Wishing You Peace This Memorial Day

I never had to worry about dying on a far-off battlefield.

I remember feeling some guilt when I was young and all my male friends were required to register for the draft. It really only hit home for me, though, when my own son reached the age to register. Inside I was screaming, "No! Take me instead!" Not that the military would have much use for a middle-aged woman about thirty pounds past her prime but... well, I can type like a fiend.

As a researcher and writer, I've devoted many hours to the concept of war. In my heart, there's a strong conviction that war doesn't have to be. But, given the things my mind has learned, I've had no choice but to concede maybe it does.

War seems a universal, as much an element of the human experience as hunger and sickness, birth and death. I don't know why. I mean, yes, I can put together events that trace a path to war. But I just can't understand how, at one of those points or another, Someone Powerful doesn't do something to change that path so it doesn't have to be war.

We expect our children on playgrounds to resolve all their differences without violence. But that's something the greatest minds of all time haven't figured out a way to do.

If war is a universal, then it's got to be something in our wiring. The most basic of life forms will fight to survive. I guess, as layers of complexity get added on, the concept of 'survival' extends beyond the basics of breathing and encompasses the higher principles such as those encapsulated in The Declaration of Independence.

I know I owe a huge debt of gratitude to the men, women and children--service members and their families--who've sacrificed in the name of our country's survival. I wish none of them ever had to make those sacrifices. But I am so very humbled and grateful, on Memorial Day and every day, that they did make them... and still do. But the gratitude of an individual--and even an entire nation--can never compensate for what they've lost. We can't make it right, not now or ever.

All we can do is keep those service members and their families in our thoughts and in our prayers. And maybe do what we can to prevent sending more of our children to battle.

The volunteers at Wikipedia have compiled lists that detail U.S. deaths in war. You can find that sobering read here.

I am a firm believer in a strong, well-trained military. That force is the greatest deterrent to those who would wish us ill. I also put a lot of faith in technology. I am all in favor of sending a $50,000 piece of equipment to be destroyed if it means saving a single Young American's life.

I want us to have the smartest, fittest, best-trained, and best-equipped fighting force in the world--so we don't have to fight.

Various sources have quoted Japanese Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto as referring to the United States, prior to its entry in World War II, as a sleeping giant. Pearl Harbor woke the giant and, in the time since, other events have done the same. But September 11, 2001, enraged the giant as nothing else ever had.

I think it's America's nature to want to be a sleeping giant, secure in the faith there's nothing out there scarier than we are. I look forward to a time when all our families can sleep peacefully again.

I hope you have a wonderful Memorial Day, filled with love and laughter. And I hope you take a little time, in the context of that revelry, to remember our sons and daughters who didn't come home.

The Grand Illusion? Bring It On!

I think most everyone who grew up in The Age of Vinyl can name a few albums that serve the function of Life Soundtrack. Two of mine--The Grand Illusion and Paradise Theatre--are by Styx.

I played those records incessantly when I was in my late teens, writing poems, stories and diary entries, and making sketches that would never be good enough to show to another living soul. The songs were the perfect companions, alternately providing background noise, comfort, hope, and inspiration. They were even there for me at the times I needed to wallow in the angst that is being young.

I still play those albums when I write. The songs can help me get in the right frame of mind to put words to screen. Like real people, my characters have Life Soundtracks, and (not surprisingly) The Grand Illusion and Paradise Theatre are universal favorites for them. Those songs help me feel what my own characters are feeling. From the gentle caress of "The Best of Times" to the larger-than-life roar of "Rockin' the Paradise" to the soaring majesty of "The Grand Illusion", I cherish those albums.

For years, I dreamed of seeing Styx live. I wanted to be there when they played those songs. The departure of Dennis DeYoung put me into a terrible funk. He was not only a wonderful singer but a great showman.

In the summer of 2007, I finally saw Styx live for the first time when the band toured with Def Leppard and Foreigner. Technically, Styx put on a great show. But it left me feeling a little disappointed, too. They didn't seem to be having any fun up there. I got the feeling they were there for the paycheck.
Fast-forward.

When I heard a few months ago that Styx would be coming around with Ted Nugent and REO Speedwagon, I almost didn't buy tickets. What if I ended up feeling more let-down? They're five years older... I'm five years older... we've all slowed down, right? But I decided to give Styx another chance because, well, that's what you do for your all-time favorite bands, right?

I saw Styx again this past Friday night. And I was blown away. All the life I'd hoped to see the first time was there, and then some. They were like kids in a garage getting their thrills--only with much better equipment. I like to think maybe they're all in a better place in life than they were a few years ago. Maybe they are... maybe they aren't. But what they presented to the audience was a big blast of Life Doesn't Get Any Better Than This. Whatever they did behind the scenes, it's working. It might be the very definition of The Grand Illusion. But it was just what I needed.
Styx lived up to my dreams Friday night and I will be forever glad I gave the band a second chance.

Other highlights of the night:

1) My husband and I were celebrating our eleventh anniversary that night. When REO Speedwagon did "Can't Fight This Feeling," he looked at me, grinning while he sang along. I was transported back through the years, to a time that song played on the radio early in our relationship and I heard him singing it under his breath. That was around the time I came to realize that, whether he liked it or not, he was doomed to love me. That poor man.

2) My oldest daughter is a new fan of Ted Nugent.

3) My youngest daughter didn't complain once about being bored.

Styx was awesome... and we were there.

When Mama Smiles

We didn't have much, growing up. But, somehow, my mother always made sure we had what we needed. When she could, she got what we wanted. Looking back, I'm amazed at all she did. I don't know how she did it. But she did.

I remember laughing when she pushed me on the swing, as high as I wanted to go. She was my super-hero the day she retrieved my favorite Barbie knock-off from a safety-netted pool. I don't know how the doll got in there. But I do remember Mama lying down across that net, her face a mask of determination as she stretched so so so far to reach my doll. That was my first-ever experience of tears of despair turning to joy.

She read to us, The Jungle Book, and every character had a different voice and personality. Rikki-Tikki-Tavi was my favorite.

She turned Monday nights into parties with popcorn and chocolate while we watched The Little House on the Prairie. She let us stay up late one night to watch The Attack of the Fifty-Foot Woman and then the TV went out, robbing us of the ending. She made up an ending for us, walking in biiiig strides across the living room while we laughed. I eventually saw the whole movie. Her version was better.

I remember the day we went shopping for my first-ever formal dress. I didn't think too much, then, about the things that might have been sacrificed to get me that dress. I have, though, in the years since. She knew, before I did, when we'd found just the right one.
What I remember more than anything, though, is Mama's smile. Even when things were bad in our lives, Mama's smile made it all feel better.

When I was a little girl, Mama came close to dying. When I saw her again, she was so frail. I looked at her, afraid to even touch her because she might not be real. And nothing would ever be the same. Then Mama smiled. And everything was better.

A few years ago, I came close to dying. My thoughts were all a rushing torrent of worry about what would happen to my family. In my mind, I saw Mama smile and I knew she would find a way to make things right for them all. The first thing I saw, when I woke, was my mother peeking at me through the window that looked in on my room. She lifted her hand in a tiny wave. And she smiled. What an amazing welcome back to the land of the living.

We live now as a big, happy extended family. Think of The Waltons only louder. There are arguments, now and then, and I wish there didn't have to be. But then, it's the loving each other that keeps us talking, even when the words are hard to say and to hear.

All the grandchildren call my mother 'Mammy,' not because she chose it, but because my son--the oldest--couldn't say 'Grammy' when he a baby. And so she will forever and ever be Mammy. Some of us spell it with an 'ie' on the end instead of the 'y.' Twenty-three years and we still haven't agreed on a spelling. But we know who she is.

This year, on Mother's Day, Mama's a hundred miles away, visiting my sister. But she'll be back soon. And it will be Mother's Day for us.

"I miss Mammy," my daughter said the other day.

"Me, too," I said.

"Yeah. She's got such a pretty smile."

The prettiest smile in all the world.

My daughter continued, "She makes me happy."

"Me, too."

We're the same, my daughter and me, waiting for Mammy to come home, because everything's always better when Mammy's a part of it. And I am so very grateful that my children know her, not as a far-off person who sends presents at Christmas, but as a living, breathing woman who loves them every day and who brightens their lives with her smile.

I thought, when I was young, my mother was magic.

Now I know she is. And not just for me. For all of us.

Happy Mother's Day, Mama.

We love you.