I bought minutes for my phone today, so that I could forward calls from the home phone so that I won't miss any calls from Casey. Priorities. On the date of my last posting, an acquaintance from home lost her husband, a medic in the Army, due to an IED. He was 24. They'd been married for two years. He would send her flowers even while deployed, just so that she could have a living piece of his affection in his absence. Now, he can't even do that. She can call herself an Army Wife. Of course I want a world without war. However, that is a fictional world, a world of civility and rational action, not our world.

Mail Call

I received a Shut-Off notice in the mail yesterday, not to mention that yesterday marked the official 30 days past due on our mortgage, and was reminded as to the precipitous conditions of Casey's departure. It took the threat of financial doom to liberate him from the belief that to join the Army was to compromise his intellect. He could've "saved us" by going back to Chicago with his company and continuing to work in Corporate sales, but instead WE decided to put finances on hold so that he could get back in shape, after all he had been sitting behind a desk for 3 years, to best serve his country. Once a National Champion Track Athlete, I worried as to how the Army would utilize his talents, I didn't want him to get hurt. The decision, though stress inducing was a great one because he was recruited into the Dive Program, "the most physically demanding school in the Army". Neither of us even knew the Army had Divers until he was assigned the MOS. He wanted to join the Army in high school and was reprimanded by family. His recruiting letter from West Point went into a shoe box, only to be discovered by him 15 years later.


He simply seized the opportunity to fulfill a calling he had felt for a long time. He wanted to do this 15 years ago, but came to be ashamed of his desire and locked it away until the moment that he could vindicate his decision (to his own family and friends) with the excuse of economic hardship. What does this say about us, that civic servitude/pride and intellectualism have been polarized?

To be honest I am a bit jealous of him. That he has been able to finally realize his desire despite the criticism and opposition. I feel a bit left behind to man this island and care for it's inhabitants. I do NOT want to be mistaken for a mousey housewife holding down the fort in the absence of it's real protector. I am the one that makes the servitude a possible.

Bless-ed

Frost gathered in each corner of the window's 6 square frames. She was in the basement, baby in a carrier on her back, gathering water in a bucket from the main. He had taken out all the piping. It was black, corroded, and unfit for drinking water. They didn't have the money to replace it quite yet. He was working 10 hours a day, 6 days a week in the factory 30 minutes away for 200 dollars a week. They were saving what they could. Until then, it was just going to be this way. She quietly hummed as she carried the bucket upstairs and heated it on the stove. Once it was warm enough she took the water, and dumped it in the bath tub. 5 more trips and she'd have enough for baths. The baby was fairly content just to be against it's mother. Her toddler played quietly in his room.

The babies bathed in the clean water. Warm water. He and She took turns being last. When baths were done it took another bucket to boil water for their dinner. Oatmeal. The babies got milk. Yet, there was laughter. Lots of laughter. After dinner, she'd sing those babies to sleep "The water is wide. I cannot get or' And neither have I wings to fly. Build me a boat that can carry four, and all shall row my loves and I"

Eventually, she'd finally get the call she had hoped for and start working. Then, it would only be a matter of weeks and they'd have water again. For a time after that, running water was a marvel to them, a quirk most of their family wouldn't understand.

Winter 2003-2004


Ya know, Casey and I have been through hell and back. In 10 years, we've had two kids, finished college, moved 8 times in 4 states, and that's the good stuff. When our kids were 3 and 10 months they were living on raman noodles, plain oatmeal and milk. We've had to do that two more times since then, and even lived in a motel. There have been multiple times when, if chance hadn't provided hand-me-downs the boys little toes would've been curled up and blistered in the ends of their shoes, and they would've been wearing sweatshirts and sweaters as coats for winter. We've had times of prosperity too. Yet, I wouldn't trade "those" times for anything. Seriously, I told Casey just before we were married that I wanted my kids to grow up poor so they'd learn to appreciate the little things. I am glad they have gotten that opportunity. Everything seemed to workout in the end. Recently, when I asked the boys what one of our family traditions were they responded, "love. We always have lots of love in this house." However, Casey, the over achiever that he is, couldn't take another year of these ups and downs. He joined the Army.



At first I was TERRIFIED. Then I realized, "damn, this is a perfect fit for him". Mr. overachiever just got used up and spit up in the corporate world. Now his talents will be utilized, and his work ethic rewarded. Our hardships were, to him, a neon necklace with an arrow pointing at his head that said, "douche bag". It's not going to be easy, but that's sort of been a theme in this family. I think we'll be just fine.

People have asked me, "how are the boys going to handle it?" Sure they'll miss him, cry for him, and probably act out a bit. However, we've been apart from him before, and they've weathered far more arduous circumstances (by a child's yard stick) with tenacious optimism:



She stands outside the school. Crisp air cuts up her coat sleeve. No one talks to her, but they all stare. She shuffles her weight so one knee can bend itself in a gesture of cosmetic confidence. Secretly, she wishes she had mirror to check and see if a little snot snuck down onto her numb upper lip. She runs her mitten under her nose just to be safe. FINALLY! She sees a pair of smiling blue glasses with little blue hat, an unruly strand of blonde hair sneaks out the bottom. "I dot dis foh you, Mommy", a crumpled paper by way of a hug. Now, to collect the brown hatted observer for the walk home. She does so and gladly walks away from the crowd.

"So are you guys excited to get a house?"
"Wioh we get to have Cwistmas pwesents?"
"You get a house, and if we can move in before Christmas you will get to have a tree too."
"So, mom, is Santa going to visit or not?"
"I'm sure he'll bring you something"
"I's wanted one of dose big noeff guns"
"I think Santa was planning on bringing small things for your new room"
"We get to have our own rooms?! Well Okay!!"
"So we won't have to be all in one room anymore?! Can I have a dragon room?"

So the three of them chattered themselves back to the motel room they shared with Him. The paneling smelled of someone's cigarette smoke, a reminder that this was not theirs (thankfully). She made them a dinner of microwaved raman noodles and hot dogs, then homework, bath and bed, all four of them together.

Friday December 23rd at 1pm the 4 of them unlocked their new home. A container in which to treasure their laughter. Each of their exclamations was trailed by a little puff of smoke. She hurriedly, harassed the gas company and Stanley Steamer so that her babies would be warm and safe before bed. Otherwise, it would be a long cold weekend with painful reminders of the previous owners cats Once all was quite she set up a small 2 ft tree, wrapped the paint brushes, a few small toys. She paused to absorb the enormity of this small tree that dared to occupy such a large empty room all by itself. Fitting. Then She crawled up next to her family on the floor. This might end up being her favorite Christmas yet.

That Christmas she felt like an alchemist.

To my Monkey Hamunan

Poor
little
monkey no
one loves. Sky
walking and
carrying the world on
fingertips. A
freckle in the
white. A
blemish punished by
perfection. Stupid
happy
monkey not
knowing he can't
walk on
air, can't
carry the
world without getting
squished,
an
oozey
red
pancake invisible under
ice, his smile
distorted
flat
and unrecognizable.
This straightens my
vertebrae one
by one, and makes
the edges of
my lips
curl
pushing up
my cheeks until
my eyes
disappear, and
my face
gets sore.
Stupid
happy
monkey.

Blue Print

I never dreamed about my Wedding. I didn't care where it happened, or what kind of flowers were used. I didn't even care about the colors. My wedding was, to me, an annoying formality. A necessary evil required in order for me to move forward with what it was I DID fantasize about. My life.

I could describe in detail what my future life would look like. A small house with a big yard, a large garden of vegetables and wild flowers, smoke spiraling out of the chimney, children laughing in the yard. You can't very well accomplish that without a husband, so a wedding was a necessity. After I found the right guy, of course. Not just any ol' guy would do. I also thought all of this would occur after my stint as a revolutionary.

Modified over the years, but the basics were the same. The house, the kids, me having a purpose outside of motherhood/wifehood. Always it seemed effortless to provide this life, after all I wasn't asking for much. I've always been pretty low maintenance.

Here I am nearly half way through this life. In a house near the woods, with children laughing in the yard, my best friend to wake up with every morning and go to bed with every night. Now, in an effort to provide a future for the kids we are thinking of giving it all up. I cling to it with big, jumpy eyes.

I watch the news every morning. When I hear about fallen soldier on the news my eyes well up for their families just before I think to myself, "thank God I don't have to worry about that. If there's one thing I couldn't do it's throw my best friend to chance". Yet, here we are. I am NOT ready to crucify this dream just yet. I am not ready for the daily news to be a weight that squishes my chest until my breath runs away from me. What if I never catch it again?

Letter to my Nephew's "mother"

First, thank you for giving him life, for chosing to let him grow inside of you. However, that in itself, does not make you his mother. Now, everyday, chose again to let him live. Find in yourself the mother's love you've yet to know. The love to put your child's needs ahead of your own desires.

He was ripped from you because you made him an addict before he took his first breath, nursed back to a soulful life by others, and now, now that he can feed, and dress, and wipe himself you want him back? He hasn't even slept at your house, not once, and you want to put him to bed? He barely knows the sound of your voice, because you haven't called, and now you want the privilage of soothing and scolding him?



You gave him life (thank you dearly), but you are not his mother. His mother got up every four hours for years to deliver medicine needed to heal the damage, you caused, to his lungs. His mother worked tirelessly with Occupational Therapists so that he would develop normally, inspite of what your drugs did to him. She loved him even though he, like all children, was a vacuum sucking in her energy, time, love, and giving nothing back. She loved him even though he wasn't hers. Now he is smart, now he can breathe, now he has the opportunity to be ANYTHING. If you want to be his mother leave him where he is. To take him back would be to suffocate him, to place him in a box, to hand him a warrant for his arrest. He's old enough now to know it. If you take him back you will prove that you were never really his mother. Just a woman that gave him a life you planned to use to your own benefit, exactly as your mother did to you. She wronged you.

You ARE beautiful, you ARE intelligent. She condemned you to be just another mom on wellfare, and your daughters will be the same. Your son has the chance to BE something. If you want to be his mother get out of his way, and work to overcome the injustice your mother did to you so that your daughters have a chance to live. You are your daughers only chance. Your son, he has had a village around him his entire life.

From this mother to you, leave him where he has the best chance at the best life and he will love you for it. Take him back, whatever your reason, and when he is grown he will know what you stole from him, and he will hate you for it. His life isn't a social security number, a paycheck, it doesn't belong to you. Just as my children's lives do not belong to me. Some day they will be men (if I succeed), other wives husbands. We are guardians of their futures, and nothing more. Some of us have the luxury to be best suited to be both guardian and teacher. Some of us are best suited as guardian to let some one else be the teacher. That has nothing to do with money, or class, or education. That has to do with LOVE. A mother knows which one she is, and puts her love of her child, her duty as the guardian of his future, ahead of her desire to be his teacher. What exactly do think he'll learn from you, what makes you best suited to teach him to be someone elses husband? The only men, only husbands you've ever encountered were actors on sitcoms. Your daughter's do not know their fathers. You do not know their fathers. Your son's father has been there with him his entire life. Tell me how you'd be better at teaching him to be a man/husband?

WOMAN

I am wearing bear skin. My shoulders sag 

beneath the weight of it. The space inside 

filled with 

tight lips, and stern intolerance. I wonder if my 

mother gave me this.

An Heirloom? 

I see other mothers light, and knowing. As if they were made for this cloak. They carry it with straight up spines. Soft faces, and warm words. I am awkward among them. Quazimoto.

This is my mother's legacy.

I hated her. I hated her fishing. Making me stick hook through worm guts. I hated her roofing our house where everyone could see her dirty, and working like a man. Nawed dirty nails. I hated her, telling me not to care what anyone else thought. I hated her yelling at men in charge. Loud mouth didn't know her place. I hated her not wearing make up. I hated her being hard, not tolerating excuses. I hated her.

I am her.

I watched my mother, Quazi-femella. I know that it takes a stong back to carry such a cloak.

I am glad I am her.

My strong back, precious heirloom.