Memory Snapshot

I am participating in the UCI Writing Project Summer Institute for teachers. In addition to learning about the best methods for teaching writing, the summer fellows also work on their personal writing. Over the next couple of weeks, I plan on posting here some of the writing I am doing. Some of it will look familiar as I have reworked a couple of posts from years past.

A Family Meal

I felt different—special—dressed in my cousin’s red and white sun-suit. Just an hour earlier, I was in my own mismatched hand-me-downs playing with my sister and cousins before my aunt started shooing us to the bath.

“Bathe. . . here, wear this. . . hurry-hurry-hurry--we have to be on our way.”

This wasn’t the usual course of events—this interruption of a routine summer day. We usually kept busy pumping the pedals of the player piano, swimming in Mr. Harvey’s pool next door, finger painting, and watching Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood. Full of activity as they were, those days seemed to last forever as we waited for our mom to pick us up at my aunt’s three-bedroom home on Starbuck Street in Whittier. Efficient as always, Aunt Margaret had us ready, herding us into the station wagon. Soon, we were at the parsonage of the Huntington Park Free Will Baptist church for dinner with Grandma, Grandpa, and the rest of the family. Get-togethers like these were common enough for weekends and holidays. This was definitely not the norm, but for a chance to see my other aunts and uncles and play with my cousins? To get a patented Grandpa Hug that squeezed the breath out of you in the best possible way? To have Uncle L.T. swing us around and joke with us? I wasn’t about to question the why. I was going to seize the day!

At this usual-but-not gathering, the wooden picnic table, made smooth by years of people dining at it, was covered with our traditional dishes: fried chicken, crunchy, greasy and salty; corn-on-the-cob, crispy and buttery; and brown-n-serve rolls. I am sure there were other dishes there like macaroni salad and fried okra. However, my unsophisticated palette only watered for the corn, chicken, and rolls. The hand-crank ice cream maker sat out on the grass waiting for the grandkids to take turns sitting on it, freezing our little behinds off, while Grandpa or one of the bigger kids cranked it, so the ice, cold and salty, could fulfill its purpose of turning milk and sugar into vanilla ice cream.

My cousins and I ran around and played, laughing and talking. The adults split their time between setting or cleaning up the table, keeping an eye on the kids, and laughing and joking in that way adult siblings do as they relive the antics of yesteryear. An opportunity presented itself. Quick! I said to myself. No one is on the swing! Hurry before someone else gets to it. The tire swing was hung by a thick rope that rasped as the swing moved. My little arms reached over the top of the tire, gripping to hold on. My legs were just long enough to push myself without help. The black rubber tire was cool and smooth to the touch, except for the patterned crevices that had allowed it to grip the road once upon a time. Eventually, it’s time to go home, this time in my mom’s 1972 Ford Maverick, featuring three-on-a-tree manual transmission, pale blue paint, and no air-conditioning. We are tired and quiet as my mom drives the Maverick home. We get out of the car and get ready for bed. The next day, we would go back to the regular summer routine.

Years and years later, going through my mom’s picture box, I find a picture taken that day of my mom, her siblings and my grandparents. All of them dressed in shades of red, white and blue and me on that tire swing in the background in what might now be called a photobomb. We were—and are--a laughing, smiling family, and their faces reflect that as the Kodak Instamatic 20 clicked. Memories of that day come flooding back of an unexpected and joyful time with family. Someone, I don’t remember who, told why we had that mid-week gathering. My Uncle L.T., 18 years old, was leaving for Vietnam. We were having one last family meal together before he went. We were saying goodbye.

Anytime I look at this picture now, I see more than my six-year-old self’s memory of that day. There is a then-future-now-past filter laid over the photo. My grandmother’s anxiety for her baby boy. The concern of my aunts and uncle for their baby brother. I understand now why we gathered on a weekday and didn’t wait for a weekend. I understand now that we wouldn’t see Uncle L.T. again for over a year. I understand now how fortunate we were to see him again. So many families didn’t get that.

I am glad I didn’t understand that then.

No NaBloPoMo for Me

I have participated in NaBloPoMo twice. It was always worth it, although I believe the resulting posts were not always all they could have been.

This year? I just can't do it. I have too much on my proverbial plate. However, I did think I would try to do something a little different. You see, I am trying something new. I am self-binding. And while that does conjure up an image for me that is less than pleasant, it is actually an attempt to create some space in my life... space that The Internet is taking up. The author of the article, Stop Your Search Engines, defines self-binding as...

"intentionally creating an obstacle to behavior I was helpless to control, much the way Ulysses lashed himself to his ship's mast to avoid succumbing to the Sirens' song..."

The Way We Live Now - Going Offline in Search of Freedom - NYTimes.com

(3 November 2009)

I've announced this on Twitter and Facebook so many of you will already know about this. However, here at Life, the Universe and Everything, I thought I might take some of my Internet-allowed time to share a little bit of my experience as I go along.

Regular readers (Hi there, all 5 of you!) will know that I am really, truly, FINALLY trying to write my masters' project. Life had thrown a few obstacles in my path. I have thrown a few obstacles in my path. But the countdown is on. I need to start knocking out chapters... like NOW, baby. But I am addicted to my social networking time. I had discussed this with my sister-in-law and when she read the article, she forwarded it to me. I don't have the right computer (a Mac) to install the program that it mentions, called Freedom, which lets you tell the computer when NOT to let you use the Internet. However, I do have a removable wireless card for my laptop, which is a long, embarrassing story of a woman who was so anxious to order her new computer that she accidentally deselected the internal wireless card during the ordering process.

The good news, though, is that allows me to hand over my wireless card to my husband at 10 a.m. and retrieve it from him at 8 p.m. These are somewhat random hours... it gives me time to do a little hanging out on Twitter with some of the bestest people ever in the morning and also attempts to make me available to my family for the afternoon and evening--without a laptop in between us.

Yesterday was Day One of my Ulysses-inspired experiment and things actually went very well. I did a little bit of writing on my project but the most beneficial aspect of it all was that I interacted with my family in a more meaningful way. It is really quite embarrassing to admit this but I am really glued to the computer for hours and hours a day. Homework was completed with less frustration and no raised voices... bedtime happened with less bother.... I felt better about myself to be honest. I did experience some anxiety about an hour or two before 8 p.m. but I think that was more due to worries about the writing process for my project than withdrawal from Web 2.0.

Over the next month, I am planning on giving updates... on my writing progress... on the dynamic at home... anything related to this bid at reclaiming space in my life. I'll see you around the 'verse... before 10 a.m. and after 8 p.m., Monday through Friday!

The Story of Mary and Mr. LUE

Once upon time there was a girl--who loved to read books--and a boy--who loved to play guitar.

They were both young and stupid and lived in So-So Cal.

They got together.

He played guitar. She read books.

They broke up.

He got a job. She dropped out of college.

They got together.

He played some more guitar and worked. She got a full-time job and read books.

They broke up.

He moved away to the land of 10 gallon hats. She kept working and moving from apartment to apartment to apartment. Her friends never wrote her address in their address books in ink.

They started talking about getting back together with the added idea of getting married.

He brought her a pretty sapphire ring. She moved to the land of 10 gallon hats.

They decided to get married by a local justice of the peace instead of having a wedding back in So-So Cal. There was no money and neither of them was interested in getting up in front of a bunch of people to say their vows.

They went back to So-So Cal for a wedding reception in her aunt’s backyard. Her mom’s friend made the cake. Her uncle’s Vo Tech high school class printed the invitations. Her family made the food.

While he moved up the professional electronics sales ladder, she completed her literary studies degree.

They got a dog who would give the cinematic dog, Marley, a run for his money. His name was Bob.

They moved back to So-So Cal.

They had a baby. She stayed at home. He traveled.

A bunch of other stuff happened. Some good. Some bad. Some happy. Some sad.

She worked at the church. He played guitar for the church.

Eight years later they had another baby.

More stuff happened. Some good. Some bad. Some happy. Some sad.

He is still working in the professional electronics industry and playing guitar. She went back to school to learn how to teach people to read.

What’s next? Who knows, but I bet there’ll be some guitar playing and reading going on.

Booking through Thursday: Girl Detective Style

This week's Booking through Thursday question is about books as gifts:

What, if any, memorable or special book have you ever gotten as a present? Birthday or otherwise. What made it so notable? The person who gave it? The book itself? The “gift aura?”

The most significant book gifts I remember receiving were from my Aunt Margaret. At some point in elementary school, it became clear that I was "a reader." My reputation for loving to read became known family-wide. However, the only books I ever received as gifts were from Aunt Margaret. For several years, at every birthday and for Christmas, she gave me six Nancy Drew books.  I loved getting them, reading them, and rereading them.

 

In a family that did not receive many gifts, the ones we did receive were often practical or generic.  These books were picked out for me, to interest me, to suit me.  I don't know if it was easy for my aunt to buy them for me because she didn't have to wonder what to get for me or if she picked them out for me to encourage me to read.  I don't know.  I do know, though, that I can't hear the words "Nancy Drew" without thinking of those gifted books.  More importantly, I remember my Aunt Margaret, a wonderful aunt, dear friend, and a fabulous person.  She died almost 10 years ago and life just hasn't been the same since.

6 down, 24 to go

A LUE Baby Story (for Subspace Beacon)

Once upon a time (16yrs, 5mos, 22days), in So-So California, a baby boy was born to Mary-LUE and her husband, Paul.  It was a long day of labor, induced around six in the morning and concluding around six that evening after 3 1/2 hours of pushing.  (Yes.  3 1/2.  Hours.)  Baby LUE was 8 lbs., 13 oz. with an alien-shaped head, red, irritated eyes, and the tiniest bit of blond fuzz on top of his head.  

Mary-LUE was exhausted.  Paul was exhausted.  Sister-in-law-LUE, who was also present for the birth, was exhausted.  Approximately 24 hours earlier, this episode of Murphy Brown was on tv:

Mary-LUE, Paul, and Sister-in-law-LUE sat together watching this episode laughing. A kind of hee, hee, haw, haw laugh that seemed to say, "This is so funny. Ha, Ha. This is so funny. I'm not nervous about tomorrow. Tomorrow's delivery will be nothing like this. Hee. Haw. Help me!"

Well, Mary-LUE's labor was not a pretty site.  It would have been a lot funnier if Diane English would have written it, but like Murphy Brown's labor and delivery, there was lots of pain, lots of people trying to help, a time when Mary-LUE didn't think she could do it, and then this:

(Teen-LUE facsimile)

Well, actually, first there was this:

And the LUE family lived happily ever after... until the next delivery 7 years, 52 weeks later. But that's a story for another day.

Historical Note: The same day that Baby-LUE was born, Murphy Brown made headlines when Dan Quayle criticized her for promoting unwed motherhood.

5 down, 25 to go

Sleeping with Bread: It's a Family Affair

It isn't often that my week's consolation and desolation are truly opposite sides of the same coin. Oh, sometimes, when I am baking my weekly bread, I can choose to emphasize one aspect of life over another to make my posts more symmetrical, but this week... this week, I was both cheered and disheartened by Family.

The cheering was simple enough. My kids plus a pool equal joy.

They both love swimming.
They get along while they are swimming.
I love watching them swim.

Their prowess in the water fills me with awe and pride because it is something I never had. I am glad that we've given them swim lessons and found opportunities for them to enjoy the water. Swimming strengthens their bodies and, I think, their self-confidence. It's all good and this week, we began swim lessons for Marley and bought our pool pass for the university pool.

All my associations with the pool are good and so far, I've yet to be disappointed.

I wish I could say the same about certain interactions with my family, the one I grew up in. I don't know how to write about this so that it makes sense. To try to explain the specifics doesn't seem appropriate. Would sharing the details of this one incident make sense when it is truly just one strand in a Gordian knot of history, personality, trauma and drama? History, personality, trauma and drama that I am not just a victim of, but a contributor to. So, something happened this week that made me angry and hurt me, hurt my son and made him very angry. I knew it was going to happen. I predicted it. But I also hoped I was wrong. I erred on the side of second chances. And I'm left to wonder again, when will I stop hoping and should I stop hoping. I just don't know.

Memoria: The Final Posts

I know I already posted once today but I am feeling a little antsy and these are the last of the Memoria posts.

Originally posted on April 7, 2006

Uncle L.T. - 1971

This is my Uncle L.T. and his first wife, Paula. It is an old Polaroid I scanned. I think it looks pretty good considering that. On the back, there is a date stamped August 21, 1971. I don't know if that is accurate, but it seems likely. They would have been around 19 years old. I'm not sure if this is before or after he went on his tour of duty but imagine this baby-faced young man experiencing the things I shared in the post "Why I am Writing, cont."

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Originally published on April 18, 2007

Aunt Margaret

I dreamt of Aunt Margaret the other night. I woke up feeling like she has been neglected in this blog. Now, she hasn't really been neglected; I just haven't made it to her yet in these posts. But, because I dreamed about her, I thought I'd at least mention her briefly. Her name was Margaret Louise. She was the fourth of five children and the youngest daughter born to Tommie Lou and Loyd Hoke Reddick. She was my sometimes babysitter, a wonderful aunt (she was my steady supplier of Nancy Drew books for many years) and, when I was older, a dear friend.

Here is a picture I recently scanned of my mom's family:



My mom is in the back--the tall redhead. Next to her is my Uncle Jimmy, then my Grandma, my Grandpa and my Aunt Lea. Kneeling in the front row is Aunt Margaret and Uncle L.T. The adorable blonde in the tire swing is yours truly.

This picture was taken in the summer. It was a last minute get together before my uncle left for the army (or Vietnam.) I remember it was last minute because my aunt was babysitting us. My aunt received a phone call and suddenly she was getting my sister, cousins and I cleaned up. That outfit I'm wearing belonged to my cousin, Candace.

Aunt Margaret was funny, faithful, full of energy, fierce in her beliefs and a good friend to all. At the time she died, I was having in rough time dealing with a stressful situation that had lasted several months. I was also considering leaving my job. I wasn't able to visit her regularly that last year and after she died, I quit my job and shortly after found out I was pregnant. All that, as I look back on it, seemed to get in the way of my grieving her death. I would see women who reminded me of her in many places and for a moment, forget she was gone. I still catch myself thinking, "Aunt Margaret would think that was funny." or "I know what Aunt Margaret would think about that!"

She was something else and I can truly say I've never know anyone like her.

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Originally published on June 26, 2007

Where Things Stand

Uncle L.T. and his daughter

About two years ago, my Uncle L.T. died. I recently came across something a former co-worker wrote about him. It is obvious that L.T. Reddick had a big impact on many people around him. I like knowing that there is a person, living on the other side of the country, who cared enough to write about him, who knew and recognized a lot of the same things I knew about him and recognized in him.

Two years later, I feel like I have mourned his death. Just this past January, I wouldn't have been able to say that. In fact, I began this blog in January of this year to have a place to talk about my grief and to share about those I've lost, beginning with Uncle L.T. Over the last six months, I've written a little over a half-dozen entries. After starting this blog, I began writing more on my family blog and soon after started one more blog for me to talk about whatever was on my mind. I noticed recently that that strong urge to write here was gone. . . at least for now.

Why tell you all this? Just to let you know why I'm not writing much and, if you'd like, where you can go to see what I am writing about. I'll keep this blog alive in case I need to "talk" more in the future. I never did write about my grandma or my brother. I wanted to write more about my aunt. Someday. Maybe.

Until then, may God bless you and keep you. May he make his sun shine upon you.

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Originally published on October 1, 2006

An Unexpected Reminder

My daughter's class has periodic electives called mini-classes. There are usually 3 - 5 classes offered and they last five weeks long. Last year, in kindergarten, Marley wasn't able to participate. This year, however, she was very excited to sign up for one. She chose sign language.

After school one day this past week, I was catching up with one of her teacher's about a field trip. As the conversation continued, the teacher looked at Marley and asked her which mini-class she had signed up for. Marley told her and I was about to say that my Aunt Margaret knew sign language. I couldn't get the words out. As I started to say them they caught in my throat and tears welled up in my eyes.

I was so surprised by this. My Aunt Margaret died seven years ago. Although her death is one that I feel I grieved most inadequately, it seemed like I had come to terms with it in the last year. Maybe it was realizing that Marley never knew her--I found out I was pregnant just a few weeks after she died. I don't know. I just know that for a few moments the other day, the grief was awakened and I missed her so much.

This past Friday night in my small group from church, we ended up discussing the prayers of the saints. Can we pray to the departed and ask them to intercede to Christ on our behalf? Regardless of what the answer to that question is, I like to think of Aunt Margaret looking down and seeing her grandchildren and children and the rest of her family and friends. If she is able to intercede in prayer for us, I am glad--for she always had a definite opinion of what we should do and I know that her prayers would be enthusiastic!

Aunt Margaret, if you are reading this, I love you and miss you. You were a great influence on my life, a cherished aunt and a good friend.

Sleeping with Bread: School's Out Edition

Well, school's not out, yet. As of this writing, there are three school days left in the 2006-2007 school year. But it is the perfect time for a SWB school edition.

In the last school year, what am I most grateful for?

Colin is about to successfully complete his first year of high school. His father and I watched with pride as he took on a new challenge, the track team. He worked very hard and pushed himself beyond what we've ever seen him do physically. I admire him for that because I was never able to work so hard at his age and as an adult, I wish I had. I think in seeing him strive for something he wanted, we saw that process of character building begin to take place.

Marley has flourished in her multiage class. Her reading skills are coming along and she continues to do well in math. Never one to perform on demand, she has always been acutely uncomfortable on stage for Christmas shows, etc. So, I was quite touched to see that when her teachers asked her when she had bloomed this past year, she wrote: "When I bloomd is when it was in all of are plays Hans Chrsaran Andrson and Cats." Doing the plays, even her tiny little parts, is scary for her but she feels proud of herself and realizes she has accomplished something by going out there and being a school child in Hans Christian Anderson or a Gumbie mouse in Cats.

This year, I've also grown closer to a few of the moms in class. We multiage moms spend a lot of time at the school and it has been nice to develop those relationships. My sense of community has deepened considerably there and I feel as if I am benefiting from my daughter being in this program, also. One benefit alone has been in the walking partner I've had since October. It has been an important part of my exercise regimen. We've worked up to four mile jaunts a couple of times per week. Yeah for walking partners! I'm also grateful this year for the process of applying for and being accepted for graduate school. The magnitude of what I'm trying to accomplish is already beginning to scare me a little, but I'm still at the more excited than scared stage. . . so far!

In the last school year, what am I least grateful for?

With my two darling children, there are always trials. This year, Paul and I have really seen how much Marley struggles with the long term day-in-and-day-out routine of the school year. She was ready for summer break weeks before spring break and my patience has been tested severely as my strong-willed daughter and her father and I have gone through multiple morning battles in order to get her to school.

With Colin, he has always chafed under the school routine, but he has enough school years under his belt to know that the end will come. . . eventually. Instead, his father and I have pushed him a little in regards to the grades we expect of him and, as Chief Executive in Charge of Schooling, I've struggled with the balance of being equal parts encourager and disciplinarian. My resolve has been tested as I've had to keep that expectation, a completely reasonable one, I assure you, alive and not let his pronouncements of "not fair" and "that is so stupid" sway me. (It might not sound like much of a protest, but if you have a teenager in your midst, you know what kind of resistance I'm talking about here.)

Finally, I am still in recovery mode as far as working through some health issues. All the issues of last year, GERD, sleep apnea, etc., are still very much a part of my daily life. My CPAP therapy is still not what it should be and I am persevering with my exercise and diet, although it seems that I can only manage one aspect of that at a time. Currently it is exercise over diet. Next week, who knows? With that, I've struggled with Paul's travel more this year. Partially that is because he has traveled more but I also think I am just weary of it.

Still, I am blessed in so many ways and even with the challenges this year has brought, I have to say that it has been a good one.

Vietnam, A Memoir

Because it is Memorial Day, I won't be Sleeping with Bread today. Instead, I am republishing a post I wrote September 13, 2006. . .

A few weeks ago, I wrote about the nurses who served in the Vietnam War. It was inspired by a documentary on television of the same subject. A few days ago, I came across a story online of one Vietnam veteran's journey back to Vietnam to the site of a prolonged battle for territory, as told by his wife who accompanied him. It was part of a series on that country by The Hot Zone, the website where Kevin Sites, for Yahoo News, is going to every country in which there is a significant armed conflict in one year. As I am wont to do when the subject of the Vietnamese War comes up, I started thinking about my uncle who was a veteran. I also started thinking about my awareness of that war, what it was about, where it took place, etc.

As a child of six, if you had asked me if I knew of the country of Vietnam or if I had heard about the war there, I would have answered no. Instead, I could tell you that one summer day, as my aunt watched my sister and I, the phone rang. We were going to Grandma and Grandpa’s house for dinner. Mom would meet us there. My aunt cleaned us up and dressed us in our cousin’s sunsuits. All of my aunts, uncles and cousins were there. Grandma wasn’t happy about something. We took pictures that day. My mom, her brothers and sisters and my grandparents smile for the camera, the sun in their eyes. I am in the background wearing a red and white sunsuit swinging on a tire swing.


I know now we were saying goodbye to my uncle before he left for the army and Vietnam.

Sometime with the next year, I knew the name Vietnam and that there was a war but I didn’t really understand anything about what was going on. I just knew that my aunt had these cool bracelets. They were metal and had names on them and letters: POW or MIA. I learned that POW meant Prisoner of War and MIA meant Missing in Action. I knew the names of men that were POWs and MIA.


I know now that my uncle could easily have been a POW or MIA but, fortunately, he wasn’t.

More time passed and my uncle came home from Vietnam. We gathered at my Grandma and Grandpa’s house again. I was happy because somehow Uncle L.T. was special. He was much younger than my mom and his brother and sisters. I loved seeing him. He was the coolest grown up. My sister asked him if he killed anybody in the war. I was shocked that she asked the question but I wanted to know the answer also. He said he probably had but he didn’t know for sure.


I know now he surely killed someone in his time over there. He was only 18 or 19 years old.

As I grew up and went through school--elementary, junior high, high school--I didn't know very much more about Vietnam than I did when my uncle was there. It was said by some to be--and I didn’t think to question--the only war the United States had ever lost. I knew the movies Deer Hunter and Apocalypse Now had something to do with the war. I must have been taught about the war in history class but I cannot remember any of it.


I know more now about the history of the war but I also understand how very little it had to do with the Vietnamese people or their well-being.

When I was in high school, I came across a story. It was a story about a Christian soldier in Vietnam. In despair over his situation there, he cried out in prayer, “Lord, why am I here?” He looked down and saw a Vietnamese New Testament opened to the Great Commission (Matthew 28:19-20*). All the fire and brimstone preaching I had listened to all my life had not been enough, but this call to join God in his work did the trick. I prayed a prayer of commitment to God later that night with my high school pastor. The following Sunday my Grandpa baptized me at the Bell Gardens Free Will Baptist Church on February 10, 1980.


I know now that the Lord used this story of Vietnam to call me to him.

After high school, I saw movies like Platoon and Born on the Fourth of July. Sometimes the movies helped me understand. Sometimes I was repulsed by the anger and bitterness of those who had gone. After I got married, I finished college. My American history professor had us read Home Before Morning about a nurse’s experience in Vietnam. Reading that not only helped me understand a woman’s experience there but gave me insight into the soldiers’ experiences also. During those years, my uncle didn't talk much about the war. He told me that he hated it when people got bogged down in the war and blamed it for not being able to move on in their lives. He told me that before it became known that he was an alcoholic--a church-going, Bible teaching, communion meditation-giving alcoholic. By the end of his life, he had just married for the fourth time and his relationship with his daughter was strained, to say the least, because of what she endured for years. He had times of sobriety but his journey was a rough one.


I know now that although he didn’t look like a stereotypical Vietnam veteran, his life was scarred nonetheless. I also know that there are many other veterans out there, from any war, who look like anyone else on the outside but have thick scars on the inside.

One day after coming across pictures at my mother's of his Christmas in Vietnam, my uncle told me that was his favorite Christmas ever. When asked why he said because it reminded him of the church in Acts 2:42 "...they had all things in common." It wasn't until a few years later that I heard the rest of the story. That Thanksgiving he had been in one of two transport helicopters. They were fired upon. The next moment he watched the other helicopter fall out of the sky carrying many of his fellow soldiers' to their deaths. They spent the next weeks in the field. Finally, at Christmas, they came back to the base for some R & R. Depressed and exhausted, they faced the holiday away from their loved ones. Somehow, they all ended up coming together, reading letters from sweethearts, friends and family to each other and sharing what gifts had made it through the mail. They barbecued hamburgers using raisin bread for the buns. They forgot, briefly, the horrors they endured day after day.

I know now that no matter how difficult your circumstances in life, if you have good people around you, you can find joy in the midst of pain and fear.

Years after that, my uncle sent me an email. In it, he told me about a book. The Things They Carried by Tim O’Brien. He said it came the closest of anything he had ever read to describing what it really felt like to be a soldier in Vietnam. In the email, he described trudging through the jungle, day after day. It was tedious, uncomfortable, relentless. Suddenly they were fired upon. A soldier near him had half his head blown away. He was still making noises so my uncle performed a field tracheotomy on him and the medics took him away. They all got back up and went on trudging through the jungle. Business as usual. A day or so later, they got word the wounded soldier was dead. They kept walking.


I know now that there are two soldiers on the Vietnam Memorial who share the name of the soldier my uncle told me about. One died in October the year my uncle would have been there. There is something about knowing that name and knowing it is on the war memorial that makes me feel close to Uncle L.T.

In 2004, at the age of 52 my uncle died of a ruptured abdominal aortic anuerysm. Surely the years of heavy smoking and alcohol abuse contributed to his death. No one could say with any certainty that had he not gone to the war he still wouldn't have become an alcoholic. I remember though, the words of his childhood friend at his funeral. A friend who remembered him before and knew that afterwards he was not the same person.

I know now that he was another victim of the war although his death came 30 years later and his name will never go on the wall.



The last picture with his brother and sisters not too long before he died. Unfortunately one sister, my Aunt Margaret, had passed away a few years earlier so the picture isn't complete.


*"Therefore go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything I have commanded you. And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age." Matthew 28:19-20, New International Version

Memoria: My Grandpa!

At the risk of complete bloggy maudlinness, here is the next transfer from my Memoria blog. It just happens to be another grandpa one. Short but sweet.

This is my grandpa, Loyd Reddick. It was taken at a birthday party for him just a few weeks before he died. I love it so much because you get something of his personality in it. By this time, his heart issues were worsening and he had apparently been having small, indiscernible strokes. Much of the time, he wasn't himself. But on this day as friends and family gathered at the Henryetta Free Will Baptist Church to celebrate his 73rd birthday, he was his old self, at least for awhile. Shortly after this, he suffered a severe stroke and was deprived of oxygen for some time. He stayed in the hospital for 2-3 weeks before succumbing to an infection on April 22, 1990.

Just look at that smile! It makes me want to hug him one more time. I love you Grandpa.

Memoria: Calvacade

As I mentioned previously, I am consolidating my Memoria blog with this one. I've made minor changes to the wording here and there.


cav-al-cade n.

1. A procession of riders or horse-drawn carriages.
2. A ceremonial procession or display.
3. A succession or series: starred in a cavalcade of Broadway hits.

As I have had occasion recently to share a little about my life’s history with other people, I am struck by the number of persons I've loved who have died. It may not be that I’ve lost any more than your average person, but as I get older and the road behind me gets longer and longer, the weight of it all seems greater. Okay, is that a mixed metaphor? To keep mixing those metaphors, as I’ve thought about this, I keep the word “calvacade” comes to mind. My own calvacade of stars: Grandpa, Michael, Grandma, Aunt Margaret, Uncle L.T. (Death has always brought something of the absurd to me.) I want to share a little about those featured in the parade.

Loyd Hoke Reddick. b. 27 Mar 1917, d. 22 Apr 1990

Grandpa. I was married and 25 years old when my grandfather died. That was the first significant loss of my life (by death that is.) My grandfather was my hero growing up. Having never lived with my father, Grandpa was just the nearest thing to heaven for me. He was also a little frightening. He carried an awesome authority which refused to be questioned, but he was a man who loved the Lord, a joker and a man who was full of love for his family. By the time he died, I knew more about life and understood better how my grandfather was flawed but I loved him none the less for it.

He had beautiful blue eyes and a contagious smile, big ears and a little bit of white hair. I can picture him standing with his slacks and white collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He had one characteristic I’ve never seen so strongly in any other person: his eagerness to get to church. If he wasn’t 15 minutes early, then in his mind, he was late. This had nothing to do with a love of punctuality. He truly experienced the church gathering as being in the Lord’s presence--where two or more are gathered. His heart was full of joy on Sunday mornings, evenings and Wednesday nights. Even as I write this, I don’t think I’m able to express it well enough for you to see. I witnessed it and I will never forget it.

I was very saddened by my Grandpa’s death. A sadness deepened because it followed on the heels of a miscarriage I didn’t know how to handle. Maybe because of the miscarriage though, I was prepared for his dying, my emotional soil tilled and ready to plant. Maybe it was because he was so diminished by strokes that he wasn’t really Loyd Reddick anymore. I don’t know. But that was how his death, the first, was for me. Sad but acceptable. The others were different for me, each in their own unique way.

... to be continued

A Crossroads Update

Since this is the most fascinating subject ever to be written about on a blog and since I know you are dying to know, here is what I did with my time yesterday:

Began watching last episode of Bones, Season One, Disc 7.

Am interrupted by phone call from chickenone and happily talk for quite a while. (45-60 minutes, I'm not sure.)

Finish watching Bones. (Love, love, love that show!)

Think about cleaning up, then decide that three extra kids are going to be hanging out so a) why clean before they come to mess the place up (Great minds, T., great minds.) and b) I don't have any food to feed them, so at least a quick trip to the grocery store is in order.

Run to Trader Joe's and buy fresh fruit and miscellaneous snacks plus a few meal supplies.

Zig over to the regular grocery store to buy sodas.

Zag over to pet store to pick up bedding supplies for Bobby the hamster and to ask if our guinea pigs, which we signed over for adoption, have been adopted yet. It is busy in the store and personnel are scarce but, what do you know, I see Smokey in a cage, for sale at $32.99.

I decide not to confront someone in the store, because I'm weird about not wanting to embarrass the store employees by pointing out that the animal I gave them to adopt out is being sold. Instead, I walk out of the store, get in the car and CALL the store to ask if my guinea pigs were adopted. I'm told that there are no guinea pigs in the back, so they must have been taken. Hmmm... Smokey was very distinctive and I have no doubts about his identity.

I'm not all that upset by this. I wanted the guinea pigs gone because they were too much work and cost too much to feed and bed (although they were too, too cute). But, I would hope that this isn't a regular practice of this store which makes a point of doing small pet adoptions on Saturdays. I am giving the benefit of the doubt that Nibbler was adopted out and rather than leave Smokey alone (which guinea pigs hate), they put him in with the "for sale" piggies.

Jet home.

Colin is home and he and I unload the groceries. I still have about an hour before the kids are delivered.

Waste time Interact meaningfully with the blog'verse in front of the computer.

Whoops! There they are. Let the chaos begin!


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atypical, Julie and daisies, thank you for your suggestions. I loved reading how you would approach the same circumstance. Daisies' response made complete sense to me although I might not have guessed it beforehand. The other two responses were spot on what I might have guessed based on atypical's and Julie's writing. I like that the personalities revealed in a person's post are so authentic and true to self that you can begin to know how they might respond Inreallife.

Aliki, I got to go on the walk and to Starbucks and I'm still envious. It was that good!

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Bonus anecdote:

After a few days up at Vegas and then spending the night and most of the next day with friends, Marley came home exhausted. She was terribly crabby while her friends were here and then she passed out at 7:00 in the bonus room. Paul and I have not done the co-sleeping thing with Marley. Colin was a frequent visitor to our bed, but little Miss Wild Thing, as young as six months would not go to sleep with us. If we tried, she just tortured us. There was no other option but the Cry It Out for her. However, during Paul's last couple of trips, I had some success making the bedtime transition more pleasant by offering to let her go to sleep in my bed. Initially I assumed that I would end up moving her back to her bed during the night. I was quite surprised to find that finally, FINALLY!, she would sleep through the night. In fact, she would sleep in later than when she is in her room. At the tender age of practically seven, I have started letting my daughter sleep with me. So around 7:30, I hoisted her up off the couch and deposited her in my bed.

This is what I found when I came to bed a few hours later (just ignore how fabulously decorated my boudoir is):




How am I supposed to sleep around that?

(I had her get up to use the restroom and then repositioned her accordingly. On this particular night, she woke up and went back to her room on her own.)

Sleeping with Bread: Viva Las Vegas!

Well, here I am, a day late and (if you're lucky) a few words shorter than usual. ;) After my epic post from the Conniption Zone, I'll be be as brief as possible. We joined Paul on a business trip to Las Vegas as it is the kids' Spring break. He always has a 10 or 11 day trip here in April and for the last few years, we've made it up here for a few days. I have very mixed feelings about Las Vegas, so perhaps I can tie my weekly bread baking in with this trip.

What about Las Vegas gives me consolation? Truly, truly, truly, there is little about Las Vegas that gives me consolation. That said, making this annual trip has its life-giving points. Similar to tornado season or hurricane season, the LUE family has convention season. Starting in April, Paul will be gone over 21 days between now and mid-June. That doesn't include any extra travel he may have to make between this Vegas trip and InfoComm in June. It has been this way for years and it will be for the foreseeable future. By joining him here for a few days, we alleviate some of the separation. The kids look forward to the trip and that, I can tell you, is pretty much of a miracle. Getting two kids who are eight years apart in age excited about the same place is a beautiful thing. They'll play for hours in the pool and every day we are here is a day I'm not NOT cleaning my house at home. Also, Paul has a home office and works on the opposite side of the country from most of his co-workers, some of whom we have known since before we got married. I usually get a chance to catch up with a couple of these guys here (and sometimes we get a free meal--whoopee!)

What about Las Vegas causes me desolation? Where to begin? Las Vegas brings out my hyper-idealistic nature. While I have aged enough that a lot of my idealism has been tempered, it flares up like a sun spot causing interference in my rationality and I usually end up with an underlying feeling of heaviness while I am here. I remember the first time I brought the kids up. Marley was just beginning to walk, so Colin would have been just 9 years old. Vegas has in previous years made a concerted effort to bring families to town, adding attractions for the kiddos as well as the adults. We walked down the street one night and there were all these men passing out cards to everyone who passed by. When they would see we had children with us, they would turn the card over so the kids wouldn't see the naked woman on it. The ground, though, was littered with the cards that others had discarded. Cards advertising clubs with shows featuring nudity or something similar, I'm sure. I didn't like my children being exposed to this seamier side of the city.

I see every woman on every billboard, bus or playbill and think about whether or not this life is the one her parents dreamed of for her. I look at my daughter, my beautiful, blonde-haired, blue-eyed firecracker and my heart breaks to think of her making a living by dancing, posing, modeling in Las Vegas. (I am not judging women who do this. I do not know their circumstances or the journey which brought them here. They may be perfectly content. In my ideal world, however, no woman would have to make this choice.) It doesn't take too long for my mind to wander from the women dancers and models to the other women here in Vegas. The women who sell more than their image.

For a long time, I thought that was my main issue with Vegas and then last year, Paul and I were at a buffet for breakfast. I sat, eating my crepes and potatoes and what not. I looked around and saw people with their plates heaping. It occurred to me that pounds and pounds of this food was all going to be thrown away once it was time for the lunch buffet. I felt sick, thinking about all the hungry people in the world and all the waste here.

Do you see what I mean about hyper-idealism? I know that the money spent in Vegas provides salaries for a lot of people. Children's parents feed them, clothe them, send them to college with the money they make here. I'm sure the state of Nevada's budget owes no small part to the taxes paid by business owners, etc. I can see all that, but deep in my heart, I am saddened by what lies beneath the dancing waters, bright lights and lively atmosphere. Instead of the world being supported on the backs of turtles, as in the Hindu myth, I imagine Las Vegas supported on the backs of those whose lives are not what they imagined they would be.

And so, in choosing to come to Vegas, I have made a choice. Paul has to be here, no matter what I feel/think about the place. He doesn't have the same response to the place that I do. I could, on principle, never come here, but then I would miss out on a few days of not having to be on my own, the kids getting to have some fun and their seeing a little more of their dad than they would otherwise. So, I choose to be here and to live with my discomfort. At least for now. There may come a day when I can't do it any more. I'll have to wait and see.

I hope I haven't completely bummed everyone out. :/

If you are interested in other Sleeping with Bread posts, you can click here. I don't have the links up yet, but if you look on the sidebar, you will see the regular bakers listed.

197

Wow! I just noticed that I have 197 posts on this blog. Now, I know I need to deduct a few that are drafts and have never been published, but still, how do you commemorate your 200th post? Any ideas? Should I be registered somewhere?

So today I finally got a chance to catch up a little in the blog'verse after a busy week which started with an unexpected trip to Modesto. My friend Julie has been up visiting with her mother. Recently diagnosed with kidney cancer, my friend's mom had some complications during a marathon surgery to remove one kidney. After talking on the phone with her on Saturday, I conferred with Paul, who agreed that a trip was in order. Sometimes you just need a friend.

It was a pretty quick turnaround trip with a five hour drive up there on Sunday and a seven hour drive coming home on Tuesday. (Do not ask; I don't come across well in the telling.) In between, we spent some time in the hospital, went to see Blades of Glory--it was either that or Wild Hogs--and made necklaces and bracelets at a bead store.

Of course, one frustration was I had the wrong cable to connect to the internet in my hotel room. I had some banking and blogging to do and was not able to accomplish either. Once I got home, my best intentions to catch up were waylaid by play dates, working in Marley's class and, as I mentioned somewhere, my new status as "Go To Girl" for the yearbook. (The fact that there is an elementary school yearbook is somewhat exasperating to me.) The deadline was today and while I was initially asked to help with some camera-to-computer image transfers, apparently I have a talent for photo collage. I was happy to help (and nicely thanked with some Trader Joe's products) but it kept me away even longer. The blog'verse should take comfort in the fact that I picked it over my checking account. As of this posting, my Google reader is clear of new posts but my bills still haven't been paid. The blogosphere is my master.

So, today, Colin had no school and Marley had a half-day. Next week they both have Spring break. Both of them are way past ready to have a reprieve from the weekly routine. Every day Marley complains about going to school and we've taken to putting on what amounts to a dog and pony show to elicit her cooperation. Portable DVD player in the car on the way to school, promises of taking her out to lunch, dangling picking up a friend on the way to school. Is it the best parenting technique? I doubt it; but, I can tell you it is the most expedient. Today we had to up the ante: a trip to Color Me Mine, a ceramics painting store. She was extra fussy, whining about not feeling good. Her back hurt. Her neck hurt. Her throat was sore. We told her to call us if she still didn't feel well and Paul took her to school. We were certain she would be fine once she got there. Um, guess what? She is sick. The school office called about 40 minutes before she was supposed to get home. She'd gone to the office and they'd taken her temperature. 102 degrees. Why thank you, I'm thrilled to be receiving yet another "D'oh!" parenting award. I have quite a few of them lined up on the mantelpiece.

In the middle of all this, I have in the back of my mind my application for grad school. I can go online and check the status. They have me listed under my maiden name. This worries me because the transcript with the good grades had my married name on it. I hope they put it all in the right file. So far, the admissions status page is telling me my application is still incomplete. However, it no longer tells me that I need college transcripts. It all makes me a little fidgety. Part of me is planning on mh being a student in the Fall and part of me is worried about being accepted. Keep your fingers crossed, pray, think good thoughts--whatever you do, please do it for me. I think I'm ready for this school thing.



Oh, one more thing: I've updated my Scenic View link in my sidebar. Atypical of nonsensical text pointed it out me and it is a four hanky story. (If you have any post you think needs a special shout out, let me know; I'll make it a Scenic View.)

P.S. I just read this post by Halushki's sister. It is the absolutely funniest post involving a goat I've ever read. A must read. Really. You have to go read it. Right now.

Memoria: a Continuation

As I said a couple of weeks ago, I am slowly transferring posts from my Memoria blog for the purposes of consolidation. In that first Memoria post, I explained that an email from my Uncle L.T. had fallen out of a old journal. Written almost two years before he died, he was responding to a letter I'd sent him. He had previously shared an excerpt with me from a book about one soldier's experiences in Vietnam. I must have written that the story seemed surreal to me and this is what my uncle said in response:

Yes, that story did have a surreal imagery to it, didn't it. But for me it rang true and clear. The banality and mundaneness of worrying over what you were carrying as violence and death were moments away. In the unit I was in, 101st Airborne we stayed out on longer missions. Typically we were in the bush for 3 to 4 weeks at a time. We would be light re-supplied with ammo and food every four days and then a heavy re-supply every 8 days. So you worried and fussed over ounces and keeping your rucksack as light as possible (even though it was always over a hundred lbs.) At the same time you lived with the daily possibility of firefights, ambush, and booby traps. It really was long stretches of boredom interrupted by moments of intense terror.

On one mission we had been humping the bush for days on end it seemed. It was hot, humid with the ground being marsh-like so our feet were getting in bad shape. The marsh had made the walking more difficult so everyone was tired and grumpy. We found a dry spot and took a break. I was sitting on my rucksack talking to Luther Ward who was maybe 3 feet from me sitting on his rucksack. Suddenly the right upper fourth of Luther's head exploded out splattering his blood and brains everywhere. Luther did not die immediately. Even though he was in shock he continued to gurgle and make sounds. I cut a tracheotomy on him so that he could breathe and put a field bandage on his head. He continued to gurgle and make sounds till the evacuation helicopter picked him up.

But once he was gone the banality of our existence continued as we put our rucksacks back on and walked and walked and walked. For hours that day and for days to come we walked. Extreme boredom interrupted by moments of intense terror. Word came down the next day that Ward was dead. Word came down over the radio and the news was passed up and down the line. And we walked.

That is only the second story I know of a specific event which my uncle experienced in Vietnam. I'll tell the other story another time. Both stories, however, have horrific aspects to them. He was only 19 at the time, I believe. He was this goofy guy who played practical jokes on people and liked to laugh all the time.

To imagine just sitting there when someone right next to you was killed.

To try to help that person but having to just do what you can and then move on.

To know that it could just as easily have been you.

It isn't difficult to understand that a one year tour of duty had a profound impact on his life. I think for years and years he never talked about his experiences. I believe only after he went through rehab, lost his marriage and was working on recovery that he opened up a little more about his time there. At least to me. I'm glad to know something of his experiences. It does help me understand part of what haunted him. I'm glad he shared with me. He was an incredible man--incredibly intelligent, funny, talented, flawed.

I wish we could still be sharing.

P.S. By the way, I'm kind of the queen of internet tangents... After rereading this email, I was poking around online looking up stuff on the 101st Airborne, eventually that led to a website for the Vietnam War Memorial. They have a "virtual wall" that allows you to look up names. I typed in Luther Ward and there were two entries. One died in the late 60s. But the other died on October 30, 1971. That is about the time my uncle was there. It is weird to see but at the same time almost reassuring. On that wall is a part of Uncle L.T.'s history even though his name isn't there.



March, 30 2006: A few weeks after finding that email, I was in Border's and happened across a book called The Things They Carried, a soldier's memoir of Vietnam. Because I had been writing about my uncle, I decided to buy it. As I started reading, I realized it was the book my uncle had shared with me.