I had a very interesting phone conversation yesterday with a friend I hardly get to see these days. Her life is busy--school and work. As I was thanking her for information about a subject I know nothing about, she muttered something about it being ok. She said that she's used to being a "leech" and she was glad she could help. I could feel my throat start to get that "here come the waterworks" feeling. You know, the reaction you get when you're about to cry, but don't want the other person to know. I guess it's easier to hide when you're on the phone, because in person your eyes will give you away. Or to paraphrase Erin Brockovich, "they're called tear ducts Ed."
I found this a rather odd comment. Now I'm no psychoanalyst. I don't even play one on TV. But I've been known to analyze everything to death especially when it comes to myself. I have to go back in the archives to see if I detected any behavior that would point to such a remark. But I couldn't find any. As a matter of fact, I could point to at least two specific incidents where I could get this woman found not guilty of leeching in a court of law.
She once bought me a book on Pete Maravich as we were leaving the local bookstore. A gift, out of nowhere for no apparent reason. And then the more convincing reason is as follows.
Many years ago, the fall of 1999 to be exact, I was in what I now know as a depression. And one of my favorite aunts had just died. She offered to go to the funeral home with me for moral support. She wasn't even a long time friend. I didn't even know it at the time, but I had deeper issues with depression, something that's been going on since adolescence. Having her in my life was a godsend. I finally saw a doctor for my depressive behavior in April of 2000 and although the diagnosis was definitely not what I wanted to hear, it mad incredible sense to me.
So my dear friend from the now defunct bookstore, let me say that you were never so wrong in your life as you were yesterday on the phone.
Thank you KWS.
Love,
Tuesday Guy
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Monday, June 7, 2010
D Day plus 1
Well June 7th just passed. That was the day my father landed in Europe in France. The day after D Day. I asked him if the fighting was as fierce, and he said the Germans were still bombing them with heavy artillery. It was because of heavy casualties that my father became what he had actually trained for before he went overseas--a medic. My Dad was to see a lot more action and he had many close calls along the way. He would go on to win the Bronze Star for Valor. He was awarded The Medal of Verdun from the town of Verdun, France which made him an honorary citizen. I didn't find out why until recently. The Germans firebombed a schoolhouse there and my father and the other GIs rescued every last one of those children from the burning building.
And 55 years after he set foot on Normandy's shores, he, and other remaining WW II veterans, was awarded the French Legion of Honor. France's equivalent of our Medal of Honor. He said he was never so nervous in his life, but I highly doubt that. How can you not be nervous when a wounded man lies exposed in the field and you have to go attend to him while bullets are going off all around you, amongst other things? My father has the distinction of being in the The Battle of The Bulge. It was the Germans last ditch effort. My father came home to a very normal existence after his discharge. He settled back into his hometown and never left. Marrying rather late for those days-- at 29.
And then again, 55 years after the fact, he was made Grand Marshal of the Perth Amboy Memorial Day parade. He gave an extemperaneous speech of nearly 3 minutes about the rigors of a combat medic. The hours spent in foxholes. Being dirty all the time. Of course he left out some real gruesome tales, like the time he carried a dying man on his back for 2 miles. The soldier bled all over him so badly, that my father had to change into another uniform because he was encased in blood. I often think of that scenario and metaphorically find it apropos. My father carried me on his back for many years during many harrowing and downright morbid times in my existence with the same stoicism and sense of duty that he did those soldiers.
And for that I salute him. And I know there are other brave men who also salute him because he proved himself on the battlefield of life.
And 55 years after he set foot on Normandy's shores, he, and other remaining WW II veterans, was awarded the French Legion of Honor. France's equivalent of our Medal of Honor. He said he was never so nervous in his life, but I highly doubt that. How can you not be nervous when a wounded man lies exposed in the field and you have to go attend to him while bullets are going off all around you, amongst other things? My father has the distinction of being in the The Battle of The Bulge. It was the Germans last ditch effort. My father came home to a very normal existence after his discharge. He settled back into his hometown and never left. Marrying rather late for those days-- at 29.
And then again, 55 years after the fact, he was made Grand Marshal of the Perth Amboy Memorial Day parade. He gave an extemperaneous speech of nearly 3 minutes about the rigors of a combat medic. The hours spent in foxholes. Being dirty all the time. Of course he left out some real gruesome tales, like the time he carried a dying man on his back for 2 miles. The soldier bled all over him so badly, that my father had to change into another uniform because he was encased in blood. I often think of that scenario and metaphorically find it apropos. My father carried me on his back for many years during many harrowing and downright morbid times in my existence with the same stoicism and sense of duty that he did those soldiers.
And for that I salute him. And I know there are other brave men who also salute him because he proved himself on the battlefield of life.
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