Honoring a Veteran

Some days you get to see the best in people.  Today was one of those days for me.

I read the obituaries every morning, and this morning, I saw the one for a Warren McDonough, age 91, and a WW2 soldier.  He had been in the invasion of Normandy and had only a niece, a nephew, and some friends listed as survivors.

I always pause when I read these old soldier obituaries and wonder what the war was like for them and what they did with themselves after they came home.  I said a silent "thank you" to Mr. McDonough and turned the page.

Later this afternoon on Facebook, I saw his face again on a post by WAVE 3, so I read it to see what it said.  The article talked about Warren and how sad it would be that there would be no one there to mourn him at his visitation.  It suggested that if anyone had a few minutes, to stop by and pay respects to this old soldier, veteran of Omaha Beach, and the Invasion of Normandy.

I decided to go.

All of my WW2 buddies are gone now.  Mr. Humphrey, Mr. Chard.  Mr. Donaldson.  I thought they would appreciate me stopping by to pay respects to a fellow soldier.

I pulled into the funeral home parking lot, and it was packed.  I wondered if there was another visitation or if all of these cars were for Warren.  Making my way to the lobby, the tears welled up as soon as I saw the Patriot Riders flanking the entry doors, American flags on each side.  One opened the door for me, and the tears began flowing freely.

I looked for the name plates to see where Mr. McDonough was laid out, and his name was the only one.  All the cars in the parking lot were for him.  The room was packed.  There were flowers from anonymous donors.  People stood at his casket.  They lined up to sign the guest book.  They sat in the chairs and visited.  One man stood at attention in the back of the room.

I kept crying.

I glanced over at a nearby table, and saw pictures of the young Warren and his name tape and a poem.

I went to visit the casket and saw where someone had put a silk poppy on his jacket.  There was a thank you card next to him too.

The tears continued as I looked at all of the people coming in to pay respects.  There was a soldier in his dress blues with his family.  There were bikers, police officers, and paramedics.  Parents came in with their small children or teenagers.  A scout master came in with a few Boy Scouts.  Old men in their VFW hats and young men in suits stood in line.  Another soldier.  Two more police officers.  A twenty-something in sweats.  A young couple prayed nearby.  Black people.  White people.  Old folks and young.  A wonderful slice of America, all there to pay respects to a stranger, to say, "Thank you" to a soldier who risked it all for people he didn't know.

As I left, I asked the funeral director if he had ever seen so many people come out for a total stranger.

"No.  Never.  I can't say I've ever seen this before," he replied.

"It's nice," I said.  "Makes you feel like there is hope for us yet."

The Patriot Riders opened the door for me as I walked out.  I thanked them for being there.

"It's the least we could do," one said.  "For all he did, it's the least we could do."


http://www.rattermanbrothers.com/obituaries/Warren-Mcdonough/#!/Obituary

My Daughter Is NOT a Princess!

My oldest daughter, Claire, informed me yesterday that she is NOT a princess.  Not no way.  Not no how.  Not.  A.  Princess.

This, coming from someone who, as a little girl, lived and breathed princess, made me scratch my head.  She had princess sheets, a princess comforter, princess curtains.  She dropped coins into a princess bank, carried a princess purse, and had a princess spoon and fork.  We had tiaras coming out the wahzoo and so many princess dresses, you would have thought we were the Disney costume shop.  Princess t-shirts, princess pajamas, princess toothbrushes, a princess backpack and a princess lunchbox.  We had lunch in Cinderella's Castle and met all of the princesses, and once, after meeting Prince Charming, she whispered in awe, "He called me fweethawrt!"

First trip to Disney World, 2004

It was all princess all the time.  Really.  All the time.

Second trip to Disney World, 2005

Of my girls, Claire is the one I would have least expected to say, "I am not a princess!"  

"Woah.  What brought this on?"  I asked her.

It seems that the day before, her boyfriend texted her something like, "Goodnight, princess."

"I am not a princess," she replied to him.  "I am a superhero historian scientist!"

"Okay," he said, teasing her.  "Goodnight superhero historian scientist princess!"

They got into a conversation about why girls are always called, "Princess."  Why NOT "superhero" or "scientist" or "astronaut"?

"Think about it, Mom," she said.  "Did you ever tuck me in and say, 'Goodnight my little astronaut?  NO!  Why?  Why do girls always have to be princesses???"

I had never really thought about it.  I did/do call my girls "princess," because what can be more special than a princess?  Think of the adjectives that "princess" calls to mind:  beautiful, delicate, sweet, dainty, lovely...I told her "princess" is an endearing term, that she shouldn't take it so negatively, that it's a way guys (and parents) show affection to the girls they love. She wasn't buying.

"Mom, a princess is someone you dress up in pretty clothes and marry away to a prince, who will become king.  So, yeah, she'll be queen one day, but she'll still only be second best!"

She bemoaned how society boxes little girls into pink and purple and princess, exclaiming, "Girls should be thought of as explorers and scientists and superheroes!  If I have a daughter, I'm going to call her 'my superhero' not 'my princess'."

Claire does have a great point.  It reminded me of the time when she was in first grade when she had to label a picture with the beginning sound it made.  There was a picture of a lady with a stethoscope around her neck and a cross on her hat.  Claire put "D" for doctor and got it wrong because it was "N" for nurse.  She was mad.  Her doctor is a female, and in Claire's mind, and rightly so, she saw a doctor.  I told the teacher her reasoning, but the teacher was old school and wouldn't budge.  "We were working on 'Ns'," the teacher said.

After contemplating our conversation about princesses and how we start so young indoctrinating our girls into the princess culture, I see that Claire is right:  She IS a superhero historian scientist.  I just hope whoever ends up sitting at her right hand is okay with sharing power because this girl isn't going to be second to anyone!

Other People's Dog Poop

I don't have a dog for a reason:  Three of us in our family are allergic to them.  But even if we weren't allergic, I still wouldn't have a dog because, well, I don't really like them.  Please don't hate me.  I'm sorry.  I've tried to like dogs.  We had a basset hound when I was a kid, and she was great, but even then, I really only liked her ears.

And as I've gotten older, I have pretty much stopped liking dogs altogether.

Don't get me wrong.  I like looking at dogs.  I think they are cute.

                                     

I know they are helpful.  They are great companions for kids and assistants for the disabled.  They rescue people and sniff out explosives and aid our soldiers in their jobs.

But they stink.  And they shed.  And slobber.  And poop great poops in the yard that have to be scooped up, usually by an adult, and carried down the street in a Kroger bag while the dog trots merrily along on a leash.  This visual is always amusing to me for some reason, but I digress.

You can imagine my frustration and utter disgust when yesterday, while working in my yard, my dog-free yard, I stepped in a big ol' pile of shit.  It squished up into the treads of my shoes and along the sides and sat there stinking.  I threw my clippers down in anger and dragged my shoe in the grass trying to get the worst out before I trekked over to the hose to clean the poop off.  I hosed it down, but it still stinks.

I don't care if you have a dog.  If you don't mind the smell and the hair and the slobber and the crap, knock yourself out.  Have 10 dogs.  Just keep them out of my yard, please, or if they have to take a dump here, pick it up and carry it home to your own trash can, because I don't want to be stepping in other people's dog poop.

Now. Not When September Ends

It's my melancholy time of year.  "Wake Me Up When September Ends" has been my theme song for this season.  Summer vacation is drawing to a close, and with it, the carefree days spent with my kids.  Soon we will find ourselves in a routine of school, dance class, volleyball practice, and homework.  I will be alone during the day once again, and when the kids are home, we will not have the time that we do now.  Kyle will be back at school, and his presence here will be missed.  I need to find something constructive to do to occupy myself, so I don't keep dreading the fall.

We didn't do a lot other than chill.  I mean, okay, we went to Europe for 10 days, but other than that, we just kind of hung out at home.  One day we went to Frankfort.  We went to the movies.  We went to the pool a couple of times.  The kids went to friends' houses or had friends over.  We stayed up late and slept in.  It was a relaxing summer, and while I sort of wish we would have done more stuff, I kind of liked just being home with the buzzing of activity that comes with three teenagers zipping about.

July, August, and September are how I count years now.  January 1st means nothing but the change of year in my check book.  But July, August, and September...Those months mark so many significant dates for me...Four years since Dad died...my birthday (another year older...ugh!)...seven years since Kris died...ten years since Mom...Wasn't I just dropping Kyle off at kindergarten?  I was pregnant with Emily, and I can remember Claire crying in the backseat, "I want Kyle!" as we pulled away.  Now fourteen years later, Emily is starting our final year at Holy Trinity.  What?  Claire with bows in her hair every day of first grade.  Emily and Ethan and our weekly lunch dates after preschool.  Where did the time go?

These months always make me reflective.  Remembering Mom's and Dad's last days, both so different, but each just as final.  The call from Pete that Kris had passed...I had just taken the kids to the state fair.  My birthdays.  Haven't I just turned 30?  How can I almost be 48?  My life is half over. What have I done with it?

See what I mean?

Every year this time is the same thing.  Sadness.  Melancholy.  Dread.

I hate the cold days and the long, dark nights.  I hate the bare trees and monochrome landscape that is winter.  I hate the layers of clothes and shoes that come with it.  Even though there are still many weeks until this reality, August reminds me that it is coming.  The occasional yellow leaf on a tree.  The odd cool morning.  The quiet in my house when the kids are back in school.

I know this about myself.  I get in a bad mood every year, and I don't like that.  Instead, this year, I will try to embrace this day.  This moment with my kids, my flowers, my summer evening.

I'm making plans for this fall.  I am heading to Boston for a few days at the end of August to visit my sweet Aunt Nanette and Uncle Jim.  I did that a couple of years ago, and it was such a wonderful visit and a great buffer between the end of summer and the start of school.

I hope to take my dear Aunt Jeri to West Virginia to see her daughter/my cousin.  I've been wanting to go, and she has no way to get there.  I can take her, so I think I am.

I'd like to go to Missouri to see Rocky Ridge where Laura Ingalls Wilder and her husband Almanzo lived.  I've seen her home on Plum Creek and have been to DeSmet, South Dakota and seen those places.  Missouri is next.

I may start a gratitude journal to remind me how truly blessed I am, how much I have to be thankful for, how fantastic my life is.

I do know that I don't want to sleep through September.

Uncle Joe, RIP

Uncle Joe, Uncle Bob, Aunt Nanette, Dad about 2006

My Uncle Joe died today.  He was 89 and 6 months.  I add the 6 months because he was determined to make it to 90.  Nearly every time I saw him lately, he would comment that he hoped he could at least make it to his next birthday, because he had to outlive his brother, Bob, who had died 4 months short of 90 while sitting on the couch. After that he didn't care; he just didn't want to linger.

He almost made it.

Not sure if he died from his COPD/emphysema or the aneurism in his aorta.  It doesn't matter.  He passed peacefully, sitting on his sofa in his pajamas, almost exactly like his brother.

He was one of the most interesting people I have ever known.  He was an artist, a free-spirit, a raconteur.  He was one of the lucky elderly who had his mind until the end.  He had a joke for every occasion and a story to match.  Often you wouldn't know if he was telling a joke or a true tale.  He would start out, "That reminds me of the time I was in this little pub in Ireland..."  And he had been in many little pubs in Ireland or France or Spain, so what he was about to tell could possibly be true, but 9 times out of 10, it was the set up for a fantastic joke.  I can't remember a single one, but he had hundreds tucked away in his mental file cabinet and could pull them out with ease.

He joined the Army Air Corps during World War 2 and trained to be a waist gunner in a B-17.  He was supposed to be shipped over to Europe to fight the Germans, but the war ended before he could leave.  He then got orders to head to the Pacific to battle the Japanese, but Japan surrendered, so he didn't go there either.  I think at one time, he might have had a little regret that he "missed out," but as an older man, he realized how lucky he was.  I can't imagine him fighting in a war.  He had too gentle of a soul for killing.

He led a most fascinating life, residing for awhile in Paris after the war.  He told the story about a time when he was sitting in a little cafe off the beaten path (yes, this one is true) when who should sit at the table next to him but Tennessee Williams!  He said he looked up, and who should be walking across the street loaded with books but Truman Capote.  He thought to himself, "Holy cow!  I wonder what kind of literary tete-a-tete I'll hear today!" and scooted a little closer to the authors' table.  Capote walked up to Williams and plopped his armload of books on the table and said simply,  "I'm pooped!"  Uncle Joe got a big kick out of that.

He was a glass is half full kind of guy.  An eternal optimist.  He had a full head of mostly black hair and wore glasses on a chain around his neck, which he needed mostly just for reading.   He was the last of my relatives to kiss me on both cheeks, the French way after my grandmother.  He always called me "Dear."

Uncle Joe could build just about anything.  He loved plumbing for the "puzzle-like" problems it presented.  He was using a jigsaw up until last year to build a desk for his computer and a work bench for his art but then the dust got to be too much for his lungs.

His closet was full of navy blue shirts and khaki pants with the occasional black or dark green shirt.  He said having all his clothes the same color cut down on decision-making and simplified his life.

He loved to cook.  He made Spanish rice and apple tarts and just recently, I got him some fresh rhubarb and cinnamon sticks so he could stew them together without ruining the nice pink color of the rhubarb.  He liked grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup from Panera, bread from Blue Dog Bakery, and bourbon, any kind.

He painted like a boss.  Watercolor in his later life, oil in the early years.  I hung rows of paintings in the hallway of his last apartment and other assorted paintings around the family room.  They were like snapshots of his travels through Canada, France, Spain, Ireland, the Bahamas, wherever he had been.  If the light fell a certain way along a hedgerow of arborvitae or against the side of a barn, he painted it.  He made amazing collages of tickets and napkins and programs of events.  He collected folk art and old editorial cartoons.  He read the New Yorker and had email and knew how to surf the web.

He donated his body to UofL School of Medicine.  He had been a professor, chairman of the art department at the University of Kentucky for many years.  He said he taught students in life and wanted to continue teaching after he died.  "I won't need my body anymore," he said.  "If I can continue to educate after I'm gone, why not?"

That was just the kind of guy he was.

I wish I could meet with the students who will learn from him over the next few weeks and months.  I would like to tell them that this was not just some 89 year old guy with COPD.  He was an extraordinary gentleman, a gentle and kind man, the kind that they don't really make anymore.  Be good to him.  Learn from him.  Then go out and make the world a better place.  That would make him happy.

Raising Kids to Let Them Go

My mom will have been dead 10 years in September.  My kids were 9, 6, and almost 4 when she left us, and as a young mom, I thought I would be okay because I figured I had the parenting thing under control.  My kids were well-adjusted, polite, inquisitive, and kind.  I knew I would miss her, but I thought I would miss her most at parties and holidays and babysitting.  I thought there wasn't much more she could teach me because parenting in the 2000s was so much different than the 1970s and 80s.

We had already had our spats about why I limited my kids' cartoon watching.  "I never limited how many cartoons you all watched," she had stated.  True, but when we were kids, there wasn't a whole network devoted to cartoons that ran 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.  Our cartoons were Scooby Doo and Bugs Bunny and Tom and Jerry (after school from 3-6 and on Saturday mornings until noon), not The Fairly Odd Parents and The Simpsons and Dexter's Laboratory.

And video games.  Sheesh!  We had Atari with Pac-Man and Donkey Kong and pixelated frogs trying to get across a busy road.  I had to worry about my kids going to someone's house where an older sibling was shooting policemen and raping unsuspecting women and dropping F-bombs all in graphic detail on their 48 inch plasma screen tv.

And then there were cell phones.  Facebook.  Texting.  Instant messaging.  Instagram.  Snapchat.  Twitter.  Vine.  The list goes on.  My mom would have been no help at all in wading through the cesspool that is social media, I thought.  Except that she was.  She had raised me to be a decent, caring, responsible person who behaved when no one was looking and did the right thing because it was expected.  And even though she was gone, her influence on me, and thus, my children, came down through the decades.  I have the same expectations of my kids that my mom had of me, and for the most part, they rise to the occasion.

These middling years, figuring it out on my own how to get the kids through as unscathed as possible, has been challenging, but I think I'm doing an okay job.  We've had some detours and a few bumps in the road, but we are on track for some responsible, well-adjusted adults heading out on their own to make their ways in life.

And this is where I realize that I could really use my mom right now, because how in the world do you let your kids go?  It doesn't matter if you are a 19th century mother sending your son west on horseback across the Allegheny Mountains or a mother in Ireland watching your daughter sail to America with all she owns in a brown leather trunk or a Kentucky mom leaving your daughter on the steps of her  boyfriend's house in the middle of Central Texas while you head the 1000 miles back home.

Mom and me, on one of her first trips to visit me in Texas, fall 1991.

How do you let go?

Because that is the way it's supposed to be, right?  I'm supposed to raise my kids and send them off to live lives of their own making, hopefully happy, productive lives, but their lives nonetheless.

So when I hear Kyle say he wants to leave Kentucky and go to Chicago or New York or Germany, I have to be open to that.  When I hear Claire, two years left here at home, talk about colleges in California or Pennsylvania or Tennessee, my job is to help facilitate that, to make sure that she is equipped to fly and then watch her sail into the distance.  When I think of Emily as the last child at home, probably for only 5 more years, I feel panic rise and have to take some deep breaths.  The time with them is slipping through my fingers like sand, and  I have to remind myself that my job as a mother is to raise my kids and set them free.  If I do a good job, then they leave because I have equipped them with the skills and confidence to lead lives of worth and value.

But damn it's hard.  It's hard to create these beautiful creatures that I love with every fiber of my being and then let them go.  They are my joy.  My life.  And I want to ask my mom, "How do you do it???  How did you let me go?  How did you physically get in the car and drive away?" I remember the deep sense of loss I felt as a daughter watching the car turn the corner and disappear, but now that I'm a mother, I just cannot imagine leaving my child to a life of her choosing, so far away from me.

So even though Mom would be no help with much of what I deal with as a parent today, I really wish I could ask her how to let go, because I just don't know how I will be able to do it.

The kids and me.  New Orleans, January 2015.

Hiking

I hiked again yesterday, and this time, I wasn't bringing up the rear until the very end.  And I'm not too sore to walk today.  Progress!  It has taken me a few fits and starts to get going, but it has been one of the best things I have done for myself in a long time.

After my scare in January with the mammogram-biopsy-everything-was-fine-thank-god, I decided to make some changes in my life.  One of the things I knew I needed to do was get moving.  I H.A.T.E. to exercise.  I'm very uncoordinated, so any type of group class is out of the question.  I don't enjoy running.  Never have. Never will.  Walking is so boring that I can't wait to be done, and I usually quit before I go more than 45 minutes.  I am awful at sports.  Love to watch, but totally can't play.  My options for getting my body moving were limited.

A couple of my friends hiked once a week, and I thought it could be fun to get out in nature with them.  I could maybe, maybe overcome my fear of snakes to begin to enjoy being on a trail in the woods.  I could meet some new people, make better friends, have some accountability...I decided to try it.

The first couple of weeks after I called my friend, Julie, to ask if I could join in, we had snow and really, really cold weather, so we didn't hike.  When things finally warmed up, hiking started again, and I was there, ready to move.  Only I had no idea that we MOVED!

We drove out to Waverly Park, my old stomping ground, and hiked.  Holy smokes!  It was cold that day, but after about 5 minutes of trying to keep up with Amy and Sarah, I was huffing and puffing and had broken out in a little bit of a sweat.  I had fancied myself in decent shape until that morning.  I was wildly mistaken!  Those ladies left me in the dust!  Not really, Julie hung back with me, and they would wait until we caught up every mile or so, but dang, I had no idea that this was what they meant by HIKING.  I texted my sister that I was bringing up the way rear, and she said, "Be the cow tail!"   I texted back that it was a long-ass cow!

The best thing about that day was that it was cold, so I didn't even worry about seeing a snake.  And I felt proud of myself for getting out there and making an effort.  We talked (when I could breathe!) and laughed and marveled at the beauty that I had no idea was Waverley (since I'd never been anywhere but the parking lot!)

I couldn't really move my legs for about 4 days after that, but the next week, I was game for Charlestown State Park in Indiana.

Again, we HIKED, but we did it in segments.  The trails were a couple of miles long each but not connected, so we would drive from one to the other.  It was a nice respite from continuous hiking.  Beautiful there too, with views of the Ohio River and old army depot ruins...a hidden gem!

I was the cow tail again, but like my sister said the week before, I had to start somewhere.

A minor surgery the following Tuesday kept me out for a couple of weeks then a repair to a leaky kitchen pipe (it was actually a big leak in the wall behind the cabinets, but that's a story for another day...) and then yesterday was the next time I could hike.  It's amazing what three weeks in spring can do to the woods.

We went to Cherokee Park, close because we all had somewhere to be before noon.  We started at Big Rock and hit the trails running (almost).  I was able to hang in the middle for most of the hike.  There were 3 ladies who were a few yards in front, and a few more ladies several yards behind.  I was by myself in the group, alone with my thoughts and my breathing.  It was nice.

As I climbed the rocks along Beargrass Creek, I thought of my dad as a little boy playing here, swimming, finding arrowheads enough to fill a shoebox.  I could see him splashing in the water, jumping off Big Rock, a child of the '30s enjoying the freedom of a kid in those days.  I thought of the native people who had camped here for thousands of years before the settlers arrived.  I looked for remnants of their existence, an overlooked arrowhead or a charred mark on the overhang. Didn't find anything but had fun looking.

As we crossed over roadways and skirted neighborhoods, I looked at the mansions that border the park.  I considered the people who live there now and wondered about the original inhabitants, what they do/did to have such a beautiful residence.  I imagined Daisy Buchanan gazing out a window after Jay Gatsby; or the well-heeled Louisville society people sipping after dinner drinks on the patios of an evening.

We hiked on.  We passed a meadow being converted into a bird sanctuary, blooming with wildflowers.  Skirted I-64 and the Cochran Hill Tunnel, cars zipping by not 50 yards away, the drivers oblivious to the half dozen or so women sweating it out on the trails above.  Saw box turtles (2) and a deer resting in the dappled shade of the deep woods.  I was able to tune out all of the noise of the cars and the neighborhoods and concentrate on the birds warbling in the trees.  The woodpeckers going to town on some half-rotted tree trunk full of bugs.  The sound of Beargrass as it fell over rocks.  Who knew all of this was within 5 miles of downtown Louisville?  It was amazing!

And in all of this, I did think of snakes, but we were moving too fast for me to look for them.  Unless one was on the trail right in front of me, I wouldn't have seen it, and that is a good thing!  Plus, you can imagine that all of us together make quite enough noise to scare away any animal that has sense enough or speed to get out of our way.

So, I will continue with the hikes.  I do slow down once in awhile to take a picture or two.  It is part of me capturing my journey, both on the trail and in my life.

Voices from the Past

I decided to break out the box of letters written to my dad when he was away at boarding school in the 1940s.  There is something to be said about opening a piece of paper on which a letter was written 70 years ago and seeing the handwriting of the author or the mistakes typed over or crossed out.  Little drawings on the outside of the envelope charm me as do the doodles in the margins and the swirl of the signature.  I love the feel of the onion skin paper and looking at the 3 cent stamps.  This is all lost, I fear, with our digital age, but that is a story for another day.

Dad left at age 14 for freshman year at Campion High School in Prairie du Chien, Wisconsin.  He came home at Christmas and for summer.  I am about halfway through the first group of letters from 1946, and I've been picking and choosing ones from my grandmother and grandfather to my dad.  My grandmother mostly typed hers, and my grandfather wrote in fountain pen, which has blurred over the ages.  I've read some letters from Dad's brother, Bob, and his sisters, Nanette and Marie.  It is fun to read about things that would never occur in our lives---getting a gas furnace for the first time, flying to Europe instead of taking the steamer, or praying for a boy who had contracted polio.  I had no idea there was a meat shortage in 1946, much less a shortage of soap and toilet paper.  It was truly a different time.

I wanted to share some excerpts that struck me as poignant, interesting, and insightful.  In several letters, Dad is urged to conserve paper and stamps.  Write on the backs of the pages.  Put two or three letters in each envelope and just send mail twice a week.  It is a recurring theme, usually just a sentence.  I only put one specific entry below, but I thought it worth mentioning because it was such a common thread.  It is all so interesting to me.  I have left the grammatical errors and misspellings because I feel like they also give insight to the author.  My grandmother, for example, was a native French speaker, and English was not her second language, but her fourth, as she spoke Spanish and Catalan second and third.  My dad's name was spelled "Johnny" and "Johnnie" by everyone, sometimes both ways in the same letter.   I have not figured out why.   I am sure there will be more excerpts as I read on, but this is a start...

Louisville  Aug. 29/46
You have been gone 2 days already and I still cannot believe it.  I hear your friends playing outside and, somehow, I can hear your voice mingled with theirs...Affectionately yours, Mother


Louisville  Sept. 5, 1946
Glad to hear that the food is excellent and plentiful.  You ought to feel satisfied with so much milk, - I know how much you love it.  Our milk order has been reduced from 10 to 8 quarts since you left...Very affectionately yours, Mother


New York  September 7, 1946
As the Commander in Chief is again on the move, the "family broadcasts" are being resumed, copies of this one going to Bobby and to Johnnie...I imagine Mama has sent you a little cash, but nevertheless am enclosing a dollar bill that I did not know what to do with...P.S. Discovered when I removed the first page from typewriter that carbons were in the wrong position.  Nevertheless am sending Johnny a copy that he can read by getting some light behind it...Dad


Louisville  September 8, 1946
Are you going out for any sports?  I hope so.  And, I'd try to concentrate on basketball and baseball if I were you.  After having played football, I find that I had a swell time, but I don't think its worth the chance you have to take.  Basketball and baseball offer the competition without the opportunities to get your knee pulled out of joint or a shoe in your face...Bobby, Mary Louise, and Jimmy


Louisville  Sept. 9, 1946
Do not use so much paper when you write,-but write on both sides to save it...About returning by plane, _with your pals,-at Xmas time, we'll see about this later on,-there is plenty of time to decide on this, don't you think so?  With much love from everyone here, yours affectionately, Mother

Louisville  12  Sept. '46

The movies of Aline's return to Louisville were fine, also the other movies of Mother & Dad.  You'll be glad, I know, to see these reels when you return.  By that time, we may have to add your own picture.  Maybe we can take pictures of you as you get off the train in Louisville next Xmas!  Your ole pal, Marie

Louisville  Sept. 16, 1946

Well, I got a great surprise last night, when we got a cable from Daddy from PARIS...We did not know he was going to fly at all, but he got disgusted waiting in N.Y. for the strike to end, and he suddenly made up his mind to get a ticket for Paris.  He left Saturday at seven p.m. from La Guardia Field, and into Paris 20 hours later, that is about 2 p.m. our time, but 8 p.m. Paris time...It was almost a shock to me, and I'm glad I did not know about it, for I would never have slept the night...Affectionately yours, Mother

Louisville  Sept. 25/1946

I have some bad news to give you about Bert Cohen,-he is at Kosair Hospital with polio,-he has been there for 4 or 5 weeks,-it is in his throat that he has it, and he is in a serious condition, also a cousin of his, from whom he got it,-they were together over a weekend, and both became sick at the same time. Pray for the poor little fellow.  Affectionately yours, Mother

Louisville  Oct. 3, 1946

Your old friend Bertha came to see me this noon.  She would like to work for me, I think, but the poor old soul has trouble with her feet (flat feet) and a sprained hip and back, so I am afraid Bertha could not help much.  She inquired about you and talked about when you were a baby...She said she would love to see you.  She surely was a loyal servant.

The meat situation is getting from bad to worse, but it does not worry me at all, for we can eat all we need with vegetables, fruit, salads, and cheese or eggs, fish and an occasional chicken...What about the thousands of people, all over the world, who would feast with what we are able to get here...And to think that so many do complain yet...and so many make the line everyday for hours to get a few ounces of red meat...what a loss of precious time indeed.  Usually they are the same bunch of women who, day after day, go to the stores waiting for meat...Soap is again very scarce with us, guess some do hoard and hoard, the same with toilet paper and margarine.  Butter is now 89 cents a lb...One cannot get margarine at all, nowhere.  Much love, Mother

Louisville  October 8, 1946
Your report card came too, with 2 Bs and 2 Cs, -there is cause to be glad at these marks too, and I feel sure that if you work a little harder and apply yourself a little more to your studies, also doing some reading, you will most probably get many more Bs and, who knows, you might surprise us with one or 2 As. This would be wonderful. You have the intelligence to do so, and I know that you will endeavor to do your very best, your utmost, in order to get higher marks...With love again, affectionately yours, Mother


Louisville  October 23, 1946
All the trees around us are gold and brown, and the wind of yest. and to-day has brought large quantities of leaves down, and the ground is littered with them, it is very beautiful indeed, but one has to rake them off quickly and burn them, as they are dangerous when they get too dry.  I made a wire basket with the piece of high fencing we had in the yard, and in this manner leaves can be burned  off without danger, even when it is windy...Your affectionate mother


Louisville  Nov. 3/46
Wish I could drive to Campion to see you too, perhaps when Daddy returns, if the weather allows it...we might take a trip...although he will be very busy upon his return to the office with piles of accumulated work...We have an extension phone upstairs since yesterday, -it is a great convenience, as it will save our steps...Burt Cohen is well again he was very fortunate in getting over his troubles...Well, the furnace is finally installed and working, but the weather is so mild that we do not need any heat a present....It works automatically, so no more ashes to take out, no more shoveling coal- no more dirty hands fixing the furnace...no more dirt in the basement and less dust in the rooms...Affectionately yours, Mother


Louisville  November 15, 1946
How many girls do you write anyhow?  Jane said you told her she didn't write the kind of letters you thought she would write.  Please explain yourself...Do they make you write book reports up there?  As I just said we have one every month.  I hope they do because I really don't believe you know how to read...Oodles of love, Nanette


Louisville  December 4, 1946
As you surmised, we had a very good Thanksgiving dinner, with a beautiful roasted turkey, tender and juicy, with all the trimmings.  The entire family were on hand, including Hugh, also Joey, both of whom came home for the weekend, the only absentee being yourself, and naturally we all missed your smile, not to mention the valuable assistance that you have always rendered on such occasions.

I imagine that mama has told you that the new gas furnace is functioning very well, so you can realized how much the work of keeping the house warm has been reduced, in fact work has been entirely eliminated, and besides that everything is cleaner, including the air in the house...Affectionately, Dad

The VAMC...Changing the Conversation

Zachary Taylor National Cemetery Annex...Hopefully coming soon to a field near you!

Three years ago, Veterans Affairs decided that a parcel of land by my house would be a great place to build a new hospital.  It is a 36 acre undeveloped piece land-locked farmland, bordered on one side by the Watterson Expressway, another by US 22, and two sides by existing residential neighborhoods.

Nobody in his right mind would look at this property and think, "Wow! That is a great location for a hospital!"  The fact that NOTHING has been built there, on one of the last remaining empty pieces of land in one of the most developed, expensive locations in the county, should have been a clue that there are issues with this location.

But I digress.

So, the VA told the community that they thought this site, over all the other sites, was the best one for its new hospital.  I won't go into detail on all of the reasons why it is an awful, poorly chosen location.  I will mention briefly that it is further away from the hospitals where veterans will need to go to get specialty treatment.  I will mention that traffic is HORRENDOUS before the anticipated additional 3,000-4,000 cars a day according to the VA's traffic study.  I will mention that these cars entering and exiting the property will all use one exit at two-lane Highway 22.  Can we say "gridlock"?   I will mention that there is no room for expansion.  I will mention that the planned complex does not fit into the surrounding community.  That currently there are no 8-story parking garages any closer than downtown (this will have two).  That the current infrastructure cannot support a project of this size.  That the initial designers of the plan said it would not have been their choice of location for a new hospital and that it will be "interesting" to get it all into this spot.  "Cozy" is one word they mentioned to describe it.  I could keep going, but that's not the point of this entry.

What I want to write about today is that regardless of what happens with this proposal, I am really, really proud of what we have accomplished.  And I hope my kids see that no matter the odds, there is value in standing up for what you believe in, in continuing the fight when things look bleak, and in speaking the truth over and over and over because someone will finally listen to what you have to say.

When this whole thing started, and we began voicing our objections, the main response we got was, "You are a NIMBY! ("not in my backyard")  Support our veterans, you rich, east end, SUV driving snob!  Just deal with a little traffic for all the veterans have done for your freedom.  It's the least you can do!"  Over and over and over again, for many, many months, that was the response we got whenever we shared the objections listed above.

But we kept talking.  We kept writing.  We kept giving interviews to anyone who would listen.  At times, it looked like things were fizzling out, but we kept plugging away.  Two neighbors on their own, and my tiny board of myself and 3 other people.

We met with Congressman John Yarmuth, with representatives from Senator Rand Paul's office and with members of our Metro Council.  We called the offices of any elected official who we thought could help and talked to their representatives, including Senator Mitch McConnell, KY, Congressmen Jeff Miller, FL, Mike Coffman, CO, Tulsi Gabbard, HI, and Hal Rogers, KY.  I spoke to members of the House Veterans Affairs Oversight Committee and developed an email correspondence with them.  We filed Freedom of Information Acts and became a 501(c)(3).  We wrote op-eds for the newspaper and taped an op-ed for a news channel.  We met with reporters, organized neighborhood meetings, and encouraged the Kentucky Medical Association to pass a resolution supporting a downtown hospital.  We met with leaders of the University of Louisville, the director of the Louisville VAMC, with city councils, with lobbyists, with anyone who would give us 20 minutes.

We kept telling the truth, sharing the facts, ignoring the negative.  We tried to be positive.  We suggested alternative uses for the land, which has already been purchased by the VA.  We pointed out that the families of our local veterans have to drive at least an hour away if the veteran wants to be buried in a military cemetery.  This land is 1/4 mile from Zachary Taylor National Cemetery, why not make it an annex?  We could honor nearly 30,000 veterans for the next 100 years if we use this land for a cemetery.  Hospitals can go lots of places.  Cemeteries can't.  We finally started getting people to listen.

And we changed the conversation.

When discussion turns to the proposed hospital, no longer do we hear, "NIMBY!"  Instead, we hear, "That is a terrible location!  Why aren't our elected officials speaking up?"  When an article on the hospital is printed in the paper, the responses are, "This hospital needs to go downtown where all of the specialty services are!  Why does the VA think this is a good site?"  When people learn we are the ones who have been working to have our new VA hospital located near downtown's medical campus, they thank us for being a voice for the community.

This whole thing has been empowering.  It has shown me, and hopefully my children, that when you have the truth on your side and you believe in something, there is value in standing up, speaking out, and being counted.

Regardless of the final outcome---and I have much faith that one day we will see the "Zachary Taylor National Cemetery Annex" located in this spot instead of a hospital---I am very proud of what we have accomplished.

We have made a difference.

You Call This Sam Adams?

I'm a history purist.  Or snob.  Take your pick.  I love my history anyway I can get it, and I don't mind historical fiction at all.  I love it in fact.  But when you are THE HISTORY CHANNEL, and you are producing a program called "The Sons of Liberty" based on well-documented real-life people about actual events that happened in our country which caused our country to become a united nation, then freaking get it right!  These are not fictional characters.  These are not made up events.  I get the idea that you have to condense/combine/omit things, but for goodness sake, at least get the main people right!

Don't get me wrong.  I am enjoying "The Sons of Liberty" as a piece of historical fiction because I know the real truth.  What bothers me is that many people who watch this will think this is how things really happened because it was on THE HISTORY CHANNEL.  I think when you bill yourself as that, you have a responsibility to get it right on shows that are about real people and real events.

For example, Samuel Adams.  I will freely admit that Sam on SOL is very easy on the eyes and his badass ways make the show really exciting to watch.  He is smoking hot, HOWEVER, in real life, Sam may have been a badass, but he was born in 1722, making him in his 50s during the Revolutionary War period.

Here is a picture of Sam Adams from SOL.  Does this guy look 50 to you?

This is a portrait of the REAL Samuel Adams, painted in 1772, when he was 50.  Do you see any resemblance between the two?  No, me neither.

I'm watching the show the other night as Sam is chased through the streets of Boston, and it looks like Kyle is playing Assassin's Creed 3, with all of the jumping from rooftop to rooftop.  The chase was fun to watch, but real? No way.  The actual Sam would have thrown his back out doing something like that!

Then there is the way that THE HISTORY CHANNEL plays up all of the stereotypes and mythology surrounding the American Revolution.  The homeless, alcoholic Sam Adams...The clandestine love affair between Dr. Warren and Margaret Gage...The brutality of the British soldiers...George Washington showing up in his uniform to the 1st Continental Congress (it was the 2nd)...Paul Revere's midnight ride shouting, "The British are coming!" No, he didn't get into a fight with British soldiers BEFORE getting to Lexington.  He was actually arrested AFTER warning the citizens the Regulars were on their way.

And there is so much more!

I realized after the first night that THE HISTORY CHANNEL'S promo, "To learn the real story behind the Revolution, go to thehistorychannel.com," was a clue that this was not exactly a factual show, and that just really irritated me.  Americans know precious little enough about the men and women who risked it all to make this country.  You are THE HISTORY CHANNEL.  Please don't add to their ignorance.

Thinking About a Job...And Feeling Sick

So Kirk tells me the other day that I may need to get a job.   There are a lot of moving parts right now, and an additional income, no matter how small, would be a nice buffer.

I was like, "WTH?"

I haven't worked a "real job" in 17 years.  I taught from 1991-1996 around the country and then one miserable school year in 1997-98 here in Louisville.  My teaching certificate has now expired, and I would need to get my Master's Degree in order to teach again, and I don't want to do either one of those things.  I was a facilitator for Catholic Charities' Insights program for awhile.  I took pictures for Louisville Catholic Sports last year, but I have done nothing for which I've gotten paid a decent salary in almost 20 years.

This is not to say that these past 20 years have seen me sitting on the couch and eating bonbons.  No sirree.  I have been a busy, busy mother, wife, daughter, sister, and friend for the past two decades.  I've volunteered at schools, both grade schools and high schools.  I've volunteered at historic homes, church, and charity events.  I've raised money, raised awareness, and raised hell.  I've made costumes, painted houses, refinished furniture, landscaped yards, sold homes, canned food, resettled refugees, and taken care of elderly relatives.  I've helped both of my parents move from this life to the next.  I submitted hundred thousand dollar budgets and represented a dozen committees at the parish council.  I've spent hours in doctors' offices with loved ones, run errands for sick friends, and made countless meals for people who were sick or sad or lonely.  I've fought a government entity and took some pretty freaking amazing photographs.  I've written blogs and poems and letters to the editor.  I even wrote a song once, but that is a story for another day.

Now I'm told I should maybe think about getting a part-time job, and I'm thinking, "What the hell am I supposed to do?"

Despite all that I have done, I really have no skills that I can market.  I am technologically illiterate.  I have no idea how to use a smart board or a smart phone or Dropbox or an iPad.  If I did go back to teaching, I'd be so far behind the times that I'd be asking for the overhead projector.  I don't want to work retail or substitute teach (pull my fingernails out, please).  I need flexibility for my kids because they still need me.

I am spoiled, and I will admit that I love being able to be home with my kids when they are sick.  I love being a room mom and going to awards' ceremonies and prayer groups.  I like having the days off that my kids are off.  I want to be home for them and drive them where they need to go.  In a mere 3 years, yes, three years, Emily will be driving, and my Mom's Taxi Service will go out of business.  Wow.  I just now realized that.  I have been driving kids around for nineteen years, and in three more, that chapter will close.  Well, that makes me sad.

So, what can I do?

I'm trying to think of some skill that I have that I can market, but I have no idea what that would be.

Any suggestions???

January 6, 2015: The Day That Changed My Life

I have no excuse.

Well, that's a lie, because I do have an excuse, just not a very good one. Actually I have lots of excuses and none of them are any good, but that doesn't change the fact that the last mammogram I had on record before January 6, 2015 was done in 2009.

Straight up...I hate mammograms. But I hate going to the gynecologist even more, and I didn't think I could get a mammogram without orders from the gynecologist, and since I didn't go get my annual, I didn't get a mammogram either. Stupid, I know, and the reason I didn't go to the gynecologist has less to do with the prodding and probing than the fact that I had to get on a scale.

I used to weigh a lot more than I wanted to. After Emily was born, I weighed more than I had in my life. The nurse at my OBGYN scolded me a year after Emily was born because I didn't drop the baby weight like I did after Claire. The next year, she commented again, and I decided to get serious about it, so I went on Weight Watchers and lost a lot of weight. Then after my mom died, I started gaining it back. At the last visit to my now GYN (no more OB for me, thank you very much), the nurse said my weight out loud and commented, "You're up 15 pounds from two years ago. You'd better get on top of this, or it will become more of an issue than it already is."

I knew that already, and what I felt was shame.

So I didn't go back. For five years.

Stupid, I know, but I admit it. I feel like an alcoholic in the beginning of sobriety saying to the world, "I am an alcoholic." I feel like if I own this shame and this reality, I can start to do something about it and make some positive changes in my life.

Last March, I decided that I had been avoiding my "annual" long enough, and I made an appointment to go in for an exam. When I went to get weighed, I told the nurse, "I know I've gained weight, and I know how much. I haven't been in for a long time because I am ashamed of myself. Please don't say my weight out loud when you weigh me," and I closed my eyes when I stood on the scale.

She just looked at me funny and moved the weights and wrote down the number. I had my exam, and my GYN noted that it had been awhile since I had had a mammogram, and wrote me orders for one. I meant to go, but I never made the appointment, and since I wasn't in the habit of getting one annually, I just forgot about it.

Kyle had his prom and graduated from high school. I went to Florida with the girls and got Kyle set up in college...October rolled around and I saw pink crap everywhere and thought, "I need to get a mammogram," but I hate pink so much that I didn't do it in October just to prove a point. Nobody noticed, but I felt better. Then Thanksgiving and Christmas, and with the turn of the calendar year, I decided to make a change in my life.

I thought, "Someday, you will miss this very body you are ashamed of now. Someday, you will wish you looked this good." So I decided on a change of attitude. I decided to get my mammogram first then my annual then a complete physical. I was going to go to the dermatologist for a skin check and start to exercise a little and take my life and my body back.

So on January 6, 2015, I went to the diagnostic center for the mammogram. As I signed in, I thought to myself, "I wonder if today is the day that will change my life forever."

When the call came from my GYN the next day that there was a suspicious cluster of micro calcifications on my left breast and I needed to come in for a biopsy, I knew the answer was, "Yes."

The thing was, my regular GYN had retired since my checkup last year, although I didn't know it at the time. So I had this totally new person giving me advice on what to do. I was trying to listen and process what she was saying, but I only heard "5" and "micro calcifications" and "suspicious" and "biopsy." Immediately, I went to the computer---wrong thing to do---and googled those terms. It didn't matter that what came up said that 80% of calcifications are benign. That worst case scenario, it would be ductal carcinoma in situ. What I read was "cancer."

We left for New Orleans, and I began digging around my armpits and breast. I sat in the car the whole twelve hours trying to slyly feel a knot or bump. I didn't feel anything unusual, but my armpits began hurting, especially the left one where the calcifications were. I kept digging and digging and the panic began to rise. Did I feel something? I'd check both sides to look for symmetry. Yes? No? I couldn't tell. I didn't know what I was looking for, but I kept looking anyway. I would be walking around New Orleans thinking about this. Sometimes my mind would wander and I would be enjoying whatever it was we were doing, then I'd snap back and think, "cancer."

My friend, Amy, kept texting me, "Don't touch," and she reminded me that the more I touched, the more they would hurt and the more I would worry. I did my best to keep hands off, and it did help ease the pain some. I also stopped looking online for clues. That helped a little too. I stayed scared, though.

The biopsy was Friday morning. When I saw the mammogram hanging on the wall, the tech showed me where the calcifications were. I had one spot, not five like I thought, with five tiny calcifications in it. She reassured me that it was very, very tiny. It is also located in a part of my breast that has dense breast tissue. She said that is much better than having it in the fatty part. She said that dense tissue has more fibroadenomas than fatty parts, and often the calcifications are leftovers from when the fibroadenomas "die off."

During the procedure, I laid on my stomach on a bed, with my breast in a mammogram machine. They numbed my breast and inserted a hollow needle with a vacuum attachment. They sucked out the calcifications to send to pathology. Then a titanium clip was inserted into the spot to mark it for future reference. Then they cleaned me up and put skin glue on the spot. They took another set of mammograms of me to make sure they got what they needed. I got to see the mammogram of the tissue samples, and there were about 5 calcifications that were bigger and a few more that were much smaller. By "bigger" I mean the size of a piece of sand. They were very, very small.

I told the tech how scared I was and she said that it was probably nothing, but worst case scenario, if it was cancer, then it was very, very early and very, very small. It would be something that would be easily treatable with no negative consequences. I asked the radiologist to give me a percentage what he thought about it being cancer, and he said he couldn't say, obviously, but if he had to guess, he'd say maybe 30%.

I prayed. Kirk prayed. Kirk and I prayed together. But I thought surely other people more worthy than I have prayed this very same prayer. Why would God listen to me?

So all weekend, I laid around. I tried not to think of the possibilities. I felt nauseous. I was starving. I wanted chocolate, mashed potatoes, and cheese. I planned my funeral. I thought of all I had to do before I died. I cried about my kids. I saw signs everywhere I looked. I heard "cancer" on TV, the radio, at Kroger. I worried about insurance. I thought of our vacation plans getting cancelled. I wondered how Emily would get to play practice or who would help Claire pick a college or Kyle celebrate his love of living history?  I tried to stay off the computer, but I googled every possible combination of breast cancer, micro calcifications, and stereotactic biopsy that I could find. I went to the very darkest places even though I knew, I knew, I shouldn't. Amy said that if I worried and it was nothing, then I had worried for nothing. If I worried and it was something, then I had lived it twice. I couldn't help it. I was just. So. Scared.

I carried my phone around with me all day yesterday waiting for the call. It finally came at 4:30.

Benign.

I bawled my eyes out.

I have a new GYN. I have found a new general practitioner. I will remember the fear I felt these past two weeks and celebrate with gusto this life that I have. My imperfect body. My muffin top. My husband and children. My future.