Yellowriter

At first, my state of mind made it difficult to concentrate on the ceremony.  The color guard snapped me out of my day dream and I covered my heart while the Star Spangled Banner played.  It was a Coast Guard changing of command ceremony in Port Angeles, Washington.  A cutter was being transfered and the boys did a fine job.  We (Annie and myself) had been invited by the wife of the man giving up the reigns of power; he was on to another assignment based in Seattle.  I was lost in thought.  It was a marvelously warm day.  The waters of the marina served as a gray backdrop to my equally gray mood.  It had been a long night.

Phone calls from my father come at reasonable hours.  The night before he called at a late hour to inform me that my sister was dead.  At first I thought I must be having a nightmare, but in my subconscious mind I had expected this call for many years.  The saga was finally over.

Most parents have to talk and talk about drugs to their kids - we never did.  Aunt Marvie was a walking metaphor.  Casual drug use turned into a way of life and in the end, a way of death.  Dad told me that she had died in her bed, most likely in her sleep.  That comforted me in an odd way.  Marva, the sister just sixteen months older than me, passed with dignity.

There were years when there was no contact and certainly no bed or apartment.  She lived in the desert and spent cold nights sleeping in drain pipes.  There were many terribly cold nights that I prayed for her, shedding tears as I thought about the rain and freezing temperatures.  Once I saw her walking down the street stoned out of her mind.  She was so pale and gaunt that I didn’t recognize my own sibling at first.  She was just one of the many all of us turn away from, the wretched poor.  But this was my sister.  We grew up together, fought a great deal and loved one another.  I bought some hamburgers and drove until I found her.  I had not seen her in years.  I didn’t speak and neither did she.  Marva accepted the hamburgers and began to shuffle away in a pair of worn bedroom slippers.  I turned down a side street and cried all the way home.  I knew she was in a bad place, but seeing her in this horrid condition shook me to the core.

My father got her out of the desert and moved her onto his property.  She lived in the motor home and slowly began to become human again.  He got her to go to the doctor and soon she had sworn off drugs and was on her way back.  She got Social Security benefits and secured a small apartment in Rosamond, California.  I went to see her in May and we had a grand time.  Jenna, my daughter, was able to come up from Valencia and spend some time with her aunt.  Our sister, Vicky, was there and dad and his girlfriend, Mary, fixed a nice dinner of a Russian soup (borscht) we are all fond of.  I kissed her at the door, never thinking I would not see her again.

There is something about hard, menial labor.  For me it is therapy - it clears my head.  I had spent the morning writing my sister’s obituary and it was much harder than I thought.  Her’s was a difficult and complex life.  She endured the death of her husband, the total disrespect of her two step-children, drug and alcohol abuse and a tattered work history.  After I condensed and rewrote, I printed the final draft.  I thought to myself, I’m getting pretty good at writing obituaries.  That made me break down.  So I began hauling wheel barrow loads of rock up the back forty of my property.  I mindlessly tossed pebbles, stones and boulders until I could barely lift the thing.  My arms ached and my back throbbed - the pain was a reminder that I still have my life and I want it to count. 

So now I am at the end of a difficult day.  I have come to the conclusion that my sister did have a life that counted and made a difference.  I remembered how kind she could be and how she took in misfits like stray kittens.  When I told her on Father’s Day (the last time I spoke to her on the phone) that I planned to dedicate my next book of poetry to her she was ecstatic.  I’m glad I didn’t save it for a surprise she would never see.  On the phone with my friends last night they all had warm things to say about my sister.  One buddy reminded me what a good dancer she was.  I had forgotten that.

The old boss walked up to review his troops, ten men who served under his command on the cutter.  The military is a place where people come and go.  I was seated closest to the men standing at parade rest as their leader shook each of their hands and gave them encouragement.  Eight of the men smiled and bobbed their heads.  It was obvious that they were fond of their leader.  Two of the men’s eyes burned as he spoke to them.  There was an unspoken love for the man they served and they probably knew that their paths would not cross again.  There were no tears, but I felt their pain as I watched them hang on his every word.  In the bright sunshine, with the fog laden Olympic Mountains in the distance, these shipmates said the goodbye that lasts forever.  I turned away, in respect, and looked at the magnificient beauty before me.  The only thought I had during this moment was it is so good to be alive.

I found out that Mary had taken some photos of our little dinner party and she vowed to make some copies for me.  I can sit here at my computer and think of all the ways my sister contributed to my life.  But life goes on.  There is no guarantee of tomorrow so make it count today.  I’m anxious to see those pictures.  In that moment I’ll thank God that I’m alive - alive to experience the goodbye that lasts forever. 

When I was young there was a popular childrens’ book entitled, “Are You My Mother?”  The gist of the work was a duckling that hatched and quizzed various animals on whether or not they were indeed a parent of the little quacker.  The book was based on the work of a man named Lorenz who did extensive work in the area of imprinting.  Imprinting is the connection developed at birth to the nearest caregiver.  For his study Lorenz nurtured newborn ducks and the feathery twits took him to be their momma.  The pictures of the ducks following this man around always brought a smile to my lips.  As absurd as it sounds, you can become someone’s mother.

That took me back to Christmas in Broomfield, Colorado this past year.  Grandma Jan, my wife’s step-mother, was deemed to be the youngest great grandmother in her church at the Christmas Eve service.  Jan claimed to have become a great grandma at the spry age of 63.  There were none close to her youthful vigor when it came to the great grandma department.  On the ride home I mentally listed her three children and their children.  None of her kids were grandparents.  I asked her about it and obviously offended her and my wife at the same time.  My daughter, Brenna, has two kids and grandma and great grandma were aghast that I had not “grafted them in.” 

I admit that I was wrong, but I’m a man and that comes with the territory, right ladies?  It brings up a dilemma between the bloodline believers and the grafting group.  We all have people in our lives that we graft in and don’t think twice about it.  One of my closest friends (he is more like a brother) is Charles Dickerson.  We met in basic training for the Air Force in San Antonio, Texas in 1977 and have stayed friends for more than 30 years.  The kids all came to know and love “Uncle Chuck.”  When Jenna told stories of her uncle, her husband Rich, was intrigued.  Jenna went on and on about Uncle Chuck.  While looking at photos Rich asked who the tall, slender black man was in the picture.  He was a little shocked when Jenna said, “Oh, that’s Uncle Chuck!”  She just took the grafting for granted.  Just as it should be.

What reminded me of all of this was a phone call this morning from my son, David.  He is in the Navy and is deploying to Spain soon.  He woke me at 7:30 because the Navy wants their troops to have passports in Spain and he needed information.  I gave him the data and then had some coffee.  Over my cup of morning “go” I realized that I had errored.  It was my “grafting” that may yeild him a rejection on his passport.  My wife is not his mother.

I called David back and explained the situation.  He shrugged it off, but I gave him the vitals as a back up in case the passport people are bloodline oriented.  I was actually dumbfounded at how little my son knows about the woman who gave him birth.  His birth mom was pretty much out of our lives since David was six years old.  He had no idea how to spell his mother’s name, did not know her middle name, and did not know that she was born in England.  He did not know her birthday or the year she was born.  For David already had a mom.  No, Annie didn’t carry him, but she was everything to him that a mom could and should be.  It humbled me as I thought about my “bloodline” analogy in December.

Part of me is sad.  David Edward Powers has grown into a strong, confident man.  His birth mother would be proud of him.  I am glad to not only call him my son, but my friend, as well.  When his birth mom began her abysmal slide into the darkness of schizophrenia, she lost contact with the three children she had given life to.  Natalie will soon get her P.H.D. at Yale in molecular biology.  Annie and I will be there to see Dr. Powers “get hooded”, as they say.  Brenna is married to Charles Vincent Arcebuche and lives in Fountain, Colorado.  Talon Gage Powers Arcebuche and Lilah Jasmine Powers Arcebuche are the grandchildren that she doesn’t even know exist.  Too bad.  They’re flat-out wonderful.

So who is your mother?  It doesn’t strictly boil down to who gave you birth.  Who loved you?  Who cares for you?  Who meets yor needs?  Who nurses you when you’re ill?  Who stays up til five in the morning to help finish that blasted science project?  Who tucks you in at night and prays with you?  The questions can go on and on.  The bottom line isn’t Lorenz leading around some ducks.  Ask, where is the care?  Bloodlines are important, but love trumps all else.  Are you my mother?  The question need not be asked.  Just search your heart and the answer will be crystal clear.

My blogging has taken a nap lately.  I know I’m supposed to stay on this thing, and Alex, my shoulder angel and all-around web guru, told me that I have to post my thoughts often.  Maybe thoughts don’t come to me as fast as Internet Boy thinks or perhaps I’m just a tad bit lazy.  I think that distracted is a better discription.  I’m due to retire in two days and I’ve had a lot on my plate these past couple of weeks.  On Thursday I flew out to Chicago and drove to Great Lakes.  On Friday my son, David, graduated from boot camp for the Navy.  It was blizzard-like conditions this second day of spring and the six inches of blowing snow didn’t do much to improve my already marginal driving ability.  I am proud to say that I only spun out of control once and kissed the curb with my rental car.  Don’t rat me out because I passed on the extra insurance.  The car was undamaged, at any rate.  The ceremony was inside and the troops were sharp.  Many of the people in the stands were unhappy (to say the least) because liberty for most of the graduates was from 1035 until 1300.  That means that they spent lots of cash for 2 hours and twenty-five minutes with their seaman.  My son is staying on at Great Lakes for A-school so I got to see him from 1600 til 2100.  We ate Chinese food and visited.  I was impressed by his demeanor and the maturity he had gained.  I found myself driving slower as we neared the base because I wasn’t sure when I’d see him again.  We said our goodbyes and I watched him trudge off in the snow.  I saw a man now where there was once a boy and before that a newborn babe that I was the first to hold.  I lowered my window and shouted to him one more time as I drove away.  He turned and waved and maybe that was all I needed.  I thought about life, work, retirement and kids leaving home.  I knew my meloncholy would not last.  We work.  We retire.  People we love die and kids grow up and leave the nest.  I’m smiling as I type out these words because that is the way it’s supposed to be.

The frantic call came in late last night.  It was my daughter calling from Colorado.  Between the sobs and sniffles we were relieved to discover that our grandson, Talon, was okay.  Priority number two was my son-in-law, Vince, and he too passed muster at being all right.  So what was the tragedy?  My daughter, mother of a 4 month old son, was pregnant again.  Two kids 13 months apart.  It wasn’t the end of the world as far as Annie and I are concerned.  The more grandkids, the better, but we had forgotten something - kids are work, they make noise, break things and cost you money.  Lots of money.  The last figure I saw was that raising a child in the good old U.S.A. cost about one hundred thousand dollars from birth to eighteen years of age so that does not factor in the cost of attaining a degree.  After we soothed her and got her calmed down, we ended the call and I went into memory mode.  I tried to focus on all of the good things in child rearing.  My father’s motto was that “All parenting is trial and error” and I have to admit that my glowing downfalls as a dad stick more with me than what one could count as a perk of parenting.  It was a long haul, but ultimately a trip worth the taking.  Five kids, five different personalities, and five life paths, all as diverse as they are rewarding for the travelers.  Brenna will get out of the Army next month a be a full-time mom, a high calling.  David is in the Navy.  Jenna is in the Air Force, but soon might separate and move to Las Vegas.  Lauren is finishing high school in May and is heading off to Peninsula College in Port Angeles, Washington.  Natalie, the oldest at 24, is at Yale and well on her way to a P.H.D. in Mollecullar Biology.  All were trials in and of themselves.  The crying is over.  We plan on being part of that baby’s life and helping where and when we can.  When the time is right I’ll sit down with the mother of my grandchildren and give her my father’s version of child rearing.  Let the trials and errors begin, but let the tears be tears of joy.

My wife asked me yesterday if I knew the words to the Navy song.  Being an Air Force guy made me answer in the negative.  I know “off we go into the wild blue yonder” and I spend a lot of time in the wild blue yonder of my mind when I write.  The reason for the song is that our son, David, is going active duty on Tuesday.  You always look at one of your kids leaving home as a mixed bag.  Three have already left.  Sure, you worry, but at some point you realize that your 18 year old lease is up.  Trust God and let them go.  Your work is done.  The message to everyone with children still at home is to look for opportunities to teach and praise.  Catch your kids doing something right and heap on the blessings.  They’ll light up like a Christmas tree.  Tell stories about your own youth as a method of driving the truths home.  I still remember some of the tales my dad told me.  Last night, at his going away party, I was impressed with the caliber of friends that David had made.  There were 28 kids in all and they were well-behaved, thankful, and gracious.  We swapped stories about the new recruit and a good time was had by all.  Among the crowd were three girls whom David has dated - that says something about his character that they were able to remain friends after the romance went south.  I plan to fly to Chicago, with my father who was a Navy lad himself, when David graduates.  Maybe then I’ll learn the words to the Navy song.