what words can do

Photos by my cousin.

Some of you may have read how my cousin--a Chinook pilot--was recently deployed to Afghanistan, here.  A few weeks ago--less than two weeks after he arrived in Afghanistan--a Chinook was shot down and everyone was lost.  It was a very long day as we waited for the Army to lift his Unit's blackout (a ban on communication to and from soldiers when this kind of thing happens).  We were lucky; my cousin was not the pilot of the downed Chinook.  But one of his buddies, someone from his Company, was the flight engineer. Pat was lost.


Yesterday, Pat was buried in our home town.  On the Company's Facebook page, I read the following, written by one of the Army sentries who travelled with Pat's body to its final resting place.  This man's writing touched me so much--especially when I think about his job, bringing these men home--I decided to share.

I was honored to be one of the sentries that stood vigil with Pat upon his return to Nebraska and over the past 3 days I watched 2 families grieve the loss of one of their own, Pat's family, Candy, his parents and all his other relatives, and his Guard family. Over the past 3 days, hundreds of people came to say goodbye to Pat each in their own way. At the visitation there were people who could not bring themselves to come close to the coffin, they would look at all the flowers and look at Pat's metals but they just couldn't look at the flag draped coffin. Then there were those that came up put their hands on the coffin and couldn't pull themselves away, but they all said goodbye one by one.

Pat and I said our goodbyes one on one, late at night with no one else around. Sitting there with Pat in the quiet of the night I thought about things Pat would do or say and how much I would miss him, and like the people at the visitation there were times I couldn't look and times I couldn't look away.

Today we said goodbye as one family. The day started with a simple ride to the church, Pat, the funeral director and me in the hearse with 5 American Legion riders leading us. No fanfare just a quiet ride across Lincoln. When we arrived at the church the Patriot Guard Riders where there literally by the hundreds. They were lined up in front of their bikes some holding flags some standing at attention, all standing still. The State Command Sergeant Major and I were helping to get Pat into the church and when the door of the hearse opened all that was said was "present arms" and the Patriot Guard saluted and all was quiet.

Inside the church there was the last minute buzz of getting things ready. The Patriot Guard members came in and said their goodbyes. Friends, Soldiers and Pat's family all coming up. Those that wept now cried, those that cried now were consumed, knowing it was one step closer to Pat's final resting.

Minutes before the funeral started the honor guard was in position and the Sergeant Major said "Sentries you are dismissed." I put my hand on Pat's coffin one last time and said take care my friend. The service was perfect, the church was overflowing with people, 3 pastors spoke all with words of comfort and all with words of hope. Pat's brothers told stories about Pat as a kid and the Adjutant General spoke about Pat as a Soldier. He read the testimonials that John and Burt had written. Then it was time for Pat's final ride.

Now that my duties were done I rode with my wife in the procession and let me tell you there were cars as far as you could see. The route to the cemetery was dotted with groups of people with American flags, hands over hearts and even a few signs saying thank you. We passed a fire station and the firefighters had their trucks out with the lights on. All those people in there way saying thank you Pat and goodbye.

Graveside, it was amazing how quiet hundreds of people can be. The only sound was the bell that rang every few seconds calling all of us to gather for Pat one last time. Prayers were said and then "Present Arms". The 21 gun salute and taps. The notes of the trumpets died away replaced by the sounds of people crying.

Can you imagine this gaping maw in
flight, with a flight engineer saluting
Pat?

Then in the distant we heard them, the 3 Chinooks. It is a sound like no other. The Muleskinner's wives, and girlfriends were all gathered together and when the Chinooks could be heard they all hugged and cried. For just a minute they didn't cry for Pat, for he was already home. They cried for all their loved ones still in harms way. The Chinooks came on closer and closer. The lead aircraft was Pat's. They came in low and fast, the ramps down the Flight Engineers on the ramp taking their turn to say thank you and goodbye. Then they were gone and what was once a gathering of silence was now a chorus of tears. Tough men in leather biker jackets, Soldiers in all their splendor all weeping.

The flag was lifted off Pat's coffin and folded and presented to Candy and the girls, flags were also presented to Pat's parents and then it was done. Pat's journey home was complete.

While I am no fan of this war, I am in awe of the dedication of my cousin and the rest of our soldiers, sailors and airmen/women, who put their lives at risk for our country.  I pray that when my cousin returns to us, he will not be accompanied by a "sentry"...that he will come home to his wife and two little girls, whole and unscarred.

my unicorn, she's a beauty

I've been meaning to write this post for some time but haven't gotten around to it until now.  The picture above is a charming piece of art done by the lovely Tera over at Olive Hue Designs.  In the midst of my late-winter, I'm-getting-a-divorce funk, I commented on this picture and mentioned to Tera how much it spoke to me at that point in my life.

Lo and behold, she sent me a copy of it.  As a gift!  I tell you, this lady is awesome.  I've purchased items from her before for Younger's birthday and the birth of a friend's baby.  She also sent me beautiful shoes one time.

So I went and had my unicorn framed with a bit of panache (Tera...that's a metallic pewter mat) and she's hanging in my master bath, where I can see her as I get ready every morning.  

Now some of you might be thinking...um...Leslie, why do you keep mentioning a unicorn?  There is no unicorn in the picture.  

Well, folks, that's because no one sees her.  After all, the piece is titled "No One Sees the Unicorn".  You can look at the original here and then maybe you will understand.  

Thank you so much Tera.  I feel like the unicorn has brought me a little magic.  Life is good.  I'm happy.  And I'm lucky to have a friend like you!

the future is not something we enter, but something we create

I received one of those annoying e-mail forwards yesterday. But for some reason I actually stopped and read it. It's a chick message about remembering to keep in touch with the women in your life...sisters, girlfriends, aunts, mother, grandmothers...because in times of true trouble, they will be your support, strength and guide.

I suddenly remembered reading this exact same message years ago. I specifically remember exactly where I was when I read it the first time, so I can tell you it was in 96'-'97. This was a time when I was so engrossed in being a mother to two preschool age girls and building my career in a new city, that I spent no time with girlfriends or even, really, in paying attention to the women who had been my friends. I remember that something about this message really struck me and, as I read it, I made an intentional decision to reconnect with my friends and to make new friends. I decided to invest in the people in my life outside what was then my little family of four.

I truly have spent the last 15 years building friendships...and not just

female friendships (I still miss Dave daily)...but in being a friend and having friends. I am so lucky to have made this investment. It has paid off...in spades. The greatest investment I ever made.

But circling back to that e-mail...it is true. It is largely (although not exclusively) my female friends who have held me up through the last two years. Who knocked me upside the head with honest truth when I needed it and who have wrapped me in their arms, when I needed that. I am lucky indeed.

poppa didn't raise some fool

Subtitled, "Thanks, Dad."

My Dad taught me skills. I can drive a straight nail, I am not afraid of a power tool. I can spot the middle of a space to hang a picture without a tape measure and no bubble in liquid is needed for me to see level.

This is because Dad made sure I built a birdhouse, from lumber; painted a wall from taping to roller and brush; changed a tire. I worked at his firm, joined him on construction sites, typed specs. I may be a girly-girl but I am not helpless. Oh...and we played spatial tic tac toe. What's that you say? We played tic tac toe in our head...no written grid. And then we progressed to playing it at three stacked levels, so you could win horizontal, or vertical or at an angle...all in space. Yeah. I couldn't do that anymore. But I managed to keep the other skills.

I had some glimmer of the usefulness of these skills in high school, when building theatrical sets. I could wield a hammer with the best of them, and knew which end of a wrench to use, and was not intimidated by that boy-world. I remember working on the sets for "Little Mary Sunshine". I had built the cottage fence that evening and then made and hung curtains inside the cottage windows. I was kneeling down, behind the cottage facade, so no one could see me. Two guys on the crew came out onto stage and were working on something. I overheard one of them say, "Did you SEE L build that fence? And the curtains? SHE'D make a good wife." And I remember being very suprised that (a) guys thought like that, (b) he wants a wife that can use a hammer, and (c) he thinks I...me?...would be a good wife? I didn't quite swoon, because he was a theatre geek (and I resented him deeply a few months later when he asked me to a dance and I had to say yes, because of my mother's rules...and that's a whole different post). But, in that moment, I appreciated his thoughts.

This was the early 80's...there was still a big demarcation between boy and girl world. Some women were making the leap and while many of us were ingesting feminism and would grow to live the life, not just think the think, in the midst of my conformist teen days...not to mention, the Reagan-era...we did neither. Few girls took shop and I never did, but I didn't need to, thanks to Dad. And now that I'm older, I see that this is a bit of unique...although not hugely unique...that is me.

Other than hanging pictures or partaking in a painting job, I was willing to let Wasband take on these duties. I'm not really sure he even knows of this part of me.

Now that the house has sold, Wasband offered to deliver items from the girls' rooms. I don't like being beholden to him because he uses it. But since the offered items included Younger's bed (she's been on a mattress on the floor), I hesitatingly accepted his offer. My friend Kell came over to be my moral support and because I knew her presence would keep his worst tendencies at bay.

Younger's bed is pretty complicated--a platform, with an attached bookshelf headboard and drawers underneath.

So as we are hauling the pieces upstairs, I am madly thinking about who I can call to help me put it together because my very first thought was, no damn way I can take on that project. (And Kell, apparently seeing the panic on my face, whispered that she'd loan me her husband to help. Which was really sweet. So I calmed.)

After all the parts were in the house, Wasband stumbled through a very round-about way of offering to put the bed together for me. But this offer came with a bizarre quid pro quo. He started by saying, "As you so famously said, 'everything is negotiable,' and I'll help you put this together, if you do something for me." And I looked at him and first thought, "I SAID that? I don't think so." And while thinking that, I accidentally said, "What are you thinking about?" Then, I saw some wierd look pass his face, and he glanced nervously over in Kell's direction. Every spider sense in my body went off. Before he could say another word, I said, "Nevermind. I've got this." And he tried to establish groundwork for some future fight...in which I will not engage...that went, "Well, remember that I OFFERED...." (I blocked out the rest of what he said.) And I nicely thanked him for bringing the items. And I swished him out of the house. (The image of taking my broom and sweeping him out of the house from Joss Stone's "Dirty Man" were pretty strong in that moment.)

And Kell looked at me and said, "WHAT did he want from you?" And I said, "I have no idea, but that is one quid pro quo I want to know nothing about.

Kell and I went on with a lovely afternoon at the movies.

I came home to an empty house and huge storms..of the hail and swirling wind variety...were brewing outside. I took one look at the disaster in my upper hallway...and thought that I'd had my very own interior tornado. Younger's mattress stood up against the laundry room door, railings against the wall, drawers blocking the way into Eldest's room. I wanted it fixed. I wanted to take care of it. I wanted yet another Wasband-induced mess gone.

So you know what I did. Right? I built that damn bed. Because Dad did not raise a helpless fool.

swinging

Yea.  You and your dirty mind.  That's NOT the swinging I'm talking about. I'm talking about mood swings.

It's a swinging house.  Eldest has swung back to the happy side.  We're doing ok.  But excuse me, I'm a little bit dizzy from this whirling and twirling about.  I have a bit of whiplash as this was a pretty quick swing.  But it's ... okay.  And "okay" is...well...it's ok.  (I'm good with the words today.  Call me Miss Vocabulary.)

I think that receiving some ruby red shoes in the mail might have helped get us back to Kansas.  Or something that looks like Kansas.

Confused?  Swings...shoes.  I know; it's confusing.  That's ok.  I understand.  Last week I wrote about Oz; if you read that, you'll get it.  I mentioned--hypothetically mentioned--that someone should send me a pair of ruby red slippers, so I could find my way back to Kansas.  Well guess what?  Someone did.  REALLY.  Today I opened a box in the mail and it was ruby red slippers.  SERIOUSLY!  They came from my bloggy buddy, over at Olive Hue Designs!

They are cool red and pointy toed.  These are from some sort of styling-Dorothy.  I love them.

Tera also sent a really sweet note.  Non-bloggers don't get what it is we do out here on the intertubes but you really can meet amazingly sweet people (who just happen to be super talented artists) who become true friends in this virtual world of ours.  Thank you, Tera.  I kinda sorta got all teary when I opened the box.  It meant a lot.

Okay...um...back to that "okay" thing.  Why aren't we "good"?  Why isn't Eldest being happy, and spinning around the room, and jumping like a rabbit through the house and grabbing me a giving me a huge hug and saying--REPEATEDLY--"I love my mommy SO much!", not a good thing?  I'll give you a gold star if you can guess.  Because maybe it's a little bit too....um....I can't say it.  So I'll just whisper it and then it won't be true.  Okay.  Listen carefully because it'll be really quiet.  One...two...three...here we go...

manic


Maybe.  Maybe not.  But it's still ok.  Because at least it's not hate.  And it looks like Kansas.  Which at least feels like home.