light on. As if he had known all along he would be coming home.

Evansridge – 16 Feb 13 0200

A New Year Begins

Life got in the way of blogging around the holidays.  I wanted to share with my readers about my adjustment in the work force again and trying to get ready for the holidays.  I wanted to write about how happy I have been at my new job, learning family law, working with a great attorney and fabulous co-workers.  Yes, I am writing this from the lens of “new to the job”, but it feels like a very good fit.  Time will tell, but understand that recent events in my life, make me appreciate the “here and now”, because as my father is fond of saying, “tomorrow is not guaranteed”.   With that in mind, I appreciate the opportunity for as long as I have it.

December came with a get -together with old friends, a couple of Christmas parties and a trip to Jacksonville to spend Christmas with my parents and my youngest daughter and her godson.  Even though, I was not going to be home for the holidays, I still wanted to dress the house up in holiday decorations  put the tree and lights up.  Getting my husband motivated enough to do this, is always a process, since he does not “do” holidays, but our agreement, is he just has to get out the totes, I do the rest.  The only thing is I forgot how much work it was to decorate the house, especially, now that I am back working.  It took two weeks, but I got the house finished, enjoyed it for two weeks and then was gone to Florida.

The payoff, after we survived the parking lot nightmare that was our trip on I-95 from home to Jacksonville, was seeing  how much improved my mom is doing, and how happy my dad is, now that she is doing better.  My parents weren’t even home when we got there in Jacksonville, which further added to my husband’s irritation after spending almost two extra hours on the total trip because of the holiday traffic.  So the payoff was not immediate, only getting there and being able to get out of the car after 10 hours on the road.  The payoff came the next day.  That  first night, we visited with Megan and tried to get the outside lights to work.  My dad had left detailed instructions, but we failed to find the reset switch to get the lights on after they had been kicked off.  Now, a month later, it has become one of the things we all reminisce about when we talk about this last Christmas… how Megan and I could not figure out how to get the back yard holiday lights on and how we didn’t call my dad, because neither one of us wanted to admit we couldn’t figure it out.  We just broke out a bottle of wine and toasted being together for the holidays, for the first time in years.

The bonus, was Megan’s godson, Isaia.  I was trying to remember when we last had a child in the house for the holidays.   Too many years .  The price of being a long distance Grandmother.  Which may explain why we all were touched by his anticipation.  He would hang out with Chester, while he played on-line poker and watched River Monsters.  He got up from a nap on Christmas Eve and asked my mom if she wanted to dance, when he heard music playing on her CD player.  He invited my Dad to watch cartoons with him, moving over on the chaise lounge to give him space.  He asked to help set the table for meals.  Later that night, He and Megan made cookies.  He helped decorate the baked cookies, then tested one to make sure they were “good”.  Then helped Megan put out the plate of cookies and milk for Santa.  He also helped write the note to Santa so he wouldn’t miss the treat.  He also, had to make sure the fireplace was big enough for Santa to get through.  All our family rituals of the holiday coming full circle with Megan’s godson.   The next morning,  Isaia woke up to presents Santa left under the tree.  It was a treat for us, not just to see his excitement, but for me,it reinforced, what I have always felt, that Christmas is for the kids.  We all watched as he opened presents, getting excited over everything, bit and small.  It made our holiday memorable, sharing it with this little guy.

With the holiday  trip a success (not counting the beginning) and the holidays a wrap, the end of year arrived with an invitation to an end of year party with family and one with friends.  I can’t remember us being this social, but a combination of the new judo dojo Chester volunteers at, the golf tournament and my work in local politics, all raised our profile to the point, we now have a semblance of  a social life.  Not a bad thing, but something that required some management, since by the end of this particular year, Chester was feeling the effects of all the exposure.  I have started a new blog “My PTSD Vet” to have a continuing conversation about Chester’s struggles (past and current), my observations, and his insights as he works to find a balance to stay engaged in everyday life, without compromising the gains he has made.   He has worked harder than he gives himself credit for.  For us to go to two parties in one night, was significant.  We didn’t stay long at either party, but at the end of the second gathering, our hosts built a huge bonfire.

Of particular significance to me, the bonfire represented an end of the year as we knew it, and the beginning of the new year.  The riff between the past and the future was permanent in a couple of relationships we both had.  We had lost a dear friend in the first half of the year that we have still not recovered from.  I drove my parents to Texas, and reunited with family I had not seen in years, renewing the ties that bind.  I made memories with my kids and grand kids that I cherish more than I will could ever say.  I worked behind the scenes on a local election and was amazed at the tenacity of pure will.   My status as unemployed ended, and was humbled by that process.  The Nation reelected the President, after a particular contentious election, reinforcing my belief in our better angels.  I know without a doubt, that I love my husband more today, because of this journey we have taken on together, this journey called Life.

 

Grandmas’ Row

I had lunch with an old friend yesterday who I have known now for thirteen years. She and I worked together at my first firm when I moved here from California. She and I became grandmothers the same year and the partner she worked for affectionately coined our side of the office, “Grandmothers Row”. After a couple of years, I moved on to a new job, she and I kept in touch, meeting for lunch a couple of times a year.

Our lives have not intersected in the way that it does on a daily basis when you work with someone who you are close to; that you becomes friends with. We don’t share the day-to-day events of our lives, or the “what happened this weekend” accounts on Monday mornings when you are getting your coffee or having your leftovers from Sunday dinner in the lunch room. In this world, where nothing stays the same, jobs change, families evolve, sickness looms, “life happens!”, you manage your friendships as you can.

This last year has been particular hard on my friend, and I hugged her when we said our goodbyes, promising we would have an early New Years’ celebration, tossing out 2012 for her and bringing in 2013, in the hopes the new year will be better for her. The reality of friendship, as in most relationships, is you are stoutly reminded of your limitations to affect the circumstances of life…your own and those you are close to. I felt that reality yesterday when I listened to the emotion in my friend’s voice. It made my voice catch as I told her “I don’t even know what to say”.

Thinking of that moment, now, I am grateful I was there to listen, to share some space, without giving in the knee-jerk reaction of comforting platitudes. I listened, I comforted, and knowing, I was powerless in the face of what my friend had been through and was still going through, I was quiet, for a change.

“You Are The Same Yesterday, Today, and Forever…”

 

I’m supposed to be cleaning house.  To my credit, I did start a load of sheets.  This is how it will be from now on.  Weekends to clean, grocery shop, Zumba, catch up on recorded programs, because Monday, I turn the “unemployed/retired” page, to “full-time employed” page.  I will have to change my “about” on my blog and twitter.  It’s been a journey from then until now, with my projects not yet completed, and my committment no less dampened, nor altered with this recent change.  I have had time with my grandchildren, my children, my parents, and my husband, I would never had otherwise had.  I helped my husband put on a benefit golf tournament that was successful enough to repeat this year.  I spent time on myself, still feeling a little guilty about that, just because time for yourself always seemed so extravegant…and it is, but I have learned it is a necessary extravagance!

In my life and in my work, it has never been “just a job”.  It has always been about what I bring to the equation, my skills, my strengths, my life’s experience.  The time away from work, after years of working, made me value my life that much more, because I realized, I had much to contriubute to those I met and reconnected with over that time period.  I forged closer bonds with family and friends, I reunited with cousins I had not seen in years.  My life was made much richer, as a result.

So, before my meeting, I read a prayer I found on newsletter@thehighcalling.org  which in part said this “…Lord, help me to remember that while my circumstances change, you are the same yesterday, today, and forever.”  I don’t know what this new page in my book holds.  I do know I made a connection in my meeting.  I do know I am beginning a new area of law I have never dealt with, except in my own personal life…family law.  I do know the attorney I will be working with has a quiet passion and expertise that speaks to how she approaches her clients and her work.  She really had me in the first hour of our meeting.

“What Can I Do For You, Mr. President?”*

In February, 2007, I joined Triangle for Obama, a group in Raleigh,  to get involved in the campaign.  I went door to door near the NC State campus.  I met folks in downtown restaurants, private homes and storefronts.  I worked registering voters and phone banking.  That summer, after some lackluster speeches and issues with Hillary Clinton, I felt as if Candidate Obama was hitting a plateau, he seemed less energetic, a little flat.  Determined to hear the candidate in person, I went to North Carolina Central University with one of my co-workers and dear friends. Standing for three hours, one row back from the rope row, that late fall afternoon, I remember thinking; I had not been this weary in a long time.  As the fourth hour began, Candidate Obama finally strode up to the platform of this outdoor stage and I listened to his speech.  To this day, I could not tell you much about the speech, except that it sounded a lot like the one I had heard on TV, given in other states, to other universities or colleges.  It wasn’t particularly personal, nor was it ground shaking, but I got to hear it, I got to see him, and when he finished, I got to shake his hand.

November 2007 – North Carolina Central University

I have told anyone who asks, or who will listen,  over these few years, about the reason I volunteered for the President’s campaign. He was simply the first candidate to even remotely look like me, but even as important, was that his background was similar to mine; his struggle with his ethnic identity similar to mine.  I believe that his experience growing up, shaped his view of middle-class America and sharpened his focus to guide the Country forward to a stronger, educated, opportunity-rich America.  Not as it “used to be”, because I knew, as a Nation, we were not going back…we were going forward.  To do that, would require everyone working together, reaching across the proverbial aisle, reaching back, and pushing forward.

Souls to the Polls, Oxford, NC

Well, that was my idealism and has become my conviction,  even in the face of door to door rebuffs here in the small North Carolina community I live in, or curt responses by non-supporters on the phone in this state and others.  Even in the face of my husband, also African-American and a Marine, who was born and raised in the city of Blood Done Sign My Name**, who sat on a ridge as a six-year-old, watching young goats jump from one car to the next, outside the nearby church.  When the church members exited their church, saw this spectacle, and the boy watching; reported this incident to the farmer who employed my husband’s father.  This farmer told my husband’s father that at the end of the season, he and his family would have to leave his farm.

This event and others informed my husband’s belief that once in office, President Obama would not get an opportunity to do the work he wanted or needed to do, because resistance to his Presidency was going to be full-blown and full-throated.  I remember when he was elected and my husband, my friends and I watched him and his family in Chicago, and I thought; “now the fight really begins”.

A fight with Congress, with the Supreme Court, with his own party, the President is just weeks away from re-election, or the lucrative talk circuit ala Bill Clinton.  The Nation has forgotten 911, the New York has forgotten 911, as former President Bush stated that Bin Laden capture was not a priority, as the world watched as Bin Laden would rattle us with his video-taped appearances, forever looking like he was not the most hunted man in modern times.  Because I don’t believe he was.  When President Obama announced he had ordered the Navy Seal operation to get Bin Laden, I know the Nation was grateful, you heard it, you felt it, you saw it.  Which is why I don’t understand the former Seals trying to discredit this incredible accomplishment.

I have been unemployed for nineteen months.  While looking for work, I renewed my efforts to get involved locally.  I went to County Democratic Party meetings, got involved in some local elections, and volunteered as vice-chair of my precinct.  I struggled to learn Access so I could do bulk mailings, and was successful.  I no longer receive unemployment benefits, so I cannot drive to our campaign office to help with phone banking or register folks to vote as often as I did during the 2008 election.  Nor can I donate to the campaign as I did when I was working.  We’ve had to tighten the budget up.  Thanks to technology, as I continue my job search, I am phone banking from home and participating in a letter writing campaign on the issues.  It is the least I can do.

Local District Debate, Oxford, NC 2012

In The Best and the Brightest*, Joseph Swidler, Fed chair of the Power Commission was very unhappy with President Kennedy because the President’s focus was on foreign affairs “…Kennedy needed the co-operation of men like Sam Rayburn and Senator Robert Kerr.  The price they exacted from the President was at the expense of the Federal Power Commission…  He would tell friends of how he set out from his office for the White House to let the President know just how bitter he felt, with thoughts of resignation flashing through his mind.  On the way he would think of the President’s problems: Berlin.  Laos.  The Congo.  Disarmament. The Middle East. The foreign aid bill.  Khrushchev.  All those burdens.  And minute by minute as he approached the office Swidler felt his anger lesson, until by the time the President’s door opened, he heard his own voice saying: “What can I do for you, Mr. President?””

Each and every one of us know the burdens of this Presidency, those that came from the former Administration, as well as, those that have developed in the last three and a half years.  They are problems never faced by a President in my lifetime.  They took a couple of generations to develop and our President informed us early on, that it would take more than one administration and maybe, even more than one President, to resolve them.  Outsourcing.  Economy.  Healthcare.  The Banks.  Wall Street.  Congress.  Iraq.  Afghanistan.  Iran.  China.  Europe.  Veterans.  Education.  All those burdens.  Each of us should be asking Swidler’s question: “What can I do for you, Mr. President?”.

Only in America…DC4

*The Best and The Brightest, David Halberstam

**Blood Done Sign My Name, Timothy B. Tyson

The Journey Continues

My husband and I were on a walk mid afternoon, last week. I am not a day walker, I love walking in the early morning when the temperature is a little cooler, especially in summer. Mosquitos hopefully are not awake yet, or at least, the bug spray I use is working. But, this was an impromptu trek, along with other errands we were running that day.

We noticed that the landscaping that had been put in place in the athletic park was growing and enhancing the native foliage already in place. Recent rains had made the grass of the soccer field and baseball field lush and dense. Wire fences that designated property lines between the public space and private property are barely visible, because the woods pressing past this disappearing barrier into the strategically arranged evergreens and plants. The past, ever-present.

This last year and a half is a lot like the woods that the park’s fence attempts to hold in place. It has been advancing into my present. I sense a hyper-vigilance, as if the message may impede forward progress. But something about the walk I took that day, I can’t say if it was the symbolism of the path, if it was the comfort of my husband’s presence, but I no longer felt the anxiousness for the incomplete writings, for the job search still on-going, for the “loose ends” to be tied. I am where I need to be, pressing forward.

“The Times They Are A-Changin’”

 

Bullcreek – North Carolina

 

I was working in my home office, with ESPN First Take as background noise, when I happened to catch the news alert at the bottom of the screen.  ”Augusta allows first women members”.  I called out to my husband in the front room, who changed the channel to see the report that followed.  I watched the report and thought about my first day at work at a law firm in near Fashion Valley in San Diego, when I walked in with my pantsuit and briefcase.  I went to the office I shared with my supervising paralegal and will never forget the look on her face when she saw me.  ”Oh, dear!” she exclaimed in her nervous way.  ”You can’t wear pants in the office!  Only dresses or skirts!”

It was 1995 and I was a little taken aback, to say the least.  I had just left a development and property management firm in Sorrento Valley for my first position with the law firm.   The female CEO of the property management side of the partnership,  wore fabulous Ann Taylor pantsuits to the office and all of the female staff took their cue from her.  California legislature had just passed a law that year allowing pants in the workplace.  Apparently the firm’s head partner at my new employment, was not implementing the dress code change until later in the year.  I was a single mom and could not afford to dispute the finer aspects of dress code in the firm, so I wore skirts until the firm allowed the dress code changes.

 

Spanish Landing – CA

 

I don’t begin to understand clubs that exclude in their membership.  I realize exclusive clubs are an aspect of our society, not society itself.    As we move farther away from the civil rights movement, society finds other ways to divide, to separate, in our neighborhoods, our schools, our shopping experiences, the play areas for our children (as well as adults), our politics.     As a person of color, a working  woman who still doesn’t earn the same as her male counterpart, at times a single mom, and overweight, I have,  over the years experienced discrimination, both subtle and overt.  I have benefited from government programs for minorities and women, I am sure, but I was always the one who would write in “human” when they asked my race or ethnicity, and as a single mom,  eligible for food-stamps, I could never bring myself to apply for them.  Looking back, it seems another world, having  men pass  laws so I could vote, so I could work, have paid leave when I had my children, so I could wear pants in the workplace.   I watched the world change over the years, sometimes for the worse, most times for the better.

Camp Pendleton – CA

 

Today, I appreciate witnessing history in the making.  I have said the two most beautiful places on earth are a California beach and a golf course.  I don’t play golf, but I love to drive the cart and golf courses are some of the most peaceful places you will find.     I am confident Ms. Rice and Ms. Moore will enjoy their new membership at Augusta, and appreciate the peace on the greens.  Peace, perhaps best defined as “a state of tranquility or quiet as: a. freedom from civil disobedience, b. a state of security or order within a community provided for by law or custom”…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Contrasts

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When I stay with my daughter and son-in-law, I have a morning routine that takes me out onto their front porch. There, with my cafecito in hand, I breathe the morning air and take in the view of the oleanders, the fruit trees in the neighboring yard, the dragonflies trying to avoid the aggressive bluejays. I love the quiet of these mornings and watching the earth wake up along with me.

This particular morning, Instead of relaxing and quiet thoughts, I recalled yesterday's conversation with a stranger about her brother who suffers from Agent Orange poisoning, PTSD and alcoholism. This conversation was particular poignant, because as a health care worker, she understood her brother's symptoms, issues and remedies, but after years of trying to help him, he continued to suffer.

She described to me, how their father, who is a WWII veteran, had advised his son, he was eligible for a claim with the Veteran's Administration, because of his poisoning and trauma symptoms. The father had told him where he could go, who to speak with and how to get some assistance with the claim. The son could not get past the forms. He became anxious and overwhelmed with the information required. His sister said to me "He wouldn't fill them out". I replied, "Perhaps, he couldn’t.”

I expanded on this comment by telling her that the anxiety of taking that first step for a veteran is not about filling out the countless forms. Forms are part of military life. Ask any active duty or veteran, forms are what runs the bureaucracy of our military. Filling out those forms for the PTSD veteran, opens the door to the past. A door they would rather keep shut.

For most of us, civilians or even dependents of active duty or retired personnel, forms are a necessary evil, a means to an end. For a veteran who has been avoiding the memories, dealing with the nightmares, flashbacks, or self-medicating, opening that “box” means dealing with the pain, the recriminations, the anger, the horror, the reliving of how you felt then, as a teenager or twenty-something, through the eyes of a middle age man, twenty, forty or more years later.

When I said goodbye to this stranger, she wished me luck with the book I am writing, telling me, “You have a perspective of your husband’s struggle to contrast with a story like my brother’s”. It gave me pause when I remembered that comment, this morning, because it took my husband twenty years to identify he needed help. There are thousands of Iraq and Afghanistan veterans returning from the theatre who have had three, four, five plus tours, who, even with the current programs in place to help them deal with any combat trauma, suicide rates for combat veterans are up. For every active duty personnel or veteran, there are a number of family members that are touched by Combat Related Trauma or Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. For every family member, there are a number of civilians and strangers that are affected…the ripple affect.

I have seen this nation come together for the families of natural and man-made disasters. Thousands of volunteers went to New Orleans and Mississippi. Millions of dollars went to these and disasters abroad. We have a vested interest in helping our active duty personnel, our veterans and their families deal with “coming home”. In our own communities, in our own families, everyone knows someone, who knows someone who served. Take the time to know who they are, to inquire about them, to ask about their family. Our future does not have to be about “contrasting stories”.

The Girls of Summer

Girls softball is serious business. Just ask my granddaughters who all play. I have never seen such a range of emotions on a ball field. From carefree, skipping across home plate, to a stomping, glove tossing display of frustration. It can surprisingly revealing to watch.

My eldest girl’s team played the first-place team three weeks ago, and lost by an embarrassingly large margin. The next team they beat handily, and then played the first-place team again. I went to the game, watching the body language of these pre-teen girls…they were preparing for another humiliation.

Yet, to everyone’s surprise, these girls rallied from behind to get six runs and beat that first-place team. It was as exciting to watch these girls play with such purpose. Sadly, a forfeit by another team stymied their chances to go to the post season playoffs, the TOC’s, but that last win was sweet.

The youngest girl was in her second year of softball. Last year was tee-ball. This year was a little of the girls pitching, and then the manager or coach pitching. Score is not kept on this level. That’s my kind of game. Her team colors were black and yellow. The team name was the “Bees”. It really was the cutest thing I had ever seen.

My middle girl’s team is going to the TOC’s. Her mom is making sure she gets time at the batting cages, coaching her stance and swing. The youngest sister sat on the bench, cheerleading every swing. As I watched, listened, and took some pictures, I thought of my 81 year old father, who played in a softball camp for seniors in Florida, just this January. The team he played on won the tournament. I have sent him the pictures posted here, so he could see the girls. He loves the idea that his great-granddaughters carry on his love for the game. Our girls of summer.

This, Our Memorial Day

New Year’s Day, 2011, my husband and I were in Jacksonville, North Carolina. We had attended a New Year’s Eve Party the night before and were heading home. Before we left town, my husband turned off the road to the entrance of the Beruit Memorial. I was quiet. We were the only people there that day and I was not surprised, it was the day after the New Year’s Eve, people were getting up or getting breakfast. A chilling wind had brought leaves to the ground, littering the walkways. Any sunshine was struggling through the grey cloud cover.

He walked along the wall, looking for a name that was buried in the “to be dealt with later” file of his memories. It was now “later”. He stopped in recognition of that name. The name of a Marine who went to Beruit, because he could not.

I realized then why he talked of his “mission” in this life, of “God’s plan”. You don’t survive a few brushes with death, not to appreciate the gift you have been given. I understand then, better than ever before, his will to give to others a bit of himself, his expertise in his sport, in his faith, in his appreciation of life.

Today we celebrate Memorial Day, honoring those who fought for our freedoms, those that died in service of our country. Solemn recognition of the ripple affect events can have on lives that are in one instant continuing, in the next, stop short of realization. The burden weighs heavy on those that come to this knowledge. Never forget…