GOING HOME

by Jo Robertson

About ten years ago on Fathers Day our seven children picked out individual rose bushes and planted them in a row by the fence in our back yard. At the time my youngest son had distanced himself from the family so the spot for his bush remained empty, a sad reminder that one of the seven was missing.


Recently that son returned, bought a lovely white rose bush with a blush of pink on the petals, dug a hole and planted the flowers near the other six.





Thomas Wolfe said, "You can't go home again," but I'm not sure that's true. I think, as Robert Frost claimed, "Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in."






We live in a complicated world where daily stress and dangerous lures trap many people. It seems fitting on this U.S. Memorial Day, when we traditionally honor those who've died in the service of country, that we also honor those who've traveled hard roads, made difficult journeys, and have returned to their haven of safety.



















Whether from war, a troubled marriage, college, incarceration or disenfranchisement, let's welcome home all those who are "going home."




If you could memorialize one person, someone who's meant a lot to you, given you something precious, or influenced your life in some way, who would you choose and why?

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Okay, so this one time?

by Susan Sey

Today is Memorial Day. Summer is now officially open for business. Up here in the north land, Memorial Day is when the swimming pools open up. It's when public parks turn on the drinking fountains & put out the portapotties. It's when we throw caution to the wind and finally plant the darn tomatoes, late season blizzards be damned.

It's also the day our nation sets aside to pay tribute to the men and women who've died while serving in our armed forces.

This is not a surprise to me. Nor should it be at the end of my What Memorial Day Means to Me list. My dad served in a National Guard unit in the sixties. My Uncle Harry was Air Force. My grandpa served the Army in WWI. My father-in-law spent his entire career in the Air Force, and my brother-in-law flew fighter jets for the Navy. My Uncle Bill was...well, he was colorful. As I believe a lot of sailors are. But they all came through their service --thank God--healthy & whole.

And they brought stories with them when they came home. Lord, the stories these men brought home. My Uncle Bill especially. When we were kids we never got tired of hearing the one where he was standing guard on some ship & did the whole "Halt, who goes there?" routine on a superior officer named Marvel. A captain, as it happened. Captain Marvel.

Uncle Bill: "Halt! Who goes there?"

Captain Marvel: "Captain Marvel."

UB: "Riiiiiiight. Really, now. Who goes there?"

CM, with strained patience: "Captain. Marvel."

UB, skeptically: "Mmm-hmm. Mmmm-hmm. Captain Marvel?"

CM: "That's right."

Thoughtful pause.

UB: "Can I be Superman?"

Apparently, they really do make you peel potatoes for mouthing off in the military. That's not just Beetle Bailey stuff. At least according to my Uncle Bill, who--admittedly--wasn't the most reliable of sources. We were never sure when we were kids where the line was between fact & fiction when it came to his stories, but it hardly mattered. That wasn't the point. It was all about the story and the picture he painted with his words and that three-pack-a-day-and-a-shot-of-whiskey voice.

Now when most people die, their friends and relatives tell stories about them at the funeral. When my Uncle Bill died, we told stories about his stories. It was a powerful reminder to me of how important stories are. They're an honor and a tribute, a temporary recreation of something fleeting and human. They're a kind of magic, really. And I can't think of a better way to recognize the service and sacrifice of our soldiers than by performing that particular magic in their honor.

It's war story day in the Lair! Pull up a log, sit around our virtual campfire, have a beer or a soda or a s'more and tell us about your favorite soldier. I'll bet I'm not the only one with an Uncle Bill hanging out in the family tree. Come on--share! Source URL: https://idontwanttobeanythingotherthanme.blogspot.com/search/label/Memorial%20Day
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Who's In Your Foxhole?

By Kate

I want this guy in my foxhole, the one in the pink boxers.



U.S. Army Specialist Zachary Boyd leapt from his sleeping quarters and grabbed his helmet, vest and rifle — but not his pants — and took his station behind sandbags.

Click here for the rest of the story.

Zachary Boyd's story makes me think about the people in my own life who watch my back, who support me, who would jump out of bed, grab the important stuff and come to my aid no matter what the personal risk or cost. These are the people who pass what I like to call my Lone Pine test.

Here’s how the Lone Pine test goes ...

If my car broke down in Lone Pine, California, a mountain town about 200 miles away from my house, who could I call? Who would I trust to come pick me up?

Those are the people I want in my foxhole.

Here’s my foxhole short list:

My DH. Seems he’s always watching out for me, in so many ways. He’s my doctor, my cop, my mechanic, my bartender, my accountant, my stand-up comedian, my chef, my computer geek, my best friend.

My mom. She’s fiercely loyal, my biggest fan and my best gal pal. She sends me cards for no reason and makes me smile. She goes around town buying my books and gives them to the library or her friends or complete strangers.

My two closest writer friends, the ones I called last week sobbing because several horrible things had happened and there was no one else on the planet who could talk me down off the ledge but these two. They have helped me in immeasurable ways and I owe them so much. They know who they are. :-)

There are a few others -- and they know who they are, too. And the thing is, I'll be there for all of them, too.

So, on this Memorial Day holiday, I wonder ... who’s in your foxhole?

And Happy Memorial Day to all!
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