My grandfather fought in WWII. By the time I was a teenager, we had only ever heard one or two stories from his time in the service. He never spoke about those years even though we always suspected they featured predominately in the landscape of his life. He would have his old war buddies over or meet them at the local Mcdonalds. On those rare occasions when I would tag along or get roped into delivering a tray of ice tea to the picnic table in the back yard, the conversation always stalled in my presence. The animated banter simply dropped off until I'd retreated to a safer distance. I was in high school when an old boyfriend, a history buff and military collector, convinced my Grandfather to do a video-tapped interview on the war for a project. It was only then that my grandfather opened up about his years in the service and his feelings about a war that took such a devastating toll on his generation.

I remember now how he had looked uncomfortable and slightly embarrassed, sitting side by side with Roland, his best friend and fellow veteran. My boyfriend Alan had some scripted questions about specific events and dates but the most revealing answers came when the men were prompted to simply talk about their most memorable moments and feelings. My Grandfather spoke quietly, sometimes becoming emotional especially as he described being marched through a town where buildings and homes were on fire. A woman had run out into the street, her body engulfed in flames, and fallen practically at his feet. His eyes teared up as he described being ordered to "keep going, not to pay her any mind." My Grandfather seemed to stare a few moments into the space in front of him, swallowing and shaking his head slightly, lost in that memory.

The two men spent about an hour swapping stories that were representative of the best and worst of human nature. They spoke about camaraderie and of forging friendships and bonds that extended beyond the trenches, evidenced by the way they often finished each others thoughts or smiled fondly at memories of fellow soldiers and inside jokes. They spoke of the brutality of war, the corruption of their youth in battles fought on foreign soil for causes that at times, they had felt remarkable removed from. The most tragic revelation was realizing while the war had ended, it had left them and hundreds of thousands like them, forever marked and wounded in a way that would never heal. Suddenly my grandfather's midnight dreaming and ranting seemed to have a root cause. I discovered a new well of patience and understanding for a man that could so often be grumpy, aloof and very difficult. Only a few years later, my grandfather took his own life, with the very same weapon he had shouldered as a young infantry shoulder. The revealing and intimate portrait preserved on that videotape seemed to go at least part of the way toward explaining his tragic final action.

Memorial Day is a time to remember and to honor the sacrifices men and woman have made over and over again to protect our precious freedoms. I appreciate all our veterans but I have a special connection to those WWII veterans who are disappearing rapidly from our population. I see my grandfather in every aging veteran selling paper poppies outside the supermarket. I always stop. I make sure to thank them after they hand me my poppy flower. I note their shaking hands, their military dress hats and medals worn proudly despite the obvious age and wear. These were once the same young men who may have fought side by side with my grandfather. They may have had the same dreams. They may suffer the same kinds of nightmares. They certainly share the same pride and devotion to country and they deserve to be remembered, this day and all others.


 

I knew there was a special bond between Jaden and her Nene, quite possible since the moment my mother-in-law first held my little blue-eyed baby in her arms. The long months between her visits have done nothing to diminish that bond, in fact the two of them always pick up seemingly right where they left off before. They communicate in a combination of elementary Turkish and English limited to one or two word phrases. They sing and dance and play...endlessly. Just about everything Jaden says or does evokes a barrage of cooing and kissing from her Grandmother which she accepts pretty graciously to my ceaseless amazement. I've even seen Jaden bestow more than one or two extra kisses at bedtime. Even on the mornings when Jaden heads off the school, a stop in her Nene's room before she leaves, has become part of both of their routines. Their relationship is simple, structured only by unconditional love and mutual adoration.

Last night I was watching them play together, a silly follow-the-leader type game. Jaden was mirroring my mother-in-law's marching legs and pumping arms, that was, until her Grandmother tripped and came tumbling down to the ground. Not missing a beat, Jaden threw herself down alongside her Grandmother in an exaggerated swan dive that was so dramatic that giggles instantly turned into raucous laughter. The two of them sat side by side in the driveway, their feet spayed out in front of them, their heads thrown back and bodies shaking with belly laughs...looking every bit for the moment like two crazies. It was a beautiful sight.

Grandmothers are special. They are pre-programmed to see the very best in us and they encourage and celebrate those things in every single way, in every moment of our lives. I have the most amazing Grandmother myself, she has been my kindred spirit, my best friend, my surrogate Mom. I can honestly say I am in part the person I am today because of the miraculous ways she loves me. I watch Jaden with her Nene and I am so grateful she will have the same opportunity to grow up with a grandmother who loves and cherishes her without limits.
 

Jaden has taken up singing lately. Granted, it is only three or four lines to the same song but coupled with some well-time head bobbing and clapping, it is absolutely delightful. On the rare occasions, she forgets she is naturally bashful and will start to sing "Wheel on the Bus" from the seat of the shopping cart or while strolling beside me in the mall, her pigtails bouncing and her hands clapping. I know there is no way my little girl can know this, but her impromptu performances have been like a miracle salve on my wounded spirit these last few weeks. Jaden is singing because she feels happy which in turn, makes me feel like I must be doing something right. It means that even though some days it is a real challenge for me to feel hopeful and positive, I have still managed to impart those sentiments onto her. At a time in my life when I am not feeling secure, I have managed to make her feel safe. Even in this time when I struggle to find things I like about myself, my little girl feels loved and treasured. When Jaden sings, it reassures me, it refocuses me, it lifts me up. My daughter's little melodies make all the difference to me these days.
 

My morning review of the news wires via the internet reveal a cache of the insipid headlines...from "something mysterious punching holes in Saturn's rings" to "the 10 most beautiful women" and yet another senseless story about Kim and Kayne. Really? How can I assume any of this fodder affects me personally. Maybe I am just giving in to my increasing foul mood, but most of it seems like a colossal waste of space. I'm far too concerned about getting through to next month financially and mentally to care about cosmic mysterious or the love and lifestyles of the rich and famous. I've actually resorted to listening to public radio which, apart from the hours of tedious droning on, at least provides the occasional story with some cultural or social relevance far enough out of the mainstream to be entertaining. There is just so much noise in my life right now, an ever deafening soundtrack to accompany my growing disillusionment and frustration levels. At some point, I really fear that I might suddenly scream, "Fuck it" at the top of my lungs and just uproot the family for a destination unknown, the only requirement being that it be a locale as far away from this one as humanly possible...and palm trees, there would have to be palm trees.

 

On this, the day of my fourth wedding anniversary, I take a moment to reflect on some of the sweetest moments of my life with him. There are of course, all the big ones...our first date, kiss, the "I do's", the birth of our baby girl. Then there are the memories I don't often have the cause or the luxury to recall as often. I was looking over my the banner picture on my facebook page, I'd recently replaced it with a wedding picture in honor of the date, and I remembered one of those rare and tiny moments, the kind that make the whole world go still around you, just for a few precious seconds. I had been in a rush of preparation the day of my wedding, shuttled from brunch, to the salon and to the bridal dressing rooms in a whorl of happy activity. Finally, standing arm and arm with my Dad waiting for my turn to walk down the aisle, things suddenly just stopped. I could feel every breath like a painful rattle in my chest. Only moments ago I had stood in front of the floor length mirror with my grandmother, amazed at the woman I saw glazing back at me. My dress was more perfect than even I had hoped. I looked every bit as lovely and glamorous as I felt. I was about to change my life, take one of the most promising and positive steps forward after so many years with a good man that I was crazy in love with. I was happy. I was eager. I was ready. Then, a few minutes later after watching my bridesmaids all disappear beyond those doors, I had that moment. The air went still around me. I lost connection to all sound and touch. I was gripped by this sudden numbness, overcome with the tremendous fear that despair was about to consume me, to pull me back from this place of hope and healing that I had found. The panic rose up inside me, blocking every sensation, every rational thought. Then, my Dad squeezed my arm. He looked at me and I saw that he was fighting back tears. Perhaps he was also thinking of how far I had come to stand at this place with him, and of all the goodness and light that waited for me now on the other side of that door. Neither one of us spoke, afraid I think to open the floodgates. We just took a deep breath and moved forward together. The white doors flew open revealing a room filled with the smiling faces of friends and family. Each step I took drove the doubt and the fear back, each step delivered me closer to my new life with my new love. If there was any trace of panic left in me it evaporated the moment I laid eyes on my new husband, standing there with wet eyes, looking as if he had been waiting his whole life for me.
 

These days I dream so often of palm trees that I am surprised I don't see them lining my driveway when I wake up. It is not that I have the burning desire to move to a tropical location, its more the hope that if we were to move even nine or ten hours farther South, it would change our lives for the better. Perhaps. I supposed it is the romantic in me that dreams about starting over in a new place, of the excitement of forging a new life as a family in a new town, new state, new climate. The romantic that dreams of stepping away from the old challenges, struggles and limitations..of putting space between us and all that feels broken and used up. I'm not sure what is wrong exactly, I just know that something feels like it is. My stomach hurts, almost constantly. I dread my morning commute like I dread a visit to the dentist. I can't shake the feeling I could do more, I could be more. I could do better for my family.
 

There is a tulip plant growing in my yard. I can not recall ever having planted it but it blooms every Spring in bright yellow bursts. This morning the buds were just starting to open, the cheerful color just visible among the green. There are healthy looking buds on my rose bush and the hastas are also beginning to push through the soil...more foliage I inherited when I bought the house years ago. There are also lots of new shoots and buds on my dwarf lilac, a contribution to the landscape I made myself several years ago. Spring, it appears, is beginning to show itself in my corner of the world. My daughter is more than happy to shed her thick winter coats for lighter jackets that don't confine her pumping legs and swinging arms as she charges out into sun. It takes more and more effort to lure her back inside after the still chilly air has painted her cheeks a rosy red. I can see now that my little one will be an adventurous child of the sun and sky and not the introverted bookworm her mother was.

Perhaps with all these signs of Spring, I will find new reserves of energy, be newly inspired to dream, to plan, to write. it seems far too often these days, I think in pessimistic terms. It is just that one gets so tired of treading water, of just getting by.
 

I feel the approaching depression like a dull ache across the old breaks in bones when the weather is damp and heavy. I feel it like an approaching storm, too far away to hear the rumbles but the tops of the trees sway and the air crackles with the tension of its coming. I bounce between moments of restlessness and tedium like an agitated child. I look at myself and I wonder, where have I gone?
 

After the third consecutive night of coughing, I carted Jaden to the pediatrician this morning before school. Of course the doctor offered one of two explanations, it is either post-nasal drip or allergies. Both maladies call for little more than over the counter remedies but at least I know her lungs and ears are clear. The diagnosis didn't really surprise me but my daughter's behavior certainly did. Normally my baby girl dreads the doctor. She spends the majority of the time anxiously looking at the door, waiting for him to walk through it and then cowers against me when he does. Not today. Today Jaden calmly stepped up on the scale and stood still while they read off her weight. She followed the nurse into the exam room and climbed up into the chair. She smiled at me when the nurse clipped the oxygen monitor over her finger and only flinched a tiny bit when she took her inner ear temperature. She looked at books with me while we waited for the attending physician and when the small woman rushed in, she treated her to a wide grin. Even the checking of the ears, usually something Jaden fights off with an iron will, went relatively smoothly. Afterward, we walked to the car hand in hand. She polished off her donut (at least the portion covered in frosting) on the way to school. We even squeezed in a few songs before pulling up to her new building.

Maybe it was the fact that she acted so mature during her doctor's visit, or perhaps it was walking into the preschool building and passing all those classrooms filled with older children or maybe it was because I had to ask her for a kiss goodbye before she shrugged out of her coat and took off with her friends...whatever the reason, I found myself bursting into tears as I belted myself back inside my car. My daughter is growing older, faster and with more brilliance that I am prepared for at times. While I am delighted in part, I am also aching with the knowledge that these precious moments are fragile and fleeting and will never come again. I love watching Jaden mature, seeing daily how her skills and her ability to communicate are developing at rocket speed. I am endlessly proud of her. I love her with a ferocity I could have never imagined I was capable of. And yet, watching her growing up before my eyes also brings me a small degree of suffering as I have to say goodbye to more and more of my baby even if I get more and more of my little girl in exchange. It is the best kind of bitter sweetness. Each time I go through her closet, sending the outfits she's outgrown to exile in the attic, I am reminded of how quickly time passes us all by. Every time she stuns me by belting out a song I didn't think she knew, or using a word or phrase I hadn't expect her to learn the meaning of yet, I am reminded that she is on her own journey, one I am only sharing with her. Each time I hear her feet rushing across the landing to climb into our bed or wake up to her beautiful smile, I am reminded of how much of an incredible gift she is and how very lucky we are.

So I cry from time to time, but of course these are happy tears. While I miss the baby girl I once held, there is nothing more precious to me than walking hand in hand with my little girl. Someday I will tell my daughter about all these tears though. I will tell her what it was like, crying into the folds of the tiny tie-dyed dress, remembering how it was my one of my favorite baby outfits and feeling sad knowing it would soon join the walkers and the bouncers and the other infant toys in storage. Someday I will let her know that each step forward for her also wounded my mothering heart in a small but profoundly beautiful way. I will tell her that part of loving someone with your whole being means saying goodbye to part of them over and over again through the years - saying goodbye but being overjoyed by that, time and time again.
 

I'm back at work on my supernatural horror novel for the time being...and I use the terms "at work" very liberally. A few days in and I'm already asking myself, am I really at home in this genre? I have also failed to come up with a title, a bad sign for me. I am beginning to wonder if the problem is that this story isn't organic? The most frightening elements of the story work because they are visually and physiologically disturbing and exist completely without rational explanation. I wonder, is that still what frightens the majority of people today? Are we more afraid of the reality of horrific things that could happen: a bio-toxin's accidental release or a deranged serial killer praying on innocents, than mysterious things that go bump in the night or an unexplained pattern of lights in the night sky? For me there is a difference with reading horror than watching horror movies, which I don't do. There is a real challenge in writing something scary, of telling a story that leaves a reader with such a sense of unease that they are forced to sleep with the light on. That's happened to me and it so impressed me, that I was hooked. Peter Straub remains one of my favorite writers. His "Ghost Story" was the last book to leave me sitting awake at night. I think what was most terrifying for me about "Ghost Story" and other works like it, was the fact that the characters are forced to acknowledge that what's happening to them defies reason. The concept that, "this simply can not be but yet it is still happening" is one that leaves them without defense and therefore no protection from the horror that invades their lives. For my character, the fact that the thing pursuing her can not exist by any natural laws also means that is can not be bound by them either. When the "monster" steps through the mirror and grabs her by the throat, she is terrified by the beast but also because the reality she knows has ultimately failed her. Time will tell if I get this all right in the end. It has been work in progress for some time. My "monster" and I use that term liberally as well, was born from casual outing during a business trip when I stumbled into a place that seemed soaked in bad juju. The residual evil I felt there spawned a nightmare and the nightmare gave birth to my creation. Now let's see if I can bring it all home and maybe if I'm tremendously lucky, my little tale with have them leaving the lights on one day.