Proud Americans

28 Jun

rtc orlando

Halfway through boot camp in Orlando in July 1991. Morale was low. Our daily schedule drained us as much as the heat and humidity did. Wake up at 3 am, dress in inspection-ready uniforms, have our bunks and our gear squared away so we could march to the galley in the pre-dawn darkness to prepare, serve and clean up after breakfast. Change into PT gear so we could condition ourselves to pass the fitness test in a couple weeks. Change back into our uniforms then out to the grinder for another grueling day of learning to march as a company.

Even our RCPO, the Recruit Leading Petty Officer, was frazzled. Column right, left face, about face, many of us bungling recruits still weren’t getting the hang of it. Midway through the morning a fortunate few were dismissed to return to the galley to repeat the breakfast performance for the noon meal. Afterward, more training. Classroom instruction conducted to teach us recruits Navy core values, rank/rate recognition, rape awareness, equal opportunities, sexual harassment and fraternization. We learned about naval history, laws of armed conflict, money management, shipboard communications, aircraft and basic seamanship.

But they didn’t teach us how to get along with each other. On communication blackout, none of us was permitted to contact family or friends on the outside. We were supposed to bond as a unit, and learn to rely upon our shipmates.

But instead of having each other’s backs, the eighty young women in our unit were at each other’s throats. The tougher females among us were victimizing the weaker ones, “borrowing” their possessions, blaming the inept and untrained when we failed an inspection or went over time using the showers. No one went as far as hazing, which would result in immediate discharge, but tempers were out of control.

Our CO’s noticed the deterioration of unit morale and gathered us together in the dorm. The CO from the adjacent male unit was brought onboard to talk to us. Expecting a lecture on good order and discipline, we braced ourselves for the tongue-lashing.

But CO Robards didn’t yell at us. He ordered us to sit on the floor, place our heads on our knees and close our eyes. In a soft, preacher’s voice, he began to remind us of why we were there. We left our parents, siblings, friends, and some of us left children behind so we could enlist in the most powerful Navy the world had ever seen. We wanted to defend the strongest nation and uphold the constitution. The CO reminded us that our traditions and customs were taught and followed not to inconvenience us, but to bind us to more than two hundred years of a rich history. We traded creature comforts and electronic conveniences for a military life because we cared about a future beyond ourselves. He talked about the freedoms that American civilians have, that we could choose our elected officials, we could decide whether we wanted to worship a God and how we wanted to practice that. If we wanted to, we could write letters, news stories, books and internet articles about any subject that struck our fancy.

We could have relationships of our choosing, and marry the loves of our lives, no matter their race or gender. Or we could remain single, and live the lives we dreamed. We could follow fashion, or make our own styles when we dressed. No one in government could tell us what we had to wear or eat, or think, or write about.

The CO reminded us we were sacrificing our dearest relationships because we aspired to a higher calling, because we were better people, because we wanted a future not only for ourselves but our families for generations to come. As he soothed us, sniffles were heard and tears fell. Some of the girls scooted closer and hugged. Tissues were produced and shared. The CO began singing softly, crooning

“If tomorrow all the things were gone

I’d worked for all my life

And I had to start again


With just my children and my wife

I’d thank my lucky stars

To be living here today

Cause the flag still stands for freedom

And they can’t take that away”

All the girls joined in:


“Cause I’m proud to be an American, where at least I know I’m free,

And I won’t forget the men who died

Who gave that right to me

And I gladly stand up

Next to you and defend her still today

Cause there ain’t no doubt I love this land

God bless the USA…”****

As we sang, we arose from the floor and circled up, arm in arm, to finish the chorus. The CO sang the next stanza while we hummed and smiled at each other, bonded at last.

**** Lee Greenwood, “God Bless the USA”


Will to Move

17 May

gods will

That morning I was driving to my 12-Step meeting. I used to tune in to “the Jesus Christ show” on the radio during the trip on Sunday mornings. Did you ever listen to it? The moderator is “Jesus.” He talks in the first person and when people call they’re talking to Jesus. Any Hoots, I had been thinking I could call and ask about my decision to move from San Diego to Sacramento, and God’s will, how do we know when it’s God’s will or our will? Then I thought, I wouldn’t have time to call–they put people on hold on these shows for 20 minutes or more, if someone can even get through. Then a caller came on the air, and it was a man who was deciding to move from Oregon to Southern California. He asked EXACTLY the questions I would’ve asked. Jesus is VERY good at his job. He often quotes or refers to Scripture. He said there are some things we know that God is against, for instance, the Ten Commandments tell us not to murder. So if we’re mowing the lawn, are we murdering? If we’re grocery shopping, are we murdering? No, then these acts don’t go against God’s will. Is moving to California or staying in Oregon against any of the commandments? No, okay then, we have choice. We can choose to go or choose to stay. Then we look at all the options and weigh how our decisions will affect the people involved. Where is our resistance? What or who is pushing back? Look at these, and examine them against our choices.

THEN, I went into my meeting and gave my friend her 24 year token at the beginning of the gathering. A few people shared about their personal situations; one man had to give up his home and all his possessions because everything was full of mold. Another woman recently moved and was still unpacking. She described the process that I was going through exactly. Compared it to a Fourth Step, like I did. (The Fourth Step tells us to make a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.) Inventorying all our possessions, deciding what to keep and what to discard.

I didn’t announce then that I had made my decision about moving. I didn’t want to put that into my share when I gave my friend her token, because I didn’t want to steal any of her thunder. Then I didn’t get called on to share–I knew I wouldn’t because of the token. They don’t need me sharing twice in the meeting, it’s certainly not The Lisa Show. So I volunteered to lead the meeting the following week where I made my big announcement. God is in charge–and God lets me know that, sometimes subtly, but sometimes He has to hit me on the head!

Dear judgy lady on Facebook- I hope you never learn about addiction the way I have.

7 May

Do the obese deserve insulin or a defibrilator? Do smokers deserve chemotherapy? Where does it stop when we start making these kind of calls ?

Source: Dear judgy lady on Facebook- I hope you never learn about addiction the way I have.


16 Mar

Source: Karma?

Rain Result

21 Feb

Dear John,

I know you’re worried about us after all the news stories about rain and flooding in California. But we are just fine. I am writing this from somewhere in the Pacific. There has been so much rain that the house, which has been anchored to its foundation for 50 years, broke free of its moorings. I was watching a movie when it happened. Naturally, shore power immediately disconnected but my computer instantly went to battery mode, so I never noticed our house had moved until it actually bumped the neighbor’s garage as it passed. I think the neighbor’s anchor chain must be newer or stronger than mine, because his house was still there as we floated past.

All night we floated. Must’ve flowed into the American river, then joined the Sacramento River at the confluence. Downstream into the Delta, and under the Golden Gate Bridge this morning. Fogged in, as usual, we barely noticed Alcatraz until we almost hit it after an ocean-going tanker nearly swamped us in its wake.

It looks like our heading is toward the South China Sea. The Wi-fi is working, good thing we installed that long-range booster last month. Maria’s been on her ham radio so we know our current position, and we fashioned a rudimentary sextant out of the kitchen tongs and a protractor left over from geometry class. Once the rain clears we’ll be able to use dead reckoning as a navigational aid.

We have plenty of provisions, because I went grocery shopping just before we became unmoored. We’ll use last week’s mail for fire fuel, and melt the ice that surrounds Maria’s heart for drinking water. The cats have already caught a couple fish, although one of them scratched me as I took it away from him. But Maria knows first aid, having taken medical training with the sea cadets.

We’ve always wanted to see Hawai’i, looks like we’ll achieve our dream. Perhaps we’ll just fashion a new anchor out of old socks filled with knickknacks from around the house, and set up our new homestead on one of the outlying islands. Maria has already lassoed some seagulls and is harvesting their eggs, and teaching them to play piano for amusement. Their singing along though, has got to stop soon. It sounds like a quartet of Phyllis Diller on steroids.

We fear no pirates, for Chief Maria is a formidable opponent, and any seafaring criminal would do well to avoid her, especially at certain times of the month. Typhoons worry us not because our home is well-insured, and we used up all the aluminum foil as a barrier to spurious radiation from the Japanese failed reactor at Fukushima. I firmly believe if sharks sought us out, as a professional courtesy they’d leave us alone once our identity became known to them.

So John, all your worries are for naught. Maria is an able sailor and we are comfortable in our floating home. After a month of rain, we’re used to seeing water, water everywhere, so this constant Pacific is nothing new to us. We hope to see the stars and the sun again, and we’re looking forward to our impromptu vacation.

Love you!



24 Jan


Others’ lives are parables.

–Oswald Chambers


I lived in a mobile home park in Spring Valley, near San Diego. After my house was sold, the divorce settled and the lawyers paid off, I wanted a place to call my own and the large manufactured home fit my reduced budget. My older sister worried about the stigma: “You’re going to raise your daughters in a trailer park?” At the time I believed semi-home ownership to be a step up from apartment living.
We lived at the top of the park, on the perimeter road, so I only had neighbors on two sides. The backyard of my little lot nestled against a rocky hillside which extended to a larger wild area populated by pepper trees, native shrubs and grasses; home to skunks, possums, rodents and more. Over the years we lived there I added a small flock of chickens. An enterprising coyote occasionally busted through the fences I built to reinforce his wildlife diet with some domestic chicken dinners.
On my west side lived a family of Jehovah’s Witnesses who were wonderful neighbors: no loud parties, no drunken brawls, no late night noise, and the cops were never called. To the east lived a sickly older widowed woman who lived alone with her surgeries and digestive problems to keep her company. She wore hearing aids and sometimes played hymns loud enough for the squirrels to notice. Fortunately, I enjoyed the music.
When I moved there with my daughters, we met Grace, who had lived across the road since the park opened in 1960, in an old single-wide aluminum-sided trailer. From my nomadic point of view, Grace had resided there my entire lifetime while my former address list was longer than my credit history.
Grace was 86 when we moved there. We met outside and took an instant liking to each other. She always had a ready smile and it became our custom to greet each other with a warm hug. An avid wearer of hats, Grace had been widowed from her third husband more than a decade by then. She never bore any children of her own but had a stepdaughter who lived in the backcountry.
During one of our first encounters, Grace proudly showed me the tattoo she had recently acquired.
“Do you want to see my tattoo?” She giggled. She pulled aside the neckline of her shirt to reveal a small palm oasis inked on her chest. She relayed the story that her nieces from Iowa came to town and declared they were all going to get tattooed. I thought of my 20-something niece who is covered with tats, and my brain suddenly realized the flaw in my thinking.
“Wait a minute, how old are your nieces?”
“Sixty-five and 68.”
I could just picture the scene: three white-haired old biddies strolling into the tattoo parlor and choosing their artwork.
I loved Grace. At 86, she was lively and busy. She played bingo, she went bowling and she had a small social circle of former co-workers and neighbors with whom she met for meals out on a regular basis. Her memory was much sharper than mine; she remembered my friends’ names and situations even if she only met them once.
By the time Grace turned 91, she started having symptoms of kidney cancer. I’ll spare the gory details here but it took Kaiser months to identify the symptoms as serious enough to warrant further investigation, a lapse that I believed culminated in Grace’s surgical loss of one kidney and the migration of the cancer into her bones. After that, Kaiser in its wisdom sentenced Grace to less than a year to live.
Woven into Grace’s end-of-life medical history is the story of Harold. He was a member of her social circle, a recent widower who lived alone in a large home in nearby Lemon Grove. A former engineer, he was meticulous in his mannerisms and lifestyle. They began seeing each other and soon enough became intimate. Like I said, Grace was 91 then and Harold was in his early eighties, so we called Grace the neighborhood cougar, much to her delight.
After a whirlwind courtship during which time Grace was rarely seen there in the park, she decided to move in with Harold. After all, he had a large empty home with a big bed and Grace only had a twin bed in her mobile home. Over the course of a few weeks, with her stepdaughter’s help she emptied out her trailer and took up residence with “The Man Who Stole Grace from Us,” as we came to call him. Many of her possessions and some of her furniture have been assimilated in to my home, so I see Grace everywhere. As a bullfight aficionado, she instilled a love for the sport in my 12-year-old daughter; now there are toreador posters and other memorabilia around my house.
Grace sold her home to a single young man, another Jehovah’s Witness, and at times I could see through his window that he was entertaining a gathering of similarly-dressed clean-cut young men, all staring intently at a wide screen. That seemed to be as wild as it got.
I visited Grace at Harold’s and learned that she fell and bruised her tailbone. She was unhappy living there at Harold’s. In the mobile home park Grace used to sit on her front porch and chat with the people who walked by. A great many residents there walked their dogs and the perimeter road was also used for walking or jogging by fitness-minded inhabitants. Grace learned everyone’s name; even the kids on skateboards and the little ones from the child factory at the end of our road. She also knew the dog’s names.
But Harold lived at the end of a cul-de-sac; he didn’t have a front porch. It was lonely there, and Harold was set in his ways. He didn’t cook meals at home and had a weekly schedule of restaurants like IHOP and Denny’s where he took advantage of senior specials. He was a tightwad and even though he was sleeping with Grace, he was demanding that she pay rent, which she was happy to do, but also for half the food, which she disagreed with. She reasoned that since he ate more than she did, why not each pay for their own? When she couldn’t go out because of her injured tailbone, Harold would spend his days at the casino without her and remain there for 12 hours at a stretch, leaving Grace home alone in a house with no food.
One day I was out front and I saw Grace driving past. I hollered out and she parked and came in for a visit. She was crying. I hugged her and brewed her some tea and learned the story: Harold was mistreating her verbally and neglecting her, while becoming more demanding in bed. She had just come from a doctor’s appointment to which Harold failed to accompany her. The doctor advised her to move out and gave her a list of resources for the elderly. I invited her to remain in my home as long as she wished. After a few days her stepdaughter came and they moved Grace out of Harold’s. They said he asked why she wanted to leave.
Grace spent some months at her stepdaughter’s, but her health deteriorated to where she required more care. She found a lovely assisted living home near Sycuan. I visited with her weekly. I was honored to be her friend. I asked her if I could write her obituary and she obliged with a brief biography. To the question, “What advice do you have for younger people?” she responded, “Save your money and never give up your house for a man.”
Even at the assisted living home, Grace knew everyone and their story. She quickly learned the names of any relatives or friends who came to visit. During our visits, we studied the other residents. Mary spent her days strapped to a wheelchair. The aides spoon-fed her meals, most of which ended up on her shirt or the tray in front of her. Mary did not communicate nor make eye contact. It was as if Mary had left her body which forgot she was gone.
Susan sat on the sofa, snoring in front of a loud television show. If someone turned down the volume, Susan would awaken and complain that she was watching that, dammit, turn it back up!
William wandered around the building, asking if anyone has seen his cat. Grace told me that William’s cat died twenty years ago. Peter lay in his bed all day, the aides alternatively feeding him and changing his diapers.
In this environment, I watched Grace withdraw. Without saying so, I knew she did not want to live like the others. She told me she signed an advance directive and Do Not Resuscitate orders. She took to her bed, and refused to eat or drink. I came to visit more often, every other day then. Grace shrunk before my eyes. I wondered if they had snuck Grace out and placed a smaller, frailer resident in her bed. Most of the time, Grace slept. The aides told me since she wasn’t eating or drinking, death would come soon. It took two weeks. One afternoon, Grace opened her eyes, looked at me and said, “You’re so good to me.” I knew she didn’t want to die alone, and I wanted her to know how much I loved her.
The morning of June 21st that year was a sweet sunny one, the air unusually crisp. I woke up to the music of birds chirping, and my very first thought was What a lovely day to die. The call came minutes later, the aides telling me that even though I wasn’t related, they thought I might come visit and they wanted to save me the trip.

Need Something Lost? I’ve found your answer.

11 Nov


Ever since my daughter Maria was little, she has had the perfect knack for losing things. Keys, parts, phones, money, hearing aids, the other shoe, clothes, documents, you name it, Maria has lost them. And sometimes never to be found.

One year, in autumn, she lost my keys. We searched high and low, tore the house apart. Never found them. In December, I was removing the pumpkin from the porch, getting ready to replace it with Christmas decorations, guess what we found behind the little orange sphere? My keys. What were they doing THERE??? One of life’s mysteries, I guess.
Yesterday she was in the kitchen, looking for the honey.

“It’s over there, behind the burners on the stove, next to the olive oil,” I told her. She retrieved the jar and slathered some honey on her cornbread.
Last night I wanted the honey for my tea. I looked behind the burners on the stove, the kitchen table, the counters. Not there. I searched the cabinet where the spices are kept. No honey. I looked in the pantry. Nope. The fridge? Could she have? Honey doesn’t go in the fridge, I’ve told her over and over, because it crystallizes and hardens…nah, not there either, good.

I checked where the pots and pans go, the plates and cups, even checked the dishwasher. You never know. I looked in the living room. Not a trace. Her bedroom? Fear gripped me as I thought of venturing into her room. Cautiously, I opened the door (lest any of the debris leak out), poked my head in, and a quick visual search from the doorway revealed no honey jar there either. Whew. I exhaled deeply and shut the door. The bathroom? Could she have???? I won’t tell you what I did find there, but thankfully honey was not on that gross list.
I decided then that God only wanted me to put lemon in my tea last night, no honey, dear. This lesson has been learned over the years, that my attachment to things need not be more important than my relationship with my daughter. When she was very young (and still sometimes today), I would freak out. “Where did she put that? How could she have lost it? What happened? What the hell is going on?”

There were times when I yelled and screamed and blamed Maria for her carelessness and forgetfulness. Folly of course, because she probably inherited these traits from me. The stress I caused was unbearable sometimes. Over the years I learned that it did no good to yell at Maria, on the contrary, it was counterproductive in the extreme. The anxiety of the loss of something would transfer to her developing psyche and the damage was evident. The forgetfulness increased. The losses mounted. Unhappiness and chaos reigned. Fortunately I sought counsel from people I trust. I realized that things can be replaced, but my children’s well-being could be irreparably damaged by a mother on the warpath. I am learning to let go of my attachment to things, and instead value the quality of how I nurture my children. I aim for progress, not perfection in this arena. But over the years, we’ve gotten better both at being organized and at letting go.

This morning Maria rifled through the kitchen looking for something to eat, and again asked,  “Mom, where is the honey?”

I reminded her that she was the last one to use our favorite sweetener, I had no idea where she could’ve stashed it, and my search had proven fruitless.
We were both in the kitchen laughing hysterically then. She’ll finish high school next year, and we’ve been examining career options. Hey, Maria could work for the Mafia, no, nothing illegal. What about the CIA? If they need something “Lost,” just hand it over to Maria, the world’s official “Hider.” She’ll hide it so well that even she can’t find it. They can torture her, won’t matter, because she CANNOT remember, it’s like it never happened. “Honey? What honey? We had honey? I like honey!” Just keep swimming, Maria.

Maria came into the kitchen as I was writing. She sauntered over to the refrigerator for water. And guess what? She found the honey, hiding behind her sister’s leftovers. Another day here.

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