A Hero Comes Home

He's home from Iraq. He arrived at the local airport today, with family, friends, neighbors and strangers he'd never met awaiting his arrival. Each of them had come to show their support and their appreciation to this soldier for his duty served in the on-going war.

He joined the US Army because he had the same patriotism shared by his brother, his grandfather and his great-grandfather. He wanted to protect and preserve our country's rights and freedoms. His mother is proud of her sons' decisions.

This scene might have been different. The soldier might have marched proudly off the plane wearing his decorated uniform. He might have held his chin high as he stood at attention or smiled and waved at the crowd. He might have run across the airfield to lift his little son high in the air and hug his mother. But, he was carried off the plane and escorted by an honor guard. He was lying prone, his bed a casket, his blanket the flag of the United States. Not only is he a patriotic military man, he is now a statistic, another casualty of war.

My heart goes out to a woman who lives in the same little town I do. We've never met. That may change, for I feel a connection with her. I have a son in the military too. I know the worries she must have felt when her son was in a danger zone. I ache for her, knowing the agony I have felt when I've dared let myself think that my son might sometime be in a combat area. So far, that has not been our case, but when your son is a member of the US military, you know it's always a possibility.

A soldier has come back to his own homeland. This young man will be honored with special services and laid to rest on Saturday. His mother will know no rest for many days and nights in the future. She will remember her son's days at home with her as a little boy. She will think of the good times they shared while he was growing up, and she will teach her little grandson about

the father he is too young to remember. She will wonder what might have been. She will not forget for a single moment that her son is one of the many soldiers lost, but a very special one. She will be proud of her boy, but she will wish things could have been different. She will pray, with all of her heart, that God will spare her other son from such a fate. I will pray with her, for her, and for all the other mothers of sons who might find themselves in fear of such a heartbreaking return.

Handwriting

Although I don't consider my handwriting anything special, other people apparently do. I'm often complimented on my neat and 'fancy' script. Recently one counter clerk who took my check stood there looking at it and tell me she just liked 'looking at it'.

It all started back in grade school, I guess, when I learned to form the cursive letters. Miss Bird, I remember, told me that I had good formation, but she said I could improve my handwriting if I slanted all the letters in the same direction. She told me to practice, practice and practice and she thought I'd have lovely handwriting. I took her advice. I guess it paid off, as in high school I was invited to hand write the menus for an upscale restaurant (The Hedges Inn) and was paid for doing so.

After my children were born, I had to sit quietly while breast-feeding one or another of them. I used that time to practice calligraphy or write letters to friends. The more practice you have, the better you get, and that works for anything you sent your mind to, I imagine.

I've been known to let things get sloppy when I'm in a hurry, but I don't like to do that. I enjoy knowing that my script looks nothing like a doctor's perscription. People have remarked that their own handwriting is terrible, and that they can't do anything to change it. I don't believe that is true. Today, a clerk who took my check, told me that she hardly writes with a pen anymore...she texts.

It seems to me that we've gotten lazy in the age of computers. We don't write letters by hand any more, we email. I hadn't thought about the texting idea in regard to handwriting until the clerk mentioned it. Isn't it sad? I think so...and yet, it's not surprising. We are all so busy, so anxious to have everything done immediately, it makes perfect sense.

The future tumbles toward us furiously. We no longer do figures in our heads, or with scribbled numbers on paper or count on our fingers. Adding machines do it for us. I can only hope that someone will remember how to write with their hand, as we 'progress' with all these machines.

Before long, I fear that Robots will be doing our thinking for us. What will be left for us other than to turn into huge vegetables which will be able to speak words to a machine, and have it written? I don't want to see that.

I think I'll go write a letter....with a pen.

Another Day....

Another day lies before me. I rose this morning, hours before the sun did. I spent my quiet time in thought, and ended up wondering what the day will bring? Will it be an eventful day or just an ordinary one?

I can't say that I live an 'exciting' life. Well, not one that most would describe using that word. But, I am content, and find exciting things in most every day. so I might beg to differ with someone who thinks my life is boring. Alright, so I'm not constantly on the go, or joining some earth-saving cause, or adding my two cents worth of art or literature to the immense world around me. What I am doing is living and enjoying my life, moment by moment. I love discovering the little things that prove to me that no day is really 'ordinary'.

It thrills me to meet new people and learn about them by listening to their stories. Old people like to talk with people and talk about their experiences or their younger days. Sometimes they just want to have someone listen. I met such a woman who owns a little antique shop nearby. She'll soon be 85 years old, and she's got a joy for living. She's a definite 'people person' and enjoys talking with the few customers who frequent her business these days. I believe she keeps it open only for the fact that someone might come in with whom to talk! She's sweet and warm, friendly and interesting. Meeting her that first time worked into a two hour visit! She so impressed me with her story of eating yogurt in a crystal bowl with a silver spoon, that I cannot eat yogurt from a container with a plastic spoon without feeling somewhat guilty!

Life is always bringing little surprises. The other day, in the midst of a strong rainfall, I stood on my front porch and surveyed the soggy yard. As I glanced toward my neighbor's house, something caught my eye...a small bit of red was poking out of the green leaves on the Camelia bush. I couldn't believe it! I'd given up hope of ever seeing it bloom, since it's been planted for two years without a hint of a bloom. My eye followed the line of new plantings to the back where another Camelia has been located for nearly three years, again without a sign of a blossom. There, too, were bits of red peeking through. I could almost hear the words, "oh ye, of little faith" being spoken from the Heavens. I am over-joyed to know that patience does pay off!

There are little lessons along life's way that we will miss, if we aren't careful. Blessings sometimes wait to be found, they don't always hit you right between the eyes. If we're keeping an open eye, and open heart and an open mind, they are more likely to find us.

So, I begin another day...it won't be an ordinary day, for none of them ever are.

I Wonder....

I wonder. Is there anyone out there who is reading this blog? Please let me know if you are...it's encouraging to know there's someone reading, and gives the incentive to keep writing.

I wonder how true the weather report will be today. After 5 days of rain, and a chill wind blowing fiercely yesterday, I look forward to a nice, sunny, somewhat warmer day today.

I wonder how the Farmer's Almanac can get the weather prediction so close to correct a year or so beforehand, when the Weather Channel can't predict correctly a week ahead.

I wonder what colors to paint the rooms in the house. I haven't yet decided, and therefore, they remain 'builder's white'. Though it's light and clean, white is also a bit 'stark' and cold. I like warm and inviting rooms, so while I continue to wonder what exactly to do with them, I fudge the decorating by throwing color in with quilts, pillows, artwork, throw rugs. It works for the moment, but I think it's time to make some choices.

I wonder why it takes me so long to decide on anything. I think I know. If it's a permanent thing, or semi-permanent, it means I'll have to live with it, even when I've grown tired of it. I do like variety and flexibility, so it's hard to make decisions that will last. If it's something like what to eat, I don't usually care what the meal is, as long as it's tasty and fills the vacant spot in my stomach.

I wonder how people are managing to survive this tough economy. My heart goes out to them all, especially those who've lost their jobs and are in danger of losing their homes. Money, or the lack thereof, is hard on a marriage. These days are hard on everyone....and I wonder how the President's plan will work to repair years of stupid decisions by others, and how long it will take for people to get back on track after all this. I wonder what devastation will be left behind for them?

I wonder why I have so many wonders....

Jammin'

Last night I had the opportunity to sit in with a group of men who were 'jammin'. It was a relatively new experience for me, having done this only one other time with this type of music, years ago on the West Coast. I've been at a lot of 'jam sessions' through the years, with a teenage boyfriend's band, my brother's group, and others. But, this was what seems to be the 'signature' music of the South...Bluegrass.

In a previous blog, I talked about my love of all sorts of music. Bluegrass is one that I've not been very exposed to, but I do like it, and want to know more about it.

So far, every soloist in our new country church, sings their special music selection in a Bluegrass Gospel style. My style is quite different, and I kind of 'stick out like a sore thumb', though I am well received all the same. I want to add the Southern style of singing, so that I can be more diversified.

The men last night sang a lot of familiar music, old hymns with a different rhythm. I was invited to sing with the group of nine guitarists and mandolin players. Fortunately, most of the music was played in a comfortable key for my soprano voice. I enjoyed adding that to the men's tenor and baritone voices. I look forward to doing more of this in the future. Since this group is a 'throw together' bunch on a regular Thursday night basis, I can go whenever my schedule allows, as the others do.

Life is always adding little blessings and enjoyable moments. I'm happy to say that this was one of them.

Hair...

My daughter tells me that it's time for me to have a more up-dated hair-do. Why? Because my head has worn the same style for twenty years or so, with little change? If I might defend that statement, my 'do' has been similar for all that time because that's the way my hair naturally wants to lay.

Oh, I could fight it with a curling iron or rollers or any one of a number of other tools. But that's too much work. Why fight what nature offers? I could let it grow again, as I did for a few years in the mid-90's, but I think at this age, I don't need that long hair weighing me down. I don't need to look like some hippie with grey-streaked mop. I want light and easy, carefree.

That brings me to hair color. My girls have all, at one time or another, done something to change their hair color. The only time I ever did anything was the summer a million years ago when I sprayed a "Sun-In" product in it. My intention was to have natural looking sun streaks, but what I got was a brassy blonde. Never again, especially after the year I spent in Cosmetology class, using chemicals and treatments on other women. The whole process and the time it took taught me that I didn't want to be bothered with it for myself. So, I am a dark brunette, with silver threads.

My hair is not as shiny as it used to be, and the grey is getting more abundant. That's alright with me. I like grey hair, and especially the silvery-grey that mine appears to have. At this age of sixty-one years, I am quite comfortable with myself in my own skin. I'd like to lose a few pounds, but I don't want to change my hair...not color, not style, not length. I'll just make it look the best I can, and enjoy the freedom of not having to deal much with it. Like it or not, Kids... this is Mom's look.

A True Story of Our Shipwrecked Ancestor

My GrGrandmother was a Nantucket native. She had a half-brother, by the name of Owen Chase.

In 1819, at the age of 22 years, Owen became the first mate on a crew of 21 men on the Whaleship Essex. The ship sailed out of Nantucket Harbor for the waters of the South Pacific, prepared for a trip that would take an estimated two and a half years.

Four hours out, a storm blew up, the ship tossed and battled with the sea. The captain of the ship wanted to turn back. First mate Chase convinced him that the crew of novice sailors would abandon the effort, should they return to Nantucket, so the ship sailed on their voyage. After a year at sea, they had butchered a number of whales, but knew that they would need to continue hunting if they were to make a profit. They continued around Cape Horn.

On November 20, 1820, they farmed in the 'whale grounds' , 2000 miles off the west coast of South America. One of the three small whaleboats, which contained Owen's crew of 8 men, was found to need repair. The men returned to the Essex in order to make the needed repairs. As they worked, a large male sperm whale, with a length nearly as long as the 87 ft. vessel, was seen to be approaching the whaleship, about 50 feet from the side. With little warning, the whale rammed the side of the boat. Dazed, the monster rested beside the ship until he regained his normalcy. Then he turned, swimming away from the ship. Suddenly, as if with extreme intent, the whale turned again to swim with purpose toward the Essex. Again, and with a great fury, the huge fish rammed the ship, this time at the bow. With great strength, he pushed the Essex backward, and as he did, the 20 year old vessel, with ribs built in sections which were pegged together, weakened under the pressure. As the ship began to drink in the sea water, Chase's crew loaded their small whaleboat with enough food and water to last 60 days.

The men in all three whaleboats were adrift on the sea, thousands of miles from solid ground, with too little to sustain them all. Each of the small crews suffered horrible experiences of hunger, thirst, vitamin deficiencies, exposure, hallucinations, and death among them. They buried some at sea, as was their custom of the day, but some were cannibalized, as a last resort to survival for the others. At the end of 84 harrowing days, the survivors numbered eight. The Captain, George Pollard, was one of them, Owen Chase was another.

During the next year, 1821, Owen Chase wrote and published his account of the shipwreck, entitled "A Narrative of the Most Extraordinary and Distressing Shipwreck of the Whaleship Essex." Eventually, Chase returned to the sea, as a successful captain on a number of whaling voyages. Twenty years later, a sailor named Hermann Melville boarded the ship, Acushnet. He'd read Chase's book, and was excited to meet Chase's son, William, who lent him a copy of the account. In 1851, Melville published his famous book, Moby Dick, which was based upon Owen Chase's narrative.

My search has left me with more wonder than information of his life. I have found that, over the years, he'd been married four times. I've read, too, that he was haunted by the recurring memories of the horrors he'd suffered on the Essex. In his later years, he was found to be hoarding food in the attic of his Orange St. home on Nantucket, and some writings deem him 'insane'. He died in 1869, at the age of 70 years on the island of his birth.

What a sad life I see in this man. He chose the sea, as so many did on Nantucket. It was a lucrative business in those days. It may have been his love for the water, it may have been a love of money. It may have been for reasons that I'll never know. What I do know is that from

his return to Nantucket until his death, he seems to have suffered in many ways. I search, still, for more on the life of Capt. Chase. I want to discover some small shard of information from the days before he boarded the ill-fated Essex or after his return that will show me that he had some happiness in his life. I continue to hope so.