MEMORIALS

J’s combat boots are currently sitting on the top shelf of my closet. In about two weeks, I will be taking those boots out of the closet and packing them into the camper. I have grand visions of me in my pink tool skirt, wearing those boots and taking pictures in stunning places like the Grand Canyon at sunset or Bryce Canyon at sunrise. My vision of what I want from the photos is probably better than what I will actually be able to photograph, but my goals are set and I’m going to do my best to honor those damn boots.

For some of us, every day is Memorial Day.

I have a love hate relationship with this photo project idea of mine. I love the idea of it as a way to honor J, but I hate that there is a need to honor J. I have our National Parks Pass ready to go into the truck but I am already cringing at whatever response will come from flashing it to the park rangers as we enter the parks. Inevitably someone is going to say “thank you for your sacrifice” and my gut reaction to that is always a big “Fuck you.” Then a whole rant of ‘protecting your freedoms to sit on your fat ass drinking your supersized Coke and eating your supersized McDonald’s meal and you still have to take your shoes off at airport security’ flows through my brain. I clinch my teeth to keep the words from escaping my brain and I am amazed with how much anger I still have over this loss. I know you mean well when you thank my family for our sacrifice. Truly, I do. I’m just saying that those words do not make any of this easier.

This photo project also makes me nervous. It is going to require me to be on point with my photography skills, to be patient and take my time setting up equipment. I cannot rush this, which is something I tend to do when in travel mode. This means remembering to breathe while taking pictures. Sometimes I hold my breath while capturing an image. Basically I am going to just need to get out of my own head because at the end of the day it is the intent of why I am doing this project that really matters. I’ve gotten good at taking lost loved ones on road trips. I’ve done this before and maybe that is where some of the nervousness comes from because this is the first time I’m doing something like this for J. What if it doesn’t turn out as I imagined it would? Again, something else I’ve done before. Play the What If game. I’ve played it enough times to know that the ‘what if?’ can not be predicted. Every action (or inaction) has consequences and consequences are neutral.

But the truth is, I’d rather be photographing J in his own boots.

OUT OF TOWNER

The ghost of Paul Revere

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I have managed to be out of town every August 1st since 2006. I didn’t realize this until Michael said something about the date while we ate our last lobster (lobstah) rolls of our Boston trip. He said “Is today a bad date?” “It’s not a great one” I replied while shoving a giant piece of lobster meat into my mouth. This was all I said on the subject. For our last day in Boston, the temperatures dropped to the high seventies. All week long, until that day, we were in the middle of a sweltering heat wave. It wasn’t a big deal for me because I spent most of the first four days of our trip in conference rooms listening to developmental biology talks. Michael, on the other hand, had two-shirt days. Really three-shirt days, but he didn’t pack enough t-shirts for that. We thought it would be cooler when we took a day trip up to Salem, but that turned out to be the hottest day. Some poor park ranger drew the short straw and was stuck out on the replica tall ship at the Maritime National Historic site. They had provided him with a tent like shelter and he refused to leave his square of shade to even point out where the masts are usually placed on the ship. It was so hot that I felt like I was sweating between my fingers, so I don’t blame that unlucky park ranger for refusing to leave his square of shade.

The best thing about that day, about the whole trip really, was the ferry ride we took back to Boston. Michael sat down at a table inside the ferry and we dumped our backpacks. He looked at me and said “go do what you need to do.” I swapped out lenses on my camera and headed outside where I was able to position myself at the very front of the ship. The ferry maneuvered it’s way out of the harbor and then began to pick up speed. Then we were speeding across the Atlantic and there I was at the very front of the ship feeling the full effect of racing across the water. I stood there with the wind hitting me full blast, snapping terrible pictures and practically giggling with joy. When Michael finally came out to find me, I turned to look at him with this giant grin on my face. “THIS IS AMAZING!” I yelled at him to be heard over the wind and sound of the engine. I am usually hesitant about getting on big boats. It is not from a fear of drowning, but more from a fear of boredom. It all stems from that one time Dad and I got trapped on a paddle boat ride up the Mississippi. Dad was not a good swimmer, but thought that even he could swim faster than the boat we were on. We both fantasized of jumping overboard. But this ferry? Dad would have loved this ride.

I wonder how Dad felt about fried clams. I ate enough of them for the both of us.

As we made our way through security to board our flight home, Michael got caught up in the security check point. Something about him that day lit up all the bells on the scanner. His luggage got scanned twice and he received a personal pat down from a TSA officer. It was not a big deal. We had plenty of time to kill before our flight any way. After he finally made it through, we were settled on a bench repacking his stuff and I kind of chuckled. I looked at him sideways and said “J was totally just fucking with you.” Michael was curious as to why I thought this, but I didn’t have the best explanation for him. It just felt like something J had a hand in. I could almost see him standing next to one of the TSA officers with a wicked grin on his face as he whispered in the officer’s ear “why don’t you recheck that bag.”

August is a weird month.

Ghosts are everywhere.

NUMBNESS

Planes

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I didn't stand. I was high and a little tipsy and not really sure if I had heard the speaker right. Earlier in the evening I had used the quarter teaspoon to scoop out some pot-laced honey. I am still guessing at dosage for this little jar that was gifted to me by a friend. There is no label. No dosage recommendations. The whole jar is 250 mgs. The first time I ate some, I ate too much and had one of those panic moments where I thought I was overdosing on marijuana. Which is not a thing. This time I got the dosage just about right. By the time we were settled in on Terry's blanket in front of Union Station, I was pleasantly numb. By the time the Memorial Program got to the memorial part, I was one gin and tonic and two glasses of wine in and buzzy.

So whatever the man on stage said was unclear. It was only when I saw some people standing that it started to sink in. These are people who had someone who died while in service to this country. Then it registered somewhere deep inside my brain. I am a person who had someone who died while in service to this country. I reached for the nearest body, which happened to be Luke. Michael was somewhere standing in a line for the bathroom. I grabbed ahold of Luke just in time for them to start the gun salute. Luke was drunk enough to not really know what was happening other than we were just being lovey dovey. That's normal enough for us. I clung to him as I felt each fucking bullet and didn't let go until after the last note played from the trumpet in Taps. I let go and then settled down into my guilt. I was Peter waiting for the rooster to crow. 

The kind of attention that comes from losing someone to something like a car bomb has never really fit me comfortably. It's like wearing a wet wool sweater that is too small. It's smelly and itches. It is a different kind of grief and experience then what I go through with Chris. I have never been able to hear "thank you for your sacrifice" without visibly wincing or clenching my fists and imaging putting that fist into the face of the person thanking me. 

Sacrifice: an act of slaughtering an animal or person or surrendering a possession as an offering to God or to a divine or supernatural figure.

That's the definition I think of when I hear the word 'sacrifice' and I have to repress the urge to respond with "I didn't sacrifice anything." I never willingly surrendered J as an offering to any God. I want to scream that. None of us willing surrendered. 

I had a sinus infection and took too much cold medicine before J's funeral and maybe even one of Chris's pain pills left over from a surgery he had had. Numbing myself seems to be the way I handle this kind of grief. Military deaths are too bright and loud with colored flags and booming guns. Harsh. It prickles the skin with it's sharpness. I can wallow in my grief over losing Chris for days like a pig wallowing in the mud, but the grief over J is like rolling in glass. I have to remind myself of the very good lessons I learned from his death and how it prepared me for the next. I have to do my best to ignore the total destruction J's death caused our family and how each one of us had to learn in our own way how to behave in way that best honors J.

I recently read a book where one of the characters suffers a severe stroke in her thirties and she has to learn how to do everything all over again. Talking. Walking. Basic functions like buttoning a shirt or tying shoe laces. She's a cartoonist and has to learn how to hold a pencil and make sketches. She has to learn how to be the closest thing she can be to the person she was before the stroke. That's what grief is like. It's a stroke. After J, we all had to learn how to be the closest thing we could be to the people we were before. Some days, Hell...even most days, I feel like I came back from that stroke a better version of the person I was before. 

Just not every day. 

TRAJECTORY

Yellow

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I opened my daily news email and right at the top is read "Today is the 16th Anniversary of 9/11." I was struck by this sentence, like falling into an icy river. Was that really today? I remember Chris and Todd picking me up before lunch at work. We went to Galileo's and sat with a beer, unable to stop staring at the TV. Chris and I looked at each other at one point and we both said "Talaura" at the same time. He went to his phone then and sent her a message. She was fine. The country went into shock. We went through all the stages of grief. We went to war. 

Chris and I would later joke about how politicians would use the phrase "9-11 changed everything" as a scare tactic for votes. We shifted into a country easily ruled by fear. Too easily. The date 9-11 became the Boogie Man. You said the words with a hushed tone while looking over your shoulder as if someone might hear you. And then what? Something bad would happen. Might happen. You never know. The date became cursed. The reality was that the changing of everything would end up being a delayed reaction for me. It would take four, no..actually three years for that wave to hit. J would go to war. We would spend Saturdays building care packages. We'd send him our Girl Scout cookies. I'd buy an extra box of tampons so I could send them in his care package. You know...for bullet wounds. Chris would spend late nights on his computer and occasionally he would be able to catch J online for chats. Chris would come wake me up and say "J's online now. You want to talk to him?" I'd crawl out of bed and sit at Chris's computer and chat about nothing with J. The last time we talked, I told him about Dad's haircut. We laughed. Later on, I would find out that out private messages where all being recorded and read by my government and I would be filled with rage over the injustice of it. 

When the tsunami wave of 9-11 finally did hit, it destroyed everything in it's path. Dad stopped sleeping. Mom grew hateful and bitter. Katrina went a little crazy, but can you blame her? Randy pulled further inside his personal shell. It was all sad all the time, but eventually we started to rebuild. We found a way to absorb it all, some of us better than others. That's how it works. Shit gets destroyed, you clean up the mess and rebuild. Prepare for the next disaster. Today though, I started playing the What If game. What if J hadn't died? What if he'd come home to us all? Would Dad not have gotten Alzheimer's? Would Chris still be alive? The What If game never goes well. Michael and I watch a show called "You're the Worst" and most of the characters on the show really are the worst. One guy though is really sweet. He's an Iraq Veteran and he suffers from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). We watched an episode recently where he was really struggling. He was struggling to keep it together. Struggling for help. Struggling to stay alive. What if J had come back to us in one piece? Would he be struggling with PTSD? It's naive to think he wouldn't come back from that changed in some way. Would we know how to help him? I mean...we didn't know how to help ourselves for a while there. 

Sometimes I am still amazed at the chain reactions. Life is just one giant Rube Goldberg device. Some of it resulting in disaster and heartache, but some of it also resulting in great joy. I hate that 9-11 changed everything. 

FOX IN THE HEN HOUSE

Hanging out on the chicken coop

"Hanging out on the chicken coop"

Saturday evening late, I was out back with Josephine when all of a sudden I heard a loud thunk from the chicken coop. The next thing I saw was Foghorn, rolling down the ramp like she'd been shot out of a cannon and then landing with a flop at the bottom of the ramp. Then she just laid there all limp. I ran over to the coop while yelling "Foghorn! Foghorn! Are you OK?" because I think my chickens can talk. When I got to the coop, Foghorn popped her head up so I knew she was still alive. I opened the nesting box door to check on the others, but all the commotion had them making their way outside to see what was going on. The whole time, I'm talking to the chickens and asking them if they're all OK. Meanwhile, Josephine is barking her head off at something in the back corner of the yard. 

The chickens never did answer me, but they all looked OK. Even Foghorn was now up and walking around. I grabbed the three eggs that where in the nesting box and closed the lid being sure to secure the latch. I got inside and told Michael everything. Josephine was still barking in the backyard. Michael grabbed the flashlight and went to investigate. He ended up moving the chicken coop so now it faces the opposite way and there are zero gaps under the frame. He found evidence that something had been digging, trying to get under the coop. It could very well be Josephine, but I want to think it is not her. We never saw what it was that had Josephine so riled up. It could have been a possum or a raccoon. We've seen those around. I've seen a few stray cats too. Yesterday I noticed that Albus is sporting a scratch across the top of his nose, but I don't suspect him of trying to dig under the coop. 

I am sure that Josephine desperately wants to play with the chickens. She is usually hanging out in the shade of their nesting box or sitting on top of their run. I don't think she's the one trying to get to them though because her stance and demeanor when she's around the coop are more protective than predatory. I think Josephine really is trying to protect those birds. But something is trying to get them. I told Katrina this story and she said we might have to put an electric fence around the coop and then remember to turn it off when we went out to feed and collect eggs. I replied "or not and let the Cabbage feed them." (I would never) Katrina laughed and said that sounded like something J would do. It is totally something J would have done. I can see him now, holding a beer and standing next to Spencer. He would nudge Spencer with his elbow and say "hey, watch this." Then he'd tell Jr to go check for eggs and he and Spencer would laugh and laugh. 

I miss that. 

THANKFUL FRIDAY

For the last few days, my email inbox has been filled with ads for Memorial Day Sales. Take an additional 40% off here. Save up to 50% on things there. It's not just a Memorial Day Sale; it's a Memorial Day Sales EVENT! These ads are mixed in with all the other promotional emails on hosting the best bbq and the healthiest burgers to grill this Memorial Day weekend! There was a time when my Memorial Day weekend would be all about the barbecues and the shopping and that paid day off of work. I now know better. It's just the knowledge of the true meaning of Memorial Day came to me in the most unfortunate way. There have been six thousand eight  hundred and forty U.S. service members die since the beginning of Operation Iraqi Freedom and Operation Enduring Freedom. That's 6,840 families who understand the true meaning of Memorial Day. 

I used to think it was cliche to say "thank you" to a service person. I am still annoyed by people who thank me or my family for our sacrifice. A lot of that had to do with how I disagreed with the politics behind Operation Iraqi Freedom. I still disagree with the politics that send our service people into harms way. It dawns on me though that our service people do not choose where they serve. They just choose to serve. That's a pretty big commitment and sacrifice to say "hey, I'll go where ever you send me and fight who ever you tell me too." Sure they expect a few things in return like decent housing and good health care and some sort of income. It would also be nice if their family was taken care of while they are away on leave. These are simple and easy things for us to do considering that serving their country is a very dangerous job and there's a very real probability that they won't come home to that family. 

So today, I am grateful for those who choose to serve this country and who died serving this country.  Because these soldiers don't just fight terrorists, they also provide aid and medical help to those in need. They are humanitarians. They are teachers and they are protectors. There is a group of ROTC kids that go out and put flags up on every veteran grave site in the military cemetery where J is buried. There are a lot of grave sites; it's a big cemetery. They do every single one. And it's not just slap a flag up and run on to the next one thing. They ceremoniously unfold the flag and then stand at attention while it is being raised up the pole. I am grateful to these young people for their dedication in honoring and paying tribute to our veterans. I don't think they realize what it means to the families of those they honor. 

And, honestly, I am also a little grateful for the paid holiday. Cheers to you and your's and happy Thankful Friday!