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.