Who Are Our Heroes?

As part of a discussion about Memorial Day, MSNBC commentator Chris Hayes recently posed the question whether we should call all of our war dead heroes? And the next day he apologized.



The recent Memorial Day Holiday started me thinking about my Dad, a World War II veteran. He dodged bullets in France and Germany to string communications cables to the front lines. My Dad seldom spoke of that war. The last thing he wanted to be called was a hero.



On Sunday Hayes said he was a little uncomfortable calling all our fallen soldiers heroes. Hayes asked the question whether applying words like “hero” to all our dead soldiers might be a way to justify wars. He emphasized he was not trying to diminish the praise our living and dead veterans were entitled to. Hayes’ comments were very moderate. And not at all disrespectful. Listen to his comments if you haven't heard them. http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/05/28/chris-hayes-uncomfortable-soldiers-heroes_n_1550643.html



Nonetheless, Hayes caught enough criticism he had to issue an apology. http://www.nydailynews.com/news/national/msnbc-host-chris-hayes-trouble-calling-fallen-soldiers-heroes-sparks-controversy-article-1.1085596  Even his apology caused outrage. http://communities.washingtontimes.com/neighborhood/middle-class-guy/2012/may/29/incredible-insensitive-stupidity-msnbcs-chris-haye/



Asking whether all our dead soldiers are heroes reminds me of the Bogey line, “Yesterday they were just two German couriers. Today they are the honored dead.”



No, I am not calling anyone a Nazi by using Bogey’s quote, even though he refers to two Germans during Hitler’s Third Reich. And granted Bogart starts out in “Casablanca” as the ultimate cynic. But sometimes even cynics hit upon the truth.



I recently finished reading “In the Garden of Beasts: Love, Terror, and an American Family in Hitler’s Berlin” by Erick Larson.” Maybe that is why I have the lunacy of the Nazis on my brain. And again, I am not calling anyone but actual Nazis Nazis.



Larson’s heavily-researched book about pre-WW2 Nazi Germany focuses on the initial blindness and naïveté of William E. Dodd, the American ambassador and his daughter Margaret, the Paris Hilton of her day. Margaret enjoyed the Nazi social scene as she flirted and cavorted with Nazis, communists, and it appears anything attractive and witty in pants. There is a possibility that Margaret eventually did a little spying for the Russians. Maybe I owe Paris or Margaret an apology for my glib comparison.



In any event, Papa Dodd thought he could talk sense into Hitler and his cohorts. To his and his daughter’s credit, the glamour of the Nazis eventually lost its gleam. The Ambassador sent out alarms about what was going on in Germany.



But as a reader with 20/20 hindsight I cringe at each apology Dodd and other diplomats made. Certainly for the escalating persecution of the Jews. Also for the restrictions of newspapers that disagreed with the growing wave of nationalism. And for the suppression of dissent and criticism.



WW II often is used as the classic example of the “just war,” the Nazis as the embodiment of evil. Yet how much have we learned about the dangers of nationalism, the importance of free speech and the ability to question if every time someone questions they have to immediately apologize?



Do we need to cast every war a “just war”? Do we need to call every dead soldier a hero? Can we not talk about how much of our terminology is propaganda?



If history teaches us anything about war it should be that not all wars are necessary or just. And that governments use propaganda, sometimes overt and other times subtle, to promote their agendas, including wars.



Propaganda can come in the form of hiding the facts or the body counts, stifling criticism, and using terminology that stirs patriotic feelings. To name just a few examples: we certainly saw that during Vietnam and during the search for WMD in the Gulf War.



There is a thin line between honest patriotism and dangerous nationalism. Our country, no country, is always right. The protection against sliding into blind nationalism is our celebration and use of the right of free speech.





But back to those who should be called heroes. There are many heroes: serving or having served in the armed forces; also in police and fire departments. Forest rangers, teachers and moms and dads can be heroes. The Mom who recently lost both legs covering her children with her body to protect them from the tornado was a hero in most anyone's terminology.





You could call my Dad, like many of the soldiers who survive war, carrying physical or psychological wounds of the horrors of war until he died, heroes. You can call all our military, alive or dead, heroes. But you also should be able to disagree with that term.





Chris Hayes has disrespected no one by questioning who are our heroes. And I intend no disrespect. But maybe, as my Dad might have said, you could say sometimes our war dead are dead, to paraphrase Jacques Brel, “because they couldn’t help it.” We put them into harm’s way. Sometimes when there was another path. My Dad would have called the peacemakers heroes. And so do I.

At the art museum with old friends.

Seeing Old Friends, As Good As It Gets

The three of us recently spent a long weekend.  Hard to believe.  We have known each other since 1965.  And here we are, no longer even middle-aged; unless you believe 60 is the new 40. 

Forty-seven years ago I shared my deepest thoughts and secrets with these two people.  Teen-aged loves, musical loves: Simon & Garfunkel and the Beatles. Favorite TV show: “Man from Uncle.”  The meaning of life, parents, God and death, and what to wear to the Friday night dance.  Also, how to survive the toughest teachers. And did the nuns who seemed to have all the answers really know what they were talking about. We thought we solved many of those issues. 

This past weekend we dined, drank, toured a museum, shopped and talked. But mostly talked.  To the point I was hoarse by Monday when we parted.  

Still so much to share: favorite music, books, and TV shows. We still watch “Man from Uncle’s” David McCallum, now on “NCIS.”  Trips we are planning with our families. Our children’s’ lives; grandchildren, actual and hoped for. 

We talk about when and how to retire.  What to do once we are retired. How long will be able to travel?  Can we still drive hundreds of miles to visit friends?  And how much energy and inclination do we have to try new things?  

We talk about the deaths of our parents. Of the three of us, only one still has a living parent.  We are now the older generation.  So we still talk about the meaning of life. And did the nuns have some or any of the answers. 

I am the first of our threesome to retire.  I write, blog, take writers’ workshops, paint, and travel.  I also spend more time doing things just for me than I have at any other time since childhood.  Exercise, projects around the house, walking the dog, visiting with friends, new and old. But seeing old friends is as good as it gets. They are my roots.

Wrong Color to See Blue Man Group

Old Computers and Older Women

 

I finally understand why some men choose to replace their old models and move up to a trophy wife. Too much upkeep.

You see, a 60 year old woman is a lot like a ten-year-old computer.  If the hard drive and motherboard do not go out entirely the computer is still so much trouble to update and keep working.  Sometimes it is just easier to get the newer model.

I did not have to face that tough a choice recently.  My pc’s motherboard and the processor had died.  So I sprung for a new pc.  Now I am pretty happy.  Mostly because the computer works with my old software for the most part, the old monitor and also my old ergonomic keyboard.

I also was pleased to find my old printer works just fine. It’s refusal to print was not the result of its temperamental nature in how paper was loaded.  I cannot tell you how many times I loaded and re-loaded paper thinking that was the problem.  Little did I know: the printer is hooked directly to the mother board or the processor. I forget which.

In any event, the old printer now prints faster than a pair of lovey-dove rabbits turn out baby bunnies. Though it is too old for its scanner and what-not to mesh with my new pc.  But who cares? Scanning was a rare chore on which I had to consult the manual.  Easier to send it some other way, even if that meant snail mail. On the other hand, I do wonder if I should get a new printer, one that does everything or plug along with what is workable but sometimes temperamental.

Sort of like the upkeep choices an older woman faces.  There are the essentials: Healthful diet.  Exercise.  Halfway fashionable clothes that are still comfortable on a body taken to sagging at unexpected places. And what about clothes that are clearly cute and trendy. But not designed for the woman in her 60’s.  As they say, just because you can fit into it doesn’t mean you should wear it.

Then there are the more difficult maintenance issues. The graying hair. Whether to color or just condition and let it go natural.  I frankly can’t tell when the colorist at the salon has finished what it is she has done. Even she admits the grays blend in with the blond so there are no “roots.”  On the one hand, the grays are wiry and uncontrollable without a little color treatment.

If you can count, you can tell I have run out of hands.  But I am still left with the question: is it worth sitting in a salon for forty-five minutes and spending more than what you would pay for an iPhone just to get rid of the unrulies? And yes, I have tried so many hair care products to get rid of the unrulies I could have bought an iPad.

Another option is to treat the gray unrulies with a home color product or glaze, or some-such, myself. After reading all the directions, applying the mess to my hair, setting my ancient (by technology standards) iPhone’s timer, and sitting around at home with goop on my head, then realizing my nails need doing too, but there isn’t enough time on the timer to do them at the same time, I wonder if any of it is worth the effort. After all, I still have to fool with my new pc and see if I can re-set the screen resolution so I can read what I am typing. That is, unless I buy a pair of glasses especially for the computer.

Next up on my list: I have purchased a home gel nail care kit.  The new stuff that leaves your nails good to go for at least two weeks. Even if you use your computer, do a little gardening, cooking and stack or wash dishes. Again, not sure if frugality and time justify the end result. But can a mature (I hate that word but is “old” any better?) woman go out in public with nails that look like she works at the zoo?  This project will probably be as good an idea as it would be for me to attempt to repair the motherboard. 

Now that my computer is working, my husband had his laptop repaired. Turns out there was a dust ball inside his laptop.  No big deal right?  Well, when he got it home, not only is the screen resolution not right but the sound no longer plays. And he uses his laptop primarily for reading news and listening to music. So you can guess how happy he is.

I just hope my husband doesn’t decide his wife is as much trouble to maintain as his laptop.  

The Redbud Trail

I know the drive from Louisville to St. Louis well.  Due west on highway 64, about 280 miles, depending on exact departure and arrival spots. With current speed limits and few stops you can make it in four and a half to five hours.

Born and raised in St. Louis and living in Louisville for over twenty years I've had many occasions to make the trip over the years. Trips to spend holidays with family.  Trips for a wedding, short visit or other occasion. In my parents' later years, many trips were to check on them during illnesses, go to doctors' appointments, or visit them in hospitals. 

I never will forget Sunday, May 8, 2005.  My Mother called to tell me my Father had died. I was soon on the road, driving to St. Louis. 

The drive is boring.  Flat, smooth interstate the whole way. with Evansville, IN about half way. Mount Vernon, IL about an hour before you get into downtown St. Louis. The iconic Arch standing out in the St. Louis skyline.  My Father had an interest in photography and he took photos of the Arch in all stages of its construction. 

On May 8, 2005, I saw the sun set behind the Arch in a spectacular sunset. In all the years of driving to St. Louis I had never before been on I-64 heading into St. Louis just at sunset. Before that time I had always planned the trips to arrive before rush hour and thus before sunset.

I drove I-64 again yesterday. My brother had been in a bike accident and I had gotten a call from the emergency room in St. Louis. In his concussed state, my name and number was the only contact that had come to him. 

This time the most remarkable part of the trip were the purple filigrees of Redbud trees decorating the interstate. Some of the Redbuds looked to have been recently planted, as they lined up in perfectly straight rows.  Others were interspersed amongst the taller trees, those wearing only the soft green of early spring. But throughout the drive, Redbuds were my constant companion, as if showing me the way from my present home to that of my childhood. 

My brother's injuries are of the kind that should heal well. Stitches in two rows at the eyebrow, scrapes across his face, hands, arms, and legs.  A dermabrasion, courtesy of the St. Louis streets.  We are hoping he has no long-term repercussions from the concussion, other than a firm commitment to never again get on his bike without a helmet.

Now that both of our parents have passed on, I don't make the trip nearly as often. Sometimes my brother comes to Louisville; sometimes we meet in other locations. But the Redbud blooms along I-64, just like a sunset over the Arch will always remind me of a particular drive along that route.

Breakfast with a Cardinal

Our yard is small.  But the view this time of year is beyond belief.  As if it were a giant bouquet, pink fluff envelops the weeping cherry tree just outside my kitchen window.   A short distance beyond the cherry tree the fence is a riot of golden forsythia.  Springtime parades in the Ohio River Valley with flowers, shrubs and trees in dazzling colors and scents, some sweet, some stinky.  But all a welcome relief from the dreariness of winter. 

By the meteorological calendar it is not yet the beginning of spring.  But the term spring hardly does justice to what is happening.  That season also is denoted for the religious holidays, Holy Week or Passover to name two.  I like to think of it as the week  daffodils are in bloom and a few tulips brave the evening dips in temperature to begin their opening dance.   The pear, tulip and cherry trees are in serious bloom. The redbuds hinting at the purple splendor soon to come.

As I sit at my kitchen table eating my regular oatmeal and fruit breakfast unexpectedly I am joined by a Cardinal.  Not the kind wearing an ornate red hat and officiating at church ceremonies.  Or even the kind wearing a team jersey and carrying sports paraphernalia.  No, this is the bird from which all the others take their inspiration. 

The Cardinal perches atop the recently-trimmed junipers nestled beneath my bay windows.  As I eat I watch him snack leisurely at the shrub insects, stirred, no doubt, by the trimming.  He is bright red and smallish.  Certainly smaller than the robins who splash in the birdbath, but larger than the finches who delicately sip a drink.  The Cardinal is less than five feet from where I sit, separated from me by a window.  He occasionally hops forward on the bush, watching me as I eat.  I wonder what thoughts go through his head on this glorious morning.