Remembrance '06

Composed on Memorial Day, I just now am posting this experience.

I sit on the grass next to Alex Carbonaros flags. There are two of them, one an American flag, the other a Texas flag. Much of his family still lives in Houston. Its late in the afternoon, but I sit, and cry a little as I speak to him. His mom is my friend.

I stop and get up to fetch water from the car. The little pot of live white daisies is wilting and dry. As I walked away, I hear a voice say, Are you one of Alex's family?

I don't stop, but keep walking, my eyes now swollen and red. When I return, she is still there. She works with his uncle, and we finally introduce ourselves to one another. "Christina" stays as long as she can, then we hug, and she departs. She took picturess and will send them, but I forget where or to whom. The air is feeling thicker now.

An old woman walks up with an accent, and her companion. We begin to talk a little. I tell her my name, and she introduces herself as Alex's grandmother. I hug her tightly and tell her how sorry I am. I explain to her that I know his mom. I never caught the couple's names, but as she left, the grandmother looked me in the eye and said, I still cannot accept that he is gone. A tear never fell from her eyes. This is one stage of a loss, common to all losses. Denial.

Her daughter (Alex's mom) would call me this evening, and sob as she describes her day at Arlington National Cemetery, and says there must be 40 new ones since Alex was laid to rest last Tuesday and when Bush spoke, she says his words were met with stone cold silence. All I could do was sob with her and promise to be available should she want to talk. We plan to get together when she comes to town.

All around, as far as the eye can see are American flags- one for each American GI death in Iraq and Afghanistan as well as the Code Pink representation of all those innumerable civilian deaths. The scene is sobering, and beautiful.Yesterday, (after hugs all around) it was VFP Jim and me, and a precious few others standing in line, planting those flags as the names were called out- and shortly after we began, I looked up and noticed that this 'human line' to put them in the hard ground kept growing longer. There behind me was my father, a 78 year old WWII vet who served in the Air Force. He was visiting from Dallas. He had a flag in his hand, and kept 'recycling' in line, even after the heat had gotten to me. He read names as well. He was proud to participate and contribute. I was proud of him.

Interestingly, passers by began to join the line, a Latino man who began taking two, then four, then six flags at a time, a black family with children, a jogger, a young man who lost a relative in the 911 incident. a cyclist still wearing his helmetit was amazing!I'd done three TV interviews and one radio but never saw myself. It isnt about me anyway. But off the cuff, one seasoned Houston reporter asked me why they were disallowed to photograph the coffins draped in flags...my response was that it might be the same reason "they" really don't want folks to see these flags en masse- and that perhaps the tandem question (and same answer) is "why do the malls advertise Memorial Day sales?" What draws 'us' to where on a day like this, and why? If it didn't go over her head, it surely may have been a baited question in the first place. When she asked me what "stop loss" meant, my jaw dropped. Surely she understood more than she let on...or did she?

As we prepared to close yesterday, Jim stood in the center of the display with a trumpet. I did see that on TV but I also caught a live glimpse of the crowd watching in silence during taps. My father stood and saluted. He was the only one who did. He said, in his final, simple observation, "No one wins in war".

Now I sit and quietly observe as the sun begins to set. There are people walking around, looking curiously at the display. Some of them are taking pictures. One is looking for a lost friend, his t-shirt says "Iraq". I sense he is a vet. I softly cry again, visibly sad, and can feel the presence of wandering strangers. They avoid getting too physically close to me, keeping their distance, presumably giving me space, obviously uncomfortable with my tears, and yet curious about the story surrounding this particular flag and the little pot of daisies. I hold still, in secret. The tears quietly flow.

A child yells from behind me as he and his family approach. "Cool!" he says, "Thousands of flags!" His excitement is in his voice, but his awareness is not there yet. Oh, if he only knew what those flags stood for. What will he say when he learns? What will we do when we all learn the truth?

Occasional vets come and go. A black pick up truck finally parks curbside after circling awhile. The riders display a U.S.flag out one window, and a POW/MIA flag from the other. They get out and stand on the sidewalk, both dressed in BDU pants. After 10 minutes of quiet conversation they leave.

To my right, I hear the voice of a very young girl. "Oh, these are WWII", the child tells her mother. "No," her mother replies, and her explanation is not decipherable now.

Silence again. I water the daisies again and they've perked up. Several hours have passed. I look up to see the small crowd changing once again, coming and going, solemn and respectful. In the distance, a woman with a baby that she carries in a sky blue sling walks among the thousands of flags- and when the breeze gently blows, they all obey in unison, exactly waving in identical fashion. The momentary view is exquisite, as breathtaking as is the entire display itself.

A car alarm interrupts this quiet scene, the train whistle blows in the distance as riders catch a far away glimpse of the flags. There is light traffic; I can hear the cars passing along Fannin Street. Many of the living continue to slowly walk among this beautiful, sad representation of the dead. I still sense the people who walk around me quietly as they slowly come and stare while passing by, but still, no one will get close. There is no warm hand on my shoulder.

Once the Quakers came, I walked up the gently slope to talk with them. Next to the civilian shoe display, they carefully unfurled their banner reading 'War is not the answer' and stood in silence, heads bowed as the sun set. We will talk again soon.

Tomorrow I would not return. Tomorrow would be reserved for an unexpected 'meltdown'. But to experience this day and take part in this incredible effort to educate the public (and nourish a few dying flowers), it will all be worth it. I mean the experience and meltdown, not the war. Not the death.

To Those Who Wait

Last night ended the week long vigil this community had contributed to. I say 'community' because each night at 6pm, flags were planted to commemorate a fallen soldier in the Iraq war. You'd think humanity would have evolved past the need to kill itself this way, but greed hasn't left the race yet, so they fight and kill at the command of greed, hatred and illusion themselves. And they are heros, each of them in their own right, for they fight for the values we struggled for so many years ago. Chris is yearning, now dieing to come home. He's depressed, bored, restless. So I now ask, "Well why are you there?" and he now says, "I don't know". What now worries me is his morale is gone, his pat answers disappeared, and he's quite unhappy.

But the vigil still happens, and Jim said we hoped there wouldn't be a 3,000th milestone. We'll take those flags down today, and I will show up. For some reason, I just could't go each night as I had promised. I can't figure out exactly why, but all I know is I couldn't go. And each night, another peace group came and produced their own event, and every night, he was there, and I wasn't. Until yesterday that is.

Yesterday morning Katie and Dakota and I went to the funeral service of Will Betzner, a young man my twins went to high school with. Will was the most amazing person, his eyes burned right through to your soul in hues of sparkling blue, his hair dark and curly, tossed about his face framing it gently, and his smile infectious. He was a most curious kid, and he talked and talked, and often listened as well. A couple years ago he ate one too many mushrooms on New Year's eve, and came to me to try and figure out what happened to his mind. We decided he opened his kundalini too fast, and it all came rushing out, taking months for his eyes to focus again normally. At the tender age of 19 he knew he could hold no grudge with anyone, and was a friend to everyone.

On November 2nd he was killed in a tragic car accident in Dallas, and Friday night I got word he was gone. His mother was there but wasn't. She was burying her only child. The emotional drain made the day seem longer than it was, but I hung in there, waiting and actually dreading the memorial in the evening. I was ready for all this to be over, and still no speech was writing itself, so I just allowed it to happen once again.

Katie was curious about setting a coffin in the ground, so we waited until everyone had left the graveside, and suddenly the backhoes and tractors emerged, the men in blue work clothes appeared, and I described the steps it was taking to put Will in the ground. Her curiosity satisfied, we drove around looking for my grandparent's graves but couldn't find them. It's a crowded place, that cemetary.

We left for the vigil, and I was anxious, still not understanding my own apathy and resistance. Then we arrived. I'd had lots of problems finding speakers for this final night originally intended to be interfaith and ecumenical. Ramadan had superceded the Islamic leaders' availability, and the Christian leadership never responded to the call. Yet here was Fr. Wahl, appearing out of no where, admiting his decision to just show up, and he wanted to walk among the flags that stretched farther than the eye could see.

There was Pam, with her flute, opening with Ashoka's Farewell. Margd was there, Chas showed up, and Amy, ever ready to do her part. It would be Amy's third time here, but my second. Even Mary was ready to step up to the plate, and read a couple poems. When we assembled the flags she was worried about MoveOn, but now she was ready, and eloquent in her simple message to the group. And Jim decided to speak at last. The hour was filled to the brim, and the crowd was thin, but fully present. Old faces and new ones peered through the candlelight, and Herb brought the sound system, and made announcements himself.

Now, I began with a recitation of Flanders Fields, and kept going. I tried to speak from my heart, and describe the weird space I'd been in but the "flow" was escaping me. I pushed on. As I continued I was approached by a man who lived on the street, his driveway blocked by an attendee's car, so I stopped and announced. I began reading accounts and perspectives of combat warriors, but the candle I held caught the plastic holder on fire, so I stopped again, blew it out, and kept going. The light on the makeshift mic stand fell on my papers as I spoke, so I stopped and picked it up off the ground, then tried again, this time just skipping my own thoughts, and introducing Margd. Then I stood to the side as she began.

I know she had afew beers before she came into town, nervous and not knowing what to talk about. We'd discussed it an hour before, and I just asked her to talk about exactly what she was talking to me about. We decided it was hard, really hard to speak to an unknown crowd in honor of dead troops we loved so much who died in a war we hate so much. How do you talk about them without screaming out in frustration, addressing the truth we all know is there, this war based on lies of the admistration that sits in greed and is willing to take our young to their deaths for their own gain? Her experience with the other mothers of war had her stymied, had me stymied.

She did address the dialogue they'd all been having, and she was in pain as the mother of a conscientious objector, feeling now like she belonged nowhere. And where is the group of parents of these fine young soldiers who cannot go to war? There are some who would disrespect her and her son, and even threaten his safety, her safety. Their children are their heros, our heros, and we came to the conclusion that once they enlist they belong to us all.

As I listened, the sprinklers came on and I got wet. I introduced Amy, noting first that I nearly caught on fire, and now was drowning. Amy was brilliant as usual, her honor of the soldiers apparent, and her loss defined by her eloquence. She is the only Gold Star Mother for Peace we have, and she is alone in this huge city. I tried to tell her earlier in the week what I'd been going through, driving down the street and bursting into tears for no apparent reason. Her explanation was that we are walking between the living and the dead, and it's a difficult space to maneuver. Maybe this was it. I couldn't get a grip, or figure out why.

I began to read another soldier story, this one in opposition to this war, the last one in favor. As I reached the conclusion, the battery in the sound system went out, and the traffic made it difficult to hear, so I just kept turning the system on and off, off and on, and managed to hurry through the end, bringing up Chas.

Chas had to speak to the crowd without amplification. He spoke from his heart, unprepared but powerful. He is so precious, and so appropriate, respectful and truthful. He ended his talk with his love for music, and spoke the line to a song he was fond of..."I pledge allegiance to the world, and to humanity"...

By this time, Jim had run a power line to the podium so we had amplification again, but Chas had to struggle to get his talk on. I noticed Rene placing her tape recorder near him as he spoke, and now she had to move it back again. I read a prayer, and introduced Fr. Wahl. By now I was no longer present, and began to become self conscious again. How these things get pulled off I don't know, and couldn't figure out so many unanswered questions I had. But we pushed onward to the end. Had I finally given up to the futility of the peace movement in this awful time?

Pam played "America, The Beautiful". It was nearly over, I thought. Nearly over. And yet, it isn't nearly over at all. Jim did announce that we would gather the next day to take the flags down. The crowd moved towards the middle of the flags to plant five more, and taps was played.

It was now that I began to find answers. There were two families there who recently lost their children in combat, so Amy exchanged information with them, as they were interested in joining GSFP. One young boy stood before me, having lost his 19 year old brother in May, and he was clearly grieving, his eyes swollen and red. He was speechless, and Chas and I tried to tell him his brother died for us all, with dignity, with honor. We uprooted his brother's flag and gave it to his mom. He was searching for meaning, and it wasn't coming easily. The only uncomfortable moment was when a guy dressed like an American Indian took opposition to our attempts at consoling the boy, and he spouted how he disagreed, that the brother died for lies.

There was a couple who came from the Quaker house, and heard Margd. They told her there were others like her with children who were CO's and she was invited to join them. She suddenly "belonged" again. As she drove home she called to say she'd met a young man walking amongst the flags with a big red snake (I kid you not) whose brother had committed suicide after learning there was something wrong with his head, a tumor in the brain perhaps. He didn't want to burden his parents with treatment or worry. Of all places, under what conditions did this brother show up to run into her? They were both from the same community south of town.

And Chas stopped for a sandwich and ran into friends who offered him their extra tickets to a concert last night...and one of the bands playing was the one who recorded the quote he used in his talk..."I pledge allegiance to the world"...

And Galend and Jim decided they'd take on the lifer officers, recently retired from military duty who will debate the legitimacy of the war for a locally produced PBS program. The producer was seeking IVAW members, but the only ones in town are Chas and Katie. I sensed they'd be chewed up and spit out, neither of them having seen real combat in S. Korea, both out of the military by choice, not retirement. Now they were off the hook. A big thanks for VFP for protecting them.

The community was served. This was my assignment, to serve them in whatever way finally revealed itself to me. I only had to get out of the way. Good things do come for those who wait.

The 2,000th Soldier

Well who really knows if this number is accurate I keep saying. I dunno really, I don' t believe much coming from the administration since the Downing Street Memos surfaced and proved it all a huge farce. That's a mild statement considering what else floats in cyberspace, the wild west of all rumors.

Many people are writing about this number. Many others are more eloquently stating the obvious and the not so obvious. I wonder sometimes how to actually blog when I don't feel like writing, not interested in putting the energy into it all. So I wait. When the spirit moves me, I write it down. And when I'm not moved, I make notes, and try to capture that fleeting moment later. Right now I don't feel like doing this.

So I took the short trip to the liquor store, bought two packs of Spirits, and a half pint of Jack Black and decaf. I'll kick back tonight, and wait for my ambien refill to be approved tomorrow.

I heard the best quote from T- she quoted Gandhi. He once said: "When I despair, I remember that all through history the way of truth and love has always won." There's alot in that one sentence...quite alot.

Petra did the math, and figured out how many, based on the current run of dead and wounded we shall see by the tenth year, that figure Cheney threw out carelessly...and it's dreadful. If they think people are pissed now (and if they give a shit) they ain't seen nothin' yet!

I emailed Lietta this morning and shared with her the recent conversations with Chris, and the most brilliant thing he tells me is that he doesn't know why he is in Iraq. Doesn't know...when I ask him, he answers as if it's a quiz with a right and wrong answer. But I remind him there is no right or wrong in reality, there's only 'what's so'.

And so he just is sick of it all, bored, and wants to be home with his family. He is missing the firsts of his daughter who 'doesn't know his face'. She is cutting her teeth now, has one poking through and a 'next one' right beside it. And she's funny, curling her tongue over it, wondering what this hard rock is in her mouth.

I got a call from KPFT today, but didn't pick up the message until after they wanted a return call. Probably a good thing I missed that call, I have no idea what I would've said. I'm not in the mood for interviews anyway. I feel kinda depressed and dark, I only want to lay around and chill. But the house smells like the cat box, and the dogs are in at night to cut their mess in half, so my work should be halfed as well.

The speakers are lining up nicely for the first Saturday of the memorial we'll have. No one will committ for a week from now, except Margaret and Chas. And Amy. Her performance will have to be a repeat unless she can muster up something else to share. And I come away from the keyboard thinking, "We'll just read names to the drum beat."

Maybe this is what happens when you come down after the bus tour. Like a hard high after a hit of window pane, you come down, and it's not comfortable. What goes up must come down.

Except the number of dead soldiers in a war. That number never comes down.

The First Tooth

I just discovered Dakota's first tooth breaking through the surface of her lower jaw. It's interesting that she's growing so quickly, and it's a privilege watching it all happen. Sometimes I wish Chris was here to see it all happening, but no such luck. The last time we spoke I asked him about a return date from Iraq. All he could say was that there are only rumors about it.

So we wait.

We keep waiting. Annie just called and is on her way to New York City. I shared with her the drama at Terry's and she shared with me the experience of the return of Matthew. She said the eagle had landed. She was blown away by the quality of the tears...she described them as pure mother's milk. She said all the things I told her about the wait were right. I pluck this from her email.

Interesting note.. Matthew was one of 12 Special Forces Marine Reconns..two were killed in Iraq. At the gathering in San Antonio where the families were screaming and making merry welcoming their loved ones, a separate mom arrived to hug the other Marines for being with her son in his last moments. She came to hug those whose were the last men to see her son alive. Think about that one today!

All Eggs in One Basket

I've had a funny feeling for a couple days now about Margd and what is ultimately under her skin. I sense it there, as if I contributed to it, but 'i't remains unaddressed and unchecked. Realized, checked, challenged, I am nowhere further than I was three days ago. I realize that I've tended to put all my eggs in one basket with her kindredship, occuring like a friendship, and notice how quiet things are in and out of the activst community here. I wonder why, and wish I had more answers. I wish I could connect all the dots...

Interestingly, I just came from a lunch yesterday with David, who most likely knows better than I about the national interests under the guise of peace 'activists' and really, I trust him implicitly. This throws me off, like a curve ball, but in a sense also settles unanswerable questions about the leadership abilities of LF and crew.

Still I know something's off when it's off, and I can't shake this one. I confronted Margd about it yesterday, and was given a lame excuse for her inaction, which as another local points out has consequences the same as action taken.

I've decided not to blog in depth about the tour and problems I saw firsthand there. The thing was thrown together "on a wing and a prayer" in the words of Nikki, who in her inexperience, supervised and made decisions that in my view were flat out mistakes. It's a done deal at this point.

The MFSO community here is virtually non-existent, has been from inception and remains so in spite of several attempts at bringing them all out to play, and I'll discuss with Charlie tomorrow and feel out a new channel. Where was it that I heard, 'to see the light, you first have to feel the heat'? This question now remains; are we ready and willing to 'feel the heat' in order to 'see the light'? Or is it really less painful, less bother, more popular to keep our heads burried in the sand, hidden away from any light source that might be available?

And so, it seems to me that as time passes around me, the dust settles and the eggs eventually hatch. The fertile ones, anyway. Additionally I have little choice, other than waiting it all out, and remain hopeful that 'truth' will finally rears its glorious head among the lies still floating in the water we are all swimming in. Urgency envelops me all the time, and I don't need or want someone else telling me to do something, pressuring me, cajoling me when I don't feel comfortable with it. Still, Lietta reminds me all the time that I'm "on the bus" now and forever. Somehow this doesn't occur as pressure at all. Sometimes then, we just have to take the risk that all the while whispers, "Watch out, this one will hurt." Pressure continues to mount everywhere.

"Ice wedged fast beneath the rock
This morning begins to melt.
Under the moss, the water
Will be feeling out a new channel"

Here comes the sun... and I say,' it's alright'.

On The Road

Who knew?

I stayed behind on the launch of the Bring Them Home Now Tour from Crawford and helped arrange Houston, then flew out to join the Northern route folks who had arrived in Minneapolis. At the time of this writing I'm back home, the explaination available on the web site...www.bringthemhomenowtour.org

I'm going to write some juicy stuff about the individual stops as time permits. Exciting, isn't it, to be living on this planet at this time!

For now I'm just gonna pluck from my own writing on the main page of the tour site and pick up later as time permits. And how about that baby! She's a looker isn't she?

This is getting good, folks. Stay tuned!

North Tour 'Swan Song' September 13th, 2005

Sherry Glover's granddaughter, Dakota, in Crawford, TX As I walked in that hot Crawford ditch August 6th, I sensed the cartilage rip in my left knee. By the time we reached Detroit I couldn't bear my weight on it. I had to leave the tour and return home. I'll need surgical repair of tear, scheduled for next week. I envisage myself temporarily 'in the stands' for a short time, and remain anxious to get back 'on the court'! Secondly, my son in law, currently stationed just south of the Syrian-Iraq border checked in last week to say it would be a few weeks before he could call home again. Now I understand why. The media reports some sort of insurgent movement into Iraq along that border. Communication shuts down when a soldier is killed until the family is officially notified by the DoD so I owe my daughter the support she needs right now, and hopefully it will be only a matter of time until we hear from him again. Meanwhile, Dakota, my only grandchild doesn't know her father's face. I addressed a crowd at a short stop in Highland, Indiana at the war Veteran's memorial. It was here I realized the true importance of this tour. Anna, a 72 year old woman sat in front of me. Her son was killed in Vietnam 32 years ago. Today, Anna would join Gold Star Families for Peace. For a brief moment we embraced, and Anna whispered to me as we wept. "I'm so sorry I've been silent for such a long time." "No regrets, Anna. We 'arrive' when we 'arrive' ", I told her, and met Anna's eyes through my tears. I then thanked her for the courage to finally speak the truth which I know for her, as for all of us, is very hard to do. I promised her I would keep speaking out if she would! For now, I leave with this memorized quote from George Bernard Shaw. It forever echoes what remains in my heart. "This is the true joy in life- the being used for a purpose recognized by yourself as a mighty one: The "being" a force of nature instead of a feverish, selfish little clod of ailments and grievances, complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy." "I am of the opinion that my life belongs to the whole community and as long as I live, it is my privilege to do for it whatever I can." "I want to be thoroughly used up when I die, for the harder I work, the more I live. I rejoice in life for it's own sake." "Life is no brief candle to me; it is a sort of splendid torch which I have got hold of for the moment, and I want to make it burn as brightly as possible before handing it on to future generations." Duty calls. Won't you join me and Anna? In gratitude and service to humanity, (my name here) MFSO Houston

Minnesota & Wisconson

We ended up staying in the home of the Cradwicks. We arrived after the well attended church gig in the dark, Tammara clutching at the wheel always, and sleeping in the camper at night. I bunked in with Morrigan, and when I woke up that next morning I arose to a house with an elevator and four floors, and a lovely lake out the back balcony. My knee was bothering me, but I perserved. We had places to be....

And we arrived at the capitol building in St. Paul I think. It was a well attended event, Cathleen Rowley was there, and a senator who's name escapes me, but her son was killed in Iraq afew months ago. The speakers were awesome, the locals that is. And the rain came down.

We stopped at an Italian resteraunt leaving town and were joined by local organizers. People wanted to be with us as long as possible. They all seemed hungry and sustained by what we were doing. And there was a distinct energy around Cody. And Tammara. Still we were briefed about media and pres conferences. This was the first time I learned about hostile questions and how to handle them.

And people give us roses wherever we go.

Beatrice Salvador would hook up today with the central route, and Bill Mitchell would as well.

We arrived in Maddison Wisconson to a press conference where no press arrived, but a lone admirer did. His name was Tyler Mertes, and he is a law student. Tyler began to come with us where ever we went in Wisconson.

We stayed at Deb Kanutson's house for two days. Things were begining to get weird, but Deb was awesome and a great hostess. After lunch at Lila's we went out to the memorial Sunday Sept.4th, at "Arlington Midwest"- a good 45 mintues from Maddison. Karen was to join us there, and as Al had predicted, she liked to run the show. A nice lady, her speeches were written, read, and took lots of time. It disempowered her actual message, but before she joined us, she had already decided we would read the names of the Wisconson and Illinois troops who had been killed. This would be a moving and draining event.