Seven years ago I met a boy. He was goofy and talked a lot. He was open and lovable. I myself, having just got away from a nasty relationship was more reserved, maybe even closed off. But I had to be as a single mother of two small childen. When I heard he was a marine I thought "oh great". Afterall, I told myself I would not date another marine. His long hair threw me off but there was something about this one that was different.
Less than three months later I was waving goodbye to him. My heart pulled and ached with every churn the buses wheels made over that gravel road that led out of sight. His face framed in the window as he waved. Flags looking on seemed to wave back. Mothers holding strong for their children wore sunglasses in the still of the night air. The dust settled on the road way and yet no one wanted to leave. I didn't know it at that moment but leaving meant carrying on.
I still remember looking at all the marines piling on the bus and taking their seats. Having been to Iraq twice before they knew this was going to be a long 7/8 months. The reality for me looking on was that some of these mothers, husbands, brothers were not coming home. Scanning all the families my heart gave way and soon my sunglasses met my eyes too.
Having only known this guy a short time before he left I was amazed at how much of his things I had. His car was parked outside my apartment and it's title sat in my dresser. His clothes hung in my closet. But what surprised me most was what he had of mine in such a short time, my heart.
A long seven months it was but the effects carry on even longer. The sacrifices they made as well as their families do not grow old even as time carries on. The rubber bracelets enscribed with "in memory of" collect on their wrists and more initials are engraved in their skin. Memories haunt their dreams. Guilt and grief settles in the cracks of their furrowed brows.
The days grow on but no dust shall settle on the memories.
Friday, May 6, 2011
Thursday, April 21, 2011
On a serious note... "GOODBYE"
The fear of knowing,
the fear of not
The worry over a memory
That I may have forgot
For thats all thats left in this void of time
The longing to say goodbye to a dear friend of mine
I remember the phone calls I'd return later
The plans that were too far of a drive.
The many nights we drank to our fallen together,
the guilt of being alive
Now the guns fire their last salute
And the flag is silenty folded.
The bagpipes play one last note
All memories in minds you've molded.
The setting of the red rose
placed on solid ground
The prayers of peace
That I hope you have found
Without the question of why
He hangs his head
I begin to cry
forever we are changed by this goodbye
RIP JASON PETO
the fear of not
The worry over a memory
That I may have forgot
For thats all thats left in this void of time
The longing to say goodbye to a dear friend of mine
I remember the phone calls I'd return later
The plans that were too far of a drive.
The many nights we drank to our fallen together,
the guilt of being alive
Now the guns fire their last salute
And the flag is silenty folded.
The bagpipes play one last note
All memories in minds you've molded.
The setting of the red rose
placed on solid ground
The prayers of peace
That I hope you have found
Without the question of why
He hangs his head
I begin to cry
forever we are changed by this goodbye
RIP JASON PETO
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
What is Normal?
So I've decided that quiet people scare me... You're talking, they nod. You are laughing, they offer a slight smile. You are tossing out all your word vomit, putting it all out there and they are taking it all in. What's up with that?
Have you ever stopped to trap them in silence to see if they will budge? Or better yet, liquored them up hoping that they will cave?
I think this is the reason why I love my husband so much... After years of his offering too much information I grew to know what he was thinking before he could even get a chance to explain it. Sometimes he is open to a fault and with new people this can be quite dangerous. You see, he doesn't get embarrassed but people can always find a way to get offended! Hating to say this and with no disrespect, but I must admit that once I even said in passing that he has turrets to clear the air. (We religiously vote for James Durban on American Idol so my conscience is clear.) The black cloud of judgment was swept away. No more did I fear.
But quiet people are work! They come to your party and you find yourself struggling to make lame small talk so they feel "comfortable". Would you like a drink? (and they decline, CRAP!) Don't you just love Doritos? (they nod, CRAP CRAP!!) What is going on beyond those surveillance eyes of theirs?
So after BOTH attempts of 1) awkward silence (which just about killed ME) and 2) feeding (them) beer, I have come to a firm conclusion.
Similar to those that ride public buses, we know better than to ask why they take them... they are just holding back things that we don't want to hear! Horny, odd, boring, slightly-genius things (for lack of a better word) that will only scare the crap out of us.
We who word vomit our every thought are the new normal. Yup, I said it, normal.
Have you ever stopped to trap them in silence to see if they will budge? Or better yet, liquored them up hoping that they will cave?
I think this is the reason why I love my husband so much... After years of his offering too much information I grew to know what he was thinking before he could even get a chance to explain it. Sometimes he is open to a fault and with new people this can be quite dangerous. You see, he doesn't get embarrassed but people can always find a way to get offended! Hating to say this and with no disrespect, but I must admit that once I even said in passing that he has turrets to clear the air. (We religiously vote for James Durban on American Idol so my conscience is clear.) The black cloud of judgment was swept away. No more did I fear.
But quiet people are work! They come to your party and you find yourself struggling to make lame small talk so they feel "comfortable". Would you like a drink? (and they decline, CRAP!) Don't you just love Doritos? (they nod, CRAP CRAP!!) What is going on beyond those surveillance eyes of theirs?
So after BOTH attempts of 1) awkward silence (which just about killed ME) and 2) feeding (them) beer, I have come to a firm conclusion.
Similar to those that ride public buses, we know better than to ask why they take them... they are just holding back things that we don't want to hear! Horny, odd, boring, slightly-genius things (for lack of a better word) that will only scare the crap out of us.
We who word vomit our every thought are the new normal. Yup, I said it, normal.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Frogger
So I awake this morning with this thought in my head.
Remember that 80's arcade game with that little frog trying to dodge all the cars and make it across the busy roadway? I can still see myself sitting there at our Commodore 64 begging for my turn. Fumbling with the joystick trying to get it to dash forward but afraid of starting. After all, look at all that can crush this cute little frog under my command: giant bugs, cars, huge trucks... No wonder I would sit there and try to time it out in my head. And if (who am I kidding, WHEN) I'd die I would have to hand the controller over and start waiting for my turn all over again.
In my crazy dream last night I was the frog. This time in the craze of my new first person destiny, I went for it. Quickly I was run over by a truck. I couldn't look but it felt like a couple of them may have dragged over me. So there again I sat on the sidelines waiting for my second turn.
Long gone are the days of my DREAM book. So instead I decided to "diagnose thy self". I think my dream is hitting on my odd fear of completing something, ANYTHING really... For those of you that know me best know I have an issue with finishing things.
Boxes of almost done cereal lurks in my pantry, shampoo and conditioner bottles with just a few more drops in them linger on the shower floor, my fireplace door is half painted... You get the idea.
So, I suppose it just makes sense that I am struggling with how to end my novel. FINALLY I'm digging my way out of my own craziness. This book is happening whether I like it or not. Past the giant bugs, whirring sports cars and giant trucks I'm dropping this frog off at the end.
Remember that 80's arcade game with that little frog trying to dodge all the cars and make it across the busy roadway? I can still see myself sitting there at our Commodore 64 begging for my turn. Fumbling with the joystick trying to get it to dash forward but afraid of starting. After all, look at all that can crush this cute little frog under my command: giant bugs, cars, huge trucks... No wonder I would sit there and try to time it out in my head. And if (who am I kidding, WHEN) I'd die I would have to hand the controller over and start waiting for my turn all over again.
In my crazy dream last night I was the frog. This time in the craze of my new first person destiny, I went for it. Quickly I was run over by a truck. I couldn't look but it felt like a couple of them may have dragged over me. So there again I sat on the sidelines waiting for my second turn.
Long gone are the days of my DREAM book. So instead I decided to "diagnose thy self". I think my dream is hitting on my odd fear of completing something, ANYTHING really... For those of you that know me best know I have an issue with finishing things.
Boxes of almost done cereal lurks in my pantry, shampoo and conditioner bottles with just a few more drops in them linger on the shower floor, my fireplace door is half painted... You get the idea.
So, I suppose it just makes sense that I am struggling with how to end my novel. FINALLY I'm digging my way out of my own craziness. This book is happening whether I like it or not. Past the giant bugs, whirring sports cars and giant trucks I'm dropping this frog off at the end.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
The juggler
So when I used to read (you know when i had "time"), I never really thought too much about the person that held the pen and put it to the paper. I suppose if I did I would have imagined someone sitting before their computer following an outline, start to finish.
Now that I'm 120 pages deep I think more about this. My story is a far cry from the quiet reserved time in the desk chair. My moments of creativity seem to arrive at the most unexpected and I'll say it, worst times. Fleeting moments they are, like wishies in the wind you must catch them before they are gone.
So the art of writing a novel is indeed a project in itself. A phrase will pop in my head while driving the kids to school. A paragraph will flood the depths of my mind while bathing in the tub. An even new ideas for future books will captivate and invade my dreams. I've had to overcome and adapt.
I am now an amazing one handed driver while the other blindly cratches words of wisdom in a notebook on the passanger seat (only at stoplights don't worry). A risk taker: as I dare to type on my phone chapter after chapter submerged in the bathtub. My phone walks the plank over the edge of the mighty pirate ship looking down at its almost certain doom daily. An open mind: characters demand my every moment waking me from sleep forcing my ideas onto the paper before they are lost in the whispering night. I try to bat them away until I am ready. One book at a time is enough for me. So now I blog. Supermom: many a packed lunch with a written on napkin, a bill mailed with an unannouced quote, and silly song and dances with my 2 year old as we waltz to the computer to lock away another thought.
My mind is on standby, auto pilot, survival mode. Cold coffee, damp pants from the dryer, beds undone... But the word count grows and the story goes with it. As far as mastering the juggle, I'd say I'm 3 balls in the air and 4 on the floor but then again that's very similar to 120 pages deep now isn't it?
(See I wrote all this on the "throne", who would've thought right?! jk or am I?)
Now that I'm 120 pages deep I think more about this. My story is a far cry from the quiet reserved time in the desk chair. My moments of creativity seem to arrive at the most unexpected and I'll say it, worst times. Fleeting moments they are, like wishies in the wind you must catch them before they are gone.
So the art of writing a novel is indeed a project in itself. A phrase will pop in my head while driving the kids to school. A paragraph will flood the depths of my mind while bathing in the tub. An even new ideas for future books will captivate and invade my dreams. I've had to overcome and adapt.
I am now an amazing one handed driver while the other blindly cratches words of wisdom in a notebook on the passanger seat (only at stoplights don't worry). A risk taker: as I dare to type on my phone chapter after chapter submerged in the bathtub. My phone walks the plank over the edge of the mighty pirate ship looking down at its almost certain doom daily. An open mind: characters demand my every moment waking me from sleep forcing my ideas onto the paper before they are lost in the whispering night. I try to bat them away until I am ready. One book at a time is enough for me. So now I blog. Supermom: many a packed lunch with a written on napkin, a bill mailed with an unannouced quote, and silly song and dances with my 2 year old as we waltz to the computer to lock away another thought.
My mind is on standby, auto pilot, survival mode. Cold coffee, damp pants from the dryer, beds undone... But the word count grows and the story goes with it. As far as mastering the juggle, I'd say I'm 3 balls in the air and 4 on the floor but then again that's very similar to 120 pages deep now isn't it?
(See I wrote all this on the "throne", who would've thought right?! jk or am I?)
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
I have a deadline for a novel I am working on, October. My mind seems to have been taken over by this, of course I am letting it. Eager, afterall, to have it completed on time. Sitting at my laptop I search for meaning and direction. No spark, no inspiration, my flame is growing small. Then my two year old to my surprise tosses himself onto my back with a hug as big as his little arms can manage. "Mommy! he giggles in my ear, "wanna wing wit me mommy?" he pleads. His nose is now pressed up against mine, forehead to forhead. The wonder in his eyes is all I can see. I can only laugh and hug now. With the closing of the laptop he squeezes my finger in his little hand leading me to the swingset. So excited he can hardly stand it.
With some gentle pushes sending him off he tells me again "wing with me mommy!" Pointing to myself he nods. So I sit on the neighboring swing full of thoughts of what I need to get done. I wondered how long until I could sneak away without getting him upset. With each pump the swing carried me higher and his smile wider. The trees rustled and before I knew it the only thought I had was how wonderful his smiling eyes are. He laughed so hard until I did too.
He knew just what I needed. Now with a clear mind and a smile I am off to write!
With some gentle pushes sending him off he tells me again "wing with me mommy!" Pointing to myself he nods. So I sit on the neighboring swing full of thoughts of what I need to get done. I wondered how long until I could sneak away without getting him upset. With each pump the swing carried me higher and his smile wider. The trees rustled and before I knew it the only thought I had was how wonderful his smiling eyes are. He laughed so hard until I did too.
He knew just what I needed. Now with a clear mind and a smile I am off to write!
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
NO BUTTS ABOUT IT
Summer nights were always my favorite. I loved the freedom of the open windows and the gentle breeze that would set my curtains a flutter. The flickering sounds of crickets would rise and fall hidden within the still of night. The moon would rest ever so softly on the very tips of the maple leaves that stood tall just outside my bedroom window. Closing my diary and tuning in the radio instead I fell backwards onto my bed. "Summer loving" rang out of the speakers mid-song and I rushed to silence it. It was late and my parents were sleeping in the room over. Frozen I stood there with my hand on the dial listening hard.
Smiling now in relief I turned it up just a bit and fell back once again against my pillow. The moon granted a soft light about my room and my wondering thoughts made it hard to sleep. Sam and I had a secret love of oldies. Often we would play her dad’s old record player and sit back and listen to its scratchy message. They were always tales of love and we would daydream about boys to it. Tonight was no different for me.
A thud sounded from my window. I rolled my eyes imagining the family of raccoons knocking over the trash cans again. Now more and more thuds one after the other seemed to graze my window. The thought of the trash being sifted through and tossed all over the driveway tugged at me. “Great, guess I'll be picking that up in the morning” I thought to myself. The more the commotion grew the angrier I became at the thought of handling meat wrappers and rotten milk containers. Storming off the bed I pulled my nightshirt down and headed to the window to growl at them.
Ripping open the blinds I glared down at the trash cans still standing neatly against the garage. Confused, I pushed the front pieces of hair out of my eyes.
Another thump and finally I realized it was a rock at my window. Kneeling down quickly to hide; I smoothed my hair. No way. Could someone be throwing rocks at my window? Romantic thoughts past through my mind as I slid up enough to peek out.
A light flickered and fled all around the backyard. Up and down and all around the fence, the car, and trees it trailed. Then finally it stood still. In spotlight form a butt illuminated out of the dark night. Giggles and scuffling began and the flickering of the light began again. One butt, no two, no three! They were all passing the flashlight back and forth laughing hard. Stumbling against my desk I hurried to Kathy's room knowing she was still awake.
"You've Got to come see this" I pleaded practically dancing. "What? It's late, what are you doing up?" she asked as if annoyed. "Hurry!" I urged laughing. Curious, she slid her book marker in to save her page and set it face down. The creak of her daybed sent her off to my room.
Hurrying ahead of her I pulled back the curtain and raised my hand to the display out in our backyard. Leaning over me, a head taller than I she let out a laugh then quickly covered her mouth to mute herself. With the other hand she flicked on the desk lamp and one of the flashlights dropped to the ground. Realizing that they had been busted they stumbled and tripped over their pant legs and bushes. Like the three stooges they desperately tried to gather their things and flee. It was almost painful trying to muffle our laughter now. "Whose butts do you think those are?" I whispered. "I don't know but who got the last laugh?" she held her hand up for a high five.
Smiling now in relief I turned it up just a bit and fell back once again against my pillow. The moon granted a soft light about my room and my wondering thoughts made it hard to sleep. Sam and I had a secret love of oldies. Often we would play her dad’s old record player and sit back and listen to its scratchy message. They were always tales of love and we would daydream about boys to it. Tonight was no different for me.
A thud sounded from my window. I rolled my eyes imagining the family of raccoons knocking over the trash cans again. Now more and more thuds one after the other seemed to graze my window. The thought of the trash being sifted through and tossed all over the driveway tugged at me. “Great, guess I'll be picking that up in the morning” I thought to myself. The more the commotion grew the angrier I became at the thought of handling meat wrappers and rotten milk containers. Storming off the bed I pulled my nightshirt down and headed to the window to growl at them.
Ripping open the blinds I glared down at the trash cans still standing neatly against the garage. Confused, I pushed the front pieces of hair out of my eyes.
Another thump and finally I realized it was a rock at my window. Kneeling down quickly to hide; I smoothed my hair. No way. Could someone be throwing rocks at my window? Romantic thoughts past through my mind as I slid up enough to peek out.
A light flickered and fled all around the backyard. Up and down and all around the fence, the car, and trees it trailed. Then finally it stood still. In spotlight form a butt illuminated out of the dark night. Giggles and scuffling began and the flickering of the light began again. One butt, no two, no three! They were all passing the flashlight back and forth laughing hard. Stumbling against my desk I hurried to Kathy's room knowing she was still awake.
"You've Got to come see this" I pleaded practically dancing. "What? It's late, what are you doing up?" she asked as if annoyed. "Hurry!" I urged laughing. Curious, she slid her book marker in to save her page and set it face down. The creak of her daybed sent her off to my room.
Hurrying ahead of her I pulled back the curtain and raised my hand to the display out in our backyard. Leaning over me, a head taller than I she let out a laugh then quickly covered her mouth to mute herself. With the other hand she flicked on the desk lamp and one of the flashlights dropped to the ground. Realizing that they had been busted they stumbled and tripped over their pant legs and bushes. Like the three stooges they desperately tried to gather their things and flee. It was almost painful trying to muffle our laughter now. "Whose butts do you think those are?" I whispered. "I don't know but who got the last laugh?" she held her hand up for a high five.
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