In recent days I have been pulled from the mire of my own personal woes – money and job related- into the reality of the cost of war and the loss of many young lives. People’s children are dying. Since the beginning of February, we have lost at least 25 US troops.

I signed up for the press releases from the DOD years ago- and year after year, I have watched the bad news slip into my email. I open each one- I read the name of every life lost. I think about their family and loved ones- their short life, snuffed out.

I used to reply to the condolence threads on the Marine Parents message board and then one day I realized that many of us, moms especially, had become obsessive – and living in constant fear that the condolences would be addressed to us someday. I had to stop. I continued to read the DOD releases and spend a moment in silence for the fallen and their loved ones. I know I’ll never forget- yet somehow- we move on. We have to. We have to because the living are depending on us.

In recent weeks I have read posting by parents regarding their sloppy, beer swilling, disrespectful Marines. Many of them blame the Marine Corps. I keep defending the smelly, mouthy, reprobates because they are after all-at least most of them, going to war.

They are scared and can’t really show it or they have come to terms with their possible demise and the fact that this may be their last chance to party, get lucky, get crazy- get lost in some fun. I’m not sure why they become disrespectful. Maybe it’s easier to leave your folks mad than sad. I’m also a firm believer that respect is earned- not a God given right given to parents. Generally- you get what you give. (I know there are exceptions)

So I look at all these press releases announcing the death of a Marine or soldier or sailor and I have to ask myself- how can these folks fight with their kids about anything when they are going to deploy to a war zone. A brutal warzone.

Normal parents- or parents of non-military children are also missing the point. I once wrote about a day I was missing my son terribly and I went to the Laundromat to wash my clothes. A mom came in with her two kids. She looked harried and unhappy; I imagined a fight with her husband or recent divorce. Or maybe the thought of doing 9 loads of laundry on a Sunday afternoon was the cause of her long face and tight mouth. Her older son who was probably 17, helped his mom bring her baskets of laundry in the door, and then I guess he was going to do whatever he had to do. He put his arm around her and sort of rubbed her shoulder for a minute and what just killed me is that she never acknowledged his loving gesture. It really disturbed me because I was longing to see my own son and touch his face and would have done anything to feel his bear hug – surely, I would have hugged my boy back.

My son joining the Marine Corps only exacerbated my fear that I would lose him someday. I was scared when I was pregnant, I was scared when he learned to cross the street and ride a bike and oh, the fear I felt when he went on a plane without me was crippling. When he started to drive and didn’t get home on time- I was calling the Highway Patrol and driving up and down the freeway looking for him. I don’t think I ever told him.

My great- grandmother told me the worst thing that can ever happen to a parent is to have their child die before them- and then when my brother died at 27 years old, I saw my parents disintegrate into zombie like shells of their former selves. What I really learned is – any mothers son, any father’s daughter can die anytime. Shouldn’t we love them as much as possible? Unconditionally? I have a few friends that practice this and always have. (Admittedly it’s not always easy)

I have a friend whose son is in Afghanistan right now- he just lost one of his best buddies and his mom, my friend, is so distressed, so worried and scared. My son’s old unit is there too- and one of his friends and brother in arms was just injured. I have more friends whose kids will be going to Afghanistan shortly. The perspective of the parents I know is in tact. They know the only thing that matters right now is that their kids stay alive. Even losing an arm or leg is an acceptable option over death.

My point- and I know I always take the long way around… is that none of us ever know. We really need to be kind to our kids – all of our loved ones yes- but especially our kids. Even the messy, beer swilling, pot smoking, mouthy little shits would leave an irreplaceable hole in our hearts if we lost them.

Try to remember that next time you get so mad at your kid you say something you can’t take back, because guilt on top of grief is a deadly combination.

My thoughts tonight go out to the families of the past and recent troops killed in action. Their sacrifices not forgotten- their gift of perspective, I cannot repay.

And to all my friends whose loved ones are in harms way- here at home or deployed…

I can only keep you all in my thoughts and prayers.

I have this thought… it’s on the tip of my tongue. I feel it embracing me, leading me and trying to help me understand what it wants. But I just can’t make out the words. Not unlike my life in real time- if my hearing aids aren’t in my ears, chances are I will miss what you are saying.

I wait for the epiphany that is sure to come. I look for it too on faces, in the news, even on TV. Sometimes I just sit quiet and hope it will strike me like lightening- only without killing me. I hope like crazy I am not one of those people who gets these amazing revelations 10 minutes before they die because that just won’t give me time to jot it all down.

Now I say all this but I have to tell you- I am the first one to tell other people to stop thinking about life and just do it. I hole up here with my sick and decrepit animals and my deranged puppy, living like a crazy old writer/dog lady, rarely going to social events or even a movie theater anymore. But I’ve done plenty, I lived 10 lives in my first 40 years and my goal now is to make sense of it all, document events before history changes them and find the patterns- break the molds, influence change, instigate hope- fix something.

It’s on the tip of my tongue- I just know it.

These last two Veterans Days have been a little different for me. I’ve always admired our military heroes, the men and women who have sacrificed their time, energy and some- their limbs and life to serve our country. I have always thanked them for their service when given the opportunity or lent a helping hand when I was able.

The faces of veterans are changing though. Beside a craggy-faced sixty- something from the Vietnam War, or octogenarian- plus from WW2, are twenty-three and thirty year olds. While many of their friends were in school having keg parties, most of our new veterans were in Iraq or Afghanistan serving their country. My own son is twenty-four years old and a combat veteran.

What I have learned since my son and the son’s and daughter’s of my friends became Inactive Reserve Status, is with the end of their military career; where staying alive was a primary concern, often comes new problems. From PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder), physical disabilities and mapping the VA bureaucracy, to finding jobs, translating rifleman or tow-gunner to a resume, dealing with people that don’t know how to work as a team or how to give it their all; or finally mourning their losses. Being a veteran can be hard work. Many of them find it difficult to function in a world where there are so few rules. Some of them need help.

I thought when my son got out of the Marine Corps people would line up to hire him. Who wouldn’t want a man that could work four or five days in a row with no sleep? Or make decisions with bullets flying at his head, or someone that had never called in sick? I was surprised and disappointed to find that some applications wouldn’t allow him to include his military status or history. He decided to go back to school instead of explain the four-year gap in work history to people who didn’t care.

This Veterans Day I salute and thank all veterans that ever served our great country. I realize now, they were all once young and somebody’s children.

For more information on how you can support the troops and our veterans, visit my website

http://www.katiewigingtonwrites.com/SupportTheTroops.html

http://www.va.gov/

http://www.vfw.org/

And if you get a chance- just say thank you – it means the world to those who have served.

My mother was a sun worshiper. Every summer she would pack us up and take us to Russian River for however long she could afford. Sometimes a week sometimes two, if we ever stayed a month I don’t remember.

When I think back now it really wasn’t much of a vacation for her. She still cooked up a storm and still had to clean up after us. Then as we got older, it got easier in some ways and harder in others.

We usually stayed at the Hi-Tone Motel. My mother’s cousin Tony Luchessi owned and operated the motel with his wife and son, Isabel and Rich. We all loved Uncle Tony. He was an affectionate Italian who never appeared to be anything but happy. Tony built a house in the back of the property, overlooking the kidney shaped pool, and we stayed in the house. There were four of us kids, my brother John, sisters Linda and Angie, me, my mom and alternating fathers- old and new, visiting when they could.

The stories generally swirl around my head in no chronological order. I’m sure sometimes I mess up the years in a roughly ten-year time span of my early life. But certain incidents I recall as clear as a bell.

We always had cousins or people who my mom said were cousins at the motel and all over Russian River. All the adults were called auntie and uncle- although to this day I don’t know if half of them were actually related to us- even though I do remember that most of them were Italian.

I got my very first and last spanking from my dad in Russian River at “Uncle Bob’s house. My dad had brought my sister Linda, his new sister in law Carol and me to Bob’s house for a weekend. I was about seven years old and when Linda and Carol, both 12 and nearly 12, got to go off without me. I threw a tantrum. My dad took me to the bathroom, put me over his knee, and gave me two or three whacks on my butt. I was used to my mom’s swift backhands, but my dad had never hit me. I don’t think I talked to him the rest of our time there. I held grudges when I was young.

The Hi-Tone Motel was located on Old River Road, halfway between downtown Rio Nido and downtown Guerneville. There was nothing much to do when we were there other than bother Uncle Tony who frequently gave me jobs like cleaning the pool ring with Ajax cleanser and a cloth or helping Aunt Isabel make pizza for the gang. I got to put the salami on the dough. Occasionally my brother and I would go play pee-wee golf but most of the time I just wanted to swim. My mom once told me that the year I taught myself to dive I spent 8 hours one day just diving. My stomach and face were beet red from the belly flops but by the end of the day I was diving like a pro. Other times I perfected my underwater techniques, holding my breath and diving for pennies- something that would come in handy later in life.

One of the most standout days for me is when my father saved my little sister’s life. Angie was just a baby- and like all top-heavy babies, when she leaned over the deep end to look in the pool- in she went. There were several people there- all good swimmers, but none as quick and alert as my Dad. He had her scooped up so fast she never knew she was in trouble. My sister, who had a different father, always had a soft spot for my dad- I wonder if somehow she felt the cosmic connection they had.

I think it was the following year that my sister Linda became the recipient of my bad attitude then, in turn, I was the recipient of my mom’s uncontrolled rage.

I had found a puppy in the field behind us. I’m not sure if I was alone or with my brother but of course I brought the puppy back to the “cabin”. It was some kind of mutt, a ginger color with a brown muzzle and he or she took right to me. I can no longer remember how I or we convinced my mother to let us keep the puppy. Maybe she was just too tired to fight me knowing I would never give up when it came to a dog. The pup however, made a mistake when later he pooped in the house. My sister Linda told me I had to clean it up. Well I didn’t think that was part of the deal I guess- or maybe I just didn’t like Linda telling me what to do. Eventually I got some newspaper and picked up the poop – and just to have the last word- pretended to throw it at Linda. “Here” I said. Unfortunately- for the pup- and me the runny poop went flying off the paper and hit Linda right in the neck. She ran screaming to my mom and I was severely punished – worse than the crime called for. And the pup was sent elsewhere. I’m sure I hated Linda and my mom for the rest of that summer vacation.

The following summer was a bad one too. I can’t remember what my mom’s marital status was at the time. I am guessing split up from my stepdad for one reason or another. She was a head turner and never let moss grow under her feet in-between men. So that summer she was dating someone younger than her and I remember even at eleven years old thinking he was very good looking. When she went out on her date-I had a total melt down. I’m not sure what it was about- but if I were to guess now it would be I felt unloved. I decided to steal the car and go for a ride. Well I guess I had trouble starting it or maybe getting it out of the driveway. My Uncle Tony took the keys and then I really flipped out- and then some Aunt- whose name I don’t remember- was smart enough to take over and instead of fighting with an eleven year old- took me out for a malt. I remember talking to her- telling her my problems whatever they were. She was warm and compassionate – calmed me down and in retrospect- I think she may have had a chat with my mom because I was never punished for trying to take the car.

The next summer was my best. I had my first two-piece bathing suit and even a little something to put in it. My “cousin” Patrick was there and he was the cutest boy I had ever seen. He had blond hair, beautiful green eyes and a golden boy tan. I don’t know how old he was but I think about sixteen. I followed him everywhere. He would be downstairs in his room reading comic books at night- and I would just go sit in his room- just to be near him was enough for me.

One sunny day when we were all at the pool and Patrick was actually paying attention to me, I postponed going upstairs to the rest room just as long as I could- my bladder was bursting. When I finally did go up there I was in a big hurry- and started tugging my bottoms off on the way into the dark cabin bathroom. I sat my fanny down on the toilet seat without a thought- and all of a sudden, something big I mean BIG hit my privates. I put the seat down and tried to flush while pulling my drawers up as fast as I could- and screaming to the top of my lungs. I could hear the thing hitting the top of the toilet seat and my screams grew louder and drew attention. My cousin Patrick, Uncle Tony, mom, sister and brother all came running. When I told my Uncle and Patrick what happened they thought it must have been a bird. So off they went to rescue the bird. Then I heard a yelp come out of one of them and my Uncle Tony swearing something in Italian. It turned out Mothra was living in the toilet. If you remember the Japanese horror film of the giant moth you will know what I am talking about. That moth was so big it would not flush. My Uncle said it was the size of a small bird. I was molested by Mothra, but saved by my heroes. That summer erased all the bad ones.

I don’t know why we stopped going to Russian River. Maybe because Linda got married – maybe because we moved to Marin and we didn’t need to be in search of the sun anymore. Or maybe Uncle Tony got too old and sold the business. Whatever the reason I’m glad I have the memories. I remember my mom looking voluptuous and beautiful in her black bathing suit on her bronze body and her fancy sunglasses, turning heads in her convertible. I remember my sister Linda with her perfect figure and her thick brown wavy hair, going to Rio Nido to the dances where she would probably break a few hearts. I remember my brother Johnny following Uncle Tony around with tools in hand- helping fix things. And my sister Angie, in her little bathing suit bending over the pool and tumbling in or me playing with her in the shallow end for hours at a time. And I remember me- practicing swimming and diving and holding my breath- as if my life depended on it. Maybe it did.

Yesterday my sister Angie and I went to San Francisco to meet an old friend of the family for lunch. Carol, our friend is pushing 80… and still going strong. She still moves fast and her brain is as sharp as ever. A native New Yorker, she is a pull no punches- abide no whiners, kind of gal. That’s what I always liked about her.

Carol was in our life the most when my dad owned the restaurant and his wife (after my mom) Jeanie, was still alive and then a few years after she passed away. She would have lunch or dinner with Angie and I- listen to our romance woes or tales of our crazy adventures- and the Jewish mother in her gave us sage advise. It was so nice to see she was still the same. She told us funny stories about men she has dated recently and had us in stitches.

We started to talk about all the people that used to come in or work at the restaurant. Sadly, most are dead now. The cast of characters was amazing though. We did have a unique bunch of friends that spent every day with us.

Some of the departed we thought about -we loved. Javier B, Larry Layne, Bernice Enright, Loretta Mitchell, Johnny Armando, Uncle Irving Beirman. Some just made our days… Mr. Chris, Big Tony, Babe the deaf-mute- a guy who called himself God and walked around taking notes about everyone. Pretty Mary- I’ve written about her.

Angie and I stopped in the restaurant on our way to the car. The place was dingier and dirtier than we remembered. We didn’t know a soul. We didn’t stay.

Yesterday, when we were leaving we got to the garage where we have parked our cars for over forty years, and our friend and old co-worker Rey was there. We were so happy to see Rey and he us. We all hugged. Angie, Rey and I spent many hours together over the course of 20 something years. Working and knocking back a few cold ones after work. We were family. We all were. We were a mismatched set of crazy and colorful people who made life interesting.

So it was a little sad to return to the past yesterday. But fun too. Fun to remember the days when my sister and I spent 10 hours a day together usually laughing; and we owned San Francisco. We could go anywhere in town and know everyone. We were the Figone girls. Or Don’s daughters or Bev’s daughters.

And the stories we could tell…

I don’t feel compelled to blog about every little thing. I’m actually sick to death of some topics. I am sick of politics and the rhetoric that follows. The left hates the right and the right hates the left… those that meet in the middle are ostracized for lack of loyalty or some such nonsense.

I am not an expert on everything. I can’t expound on a federal health care system that we don’t have, or foreign policy that is ever changing. I can’t tell you if this president is a good one or not, (he’s too new). I really don’t have an opinion about everything.

I can speak to the war on terror only as it has invaded my own life and took my son and changed him forever. But at least I got him back. More than some mothers can say. Along with many friends whose kids have chosen to serve their country, I have worried about their welfare and what will come of them when they return to a country with no work. At least they are not as hated as our Vietnam Vets.

My phone has never been tapped, there is no dossier on me- at least not for terrorism. I have no beef with Homeland Security- what little I know about them tells me they are not effective enough to worry about one way or the other. (granted they are relatively new)

My worries are closer to home now. Employment, finances, sick dogs, friends in need, aging relatives, friends, family – family.

I want to go to Samuel P. Taylor Park and Mt. Tamalpias with my son, before the Governor closes them. I want to go to the Cheese Factory with my friend Renee and have a picnic like we did 20 + years ago. I want to see my niece and my great nephew in the 4th of July parade (in Novato). I want to go to Phoenix Lake with Kelly. I want to make gnocchi with my sisters, and go see my Uncle Richard in Palm Springs. I want to go to Glen Ellen and watch my sister Deb feed the yellow jackets. I want to spend time with all my nieces and nephews and even a few cousins. I want to help Liz build her website and show off her artwork, and I want to spend a day with Patti, sitting in the sun, reading our books and talking about life and loves lost. I want to help people. I want to understand the journey before it’s over. That’s all I want.

Prior to moving to North Carolina, I would spend my Memorial Day weekend traveling all over the bay area from one cemetery to the other. I would decorate the graves of relatives with flowers and flags, contemplate the significance of the day and appreciate what each of these people meant to me.

Visiting my dad’s grave is always particularly hard. I missed so much time with him when I was young- then he was taken from this world before either of us had a chance to make up time.

I would take my son with me- graveyard hopping… and we always noticed that many of the departed did not receive flowers or have their weeds pulled on a regular basis. We would walk around and read all the headstones –wondering about the lives snuffed out too soon and those who made the centennial and received their shout out from Willard Scott.

My son learned to appreciate the significance of Memorial Day with me- and his first year as a U.S. Marine he was one of several that participated in the “Flags In” ceremony at Arlington-placing a flag and saluting hundreds of soldiers, sailors, Marines and airmen.

I was proud of him and glad he was able to carry on our tradition, on a grander scale.

I have not visited my dad’s grave since my return to California. I think I’m the only one in my family that visits him. I’ll go this weekend. Maybe my son will take a ride with me and place a flag on Papa Charlie’s grave- a nod from one veteran to another- grandson to grandfather. I think it will mean more to both of us this year.

It’s a safe bet, to assume that most of us don’t appreciate what we have until it’s gone. It’s true with so many things.

Even though I have always loved my son to death- not until he was in the Marine Corps, did I realize how much of me, he was.

One day, when I first moved to Charlotte, and Nick was stationed at Annapolis, I went to the laundry mat. Laundry mats are generally depressing places, so I people watch and try to figure out what everyone’s story is. Book fodder. I can come up with some pretty sorry shit too.

So on this particular day- a mom came in with her teenage son and his younger sibling. He helped her carry everything in. I guessed right away, this was not her normal routine, she had a mad face on like one would have if their washing machine broke on a Sunday when they haven’t done laundry for a week and the kids need school clothes on Monday.

The boy put his hand on her arm, a loving gesture, and she pushed it away, annoyed. I know there was an audible gasp from me. I would have given anything to have my son touch my arm right then.

I wanted to tell her- how precious that moment was- and she could never get it back. But I didn’t. I went home and cried. It made me sad all day. How could this mother not want to be touched by her boy? His simple gesture… touched my heart so much that I remember it four years later.

I miss my parents and never thought I would. I miss the people in my life I can’t get back…I have missed my family and some very good friends for 4 years now- and I am thrilled that I don’t have to anymore. I sure have learned what’s important.

Someone asked me the other day if I miss my house in Charlotte. Not really. It was a great house- but it was empty. Well- full of nice furniture… but empty. While it knew no heartbreak with me in it- it knew no great love either- save that which I hold for my dogs. It was just a house.

I will be forever grateful for the lesson that house taught me though.