Remembering What We’re Honoring

 

I believe that fiddling around with traditional holidays in order to make three day weekends was a mistake.  This has led to a diminishment of the individual holidays; confusion over what it is that is being honored, and co-opting by businesses for their own selfish gains.

Take the holiday, Memorial Day, just passed as a case in point.  Originally begun by slaves as a day to honor Union soldiers who were fighting for the preservation of the Union and abolition, it has evolved over the century plus since then.  The fallen from the United States’ subsequent wars have been honored on Memorial Day.  In many communities the day is celebrated as Decoration Day.  On Decoration Day friends and family decorate the graves of their ancestors and loved ones who have passed on.  Through all of these traditions there is one common factor—those being honored are dead. 

.  Memorial Day is becoming a Springtime Veterans’ Day as people us social media to thank the veterans in their lives, living and dead, for their service.  That cousin who served in Vietnam, but is still living ought to receive our thanks any day of the year, but his or her special day is on Nov. 11^th, one of the few holidays that hasn’t begun a yearly migration around the month. 

When holidays were celebrated on a particular day, regardless of where it fell during the week, it seemed that the day held more meaning.  During the 1950s the meaning of the holiday was taught in school.  Today law dictates that schools have assemblies for Veterans’ Day and MLK Day, but the others are more like—well, meh.  George Washington and Abraham Lincoln, arguably our two most important presidents, don’t have their own days anymore, having been mushed together into Presidents Day and “celebrated” on a Monday for your long weekend and shopping pleasure.

When I was a child, on the rare occasion that it fell on a Friday or Monday families often took the opportunity to take a trip over the long weekend, but most years the day fell during the week or on a weekend day without extending the weekend.  In the case of Memorial Day ceremonies were held at cemeteries and flags placed on the graves of those who died fighting for the country’s freedom.  Over time flowers and flags were left for all veterans and for extended family members.  One thing that was never intended by those slaves during the Civil War was for Memorial Day to be about sales at car or mattress dealerships.

This moving things around has not only diminished the importance of the day, it has confused many folks about exactly what is to be honoredI am sure that if we returned to the traditional dates for National Holidays retailers and the tourist industry would put up a fuss.  I email retailers who send me sales notices for either Veterans’ or Memorial Day and have even gotten a positive response from Amazon.  What if we planned our three day weekends around some destination that tied into the holiday and made a conscious effort not to buy, buy, buy as a way of honoring our national heroes?  How awesome would that be.

 

Our Legendary Local

Writing About

Other Legendary Locals

Last Saturday, when I was done mowing my Ilwaco lawn and had showered, my houseguests and I drove to Ocean Park, at the other end of the Long Beach Peninsula, to attend a book signing at Adelaide’s Book Store. My friend Sydney Steven’s was signing her latest Long Beach Peninsula book, Legendary Locals book there.  We missed her book talk, but still got to chat with her.  My friends purchased two of Sydney’s books and I even picked up O is for Oysterville for my youngest granddaughter, Lydia, who had been quite jealous of my purchase of LegendaryLocals for her older sister Linda the weekend before. My friend Jo bought Dear Medora, one of my favorites, but then I love everything Sydney writes.  She may be a retired teacher, but she still has much to teach the rest of us about the history of Southwest Washington and does so in a very entertaining way with her pen, her blog, and around the dining table.

 

After Adelaide’s we went across the main intersection in Ocean Park to Jack’s CountryStore.  Jack’s is amazing.  It has been serving the Long Beach Peninsula since 1885 and if you can’t find it at Jack’s, you probably don’t need it.  Actually, when you shop at Jack’s you will probably find things you didn’t know you needed!  I knew what I was after.  Jack’s sells a wide assortment of patterned oil cloth by the yard.  Vinyl is all well and good I suppose, but for a table cloth that lasts and wipes down easily you can’t beat oil cloth.  I grew up with oil cloth on my grandmother’s kitchen table and besides being practical, it is homey to me.  I was happy to purchase three yards of lavender gingham, pick up a gallon of bleach and a half gallon of milk.

There isn’t room to list all of wares of this large rambling store, but some of the things we enjoy are their wide assortment of candy from our childhood and old fashioned toys.  This Spring Dave and I made a special trip just to get balsawood airplanes for our grandson Gabriel.  It used to be that you could pick them up at any store.  Now you find Styrofoam things that just don’t fly the same.  Last weekend I couldn’t resist purchasing two cloth bags to use as gift bags for my granddaughters.  They were just too charming and will hold some cupcake flavored chapstick I also couldn’t resist along with some books.  Ah, the life of a grammy. 

Next weekend we have a trip to the Oysterville Store where Sydney will be doing another book signing.  The store has recently changed hands and renovated.  I am anxious to see it!

 

The End of an Era

Not there was any doubt in my mind, but it is official that I’m old.  The Bellevue School District is tearing down Sammamish High School where my husband and I, along with his six brothers, went to high school.  When my brother-in-law Tim, who is a reporter for KIRO radio in Seattle, sent out an email to the family with a link to the City of Bellevue’s office of land use pages telling of the two and a half year process the school district has planned for essentially tearing down the school in stages and replacing it will a three story brand new building I was gobsmacked.

 

My parents and I moved to Lake Hills, a post-war housing development in East Bellevue in 1957 where I started first grade in a not-yet-finished elementary school.  My classroom had 40 of the baby boom generation in neat rows.  Elementary schools weren’t the only ones being built.  During second grade my mother drove me past the building site where Sammamish was under construction.  “That’s where you’ll go to high school someday,” she said happily.  Like many of the greatest generation my mother was optimistic.  She was living the post war dream of living in a new, albeit modest, ranch house in one of the developments that sprang up when WWII vets returned, finished school, started careers and needed someplace to raise their families.  Bellevue, WA, a bedroom community to Seattle, fit the bill.

There was another side to the optimism of post-war America—the threat of nuclear war.  Because my father worked for Boeing Flight Test on the B-52 program he went to Eniwetok for six months in 1956 and again for five months in 1958 as part of the Boeing crew helping to test the atomic bomb.  Americans thought that the United States was invincible and that our superior technology could overcome all obstacles.  The Space Age was around the corner and the sky was the limit, but because of my father’s work the optimism was tinged with the reality that the Cold War was in full swing. 

Overt things such as my father’s plan for what to do in case of a nuclear attack told me that the world wasn’t such a rosy place.  Yes, I understood where to walk to at the lower edge of the elementary school grounds where my mother would pick me up.  She understood that she and my father would keep the tank of our 1952 Ford at least half full.  My father believed that we would have time to get out of range of Boeing, the Bremerton Naval Facility and Ft. Lewis, which he believed were potential targets, and we would be able to drive to my grandparents’ beach house on the coast.

There were things I wasn’t supposed to know about.  One of the networks (and I’ve never been able to track down which one or the name of the program) aired a television program of what to expect in the event of a nuclear attack.  I’d been sent to bed, but was able to see the television through the crack the door was left open and sat on the floor and was horrified by what I saw.  The grown-ups were going to kill us.  I became convinced of it.

So when my mother drove me past the building site for Sammamish High School in 1959 I paid scant attention.  She couldn’t fool me.  She might be my mom, but she was silly if she thought I was ever going to get old enough to go to high school much less grow up.  I don’t know if I’ve ever grown up entirely, but I did attend Sammamish High School from 9^th to 12^th grade, graduating in 1969.  The first year I still didn’t believe I needed to worry about growing up.  By my junior year it occurred to me that I might.  By my senior year it was panic time, but that’s another story.  Now they are tearing SHS down to make way for a fancy three story building.  The upside is I’ve outlasted it!

 

The Commuter Marriage Continues

 

 

 

Once again my husband, Dave, is heading back to his “other life” in Arizona.  He was home for seventeen days.  Now I feel as though I am in suspended animation without him.  His next scheduled return is in August, three and a half months hence and promises to be our longest separation yet since we began this “commuter” portion of our marriage.

 

When we made the decision for Dave to go to AZ to work it was devastating.  I saw a story on our local news about “commuter marriages” just days before his departure and heard a wife say that over time it becomes easier.  I didn’t believe it.  I did not want it to be so because I did not want this drastic change in our lives to become “normal.”  It has become easier and it is not normal, only tolerable.  It is a sensitive tooth that flares into full-blown pain from time to time, but mostly sits there aching.

 

The seventeen days of Dave being home were a whirlwind with us spending the first portion at our house on the Long Beach Peninsula getting things crossed off Dave’s honey-do list down there and then returning to Gig Harbor to work on that honey-do list.  As he heads back there are still things undone, but everywhere I see his hand in making our lives better.  You know, I don’t mind the fir needles and cones on the driveway, but I find a clean driveway comforting because it means Dave is around.

 

 

Dave leaves knowing that he may be returning at any point due to the advanced age and health of his parents and my mother.  That is something we talked about nearly a year ago when we began this adventure.  It is why my taking my Special Needs daughter and going to Arizona with him was never part of the discussion.  I am an only child and so my mother has no one else to rely on.  Dave has six brothers, five of whom live near to their parents—relatively speaking.  While he was home his mother’s health declined.  On our last visit Sunday she seemed to have improved a tiny amount.  I am grateful that he can leave, holding onto this tiniest thread of hope that she will be better still when he returns in August.  I hang onto that thread as well as I do not want him to be alone at the time of such a loss.

 

 

 

Dave's intention is to quit working the end of September.  That is not cast in concrete.  We were unable to meet with our financial advisor while Dave was home, but after a phone conversation with him we have some homework to do and an appointment in August when we can map out what is next in this adventure.  Stay tuned.

Now How the Heck Did I Do That??

 

Bette Davis famously said that aging wasn’t for sissies.  At age 62 I quote her often.  Recently I added injury to the insults of age related aches and pains by injuring the muscles along my left tibia.  A search of the Internet reveals that this irritation and resulting pain is caused by "strenuous activity."  I would not have said that I engaged in that.

There is no denying that I do a lot of walking.  As an aide to a special needs high school student I hike all over campus while he zooms along in a power wheelchair.  When I am home I am busy with work around our houses and I cannot deny that having my husband Dave working 1,500 miles away oft times leaves me exhausted, frustrated and resentful but I would not have said that I was engaging in strenuous activity. 

When the pain first began I thought, “My goodness, I’ve pulled something.  How inconvenient.”  I did what I usually do with pain.  I ignored it.  It began the Thursday before Easter.  On Friday my own Special Needs daughter and I drove to the coast where our “someday retirement” home is.  My other children were unavailable for various reasons, but we’d come to celebrate Easter with my mother who lives six blocks from our house.  Saturday was a perfect day to give our two lots large lawn its first mow of the year.  It took two and a half hours to plow through the thick and somewhat damp “back forty,” as I call the back yard which stretches from our barn and cottage on one lot to our main house on the other, with our electric mower.  I decided that the front, smaller but more complicated due to flower beds and walkways, would have to wait until Sunday as we had guests coming for dinner.

My leg had hurt during the whole process, but I’d trudged along as I always do, drinking lots of water and breaking to scrape the grass off the underside of the mower.  Our company was Kathleen Arseneaux and her daughter Stacey came to dinner which I’d largely prepped while waiting for the grass to dry (which it never entirely did).  Toward the end of last summer I’d engaged Stacey to help me with the gardening.  Stacey doesn’t mind weeding whilst I loathe it, mostly because I can’t get on my knees with any reasonable expectation of getting up again without calling the Ilwaco FD.  Over dinner Stacey offered to mow the front the next day and I gratefully accepted.

So I went literally limping along in pain, doing all the things that I’d got used to having help with before Dave went away ten months ago.  The pain finally began to take a toll on me.  Sometimes it left me nauseous and by the end of my work day it was leaving me wanting to cry.  If I’d had time.  There were still chores at home to accomplish before I gratefully put my leg to bed, only to begin the process again the next day.  Finally, I emailed our doctor and received a reply from her PA as the doctor was out for the week.  She encouraged me to go to Urgent Care which I finally did next day, a week to the day from when I’d first noticed the pain.

Shin splints the Urgent Care doctor said after reviewing X-rays that revealed no hairline fractures.  To immobilize my foot and give the tissue a chance to heal she had me put in an ortho boot making me think of astronauts walking on the moon.  I hobbled to garage, got into the car and tried out my new footwear on the clutch of my Neon.  No, if I tried to drive from Tacoma Group Health to our home in Gig Harbor I’d likely get into a wreck along the way so I peeled off all the Velcro straps the nurse had spent so much time adjusting and used the clutch with my bum leg.  It already hurt and while it was getting no better, it seemed to be getting no worse.  The Neon is in the garage and I'm driving our truck, which is an automatic.

So now, until it is healed, I am hobbling around on my new boot, petrified I’ll fall down our stairs and actually break something this time.  And there are still things to do.  Dave is coming home for a visit a week from today so there’s cleaning and dusting I want to do and a birthday cake to order for my father-in-law and daughter.  To quote another old lady, my mother, “There’s no rest for the wicked.”

The Things I Carry

Because I work as an aide to a partially quadriplegic high school student I usually read whatever has been assigned to him in English. Some things I’ve already read, but a little refresher helps me help him. I was absent from school the day the teacher handed out Tim O’Brien’s The Things They Carried. A good thing, too. Apparently the instructor had the students unpack their backpacks, etc. I would not have wanted to pull all the stuff out of the bag I schlep around everyday!

“The things they carried,” for those of you unfamiliar with the book, refers to what American soldiers carried in Vietnam not only in their rucksacks, but in their hearts and minds. I’ve read parts of it and am looking forward to a full read this time ‘round because it is a wonderful insight into that generation of men. It also makes the reader examine the things they carry.

I have noticed that both my husband and I carry a lot of stuff that give us comfort. Which brings me back to my bag. It contains a prodigious amount of pencils, pens and highlighters; paperclips, analgesics and chap stick; hand lotion, a novel, and a ruler; safety pins, lunch money and scissors and a water bottle. I even have a little stapler. Like a boy scout, I am prepared!

Dave takes to work newspapers, magazines, and snacks to eat during lunch and breaks. The amount of fruit and veggies he packs with peanut butter is amazing, but at least he’s not eating junk. It makes him comfortable at work.

Other things that I sometimes carry that give me comfort are things that have belonged to someone I love. I attach metaphysical powers to those objects, primarily jewelry, and will wear a ring that belonged to my mother or step-mother or a necklace that belonged to my grandmother. When I wear these things I feel the strength of these women, especially my step-mother and grandmother, buoy me.

Sometimes I think of trying to carry less stuff all day. But I know that as soon as I eliminate something I’m going to need it!

Another Holiday without Dad

 

 

 

Easter is coming and another holiday without Dave.  He was home for ten days in February which included my birthday and he will be home next month for another ten for Spring Break and his father's 94th birthday. After that we will have a long dry spell until his August vacation.

 

In June it will be a year since the hurried decision for him to go from our home in Gig Harbor to Prescott, AZ in order to go back to work for Lockheed Martin.  Through frugalness during these past nine months we’ve been able to pay off the home equity loan we had so that our house by the sea is paid for—again. 

 

Modern technology has kept us in touch.  I marvel at the Greatest Generation and wonder at how relationships stayed in tact with only sketchy mail from far flung soldiers during WWII over the course of four years.  Although cell phone reception is dodgy where Dave is living he is able to call and text me from work and because he has Internet access where he lives with a friend he can email me before we both go to sleep at night.  He can’t mow the lawn through technology, but at least we can share our news of the day.

 

So over the weekend I baked cookies for Dave, boxed them up in a shoebox and sent them off.  He received them today, along with a packet of newspapers and magazines that keep him connected to Gig Harbor and Ilwaco.  Sunday morning I’ll take pictures of my daughter Amy and my Grandson Gabriel with their Easter baskets and pass around the phone at dinner at my mother’s.  Spring Break is just around the corner, after all.