Honoring The Other Warriors

This weekend, along with the barbecues, pool openings and parades, our country takes time to remember our soldiers and veterans who gave so much to ensure our freedoms and our right to speak our hearts and minds and live without fear.  Of course, I honor them and have immense appreciation and respect for the sacrifices they’ve made.

I can’t even begin to imagine what it takes to be a soldier.   The commitment itself is heroic. I know nothing of guns, fighting, or war – nor do I care to.  But I do know a bit about the OTHER heroes.  The Other Warriors.  Those who stare directly into the face of the terrifying unknown and kick its ass!

These Other Warriors rarely don a uniform.  They don’t receive medals for their actions.  They just get up every day and fight the human fight and do the best they can.  You may not even recognize their battle scars, but they are among us and deserve – perhaps not a parade but – our love and thanks for their own service.

My father tried hard to be a soldier.  He was on the tarmac ready to go to Bay Of Pigs when my brother was born and he was pulled at the last moment.  Since being a fearless soldier didn’t work, he tried to serve at home as a police officer.  But he couldn’t make weight and it wasn’t to be.  His life was not heroic.  He was handed a never ending series of crushed dreams and devastating disappointments and fought battles with demons every day to just get by.  But he finally found his place, got his uniform and was able to save the day for many in his volunteer fire department.  When he died, he was Chief and at his funeral, we learned just how respected he was by his community and his crew of young men who looked to him as an inspiration.  He maybe couldn’t be that for us, or in the way he wanted, but on his passing, his station flew the flag at half mast and his community mourned the loss.  While he wasn't the soldier he wanted to be, he was definitely an Other Warrior.

My uncle was a boisterous, fun loving, loud-laughing truck driver with a wife and many children at home when he nearly lost his life in a terrible accident.  Given the time and the circumstances, he should not have survived.  He lost a leg and suffered severe burns that required enormous skin grafts (he was the first donor recipient in our family!).  I was a wee child but have family lore to tell of the agonizing treatments he had to endure.  When doctors seemed astonished that he made it, he said “Nobody told me I was gonna die!”

He got back in the semi.  A modified beast that he could drive.  And he took that truck and built it into a successful trucking company.  Over the years, he was dealt huge blows – medical hardships as a result of that accident, business disappointments, relationship challenges.  But he also danced, swam (in circles, he said!), told tall tales and laughed.  Loudly and often.  No matter how sick he was or how much pain he was in, he got up every day and lived with gusto.  He made friends wherever he went and mentored a group of immigrants, teaching them how to drive, how to build a business doing so, and how to pay it forward.  He was not a perfect man (who is, really?) but I have never faced a hardship in my life without holding him up as my motivation and my reminder that with the right frame of mind, a person can survive anything.  His laugh and his stories (probably mostly fiction) live with me daily.  He was not a soldier.  He never got his purple heart.  But he was a Powerful Other Warrior.

My grandmother-in-law was raised in luxury in Cuba.  Her own grandfather was an adored and prominent figure in politics. When she married and began her family, she was accustomed to the good life.  Then a man named Fidel began to rise and things changed.  Fear permeated the world around her.  She knew something had to be done.  So in 1959, this lovely peaceful woman had to make a decision that most mothers couldn’t fathom.  She had to place her 9 and 11 year old sons on a plane, alone, to another country*,  without truly knowing if she’d ever see them again but believing in her heart that it was the right choice for them.  She had to trust that they were safe, that they were well cared for, and that they would one day be reunited.  She fought every day.  To believe.  To trust.  To get back to her children.  She succeeded and had to forge a brand new life in a strange land, where she didn’t speak the language, and where life was not as grand as it used to be.  Today, she smiles and shares her love and light with all around her but she doesn’t speak much about those days - much like a veteran with PTSD avoids discussion of life in the trenches.  She never got a uniform.  She does not have a medal of valor.  But she is a Strong Other Warrior.

My friend was a child in Africa when Idi Amin was committing horrific and unspeakable acts upon his people.  So his family left everything they knew, escaping under cloak of darkness, in search of safety and freedom.  They were separated for a time and finally came back together to begin a new life for their family.  Now, in the US, my friend’s parents are beloved and respected as pillars of their community and continually lift others and share opportunities with anyone in need.  I’ve benefitted from their kindness and generosity as have countless others.  They may not be a uniformed platoon, but they are an army of Peaceful Other Warriors.

Another friend’s daughter was born into a bit of chaos and then labeled as autistic.  She listened to what the “experts” had to say and then proved to them that her way may not be their way, but they were just going to have to adapt.  She has marched forward with tenacity and power and forged her own way, proving them wrong at every step.  Today, she wakes every day and fights the fight for causes that matter to her and has devoted her future to protecting misunderstood creatures and is a Fierce Other Warrior.

These soldiers are not made on typical battlefields.  They fight their wars here among us and we often don’t even see it.  Some of these battles are of their own making.  Some are brought to their lands in a sneak-attack when they’re not at all prepared.  They walk out of the smoke and the rubble, battered, dirty and scarred.  But they walk.  They keep going, they keep fighting, and therefore, they are victorious.

This weekend, absolutely honor and appreciate the soldiers we see, the veterans we can no longer see, and everyone who gave of themselves to keep us safe and free.  And then, if only quietly in your heart, take a moment to salute The Other Warriors who also fought to make our lives so good.

Happy Memorial Day.

 

*My father in law and his brother were part of a generation of Cuban Americans called Operation Pedro Pan, which you can read about here, if so interested.

Remember That Time?

Whenever two or more of my siblings are together, there is always a visit from the Remember Whens with a recap of some event in our life together.  Not unusual, I think, for most families.  Our history is the common thread that binds us together.  What always amazes me, however, is how different our recollections of the same event can be.

Yesterday, I was in my kitchen (where all the best conversations happen) with my mother, sister and brother, when the Remember Whens popped up in the usual way:  a discussion of a current happening led to a memory of a past event.  This was a major event for our family, an accident that was traumatic for the victim, obviously huge for our mother, and big enough to have ripple effects throughout the home.  My mother remembered where she was and what she was doing when the call came.  My brother was present during the accident (something I never knew before), my sister had her own memories of the conversations and happenings, and I – being the youngest and quite little at the time – remembered only the sudden whirl of activity and being given Pringles chips (a very new snack option then) by the neighbor lady who was there to take care of us while the grownups were at the hospital.

How is it possible that 9 people, raised under the same roof, with the same influences can have 9 different versions of the same event?  But that’s usually how it happens.  Not always drastic differences, but it highlights the unique perspectives that we human beings have.  The way we view the world around us is defined by our states of mind and our priorities.

In a situation like that, a mother has to take care of business.  So those are the details that she remembers.  A person more involved in the moment will have a much more personal view and a young child who knows nothing but safety and love will notice that something was slightly different, but still there was safety and love. 

On a later topic – the layout of a house – my sister recalled the exact floorplan.  My brother remembered specific rooms.  I remembered a ceramic worm or caterpillar or some sort of creature that sat on the back of the toilet in the half bath.  I guess that was at the right height for my little kid eyes to become etched in my mind as an important part of the scenery

When I think about these differences in perspective, one example always comes to mind.  Life at the El Dorado Motor Lodge.  I have not interviewed all of my family members on the subject, but I would bet that we took VERY different memories away from that experience.

In the spring of 1975, our family took a big leap, left our hometown and headed east to Baltimore.  We thought we’d be moving in to a cool new house and were excited for the adventure.  In addition to our own nine kids, we also had a couple of extra teenage boys in the mix.  Imagine the surprise when we arrived in Maryland only to learn that unexpected glitches in the mortgage process meant we could not move in to our new home!

Fortunately, my mother’s brother – the man who encouraged us to come east in the first place – was in nearby Hagerstown.  He was a restaurant owner with a lot of contacts and he arranged for us to take shelter at the El Dorado Motor Lodge.  The closed, vacant, and basically abandoned El Dorado Motor Lodge.

The motel hadn’t been occupied for some time.  Not all of the rooms were functional.  The plumbing barely worked and there was no hot water.  But there was a roof and there were beds and we settled in.  We cooked on a Coleman camper stove, a hotplate and an electric popcorn popper.  We washed dishes in the bathtub and then scooped the old water into the toilets to flush them.  There was a caretaker who lived in a house on property and we helped where we could with whatever menial tasks needed to be done. 

Every morning, my mother drove us the 75 miles in to Baltimore to go to school where were already enrolled.  I have no idea what she did while we were there, but then she picked us up and took us back to do it all over again.  We did this for something like 8 weeks, but I’m not entirely sure how long we were actually there.

Now, from my adult outlook, I don’t know how my mother did it.  How she held it together.  She not only had her own shock and disappointment to deal with but she had a bunch of surly teenagers to battle.  She had younger kids who needed baths and meals and clean clothes.  And she did it.  She did it well.  Maybe she went off into the woods at night and screamed and howled at the moon, but if that’s what happened, I never saw it.

From my kid point of view, it was a blast!  We had the run of this place, with keys to empty rooms to explore.  It was one giant escapade, like camping but with real beds and fewer insects.  We jumped on furniture and played hide and seek.  We crossed the highway to an arcade to play pinball and air hockey.  My brothers snuck me in to the movie theater (they were good at that) to see Jaws!  Somehow, some way, this time in my life has existed in my memories as an interesting, fun, positive and adventurous thing.

That’s my take on it.  It was a classic lemonade from lemons story where we learned that if our family worked together and just loved each other, we could do anything! And on more practical matters, we scored a ton of free furniture and I wouldn’t be surprised if a few pieces survive within family walls today.  I doubt the older kids view it with such affection, but there was nothing negative in it for me.

I credit my mother with never letting us see her sweat so that I could choose the rose colored glasses for myself.  If she had been melting down, I doubt I’d have such fond thoughts of those days.  That’s something I hang on to with my own children when faced with challenges that could be overwhelming.  I hope that when they look back, they’ll remember the celebrations and the adventures and not the obstacles and hardships.

And isn’t that really the lesson for all of us?  We may not always write the stories ourselves, but we choose our own angles to those stories.  Whatever the adversity, we may not be able to choose the outcome or choose the details, but we definitely choose the way we view it.

As the bumper sticker says, shit happens.  It happens to all of us.  So are we going to lament and cry or are we going to face it down, deal with it, and tell hilarious stories about it later?  The choice really is ours alone to make.  I will always choose the hilarity over the woe.

 

 

 

The People Who Live In My Head: My Mother Is A Sorceress

The People Who Live In My Head: My Mother Is A Sorceress: I’ve never been much for Hallmark holidays.   Sure, it’s lovely if someone thinks of me and wishes me well, but that’s more than enough fo...

My Mother Is A Sorceress

I’ve never been much for Hallmark holidays.  Sure, it’s lovely if someone thinks of me and wishes me well, but that’s more than enough for me.  I don’t need gifts, I don’t care about flowers and more and more I just find myself really uncomfortable with the trend towards emotional blackmail and guilt trip demands to spend money because of a date on a calendar.  Mother’s Day, however, is where I concede a little.  Not for myself.  The day belongs to Doris.

I’m a mom and I love and appreciate handmade tokens of love from my kids.  Who wouldn’t swoon over that?  But to me, Mother’s Day is about ONE incredible mom.  Who happens to be my own.  I know, I know, most everyone thinks their mom is the best.  And we’re mostly all correct.  But here in my world, I know I won the jackpot.

To the best of my knowledge, she’s never mopped a floor in high heels and an apron while waiting for her children to arrive from school for their freshly baked cookies and milk.  Before I was born, she was a model, she taught dance, and she raised my 8 siblings doing typical mom things like bringing orange slices to the soccer games, herding cub scouts as the den mother and helping out in the school kitchen.  But I’m the youngest and all of my life, she worked outside the home as the sole breadwinner for the family. 

There was very little that was traditional about my upbringing.  At least not on paper.  From the outside looking in, we probably looked like a wild bunch of long-haired hippies that this single mother could not control!  Those damn kids were banging on drums, wailing on guitars, staying up late and reading underground comic books.  Clearly, we were a danger to society!  But those outsiders didn’t see that we also read encyclopedias for fun, made homemade bread and ate our vegetables.

It’s not that she couldn’t control us.  She chose not to.  She chose to see each of our strengths, weaknesses and passions and to nurture them rather than squash them.  Our only rule was the Golden Rule and that covered everything.

 I’m going to let you in on a little secret.  Magic happened in our home.  My mother is a sorceress.

Wizardry is the only explanation.  It’s the only thing that makes sense.  How else would it be possible that we always had plenty of healthy food to eat, clean clothes (many sewn especially for us), instruments to play and lessons to play them, and love and encouragement at every moment?  How else could we have a vegetable garden and camping trips filled with adventures and special time by her side?  How else could she be there every single time it mattered?  Magic, obviously.

With one meager income and so many mouths to feed, how is it possible that we had guitars and amplifiers and drumsets and sticks and lessons for whatever we wanted to do?  How did we have cookies for the classroom and a costume for a play with no advance notice?  How is it possible that we had everything we needed and most of what we wanted?  How is it possible that she did all of that and STILL maintained her own hobbies and friendships and retained a really cool and interesting persona if not by magic?

It’s true that she taught us to cook and do laundry.  She taught us how to care for one another, so perhaps there’s no mystery there.  But the real magic happened with a door that was never locked.  We wildly unsupervised kids could have gone anywhere we wanted.  We mostly chose home.  While the other grownups of the neighborhood may have been judging her non-traditional ways, their own children were flocking to her doorstep for some of her mojo.  On any given day, there was an extra kid at our table or a neighborhood teen asleep on our couch.  Family lore tells of a red haired boy who ate with us for a week before anyone thought to ask whose friend he was.  No one knew him.  He just found his way to our table as if conjured by some magic spell.  What was the draw?  I think my mother sent out a Siren Song of Love, Welcome, Acceptance, and Peace that brought fragile souls to our unlocked door.

My friends have always been drawn to my mother.  One said “Your mother is Tea and Cinnamon Toast” and I think she hit the nail on the head.  In her presence, there is comfort, warmth and calm and just breathing it in is enough to heal tender and broken things.  As if by magic.

She studied metaphysics before it had a name.  She spoke with ghosts and received guidance well before the Long Island Medium bought her first can of hairspray.  Her hands brought forth healing before anyone gave her a name for what she was doing.  Still, she doubts her own abilities and questions her own strength.  In those moments, I remind her that she has survived challenges that no mere mortal could ever possibly conquer.

Skeptics would say maybe she’s just a very good listener with a loving heart, an open mind and a bit of good luck.  But they don’t know my mother like I do.  I know that she has amazing magical powers and that she is secretly a Sorceress.  She must be.  It’s the only explanation.

 

 

 

The People Who Live In My Head: Where You From, Girl?

The People Who Live In My Head: Where You From, Girl?: Before we were married, my husband took me to his high school reunion.   My mind was kind of blown that there, in that room, where there w...

Where You From, Girl?

Before we were married, my husband took me to his high school reunion.  My mind was kind of blown that there, in that room, there were a hundred people who played little league with, went through puberty with, and were growing grey with him.  I couldn’t really understand that kind of connection with someone who was not family.  I realized that I could name maybe 5 unrelated people who are still in my life now that also knew me before I needed a training bra.

There’s a simple and ordinary question – one that we all hear in all kinds of settings – for which I never seem to have a good answer.  “Where are you from?”

Easy, right?  We should all be able to rattle off the name of a place and move on.  Unless you come from a military family but even then, you’ve got an easy “military brat” response and move on to the next topic.  I know I’m hardly alone in this.  In this era, people are transient.  Families pack up and follow jobs and dreams every day and it’s not unusual to have grown up all over the map.  Still, while it may be becoming more common, it always throws a hiccup into conversational flow.

I know where I was born (Belleville, IL just across the river from St. Louis).  I lived there until I was five and that is still where the heart of my people resides and we all return to recharge the familial battery.  I spent nearly every summer of my childhood there and I have very fond memories of the people, the activities, and the place, but have no real recollection of actually living there.  My older siblings are more connected to the place and some have settled and built their lives there.   For them, it is the answer to the question.  They are from St. Louis.  Or Belleville, if they’re being specific.

We loaded the car, left everything we knew and headed east to Baltimore.  Baltimore holds memories of my first real school.  My first real friends.  A neighborhood full of mischief and adventures with a friendly corner store, a library in biking distance, and everything I could ever need within a radius of several blocks.  A few of those neighborhood people are still in our lives and the time there definitely shaped a part of my identity.  So the city loving girl in me, the part of me who loves the smell of Old Bay Seasoning and kind of believes in Chessie The Sea Monster is from Baltimore.

In the 70s, things were getting rough for my older siblings in the city schools, so we packed it up again and moved across the state line to the boonies of Pennsylvania.  We tromped through the woods, hiked to waterfalls and soaked in the beauty around us but I – my entire family, really – never belonged there.  In a land where the klan was alive and well, where my single mother was shunned by other parents, and where we were observed with the same interest one would take with the gorilla exhibit at the zoo, we were That Albert Family and we were not from around there.  I hung on to a few people from the area and I retain that love of hiking and nature, but I never looked back.  I am NOT from York County, Pennsylvania.  At all. 

Over time, brothers and sisters flew from the nest to find their own way, so my mother, sister and I packed it up again and headed south.  Mom and I often daydreamed about the south and imagined a new life in a cute little town with front porches and friendly people.  Instead, we landed in Panama City Beach, FL.  We visited my brother there and fell in love.  My mother found a beautiful little slice of paradise.  I found home. 

It was far from ideal.  We were poorer than we’d been in a very long time.  Every day was a struggle to just keep a roof over our heads and food in our bellies, but it was still absolute perfection to me.  I walked for miles on the beach every day, rain or shine.  At 13, I landed my first job – a physically HARD job cleaning rooms and doing laundry at a beach front motel – and I went to sleep with a smile every single night.  For the first time in my life, I walked into a school where my last name had no pre-conceived notions and people just met Terri.  In fact, that’s where I got to know Terri myself.

After a while, it became clear that my mother needed to go back to PA.  And then she gave me the most amazing gift ever.  She allowed me to stay.  I was always cared for.  I stayed with a friend, I stayed with my brother, I stayed with my father (who wandered and settled himself!), it didn't matter.  I stayed.  But I was largely on my own and I bloomed there among the sea oats and the sand spurs.  I found my heart and my mind and I found Home.  I am from Panama City Beach.  I am from the Gulf.  I am from The Redneck Riviera. 

Of course, once a drifter, it’s easy to think you should keep moving.  I made my way back to my mother in Philadelphia.  I definitely did NOT belong there and couldn’t get out fast enough.  To this day, hearing a Philly or NJ accent evokes a facial tic and instinct to flee.  I drifted to Colorado and never felt comfortable there.  I even went back to the familial hometown briefly and enjoyed being surrounded by people who look like me, but I never found my footing.  After ricocheting around for a bit, I landed in Atlanta.  Given my history, I figured I’d be here a short time and move along.

More than twenty years later, I’m still here.  This big city welcomed me like a small town.  Here, there were some familiar faces of friends made at my beach, there was activity and nightlife and there was nature.  And it sure didn't hurt that The Beach O'My Heart is an easy drive away.  There have been great challenges, some disappointments, and loads of adventures.  I’ve lived here longer than I’ve ever lived anywhere in my life.  And, eventually, my mother joined me.  And then a sister.  And a brother.  And a cousin.  Here, I found community, found the love of my life, created a family, made lifelong friends and created a HOME. 

The tumbleweed in me still daydreams of one more shot at The Beach O'My Heart.  Or of a fresh start in unchartered territory.  Every vacation makes me say "I could live here".  And then I see my daughter clutching her second grade yearbook like it’s precious treasure.  Maybe it is.  She has a hometown.  She has a bit of a southern twang.  She has an answer to that question.