To the Person or Persons Who Robbed My Dad

He’s 95 years old. His house is small, unassuming. Why would you choose to break into it? He doesn’t have much to steal. He doesn’t have much money, or anything of monetary value. The value of his things is in the memories they provide for him.

You took his cuff links. His mother gave him those. She passed away while he was at war. You took a couple of rings. One was a ring with a ruby, that his father gave him. The other was his wedding ring. He got married in 1944. You also took his Phi Kappa Phi pin. You’re probably too stupid to know it, but that’s a fraternity for people who have achieved academic excellence. Not worth much to you; you’re lucky to have a vestigial, reptilian hindbrain. But it was priceless to him.

You kicked in his back door—the brand new door he just had installed, and was so proud of. You broke a window, leaving jagged shards of glass for him to clean up. You tossed his belongings, leaving quite a mess for a 95-year-old to have to put back in order. He’s a neat and tidy person. You could tell that, if you bothered to look around.

Are you proud of yourself? I can’t get inside your head. What kind of disgusting piece of slime thinks he has the right to break into a man’s home and take his stuff? How do you sleep at night? How do you look at yourself in the mirror and not vomit? How do you rationalize what you’ve done in your own mind? It baffles me. It really does.

The man whose memories you stole is a kind and gentle soul. But he fought in World War II. He served his country, and was awarded the Purple Heart. He worked hard all his life, saved his money, then gladly spent it all on hospitals and doctors when his wife became ill.

And when it became apparent that she was never going to get better, and that caring for her was more than he could handle, he put her in a nursing home. And he visited her every day. For fifteen years.

Are you pleased with your “haul?” What you took couldn’t have amounted to much. But to him? Memories can’t be replaced. There is no insurance policy that covers memories.

So, here is what I wish for you: I wish you a long life. I hope you manage to accumulate your own store of trinkets, mementos, memories, and that you treasure them and take comfort in them. And when you’re old, and vulnerable, and alone, I hope someone kicks in your door and takes it all away from you.

Mazel tov.

The Wanderer

Goldenrod is my daughter’s cat. He is almost thirteen years old; but this story happened three years ago, when he was a sprightly ten.

He was a miracle cat in the first place, because his littermates were the offspring of a barn cat belonging to my best friend, and they all died young; one was accidentally run over, one was dispatched by a three-year-old who didn’t know how fragile a kitten can be, and one was killed by some sort of predator. Goldie was the only one left, and my daughter, who was eight years old at the time, wanted him desperately. After due consideration, my husband made a 700 mile round trip to bring him home for her.

Goldie has always been an indoors cat. He has also always expressed a keen interest in being an outdoors cat. Despite being declawed, he has upon occasion made his escape and wreaked bloody havoc upon innocent grackles and starlings. Typically, he would deposit the corpses in the dining room, as if to say, “Behold the mighty hunter, providing meat for the table.”

To which I would reply, “Ick.”

Everybody’s a critic.

So, occasionally Goldenrod would slip out if the sliding glass door onto the balcony were left open. Sometimes he would even be gone overnight, but he always came back. I would hear him meowing plaintively to be let in.

Until that day, three years ago.

My daughter had gone off to college, giving her older brother strict instructions to watch over her beloved cat.

Goldie slipped out one night. I told the boys not to tell Kathleen, because I figured he’d be back the next night.

But he wasn’t. A day later there was a huge ice storm. I thought sure that would drive him home. But it didn’t. A week later, my oldest son, Chip, wracked with guilt, confessed to his sister that Goldie was gone. Even though it hadn’t been his fault, he felt responsible. He had been tramping the neighborhood for hours on end, hanging up “Missing Cat” posters on every telephone pole, and knocking on doors, asking if anyone had seen our wanderer.

Kathleen, of course, was very, very upset. She came home for the weekend and searched and searched. A few people swore they’d seen him, but none of the leads panned out.

Most of my friends advised us to give it up. Goldie, aging and with no claws to defend himself, had most likely succumbed to a stray dog, opossum, raccoon, or marauding grizzly bear. Nota bene: There are no grizzly bears in St. Louis. I was just seeing if you were paying attention.)

Three months went by. Three months of snow, ice, cold, torrential rains, and dreams. Several members of our family, myself included, kept having strange, vivid dreams about Goldenrod. Kathleen swore he was under some kind of porch. My dreams didn’t tell me where he was. I would dream that he had come home. The dream would be so real, I would wake up convinced he HAD come home…only to be disappointed.

Chip came home crying one evening, saying that he’d found Goldenrod’s body. It didn’t surprise me; I’d kept an eye open whenever I was driving, expecting to see his sad little white-and-gold body along the side of the road. We got a spade and a cardboard box and went to retrieve him for burial. All we found, though, when we reached the location Chip had indicated, was a much flattened squirrel. Goldenrod, it seemed, was still “in the wind.”

In early June, I was driving home from grocery shopping when my cell phone rang. It was Chip. “I’ve found Goldenrod,” he said. “He’s alive.”

I didn’t believe him. It’d been over three months. Chip insisted. He said that a man in the neighborhood had called him and told him there was a cat fitting our cat’s description living underneath a shed about a block and a half from our house.

“Are you SURE?” I asked Chip. “Are you SURE it’s Goldenrod?”

“Positive,” he said. “I’m looking at him right now. But he’s too scared to come out.”

We got a can of cat food and coaxed him out from under the shed with it. He was horribly emaciated and dirty, but it was Goldie. When we took him to the vet, she said he was in great shape, other than being malnourished. That was an understatement. He was literally nothing but skin and bones and big green eyes. He walked around the house in a daze. It was like he couldn’t believe he was home.

But he was.

Kathleen had gone on a camping trip with her friends. Chip couldn’t wait to tell her. He called her on her cell. “I’ve got somebody here who can’t wait to see you!” And he sent her a picture from his phone. Kathleen was quick to point out that he was found in a place very like the one she had seen in her dreams. I have no explanation for that, but it’s true.

I have to give full credit to Chip; he worked so hard, trying to find that cat. And, wonder of wonders, it paid off. We gave the man who’d called in the tip a $50.00 reward. He tried to refuse, saying that he loved animals and he was just happy to help, but we insisted.

Why didn’t Goldenrod come home? He was only a block and a half away. I have a couple of theories. Possibly he got hit on the head or something happened to disorient him so that he couldn’t find his way. Clearly, he was terrified to leave the small, cramped haven underneath that shed. I’m certain he’d been chased, and possibly attacked, by other animals, which so traumatized him that he didn’t even go out to try to find something to eat. As thin as he was, he wouldn’t have lasted much longer. It may even have been our own two exuberant German Shepherds who did some of the chasing. Occasionally they’ll take off after a rabbit or a cat. They may have run Goldenrod off when he tried to come home.

But, whatever the reason, he did make it home, none the worse for his ordeal. The only fallout was that, when he first got home, he ate and ate and ate until he was rather a fat cat, when he’d always been a bit on the skinny side before. I think, like Scarlett O’Hare, he said to himself, “As God is my witness! I’ll never be hungry again!”

He also showed no inclination to wander for a couple of years. In fact, if picked up and carried to the door, he would object, vigorously and violently. He wanted no part of that nasty “outdoors” place. Lately, though, his bad memories must have been fading, and he has shown some interest in the great outdoors again. Well, I figure he’s only used up two of his nine lives at this point. And since he has demonstrated an eerie ability to send us prescient dreams about his whereabouts, I hope he’ll be a little more specific, and let us know WHICH porch or shed he’s hiding under, next time.

Welcome home, you stupid cat. We missed you.

Challenger Seven

Per Aspera, Ad Astra

Twenty-five years ago today, seven brave astronauts were lost as the space shuttle Challenger exploded, 73 seconds after lift-off. At the time, I wrote a song which has been performed at numerous science fiction conferences, conventions and gatherings over the years. I couldn't find a decent recording of the song, so I thought I'd just post the lyrics here. Per aspera, ad astra, my friends. Per aspera, ad astra.

This was written in honor of the Challenger Seven: Mike Smith, Dick Scobee, Gregory Jarvis, Ronald McNair, Ellison Onizuka, Judith Resnik, and Christa McAuliffe, one week after the explosion.

There's just no way to count the cost; it's hard to understand.
But even with our pain and loss, we cannot let it end.
Oh Challenger, true light of liberty
A guide for us and our posterity.

I challenge you to seek your dreams of space.
I challenge you, the nation and the race
To be everything that I had hoped to be.
I challenge you as a memorial to me.

We are a land of pioneers, and many brave ones have died.
But though we've lost the best of us, we're proud to say we tried.
And one small step became a giant leap,
A memory for a nation to keep.

I challenge you to seek your dreams of space.
I challenge you, the nation and the race
To be everything that I had hoped to be.
I challenge you as a memorial to me.

If they were standing here today, they'd say, America, we love you.
And you've got to keep on striving to explore the stars above you.
To end what we have lived for would be wrong.
We pass the torch to you; keep it burning strong.

With rockets raging through the sky, we watched our heroes die.
They took the risks, they challenged space, with knowledge as the prize.
For if we never dare, we never can achieve.
And all we need is the courage to believe.

I challenge you to seek your dreams of space.
I challenge you, the nation and the race
To be everything that I had hoped to be.
I challenge you as a memorial to me.

Be everything that I had hoped to be.
I challenge you as a memorial to me.

Tucson Tragedy

The tragedy in Tucson has caused a shock wave that is still reverberating round the world.

In the wake of something so inexplicable, so abominable, people want to assess blame. Could anything have been done to prevent this tragedy? Did anyone suspect that this man would do something so heinous?

There are lots of theories being propounded, particularly by liberals. Did Rush Limbaugh set the gunman off? Were the pugnacious comments from the Tea Party candidates to blame? (A quick review of the guy’s political leanings seem to indicate that he was more Leftist than Limbaugh-like.)

And then there are the gun control advocates, screaming in outrage. How could this man have been allowed to have a gun in the first place? I heard a radio DJ suggesting that if guns were outlawed, he wouldn’t have been able to pull out a Glock with a 33 round magazine and shoot, and shoot, and shoot, until some bystanders with nerves of iron tackled him while he was trying to load another mag. Elderly Patricia Maisch actually snatched the magazine out of Loughner’s hand while he struggled to reload. Bless her.

I have a few things to say about this line of thinking. First of all, if an unbalanced person isn’t able to get his hands on a gun, he can always download instructions for creating a bomb out of common household items from off the Internet. Shucks, he could have killed 60 people instead of six. Pandora’s Internet box is open, and it’s too late to slam the lid down now. Second, laws banning gun ownership are only going to be obeyed by law abiding citizens. Criminals and crazies are not law abiding citizens. Banning guns will merely strip the common man of his or her right to protect himself. I will say this: The only thing that might--and I stress the word might--have made a difference at that supermarket, is if one of those law abiding citizens had been carrying his legally acquired firearm, and had the presence of mind to pull it out and kill the bastard before he’d had the opportunity to shoot nineteen people. There is no way to say whether or not this scenario would have made a difference or not, obviously, since it didn’t happen, and no one knows how they will react in such a horrendous situation—until they are faced with the terrifying reality. I don’t know myself whether or not I could have “stepped up”. I hope I never have to find out.

The most disgusting thing of all is that certain politicians want to use this tragedy to further their own agendas. They don’t care whether or not Rush Limbaugh really provoked the shooting spree. They just want him off the air because he makes people think, and liberals are pretty sure that’s a dangerous thing.

The simple truth is, no one could have predicted this. Even people who got some vague, disturbing feeling from Loughner most likely never would have thought he would take a gun and shoot innocent people in a crowd. Why? For the very simple reason that it is unthinkable, that’s why. Anne Frank said, “In spite of everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart.” We all want to believe that. And I do. I really do believe that most people are really good at heart.

But there are monsters in the world. If you’re very, very lucky, you’ll never come face to face with one. But they’re out there. Seventy-five years ago, a monster took over the hearts and minds of a strong nation and slew six million Jews within a short period of time.

But some people want you to believe that there are no monsters, no real ones. They want you to give up your ability to protect yourself. They’ll tell you it’s for your own good. They may even sincerely believe it. That’s the police’s job, they’ll say. (And when seconds count, the police are only minutes away…)

The predators are salivating at the very thought of the populace voluntarily giving up their right to bear arms. I’m certain of this. I’ve seen it before. Years ago, we were transferred to Ft. Bragg, NC. We started house hunting. This was during Desert Storm. A great many of the troops had been deployed, leaving wives and children behind in Fayetteville. We were told by the police chief that violent crime jumped 200% in Fayetteville after the soldiers were deployed. The predators knew their prey had been left alone and unprotected.

It seems like there have been a lot of predators out lately; a lot of unbalanced people shooting, a lot of crazies using violence and mayhem to garner a little time in the spotlight. Whatever is causing it—Rush Limbaugh, voodoo, the full moon—this is not the time to roll over and play dead. This is not the time to surrender your weapons and let the government “take care of you.” Remember how the Nazis “took care of” people (after systematically disarming them.)

I am basically a very unassuming person. I am not rich, or powerful, or physically strong. I don’t have military experience or police training. I don’t have a personal body guard, or a state-of-the-art alarm system, or an electrified fence around my property.

What I do have is a .45 caliber handgun and enough training to put my shots where I want them to go. I don’t know whether or not I could have made a difference in Tucson. But by God, I like to think I would have tried. It might not have helped. But it might have given little Christina Taylor Green a fighting chance.

Halloween Horror: The Sewing Project that Wouldn't Die!!!

The column below was written quite a few years ago. I note that the Power Rangers are still going strong, so perhaps my advice will be of benefit to those who are still taking their little goblins trick-or-treating. My own progeny no longer trick-or-treat: Instead, they hand out the candy and do their best to terrify those courageous (or foolish) enough to brave our front porch, which is usually adorned with bubbling cauldrons, spooky music, and horrific costumed beasts. (My three sons make MARVELOUS beasts—it’s typecasting.)

Well, Halloween is almost here again: The most terrifying of all holidays. I know you’re all dreading it as much as I. The horror, the sense of hopelessness, the mind-numbing fear…

That’s right. We have to make costumes again.

Close to twenty years ago now, when my oldest son was about eight, he begged me to make him a “Green Ranger” costume. I offered him a roll of aluminum foil and suggested he go as a baked potato, but he wasn’t falling for it. No, it had to be the Green Ranger.

Well, I hadn’t sewed since junior high, but I reluctantly agreed, borrowing a sewing machine from a friend. This was at the beginning of October. I figured I had plenty of time.

I have three useful tips for those about to embark on a sewing project:

1. Start early. Like around Valentine’s Day.

2. Double check to make sure you have everything you need for the project. That

way you’ll only have to run back to Jo Anne’s Fabrics three or four dozen

times for stuff you either forgot or had no idea you needed in the first place.

3. Avoid anything that: a) has to be lined; b) has sleeves, and, most importantly,

c) uses lamé.

The Green Ranger’s shield was made of gold lamé. I had never worked with lamé before. In case you don’t know, lamé frays. Snags. And ravels like a—never mind. I still get the shakes just thinking about lamé. It may be pronounced “lah-MAY,” but there’s a very good reason it’s spelled the way it is.

The pattern had EIGHT pages of instructions. I kid you not. You would have thought the Federal Government was running this project.

Miraculously, the costume was finished on time (barely), and looked great. It ended up costing only three or four times as much as a ready-made costume would have. And he wore it once.

Which settles nicely the question of whether or not Halloween has satanic origins, doesn’t it?

But making the costume was a great character builder, and I learned a lot. The next year, when my son wanted to go as the White Ranger, I handed him a white sweat suit, a piece of poster board and told him to go for it. I did feel a little, nagging twinge of guilt, but because of my experience with the Green Ranger costume, I knew just what to do. I lay down until the twinge went away.

Platitudes and Oysters

Platitudes and Oysters

I have always tried to be a good example to my kids. Really! Honest! I have! But it seems like the most “teachable” moments for them came when I was at my worst. Does my son remember how I slaved for weeks, sewing my fingers to the bone (okay, not literally—that would have been extremely painful, though definitely appropriate for Halloween) making him that Green Ranger costume? Nah. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t. But does he remember the time I swallowed a bug when we were walking down to the fireworks on the river one July 4^th? Oh, yeah. I still get renditions of “The Old Woman Who Swallowed a Fly.” Ah, memories.

Then there are the incidents where my feet of clay took on epic proportions. Like the time I had been up for 48 hours with a sick baby, and had just gotten her to fall asleep, and had just crawled into bed myself, when I heard my son calling for me. I stomped into his room and snarled, “What???!!!” And, he said, in a trembly little voice, “I dreamed a T Rex was chasing me—and it ate me.” Winning me the Lousy Mother of the Year award by a landslide. Of course, I said I was sorry, and I hugged him, and comforted him…but I felt like something you scrape off your shoe before coming inside.

It’s these moments of, shall we say, “less-than-perfection” that seem to stick in my children’s minds forever. In fact, they regularly ask to be told the stories again. “Hey Mom! Tell us about the time…”

I think one of the best of my worsts was the time I had run out of money (I know that never happens to YOU, but it does to me), and I was worried sick about how I was going to feed everybody for the next week and a half, when the next paycheck was due. My daughter, Kathleen, who was eight or so, said, “Don’t worry, Mommy. God will take care of us.”

I muttered something about the Lord not doing a very good job of it, while counting out my $2.46 in change and trying to figure out what to do. I’m pretty sure I was stomping through that store, holding Kathleen’s hand a little too tightly, nursing my worry and feeling pretty ticked off at the Creator at that moment----

Until I reached the bread display. Over it was a huge, hand lettered sign, which read: “BUY ONE. GET FOUR FREE.”

I just started laughing. What else could I do? “Okay, God, I get it,” I said, still chuckling. “Geez, you didn’t have to shout.”

And then, there was the “oysters and platitudes” incident. Definitely a favorite with my kids. It was the day before Thanksgiving, and I always make oyster dressing. I am inordinately proud of my oyster dressing. If my oyster dressing could sing, it would sing opera. If it could paint, it would paint the Sistine Chapel. My oyster dressing is a transcendental experience.

Except that there were no oysters to be found. Anywhere. Trust me, I looked. I drove all over St. Louis and St. Charles. There was some sort of shortage; the suppliers hadn’t come through. Everybody had an excuse. But I was very, very frustrated.

My kids tried to make me feel better. “It’s okay, Mom,” they said. “We don’t need oysters to have a good Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving isn’t about oysters. It’s about family, and being thankful for what we have!”

“Don’t give me platitudes!” I snapped. “I want OYSTERS!”

Yep. Mother Theresa’s got nothing on me. I have my priorities straight.

Oddly enough, though, my children seem not only to have survived my lapses in judgment, somehow they have actually absorbed the lessons I taught by being a horrible example.

They have it right—Thanksgiving IS about family, NOT oysters. God DOES take care of us, and has proven it amply, time and again. My children have grown up, and have grown in their faith. They’ve taught me better than I’ve taught them.

But I still cringe when one of them gets that gleam in his eye and says, “Hey, Mom! Remember the oysters and the platitudes?

Duty Calls

It started oh, so many years ago. I was a wife and mother with two young sons—one a newborn, the other a toddler. My husband was in the Army Reserves, but his position was full-time active duty. He was teaching the ROTC students at Ball State University. In many ways, it was one of his most enjoyable assignments, but also very challenging. That summer the young men and women he taught were scheduled to go to summer camp for six weeks—but my husband didn’t have to go with them.

Until suddenly he did. He came home and said that his boss decided that he needed to go to summer camp with the students. He had to pack and leave that evening for Ft. Knox.

Now, I was no stranger to this kind of thing. This happens to Army families all the time. It’s part of the job, like moving every two or three years. Husbands deploy, for months or even years at a time, leaving wives to “hold down the fort.” That does NOT mean that I was particularly happy about it. He went up to pack, and I decided I had two choices: Mope and whine, or do something constructive. So I got out my guitar and my tape recorder, and wrote a song. I recorded it into the cassette recorder (remember those, boys and girls?) and when Chuck came down, lugging his duffel bag, I handed him the tape.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“It’s a song I just wrote,” I told him. “Play it while you’re gone. It’s called ‘Duty Calls.’”

Well, that song has been played for a lot of military folks over the years. I’ve been asked to perform it countless times, in small gatherings and larger venues. When we moved to Quantico so Chuck could attend the Marines’ Command and Staff College (he was the first Army Reservist to be accorded this honor), the Commandant’s wife fell in love with the song and had me sing it at every opportunity. One of the last things I did before we left Quantico for Chuck’s new assignment at Ft. Bragg was sing it in the Marine Corps Chapel.

A few months later I got a call from one of the chaplains at Quantico. He wanted permission to use my song as part of his invocation at the annual Marine Corps Ball. I told him to be my guest. I had given him a cassette of the song.

Well, they must have had a heck of a sound system at the Marine Corps Ball that year. I got a call the following Monday from the chaplain. My song had been a big hit. In fact, he told me, the Commandant of the Marine Corps had made a beeline towards him immediately after the invocation, tears streaming down his face, demanding to know where that song had come from. Senator Warner and the ambassador of –I forget which country—also came up to express their appreciation. I even got a letter from the Commandant of the Marine Corps telling me how much he’d loved the song. I thought that was pretty cool, but I guess I didn’t really grasp the significance. Chuck had the letter framed. Apparently the Commandant of the Marine Corps is kind of a big deal. Something about the Joint Chiefs of Staff, I think…

But what means more to me, is the number of people who asked to purchase copies of the song, so they could give them to their sons, their daughters, their husbands, or wives, who were going into harm’s way, or for the families who stayed behind. That is perhaps my proudest achievement. That’s why I wrote the song.

He shines his boots, he cleans his brass, and heads out of the door.

His little sons can’t understand what their daddy’s leaving for.

And there are those who say that there’s no need for him to go.

Still, he packs his bags and leaves, when duty calls.

Duty calls, and it’s freedom’s voice grown quiet.

Duty calls, though most people will deny it.

And if no one heeds the words, will freedom fall?

Not as long as someone answers duty’s call.

He spent a year in Vietnam; he lost some good friends there.

And sometimes the things he’s had to do were hard for him to bear.

But he served his country proudly then; he serves it proudly now.

So he packs his bags and goes, when duty calls.

Duty calls, and it’s freedom’s voice grown quiet.

Duty calls, though most people will deny it.

And if no one heeds the words, will freedom fall?

Not as long as someone answers duty’s call.

When he was young, this nomad’s life was not what he had planned.

And it takes a special kind of woman to know and understand.

The sacrifice we’re making helps to keep our country strong.

So we pack our bags and go, when duty calls.

Duty calls, and it’s freedom’s voice grown quiet.

Duty calls, though most people will deny it.

And if no one heeds the words, will freedom fall?

Not as long as someone answers duty’s call.

No, not as long as one man answers duty’s call.

POST SCRIPT FROM LINDA'S BLOG MANAGER: If you'd like to hear this song, e-mail me at phoenixtalon9@yahoo.com and I'll send it to you as a download.