Saying Good-Bye

Ok, here's the deal. My son, my sweet, sweet son, (whom I still think of as a little boy, regardless of his three babies and wife, sorry, son) is going to war for the THIRD time in TWO years, in ten days.
He and his family came to spend a few days, last weekend, and we went for a quick day-trip today for one more good-bye. He leaves a week from Wednesday. The odd thing today was how . . . normal everyone behaves at a time like this, when we could be saying good-bye for THE LAST TIME.
How is a Mom supposed to feel? Proud, I imagine. Yes, I do feel proud of him, but I am afraid that my pride is overwhelmed by sadness, and anger. Anger that he has to go. That the damned Yahoo headlines broadcast numerous deaths EACH AND EVERY DAY in Iraq, that his brave and noble wife has to care for the three little ones on her own while he's gone.

This is the boy who brought me chocolate ice cream when I had bad hair days. Who proudly brought me beautiful drawings from art class. Who, Marine machismo notwithstanding, has learned to cross stitch, knit, sew, change diapers, and a billion zillion other things that offered a challenge to his brain. Who also ran the Marine marathon, cut off a finger building a cradle for his firstborn, and haggles with the best of 'em when buying a new car. Proudly kisses his babies. Jokes endlessly. Creates. Cheats at Scrabble (and Boggle, when needed. . .) Bakes cheesecakes. Borrowed my biography of Buckminster Fuller and gave me a math puzzle book for ransom on it.
God, this young man would be missed by SO MANY, if anything were to happen to him. He had to go through dead bodies in Afghanistan to investigate bombings, yet came home with the same zany sense of humor that he left with. God, PLEASE protect my child. PLEASE, I boldly ask you, shield him in a bubble of Your Grace and Protection., just like the clear thing around Wonder Woman in the comics. PLEASE keep him safe, on his flight, when he lands, and on a daily basis as he serves his country.
So many men and women have been wasted through this stupid, egotistical, greedy, oil-gluttonous war. Each of them had a family who loved him as well as we love our Marine. Please, God, help someone, anyone, to have a CLUE and stop the madness.

This son worked with his own sons this week to make a colorful paper chain. The paper chain encircles their breakfast room, and there are as many links as days he will be gone. The boys are to remove a link each day until daddy comes home. They will see the chain grow shorter and shorter until the day comes for his return. How like him to think of this beautiful and tangible sign for his children. How like him to take the time to complete it with them.
We love my son and we all need him, whole. Complete. Healthy. And . . . alive.
Please, God, I ask you boldly. Protect my son.

More Rules

A few weeks ago, I wrote about the rules for life with which I've become comfortable over several years of living. They're not rules for anyone else; rather, they are my own 'comfort nest.' While washing dishes, or mopping floors, or driving -- yeah, driving is a good one, more of my own rules have occurred to me, and in the interest of completion, I am adding them here. You hate to go day to day knowing that you've left something done half-assed.
Let's see, what number did I leave off with? Hang on -- I'll go check. OK. Back. Whew. Quick trip into blogland. Last one was number 7.

8. One olive is plenty for a martini. Two is greedy, and the bartender who strings four onto the little colored sword is just looking for a tip. (Four is how many will fit on the dagger.) The customer who eats them all is just a pretentious fool. One is the perfect touch, and yes, you can eat the one, but eat it s-l-0-w-l-y.
9. Speaking of martinis, there's no need to mess one up with too much vermouth. You never add vermouth to a martini. You pour it into the empty glass, swirl it around, and pour it out. This leaves just a film of vermouth in the glass, which is all you need. Then add the gin, preferably from the freezer.
10. To those of you who know me, yes, I really did quit drinking, but hey, I still CARE about the proper martini. If not for me, there might be dolts out there drinking vermouth-y martinis with the colored sword loaded to the hilt with olives. Poor taste.
11. Again for those of you who know me, you know I'm on this big economy kick, about time, you say, after I've been . . . well, 'bleeding cash' is how my dear eldest son once said it -- for oh so many years. Well, to have a healthy outlook on it, it's about time I began to do a little catching up, isn't it? So. Point number 11 is: no more purchased bread for us. A good loaf of bread, one with some nuts & seeds in it, is $2 to $3. I can make a great loaf for 47 cents. We all enjoy it, and when you bake bread at home, you never need air fresheners again.
12. Always let the other guy go first.
13. When in the presence of a really older person, remain standing until s/he sits. No one does this anymore. I know. But the really older person remembers when people used to do this, and they appreciate it. It's an unsaid thing. But you'll see it in their eyes when they realize what you're doing.
14. When you meet a little kid, squat down to talk to him. Same premise as number 13, but in reverse. They appreciate it, too, and it's an unsaid thing, here, too.

Well, I can remember 'em when I'm doing my daily stuff, but sit at the comp and whoosh! they dash away from the old brain. I'll put in more later. Til then...

Hmph.

"Hmph," he said. "Hrrr-mph." This was his way of ending any intimate conversation. "Harrrrumph." He cleared his throat, examined his toes, and turned away. This was his phraseology, like a closing quotation mark. End of discussion.

Any intimate conversation was difficult for him to carry on. He fell into them easily enough, of course, but once he realized the nature of the conversation, realized his vulnerability in continuing in it, he became embarrassed, and, at the first opportunity, brought it to a gentle, but firm, close. Like this. Hrmph. Cleared his throat, examined his cuticles or the toes of his shoes, and turned away.

Particularly in regards to women. Not women at large, or course, but their --- their workings. Sex, or reproductive organs, or having babies, or losing babies, or . . . breasts, or any of those things that represented to him the inner workings of that intricate, delicate sex. Women were like a web to him: lovely to see, beautiful and delicate to appreciate, but not meant for his understanding. Get too close to a web, and you know what happens. You get all caught up in it, nosirreebob, nosir. He could stand back from afar and observe just fine, thank you.

So she smiled to herself. He'd cleared his throat. That was her sign to change the discussion to anything non-threatening. Domestic, as in, "So, what do you feel like, for lunch?" or casual, as in, "Do you want me to turn up the TV?"

It used to make her angry. Crazy. Used to confuse her. Then it irritated her. But after forty years, you can't afford to keep getting upset. It's a waste of energy. You'll kill yourself by then, just keep getting so mad, one day you fall right over and die. Wouldn't that be something? You're lying there, motionless, the last breath of life just sucked right out of you, and your best friends stop in. "What on earth happened?" they ask. "I cleared my throat," he replies. No one would ever understand. No one would know.

And so she smiles.

They had been discussing the mastectomy of a friend from church. Fifty-six years old, and had to go through something like that. "Your body, you know?" she said. "Yeah," he said, and realized he was in dangerous waters. "It's like your arm, or your leg, it's been yours for so long, how do you accept living without it? You know?" she said. "Sure," he said, and had no earthly idea what it was that she meant.

A breast wasn't like an arm or a leg. You don't use it to tie your shoes or get around from one place to another. It seemed to him if something had to go, it might as well be that.

She was on the same track. "It's so ironic now, after all these years, now she has trouble. I mean , they were useful before. Nursed her babies. No trouble. And now -- all of a sudden --"

That was it. "Hrmph." Placed his hands on his knees and stood up. Examined his toes and said, "Well." Turned and stepped away.

"There's some meatloaf from last night, for a sandwich, if you want," she called.

Eddie

I remember sitting on his knee -- that's what I remember best, sitting on his knee . . . and the sharp, acrid smell of sweat that I associated only with him. It made my nostrils flare and as I smelled it, I always thought, "Oh, yes, that's the smell of Eddie." It wasn't a bad smell, it was just a sharp smell, a smell I can almost, almost imagine now, so many years later, hundreds of miles away, when for some reason the memories of Eddie come back to mind.
The sun was brilliantly white, as it always was in Alabama summer, and I never knew Eddie would be coming until he was there. Eddie the yardman.
How sad to me, now, a grown woman, that I never knew his last name. He was only Eddie.
Eddie came to our house periodically to do the yard work. After a hard morning's work, he knocked on the back door to ask for a glass of ice water and my mother always brought it in the faded blue aluminum cup she kept apart because it was used by "colored." And when Eddie sat and drank his water, I sat with him and we talked. We talked, really talked, and I thought he was wonderful because he talked with me as if I were a real person, worth his respect, not a silly little girl. We talked steadily, and slowly, and then we enjoyed silence. I remember how hot it was, my feet dangling in the air as we sat on the brick wall. The cup in his hand was cold and sweated drops of water like his brow and my upper lip. I stared at his face hard as we talked. I wonder now what he thought of the little girl who stared so intently at his large black face, as he spoke with his deep rumbling, gentle voice.
Eddie had a wooden leg that made a rhythmic thump, thump as he walked. My mother had told me about it and I don't recall ever asking him about it, perhaps as a point of respect from a little girl to an old man. Curious that in all our conversations, we never discussed the most obvious thing there was, the wooden leg I sat on.
As the years passed, his hair grew white and close on his dark brown head and I remember thinking how lovely the little curls were in contrast to his skin. When he walked through the gate, he stopped, turned, and slowly closed the gate behind him. I waited patiently, then put my little white hand in his big dark one with the large ivory square nails, and we walked to the brick wall to sit and talk.
Funny, I remember how much we talked, but I don't remember a conversation we had, but one, and that's another story entirely.
What I do remember is the faded cup, and the sharp smell of honest labor that was Eddie.

And I am so sorry I never knew his last name.