I am not in·val·id

I am home from my journey. And I must say that the celebration of life far exceeded any that I could have imagined. There were many people there, some I knew but had not seen for decades and some that I had not met before.  Each person that I talked with had fond memories of my cousin.  I heard from them that he was a good neighbor, friend, golf partner, party guy back in the day, and highly regarded within his profession.

His wife did a fantastic job of having old photos scattered about.  And the memory book in which each person wrote of their remembrances of my cousin was touching.

But the reading of a letter to all of us by his wife was the most profound. She read about what their life had been like and that he wanted us to know that he was not an invalid nor was he in·val·id in any way during his illness.  And his words: "And so--I was not and am not an invalid. No one has to be. Invalid is an illusion. If you ever find yourself labelled as such, try to invalidate the judgment and seize the opportunity to discover your personal light to help heal every particle and cell on this planet. Start with granting yourself Forgiveness, Peace, and Unconditional Love: these qualities lead to physical and spiritual healing."

So I am glad that I went. I am glad that I shared laughter in memories of him. I feel as if the afternoon was filled with goodness--good people, good times, good food, good memories.

I will keep remembering his words that I am not in·val·id.  I will call that up when I feel small and cast aside in some ways. No I am not in·val·id.

I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you. ~Walt Whitman

A December baby

Yesterday was my father's birthday.  Every year since I began blogging, I have written something about him on his birthday.  Yesterday, I decided to sit with the feelings of missing him and think about the good times we had together.

As I decorated the tree,  I put up the old ornaments that we had when I was a child.  Some of them have been broken, but there are enough to take me back to putting up the tree and all the excitement about Christmas I felt years ago.  My father loved Christmas, maybe because it was his birth month; but I also think that he liked giving and receiving presents. He was sentimental about many things.

I miss him.  I miss family who died this past year.  My father has been dead over 25 years now. But I remember him clearly. I have a few regrets from the years when he was drinking. I believe that he knew in later life how much I loved him and respected him.  He and I are alike in many ways: bluntness, impatience, love of animals, tender hearted, conflicted, respectful, controlling.   Our alikeness may explain why we butted heads so much when I was younger. I didn't like his trying to control me and that's because I had an issue with control too.  As they say, "if you spot it, you've got it."

I know that this is a difficult time of year for so many. So many reminders of what used to be.  We decided to just keep it simple and not have an open house this year. We are going to cook our meal for Christmas Day and be together. And I'll be thinking about my parents, my wife's parents, and all the other family members who are gone. I don't want to dwell on the sadness, but lightly touch on happy memories.

Today my memory is of a day old baby being loved by his mother as his sisters went about the house hold chores. I imagine the neighbors stopped by the farm to see the son born to my grandparents. A December baby born on a snowy day. An early present. Happy birthday, Dad.

Thanksgiving gratitude

We were up early this morning to work on getting Thanksgiving dinner together.  The turkey is in the oven and the ham is ready to be baked in another hour.  We aren't serving the old Smithfield ham that my father would cook when I was a child. That ham was salty and had a strong flavor which was the way old time Virginians liked their ham.  And the leftover ham would be served with biscuits for many days after Thanksgiving was over. But we are fixing sage dressing, butternut squash soup, corn pudding, yams, garlic mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, apple and pumpkin pies.

I can't help but be nostalgic about the Thanksgiving days of long ago when my father would carve the turkey and the ham with the bone- handled knife that has been in the family for generations.  My mother would have a tray of spiced apples and peaches and sweet pickles.  There would be mince and sweet potato pies with real churned ice cream. After dinner, everyone would retire to the living room where a fire would be burning in the fireplace. Those are some good memories.

But we are making new memories today. We have a fire going and friends coming over in the afternoon for dinner.  It may not be the same without any family here, but there is a lineage of good feelings and gratitude on this day. I am grateful for the time I did spend with family on Thanksgiving day. Those memories are precious and worth holding onto. And they carry me into this day. Happy Thanksgiving everyone.

The lights are still up

It's traditional for us to take down the Christmas lights and tree on New Year's Day.  I will miss the lights and the tree, but I have to say that I'm glad Christmas is over.  It was relatively free of pain, except for Christmas day. 

On Christmas morning, we fixed a nice breakfast and my wife unwrapped her gifts.  I surprised her with a few things this year, even though we had agreed not to buy each other anything. I simply had to get her some things for her stocking and a few other odds and ends.  All of that was happy.  

The sad part came when we visited her parents.  Her mother didn't recognize either of us.  She talked a bit but was pretty much focused on not eating her lunch.  We didn't stay long.  Then we drove to the nursing home to visit C.'s dad.  He was in bed and wasn't feeling well.  So we left his presents there for him. 

No matter how hard I try, the expectation of Christmas day seems to get to me.  Both of us were sad about the parents.  We know that there is nothing that can be done, but it is still hard to see them in such decline.  On Christmas night, I felt so very sad.  

I thought about my parents who were married near Christmas.  And that my mother used to show me an old perfume bottle that held Nuit de Noel (Christmas Night) which was a gift from my father to her.  I had thoughts of my parents, missing them, and wondering what it is like to be over 90 years old, sick in body and demented as my wife's parents are.  And I wondered how I would get through hosting a party the next day.  

Even though the day after Christmas was rainy and windy,  both of us felt better as if the weight of previous day was past. By the afternoon, the rain had stopped,  and the day turned clear and sunny.  We had a great time at the party, enjoyed seeing others have a good time, and were happy for so many friends in recovery.  I think that filling the house with people is a good idea.  Their presence chases away the memories of past Christmases that this year seem too much.  

So on this eve of New Year's eve,  I feel content.  The lights are still up.  It's cold outside but a warm fire is burning in the house.   I have had a good weekend of reading and relaxing. I went to a couple of meetings, including an open AA speaker meeting.  I feel back in balance.  

One of the important things that I've learned in recovery is that if I feel sad, I can share it because someone out there will know exactly what I am talking about and will be feeling just as sad/lost/alone as I do.  The friends that I have now were strangers to me at one time.  Who knows what friends I will have tomorrow.   

December 10

Today is my father's birthday.  He was born in the big farm house on a snowy morning in Virginia. I talked to a very elderly lady many years ago who remembered how my father's elder sister ran across the fields to tell the neighbors of his birth. It was a happy occasion that a son was born. It gave me a lot of pleasure to hear about his birth from someone who had been there and seen him when he was a baby.

My father would share a lot of stories about growing up on the farm. He told me about getting up on cold mornings and running down the stairs to stand in front of the fire in the dining room to get dressed. He told me about mornings that he and his father would ride on horseback for several miles to meet up with other riders for fox hunting. He told me about hog killing time and curing of meat in the smoke house.

He lived in another time. He never forgot the community though and would go to visit old neighbors whenever he could. At Christmas, he would take gifts to those old timers that lived near his birthplace.

The farm was sold and the old farmhouse fell into disrepair. At least I have photos of it. And I did an oil painting of it when I was a teenager. I remember going in the farm house and seeing my father's room upstairs.  I wish that I had photographed it.  The house was empty then, with only the echoes from his past still present : His room just as he had lived in it as a child. I always thought that was sad and developed a feeling at that time that houses have souls too. I still believe that.

Most of the people that he grew up with have died. All of his siblings are dead.  One died from alcoholism. Her daughter died from the disease as well. I don't know what happened along the way in life for her or my father to have decided that drinking was a source of solace. It's a question that everyone asks who has an alcoholic relative. How did the child born in innocence become tainted by something so destructive?

Anyway, I guess all this rambling is to tell you that I still miss my dad. I would like for him to know that I'm thinking about him on his birthday. When I was a child, my mother and I would surprise him with presents and a home made card. After I was out of the home and married, my wife and I would take him presents. He seemed to always enjoy this special day.  I like to think that his spirit lives on in me.

Camp cooking and yearbooks

This is what is left of the kitchen after the cabinets and cooking island were removed.  The rugs are gone now as well, shaken, vacuumed and put away.  We are waiting for the sheetrock, plumbing, and electrical people to start.  Removal of the cabinets was a long process.  I worked with the handyman who helps out around here, and we got them off the wall, labeled each door and cabinet, and put them onto a truck to be shipped to a lady who is buying them.  It was a lot of work!

The adventure of camp cooking has begun.  The first night we had Chinese takeout.  Last night, we grilled vegetables and salmon on the outdoor gas grill.  Thankfully, we still have the refrigerator and the freezer as well as a microwave. And we actually enjoying this interlude of simple cooking.  

The cold that I had is gone. Must have been a mild one, thankfully.  Between feeling under the weather and doing the demolition work here, I haven't been to the boat in a few days.  So I'm going to check up on things there and maybe we will spend the night at the marina.  I don't think that the workmen will start until Monday at the earliest. 

I did spend a few hours yesterday morning with a fellow I sponsor.  It was good to get out of the house and take a drive to meet up with him.  He is so grateful to have someone to share his story with, and I'm grateful that he is so willing to do the work in recovery.  He is going to the convention this winter and wants to help me with one of the workshops that our district is doing. I know that I'll need his help.  I need to get through this remodeling before I can give much thought to anything else. 

Last night, I stayed up late reading what people had written in my high school year books.  I went through the writings from Sophomore through Senior year.  Aside from the usual stuff about having a good summer,  I was struck by how many people who wrote what a great friend I had been and how much I helped them with their studies.  Some wrote that I had the best sense of humor. Teachers wrote that I would be a good scientist one day.  I frankly don't remember much that was good from those days, but obviously others had a different take.  Perhaps my memories are just selective or skewed,  and I have chosen to focus on the pain and not the joy or the friendship.  I honestly don't know what is real or not from back then.  But I am warmed by the idea that so many did like me and call me friend. 

And the importance that writing in a year book took on was obvious.  There were reserved pages and lots of angst poured out on those pages.  I thought that this captured that by-gone era pretty well. It's from an article in New Yorker magazine:

"When you wrote in someone’s yearbook, you only had one shot. The message could be clever or sappy or crass, but you couldn’t spend all day on it and you couldn’t revise. As a teen-ager, I was obsessed with this idea—the yearbook-signing as a work of art. I knew what I didn’t like: vagaries (“we had some fun times”); empty promises (“let’s hang out this summer”); clichés (“stay sweet”). I prepared a mental list of friends and acquaintances, and drafted elaborate messages in my head. Just what I was after with all of this is hard to say. Did I think of myself as a writer? As a shy kid, I may have hoped that people who didn’t seem to notice me in real life would find me charming on the page.

These days I don’t thumb through my old yearbooks very often. The pages themselves seem to smell of adolescent angst, and trips down memory lane, while sometimes pleasant, are often embarrassing. But then again, isn’t that what yearbooks are all about? They’re time capsules, not live feeds. The foolish things that we wore, loved, wrote, and worried over are all there, preserved for us to cringe over later. We can’t edit them out, or bury them in a flurry of tweets."

The reunion

I am back home after one of the best times I have had.  The HS reunion was a blast.  For some reason, I knew that it was the right time to go and am so glad that I did.

The venue was great.  The event was held on a large farm owned by classmates who married after HS.  They have a lot of huge farm equipment, a crop dusting plane and a helicopter. The latter was in operation for most of the time of the reunion because R. was giving rides to anyone who wanted to go.  He and his wife A. had set up many tables in their plane hanger and each was decorated with chrysanthemums.  The photos will speak to the event much better than my words.

I reconnected with so many people I hadn't seen since graduation.  And, yes, many of them still live in the county where they grew up.  But everyone was funny and engaging.  One fellow told me that he never had a shot at the good looking girls or the smart ones, so when he married one of the most popular girls he definitely "married up".  Another school friend said that he would do his best to cheat off my paper in the math classes where he sat behind me.

So many people would come over and shake my hand or give me a hug, recognizing me after all these years.  I have to say that more people recognized me than I them.  Loss of hair and weight gain made it hard for me to tell who most were.  I had to look at the name and the photo on the badges.  I still have hair and haven't changed much in weight.  I apparently got taller too! What mattered was that once we recognized each other, there was sheer joy.

I saw several of my old teachers.  Mrs. P. who taught me algebra, geometry and trig was there.  And I talked to my former political science and government teacher.  I am grateful for the good education I received from them and others.  Mrs. P. was tough and had old school gentility.  She wasn't a particularly likable person, but I found out later that she had a difficult husband and her only child who was a wild fellow, died in an accident.  Knowing the burdens that others have makes it easier to understand their behavior.    

I saw my old girlfriend from HS and some other ladies that I dated.  My former girlfriend came up behind me and put her arms around me.  It was nice to talk with her and find out about her life.  She has twin boys and lives in California.  I also talked to another lady who has known me since first grade!  We had a great time laughing about the adventures we had growing up. She remembered that I would keep trying to crawl out of the classroom in first grade and that I stood in the corner a lot!

Several of my classmates have died--some by suicide.  The girl that I took to the prom my senior year killed herself a few years ago.  A memorial table had been set up for those who died.  That was a nice touch and a reminder that I'm glad to still be here.

I went to this event with low expectations, and I came away with a wonderful feeling of friendship.  I made amends to those that I thought I had wronged. I don't care that most of these people have different political or religious views or that they didn't go to college. We didn't talk about any of that.  We just shared what it was like, what happened, and what it's like now--just telling our stories to each other and connecting in a good way.  I've already signed up to go to the next one!

And here are some photos from my home town. So glad to know that I can go home again.

near the Court House

Main Street 

Looking north on Main Street

The old Ordinary (or tavern) dating to the 1700's

The old library where I checked out so many books

The former drug store where I read comics

Family graveyard

One of the old places that I remember, badly in need of restoration now

Going back

I am leaving in an hour to travel to my home town.  I'll be getting together with some people I haven't seen in decades.  We went our separate ways--some stayed in the town, others moved far away.  It will be interesting to hear their stories, take some photos and see where life has taken each of us.

I haven't been back to my home town in a couple of years.  I'll go by the family plot and visit the graves of my parents and grandparents and other ancestors.  It's a quiet spot.  I'm not sure why I go back to the grave site really.  I guess there is some feeling of obligation, but I know that all these who are dead and gone are part of the greater energy now.  They don't dwell in these graves.

I was glad to get away from where I grew up.  Now I'm looking forward to visiting.  Someone asked if I would want to live there again.  Not a chance.  Life is good right here.  I am happy that somehow I was transplanted to this place.  Besides, the town where I lived is not the same.  My mind still tells me that it's the same.  It's a lot like waking up after many long years of sleep and seeing how everything has changed.  It's a bit of a shock really.


I read Thomas Wolfe so many years ago.  His words "You Can't Go Home Again" meant to me that attempts to reconnect with childhood memories will fail. But I know how things have changed. I'm not attempting to relive my youth there.  I'm going back to see people who I may not see again.  A connection and a chance to make a living amends.  I'll be up there for two days.  That's enough time.


“I believe that one can never leave home. I believe that one carries the shadows, the dreams, the fears and the dragons of home under one's skin, at the extreme corners of one's eyes and possibly in the gristle of the earlobe.” ― Maya Angelou

My Memorial Day Remembrance

The following are facts. What isn't revealed is the suffering of so many, the human face that goes with each casualty and those who are left behind to mourn.  I never knew the story until I did research about my family and the letters and poems left behind by a mother who lost her only son.

"The 80th Division set sail aboard the SS Queen Mary on July 4, 1944, landing a few days later on July 7 at Greenock, Firth of Clyde, Scotland. The arrival of the 80th Division in England brought the European Theater of Operations total of U.S. Divisions to 22: 14 infantry, 6 armored, and 2 airborne.

The Division proceeded south to Northwich, England via trains for additional training. Training included learning how to waterproof equipment for the upcoming channel crossing. The Division crossed the English Channel in LSTs and Liberty Ships landing in Normandy on Utah Beach shortly after noon on August 2, 1944, D-Day + 57 and assembled near St. Jores, France. A few days later on August 8, 1944, the 80th was initiated into battle when it took over the LeMans bridgehead.

By the end of the war, May 7, 1945, the 80th Division had seen 277 days of combat. It had captured 212,295 enemy soldiers. The 80th Division returned to the United States in January 1946, after spending time in Europe helping to restore and keep peace after the war. The 80th Division had been one of the stalwarts of Patton's Third Army, but it cost them dearly. During their 277 days of combat, the 80th Infantry Division had 17,087 casualties:

Killed in Action	3,038
Wounded	12,484
Missing	488
Captured	1,077
Total Casualties	17,087

According to reports, the 80th Division's "bloodiest day" was 8 October 1944, where approximately 115 Men lost their lives. The "bloodiest month" was September, 1944.

The words on the marker for her dead son who lay buried elsewhere read:

Memorial
To my Son
First Lieutenant Harry Lewis Sadler
Killed in Action Sept 13, 1944
Buried Lorraine France

The other facts are: 

Harry L. Sadler

Captain, U.S. Army

318th Infantry Regiment, 80th Infantry Divison

Entered the Service from: New Jersey

Died: 13-Sep-44

Buried at: Plot F Row 15 Grave 37

Lorraine American Cemetery

St. Avold, France

Awards: Purple Heart

No one else in my family died in a war.  My mother told me that my great grandfather made it back to his home after the surrender at Appomattox with his horse, Old Rock.  He was wounded at Gettysburg, July 2, 1963. He was shot twice the same day. The first wound so disabled him that he could not walk. He attempted to crawl off the field when a fuse plug out of a bomb shell entered his side and lodged under his backbone. He was considered mortally wounded; fell into enemies and was a prisoner for 9 months at Port Lookout, MD. This was a terrible wound and greatly shortened his days. He was at Appomattox Court House and was paroled on April 9, 1865.  My grandmother was only 2 months old when he died.

My uncle was at Normandy Beach and did not talk about what he saw.  I used to wear his uniform which was many sizes too big for me. Another uncle was captain of a troop ship and carried many troops to their destination in World War II.  I have no idea of the sacrifices they made and cannot conjure up what it was like for them.

 To the dead, so many of them lying where few visit or even know the struggle on that ground, I wonder about the brutality of it all,  perhaps as the poet Langston Hughes did:

Ice-cold passion
And a bitter breath
Adorned the bed
Of Youth and Death –
Youth, the young soldier
Who went to the wars
And embraced white Death,
The vilest of whores.

Now we spread roses
Over your tomb –
We who sent you
To your doom.
Now we make soft speeches
And sob soft cries
And throw soft flowers
And utter soft lies.

We would mould you in metal
And carve you in stone,
Not daring to make statue
Of your dead flesh and bone,
Not daring to mention
The bitter breath
Nor the ice-cold passion
Of your love-night with Death

We make soft speeches.
We sob soft cries
We throw soft flowers,
And utter soft lies.
And you who were young
When you went to the wars
Have lost your youth now
With the vilest of whores.

Old Year reflections

So it's goodbye to 2011.  I honestly don't know where the time went.  But it has receded in hours, minutes and seconds until there is nothing left, except the memories.  And here are a few of mine:

1. That day last February when my wife said that she was having a heart attack.  She recovered, made life style changes, and is grateful to be alive.  Me too.

2. The passing of some great dogs--Timmi and Stella.  You were here for too short a time.  

3. The aging process and seeing the decline in my wife's parents.  I have learned a lot about compassion for the very old who are sick. And I have learned about my limitations. 

4. The boat, the water, the beach--my own sanctuary which I have come to find as necessary as breathing.  And the island where I live is a place of quiet and peace too. 

5. Saying goodbye to my sponsor who moved away. He was there for me from the beginning.  Poignant but accepting that we all have to move on.  

6.  Growing in recovery and applying the principles to my life.  Al-Anon has taught me about acceptance, love, spirituality, compassion, faith, honesty, and hope. So many positive things given so freely.  And you bloggers were part of that.  Thanks for being here on the journey. 

7. Taking some maritime courses that stretched my mind.  I learned a lot and had fun in the process. Retirement at my relatively young age has definite rewards. 

8. Expanding my culinary and gardening skills.  The garden has become a joy.  And the vegetables have been incredible.  All the foodies that blog have been inspiring. You know who you are. 

9. Enhanced social and political consciousness.  I don't write much about this, but I have become more and more attuned to social and political issues.  This year was memorable for the social pressures that were front and center in my mind. I worked more with kids to teach them about the environment. 

10.  Loving photography and taking steps to sell some photos.  Entering photo competitions may happen soon.  No matter, I carry my camera everywhere.  The artistic part of me provides balance to the scientific part. 

So those are some of the highlights for me.  Not every day was wonderful but each one presented some lesson.  More will be revealed in the coming year.  

“For last year's words belong to last year's language 

And next year's words await another voice.” ~T.S. Eliot

My father's birthday

Today is my father's birthday. I thought that I would share some of my memories of him.

My father enjoyed his birthday. The day meant something special to him. When I was a kid, my mother and I would surprise him with presents and a home made card. I wanted to make sure that I had a nice present for him.

I can remember a set of cuff links that we bought. He wore them many times and they seemed to accent his starched white shirt. I still have those cuff links as well as many other things that belonged to my dad.

After I was out of the home and married, my wife and I would take him presents. He was always appreciative of our thinking of him. I could tell that he still had that little bit of child within him on this day.

He was born in the big farm house on a snowy morning in Virginia. I talked to a very elderly lady many years ago who remembered how my father's elder sister ran across the snowy fields to tell the neighbors of his birth. It was a happy occasion that a son was born.

After he died, it gave me a lot of pleasure to hear about his birth from someone who had been there and seen him when he was a baby. It made him seem alive in their memory of him.

My father would share a lot of stories about growing up on the farm. He told me about getting up on cold mornings and running down the stairs to stand in front of the fire in the dining room to get dressed. He told me about mornings that he and his father would ride on horseback for several miles to meet up with other riders for fox hunting. He told me about hog killing time and curing of meat in the smoke house. He shared about oystering and fishing on the family schooner. It was a different day and time back then. But I was spellbound by his stories.

One of the more poignant things that he told me was that for Christmas there would be candy and an orange or apple in his stocking. This would make me cry because of guilt that I got so much. I think now that my father might have been doing a bit of manipulating as his parents weren't poor. Maybe it was his way of making me feel grateful for those things that I received.

He never forgot the community though and would go to visit old neighbors whenever he could. At Christmas, he would take gifts to those old timers that lived near his birthplace. He enjoyed sitting around a fire and talking to them about the old times. I believe that he was a romantic at heart.

The farm was sold and the old farmhouse fell into disrepair. At least I have photos of it. And I did an oil painting of it when I was a young teenager. I remember going in the farm house and seeing my father's room upstairs. The house was empty then, with only the echoes from his past still present. I always thought that was sad and developed a feeling at that time that houses have souls too. I still believe that.

Many of the people that he grew up with have died. All of his siblings are dead. One died from alcoholism. I don't know what happened along the way in life for her or my father to have decided that drinking was a source of solace. It's a question that everyone asks who has an alcoholic relative. How did the child born in innocence become tainted by life?

Anyway, I guess all this rambling is to tell you that I still miss my dad. I would like for him to know that I'm thinking about him on his birthday. I like to think that his spirit lives on in me.

Sunday afternoon

It is already Sunday afternoon, and it seems that the weekend has flown past. I did not get any varnishing done because of a few stray rain squalls. The wind has been howling for a few days and will likely continue over the next two. I am hoping it will lay down for the sail up the coast on Thursday.

I am gradually getting over the respiratory virus. I am still coughing some and my appetite is negligible. Maybe I am done with being sick for the rest of the winter. I hope so.

For some reason, I had thoughts of the little place that I rented when I was in graduate school. I was in love and living alone. But, C. and I managed to spend our days working together and most of our nights sleeping together. There were parties then--wild and crazy intellectual conversations fueled by drink and marijuana. Some parties were about ten people getting together, while others included all the students, staff and professors. There were great bonfires by the water in winter, while in summer, we swam and played volleyball.

So many of us went on to be professors, federal or state researchers, heads of agencies. We played and worked hard, mostly taking ourselves very seriously. I remember how incensed C. was when she was asked by a dean of a prestigious school to which she had applied for the Ph.D, "Are you coming here to study or will you look for a husband and then leave?" She was one of the few women in the field then. Having to be better than the men was necessary, and there was a lot of bias against women. But she persevered, wrote the Dean to say she would not be coming after she had been accepted, and opted to complete her Ph.D at William and Mary.

I have enormous respect for those who overcome obstacles to achieve their goals. Some days, I miss our impetuous youth when anything seemed possible and nothing seemed too difficult. I remember those days like they were yesterday. Is this what happens when you reach middle age--remembering what it was like back when?

Memory making

We came back to the marina just in time.  A bad thunderstorm hit not long after we arrived.  So we cooked dinner on the boat and peeked out at the electrical light show that was going on.  At last, we were able to make our way home where a good hot shower felt wonderful. The main thing that I miss on the boat is taking a thorough fresh water shower.  The cock pit showers are more about washing off the salt water.  But on a hot day, any fresh water that is cool feels good.

It was a really nice weekend.  Once again, the magic of being on the water and being surrounded by so much beauty fills me with such gratitude.  These moments are the memories that are stored up for the future when things aren't going quite so well.  They give me something to draw from, like a sip of water to quench thirst.

I am glad that most of the memories are still there for me to turn over in my mind.  And my memory is jogged by the events that I write down in my journal which I have been keeping for years.  When I first began writing, I seemed to focus on the pain in my life.  There was so much unhappiness that I blamed on others.  It was really unfair.  I didn't look at myself and what my part was.  As the years have gone by,  I find a different flavor to what I write.  I don't complain as much and don't blame what happened on others.  There definitely is something very different in my attitude, which I attribute to having a better understanding of myself through Al-Anon.  I have become more aware. 

One of the greatest changes in my life now is seeing the humor in things that happen.  We are easy with each other and spend a lot of time simply enjoying each others' company. We sing, dance, hug and hold each other close.  I suppose after being married for a while that is a good thing.  Sadly, I know that there are people who are living in terrible circumstances related to alcoholism.  Their lives are like a dirge every day.  What is to be gained by staying in a relationship with someone who you loathe?  What is the point of being a hostile martyr?  I know that I could not have continued on another week living with active alcoholism.  It had beat me down to the point that I had nothing good to draw from.  There were no memories that could breathe life back into the relationship. 

Or so I thought.  I find that I don't focus on the terrible things that happened.  I think about the good times that we had camping and fishing.  The love that we had for our first dog who went with us everywhere.  Buying our first house and the dreams that we shared about it.  All these could be picked apart to concentrate on the role that alcoholism played.  But today I am preferring to focus on all those good times.  And it seems that with both of us in recovery programs, there is reasonable probability of the good times that we are now experiencing being the memories that we will hold dear in the future.

About Michael

I had to go to see our attorney today to sign a health directive.  We thought it would be a good idea and would complement our living wills.  The attorney and I were talking about how who would be the designees to carry out the directives.  I was reminded once again of how small my living family is.  There simply aren't many relatives that I are still around or who I know.

All of this reminded me of a first cousin that I haven't seen in 30 years.  He was older than I and was the only child of my father's youngest sister.  I didn't know him well since the only time we interacted was when we would go to visit my aunt who lived in another state.  I remember Michael had an aquarium, and he liked to show me his fish.  He pretty much stayed in his room most of the time while we were there, except for the times that he would go out with his friends. 

When he was a junior in high school, we all went on a trip together to New York.  He was shopping around for a college to attend.  I don't recall all the details but remember my father became very angry and had words with Michael when he wanted to be driven to visit Cornell.  My father was doing much of the driving and was irritable.  He yelled at Michael who yelled back.  I remember feeling terrible because they both were saying unkind things to each other. 

Later, I would hear my parents talking about Michael, voicing their suspicions that he was gay.  Those prejudicial accusations seemed so wrong at the time and seem even more horrendous today.  His mother suddenly died, he was drafted into the service, and for some reason that I can't understand he was cut off by my father and his other sister.  It was as if he never existed.  I would ask about him, but was told that he probably was dead.  Of course he wasn't.

Later when I was a senior in college, he came to visit us.  I was home on spring break, and he drove down from DC to see the relatives.  I talked with him about my studies and graduate school.  He seemed interested and promised to keep in touch.  But that was the last time I heard from him. Whether my father and mother ever heard from him again is something they took to their grave.

Now as I think back on this,  I am sorry that he was treated so badly by my father.  I have a regret that I didn't get to know him better.  And I wish that I knew what had happened to him.  I don't know whether he is alive.  I am going to do some searching online to see if I can find out more about him.  I realize that I am not responsible for the actions of others or for their injustices.  I do feel that I could have done more to let him know that I didn't dislike him.  It seems totally unfair to have chopped off this branch on the small family tree.

I am glad that I thought about Michael today.  The memories that we have of people, no matter how small and inadequate,  are perhaps a way to honor them so they are not entirely forgotten.

Addendum: I learned this afternoon that Michael died in 1995 in San Francisco.

Letters to the dead

I have had some old letters on my mind today.  For some reason,  I can't get them off my mind.  I discovered them years ago when I closed the estate of an aunt in Virginia.  Among the possessions were a number of daily spiritual readers.  Inside the front and back covers of the books were letters that she had written to her son who was killed in action in France on September 13, 1944.

Throughout the book are notes written in the margins.  I believe that these daily readers sustained her in the days and years after her son was killed.  She poured out her feelings and her sorrow and her faith on these pages.

I am not a fan of war.  I hope that there will not be any more wars.  I want to remember the brave people who fought for us, but also to remember the tragedies of history so as not to repeat them.  So I've copied down excerpts from her letters here to remind me of the sacrifice and the tragedy of war.

Dear Son,
It is April 28, 1945.  I am visiting in a place of beautiful lakes, stately oaks and glorious flowers of all kinds that bedeck the sidewalks and gardens. The gray moss waves in the branches of the trees and glistens like silver making a picture so real that I marvel at the power of nature and God's wisdom in creating a world so restful and artistic.  

I came here two months ago.  Like many other mothers the world over, I had received a message: "The War Department Regrets." This message changed the whole course of your life, and a world of happiness becomes sadness and grief.  How foolish to run from sorrow.  Your loss, dear son, is so much apart of me, there is no escape. 

It has been said "We die the death inherent in our lives." We get the kind of death that our nature's attract.  The brave die adventurously.  You knew no fear and loved adventure.  Your bravery was so fully proven in facing death.  

God help me to accept with uncomplaining grace my heart breaking sorrow, and to carry on until such time, when I am called to sleep the sleep from which we wake no more.  And I pray, I will be worthy of meeting you son, who did and gave so much that my remaining years be spent in a land of peace.  Until we meet my dear, rest in peace.  
Mother

Monday afternoon, October 22, 1945
Dear Son,
A lieutenant buddy of yours came to see me today.  He had just returned from France.  He was with you when you were wounded and spoke with you before you passed on. 

He said you gave your life that many men could be saved.  He pictured you as a hero, loved by all and a true friend to the end.  I was so glad that he came for it seemed like a message from the beyond saying "Mother, chin up. I won't be back, I'm just away."
God bless you, my child. 
Mother

Letter to my son May 13, 1945
A day to remember son.  It's Mother's Day.  A day of prayer of victory in Europe. Eight months ago today you gave your young life paving the way, making this victory come true. 

There will be no roses for me today.  No message resting in the scented box saying "I love you Mother" for the boy who never forgot to remember isn't here any more. 

But dear I feel you know that the memories of those days are so alive and real that I will relive them so completely, that when the sun rests tonight in the west, it will be almost as if you were here.  
Mother

April 28, 1946

Dear Son, 
Tonight it came over the radio that the war in the West was over.  You dear will never know what a battle I fought.  I have to be happy for other mothers more fortunate than I.  I went out and took a walk with the little dog.  

There came over me a peace in the thought that you when in a football game, never cared how you came out as long as your team won.  Well, your team is winning now.  You paid an awful price my dear, but knowing you as I do, I know you would not think that price too high for complete victory.  I feel you must know when your team will reach the goal line, and your spirit will be there when the score is read the world over. 
My love,
Mother

And in the overleaf of the book where she wrote these letters, here is her hope:
"If ever you are burdened down
By the loss of those you love.
Just take this book, and turn the page
Meditate and think.

The consolation you'll obtain will give you strength and peace again.
In helping others, we forget
The cross we have to bear.
And trusting God to guide our steps,
We enter heaven by prayer. "

Amen to that.

Celebrate myself

We went fishing this morning, taking the john boat out to a creek lined with oysters.  We cast plugs into the riffles of ebbing tide and were rewarded by catching (and releasing) six spot tail bass.  Eating our sandwiches and drinking our tea, we enjoyed watching the oyster catchers as they walked on the bank looking for the occasional crab.  They are beautiful, just as the marsh is beautiful and the fish that swim at its edges.  It was a wonderful way to spend most of the day.

Yesterday I attended the memorial service for a long-time member of the Al-Anon program.  It was a simple service of the kind that he would have liked.  One of his favorite slogans was Keep It Simple.  There was some Mozart played, which offered a perfect opportunity to meditate and clear the head of unnecessary thoughts.  A few people got up to speak about what a gentle and kind soul this fellow was.  He sponsored quite a few people, attended meetings right up to the last few weeks of his life and truly showed what it was like to not complain even as he lay dying.  He said that he thought that death was just another part of the journey and a great adventure to really see what was beyond.

How appropriate that a part of one of my favorite poems "Song of Myself" by Walt Whitman was read.  I think that this captures the spirit of someone who realizes that death is an adventurous trip into the unknown. 

What do you think has become of the young and old men?
And what do you think has become of the women and children?

They are alive and well somewhere,
The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the
end to arrest it,
And ceas'd the moment life appear'd.

All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.

Has any one supposed it lucky to be born?
I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I know it.

And my favorite part of Song of Myself is the following:

I celebrate myself, and sing myself,

And what I assume you shall assume,

For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

This tells me that we are not really separate as we would like to think. We are all in this together, kindred souls on a great journey.  And what a great journey it is.

Golden light

As most of you know I really like photography.  It is a great hobby and often a challenge to capture a scene that is breathtaking to my eye.  Some of the photos on my blog were set up on a tripod with timer but the rest were ones that I shot just standing and looking for something to catch my eye.  And my wife has snapped several of me that she found particularly amusing.  I use a Nikon D90 digital SLR. It's a great camera in my opinion. I carry about 4 lenses with me and also carry along my old Nikon D70 which is old but my first digital camera. I still have a string of old Nikon SLR's from the film days that are in great shape. 

Photography is something that allows me to try to capture the world around me. Some of what I photograph is beautiful and some of it is not beautiful in a conventional sense. I have a fascination with tugboats but they aren't really beautiful to most people.  I like old houses because they seem to be forgotten, yet still have a heart and soul.  And of course, I like to photograph anything to do with the ocean and estuary.

It's hard to describe how it feels to get a shot that you really like. I take lots of photos but sometimes I can't capture what my eye sees. I think that's the challenge of photography. There is so much more to it than just the mechanics--there's feeling and light and all the many nuances that surround you at the moment that you see something you want to capture forever. There aren't many ways to capture those golden moments or that special feeling. It stays in your mind for a while but to have an image of it that will last....well, that's pretty neat.

I still look at those old Kodak black and whites from my childhood. My memory of that time is pretty dim but when I see the photos, I can see things so much better.  I see the little kid who looks a bit tentative but is smiling. I see my beautiful mother and handsome father holding me.  I can't tell whether they are happy or not.  I look closer and see that my mother often looks tired.  My father looks proud but also old because his hair was already completely gray when I was born.  I was the baby born when they were in their early 40's--an unexpected arrival.

I see the progression of images in old photo albums that show me getting taller.  The eyes show a much older kid than what is pictured and the smile is brave, almost resigned.  I have a few photos showing me in full blown happiness--laughing with my cousin in a pool, playing with the dog, riding my horse.  I wish that I could remember each and every one of those days.  But they have all run together for the most part.  I catch glimpses of them through the photos and those trigger some memories that make me smile or make me pensive.  Photos don't capture the feelings but evoke them.

The photos I take today will be the ones that I will look back on in years to come.  I hope that they  will have preserved those things that are important to me so that I can look back and conjure up something magical as time goes by.

Life's a Beach Somedays

After the rain last night, it cooled off a bit today.  At least enough for us to get a good row in with the group.  We were all mindful of our missing friend E. but put our backs into pulling on the oars.  We didn't talk a whole lot but towards the end of the row when we were heading back to the marina at a good clip with the tide running in our favor, we were laughing.  The racing boats were out for their afternoon practice with their multi-hued spinnakers billowing.  It was all really wonderful to be on the water and to be alive.

When I was going through some things in my office, I found an old photo of me with my older cousin.  We were shirtless and barefoot.  Just two kids having a great time without a care in the world.  It was a day like that today.  I could feel that kind of freedom like I experienced when I was a kid running wild through the woods and fields during summer break.  Those first few days when I was out of school with the whole summer stretched before me were wonderful times.

Back then, when life was a lot simpler, I didn't put on shoes except on Sunday, would play all day doing something, and really had only minimal problems to deal with. I would mostly try to figure out how to have a good time with my cousin without getting punished by an adult. Since he was three years older, I generally was the fall guy for most of our antics. Those summer days were magical, and the nights spent on the porch listening to some far off radio station were serene.  I would listen to music that wasn't played on our local station.  Sometimes I would fall asleep on the old glider on the porch and spend the night there without a care in the world.  Knowing that the next day would bring new adventures was enough for me.

Retirement is feeling like an endless summer vacation so far.  I'm finding that it's possible to recapture that feeling of freedom and fun. I'm still a kid at heart, and I'm enjoying the new life that I've found.  I may occasionally feel a bit undone without a formal schedule, but I can tell that I'm getting used to setting my own hours.  No shirt, no shoes, no problem..... Just for today Life's a Beach.

A morning at the beach

Yesterday morning, I took my old Labrador and went over to a memorial service for K.'s freinds and their dogs at the beach.  It was a nice tribute with all of us standing in a circle to say a few words about K. and what she meant to each of us.  The dogs milled about our legs and my old girl sat down in the center of the circle. 

Here are some photos to catch the flavor of the event.  There was a little breeze and having it early in the morning allowed the dogs to run free for a while.  After the service we went to breakfast which was good.

The path out to the beach

Flowers along the way

Running and having fun

My old heart dog in the center of the circle

Expressing love all who remember K.

 So far today, I have done the watering of several flower beds and picked some vegetables. I also loaded up three dogs and took them to doggy park. They had a good time there. Tonight is my home group meeting.  I will go to that and have a sponsee meeting before hand. 

I've talked to C. several times yesterday and today.  She is enjoying the beach, cooking seafood, and doing some touring around.  She said that the weather is delightful.  It is still hot and humid here. But I am grateful for AC that manages to cool me down between doing chores outside. 

Hope that your Monday is going well. I'm enjoying this life without a work schedule.  The harness has finally slipped off my shoulders and I seem to be wearing the loose garment of retirement well.

Going back

I left early this morning to head back. This trip has included a nostalgic return to places where I was supremely happy in my youth. I wrote about going back to university and the feelings that generated.

As part of my visiting places along the route, I stopped to see the horse farm where I used to ride. I had a difficult time finding the place. Where there were farm fields that used to have white fences with honeysuckle and sleek thoroughbreds grazing, there were now large homes. These homes were of the "pretend" stately variety. And they were everywhere.

I finally stopped at the tiny post office to ask where the farm was. The post mistress told me that the historic farmhouse had burned. The owner never was the same after that and died. A new owner tore down the thoroughbred barn and the fences. The old hay barn was left to disrepair.  He bulldozed a lot of the land to flatten out the rolling hills and is going to develop the property.

I felt sick at heart. There were many happy memories there. What was once there is no longer. Thomas Wolfe wrote "You can't go home again". But I also like this from Sam Ewing, “When you finally go back to your old hometown, you find it wasn't the old home you missed but your childhood”.

Maybe that's where the sadness lies--recalling youthful times. But every day is a memory ready to be made. And years from now I may look back at this time of my life and say, "Remember that May when I went on my trip to old haunts and came back home to the island and one I love."  My program of recovery says that I won't regret the past or wish to shut the door on it. But I want to make some memories this day.