DD214

Forms. While I was lying awake last night, trying to go to sleep, I was thinking about the form I received in the mail earlier that day. It was the copy of my father’s separation papers from the Marines. Amazing how sloppy the typing was, but, it was done on an old typewriter, with the cloth ribbon that advances a bit at a time. There on this form, with details about dad, enlisting at the tender age of 20; seeing combat in Korea; weighing 220 lbs. when he got off the bus in Canton, SD to be met by his parents, there, on this form were four medals that dad received, none of which we ever knew a thing about.

On that June day in 1954, dad stood taller, six feet. That made me laugh a little, as dad had shrunk to be about oh, five foot eight or nine. I recalled dad telling me about his homecoming that June day, when he got off the bus and was met by grandpa and grandma. He was stinking drunk, as were all of the other Marines on the bus. His brothers, David and Rolfe, were waiting at home and were going to play music for him. Little grandma was not pleased with his condition and smell (the same clothes for two days, on a bus). But, as is common in our family, not a word was said. Just pursed lips.

Dad was in Korea for one year and seventeen days. I think that if dad were standing here with me now, he would refute that. “Oh, no, it was more like four years.” I imagine him saying. But, the devil is in the details. This form says one year, seventeen days. It must be right. It’s a form.

Dad was given $316.40. And, as I have discovered over the last two weeks since he died, I suspect he didn’t have fourteen cents by the second or third day home. Again, the facts, man.

Dad had been offered $10,000 in life insurance. He declined. Nuf said.

According to the form, Dad replied that he was interested in Science as a major course of study. Dad’s first dream was to be a doctor. But, dad was not a disciplined student. When mom and dad got married the following year, mom knew just what to do to help dad figure out what the heck he should do with his life: she marched him down to an employment agency and had him take an aptitude test. The winner? Social Work, not Medicine. Again, the devil is in the details of that form, that, and forty years in the mental health field.

I see dad standing there, in front of ‘Officer J.C. HUDOCK’ who was the discussing officer, spelling out his last name as the Officer annoyingly typed it out:

“E…. I….E….S…L…A…N…D…”

But back on those four decorations, medals, citations and campaign ribbons. Dad never mentioned one of them. In fact, up until just the last few years, dad never spoke of his combat experiences to any of his surviving daughters. From talking with my son, it seems that he did not censor himself with his grandsons. I don’t know if having a penis was equal to being able to hearing the truth of war, or, dad just didn’t want to upset his girls. Hard telling.

Korean Service Medal with 1 star. United Nation Medal. National Defense Medal. Good Conduct Medal. Those were his medals. I wish I knew more about them. So, I’ll do a little research. Given dad’s love of patches and hats, I am surprised he did not celebrate these commendations with a patch on a jacket or ball cap.

These forms are all I have right now of dear old dad, who spent the last few years watching ‘Law and Order’ and finishing crossword puzzles and reciting the rosary every morning and drinking caffeine free diet coke and driving too slow in his Ford Focus with the two U.S. flags flying on each side….

It has been two weeks, and five days since I spoke to dad. I guess the devil is in the details, there, too. Boy, I miss you, dad!

Happy Birthday, Mom

Today is March 25th, which would have been my mother, Helen's 80th birthday. We lost mom 12 years ago.

All day long, I felt a bit melancholy, and my mind would wander and settle on memories of mom. I didn't really figure it all out, why this was happening, until I arrived home and dad announced that he had remembered it was mom's birthday. He promptly got in his car and drove to Topeka to her grave and paid his respects. Bless his heart.

Today while I was cleaning other people's homes, I got to thinking about how mom and I cleaned houses when she was in college. And then, I thought about how mom's mom, Ingeleave Gilmore also cleaned other people's homes. And, then, how her mom did the same thing.

I guess that may not be something to be proud of; we all want to reveal in our lineage that we were born of kings and queens and dukes and duchesses. But, not me. And, that is o.k.

Mom taught me alot, that is for sure. And, mom was a handful. Man, she was either a really fabulous mom or a dreadful, neglectful mom. When things were good, they were really, really good, like the time she announced to me after overhearing me talk on the phone with my girlfriend, Carol who was going on the senior trip to New York and Washington that, I should call Carol back and let her know that I was going to New York, too. We had no money. But, she put her most valuable possession, a large carat diamond, up as collaterol and borrowed the money to send me to NYC and Washington. She even took me to Macy's and bought me some clothes, too. That was the mom I like to remember.

I won't share the bad stuff. That seems disrespectful to me to share that in this kind of forum. All I will say is that when it was bad, it was really, really bad.

But, back on the cleaning thing. I come from a long line of women who cleaned other's dirty homes. But, what I also come from is a long line of strong, hardworking, independent women, who were willing to do whatever it took to help feed their families. I think I like the sound of that better.

In a couple of months, I am travelling with one of my sisters to meet, face-to-face, my half brother. I've known about my brother since I was 10 years old, when this same sister let it slip that mom had given up a baby for adoption before she and dad married.

Such a scandal.

Mom would not talk much about this baby. As we got older, mom would tell us more of the story, a little at a time. But, it was obvious from her face that she wondered about him, longed a bit for him and felt very sad about him. We knew him as Steven.

She kept him for three weeks.

She realized she couldn't support him, and signed the papers.

And then, she kind of spiraled into a few years of being really, really lost, bouncing around the country, into dead end jobs, trying to forget.

A few years before she died, I was home visiting mom and dad and she asked me if I would help her find Steven. She wanted to know what became of him. Fortunately, it was not hard to find him, and he was looking for mom at the same time. Less than a month after asking me to find him, mom and her now grown up first born, talked on the phone.

She never got to meet him, face to face, cold feet on mom's part. Just a few months before she died, he was going to travel to KS from WI where he lives, to meet her. He said he wanted to thank her for providing him with a wonderful family. He wanted to thank her. I love that.

Through the power of Facebook, I have been able to keep in touch with my oldest sibling. When I look at him, I see my mom. There she is! He looks more like her than any of the rest of us!

I can't wait to kiss and hug him. I want to do it for my mom, Helen. Happy Birthday, mom. I miss you and love you.

My Life Preserver: Headquarters Crisis Center

I am mad, hopping mad, so mad I came home from cleaning all day, and cleaned some more. So, there you go.

I am mad because a local jewel, Headquarters Crisis Center will see a big reduction in support from KU, if the finance committee of Student Senate has their way.

I became familiar with Headquarters when my family needed life support. I didn't know I needed their support; I was in a fog, in shock, wandering through my days after my husband, Gordon took his life on May 4, 2004.

His suicide was a front page story and was on television and radio. I'm still pissed about this because it hit the news before I even told both of our kids. But, something 'good' came from this exposure: it connected me with Headquarters.

I received a letter from Marcia Epstein about one week after Gordon died. Marcia has been the director of Headquarters for a long, long time. She read in the paper about his suicide and wanted to reach out to me and the kids. I am grateful that this exposure connected us to Marcia and Headquarters.

Marcia told me about a support group at Headquarters for those who had lost a loved one to suicide. She offered her time and support. I count this letter from Marcia as one of my most important papers. She basically threw me a life preserver when I was drowning in grief.

I am not sure how many times I have attended this support group at Headquarters since receiving that letter nearly 7 years ago. But, what I do know, is that every, single time I go, I am welcomed, hugged and HEARD. I am able to share and support others who have recently lost a loved one to suicide.

Headquarters' phone number (785-841-2345) is one I remember and recite to others who are especially vulnerable and would benefit from their services. I have shared it with law students when I worked at the KU School of Law; I have shared it with tutors I supervised when I directed a tutoring center; I have shared it with clients when I was completing my first practicum.... I have shared it with alot of people because sometimes, people need access to a life preserver when they are sinking fast.

I wrote to my student senator and told her how important Headquarters is for my family. I don't know what else to do! This place, with the fluffy pillows and kleenex boxes and colorful paintings and warm hugs SAVED ME. It is THAT important.

I pray that others will join me in throwing Headquarters now a life preserver! We cannot let anything happen to this VITAL service, which has undoubtedly saved many many KU students, faculty and staff!

Join me in supporting Headquarters Crisis Center! It saved me! Now, let's save Headquarters!

L is for Love

Lovely day so far. I met my friend, L for breakfast. We have been friends since we were 12 years old. When you are friends with someone that long, it's hard to hide one's crap. She can smell my crap, a mile a way, so to speak. Nice to be with someone who can do that, you know? And, nice not to feel like I have to hide my crap, again, so to speak.

We caught up on one another's trials of raising teenagers, caring for aging parents, and exploring our life journeys of trying to figure out what the heck we are doing as we stare at the big old '5 - 0' in a few years.
And, we figured out two very important things this morning over syrupy waffles and good oj:

Justice is in short supply. And, because we grew up in inner city Topeka, with poverty in and around us, we 'get it'. I shared with L about a recent conversation with someone, in the helping profession no less, who explained that if someone were to find themselves homeless, well, then, maybe that is where they belonged.....

Screw that.

No, let me say that again: SCREW THAT. But, thank goodness for this person making this statement to me. It reminds me of why I love what I am studying to do and trying to do, a day at a time.

Went on over to Goodwill Stores, Inc. Listened to Goodwill Stores Radio, that was playing on the speakers. Glanced at the slick brochures positioned at the register while I perused the shelves and shelves of coffee cups. Coffee cups with logos from banks, churches, civic groups, hotels. And then, I looked at the people shopping in Goodwill: a young woman with her toddler, looking through racks and racks of overpriced used clothes. A man trying to find a good pair of crutches. In the background, shelves and shelves of .99 coffee cups. Hmmmm.. a disconnect here somewhere.

What the hell?

I remember a few years ago when I was in the midst of rummage sale hell, where I would organize a huge rummage sale once a year for the nonprofit I directed. We would get boxes and boxes and boxes of coffee cups. My god. And, when the sale would be over, and once the last shoppers would shuffle out the door, and we'd box up the REAL crap that was left, there those coffee cups would be, waiting to be boxed up, again, and hauled to Goodwill.

The last year that I worked there, I couldn't take it. So, one of the volunteers and I collected all of the glassware that was left that had no real value (read: coffee cups) and took them to be recycled. It was a gratifying experience, smashing coffee cups in the huge bin at the recycling center.

I was thinking about how the coffee cups at Goodwill that are marked .99 will sit there for years. I know this because I like to go to Goodwill and look at stuff. But, they won't leave those shelves, and that Goodwill radio will continue to blare.

Goodwill radio? What the hell? Why not grab one of the albums that has been donated and play that on a turntable? Much more interesting. I will say that Goodwill Radio DID play 'Working on the Chain Gang' by Sam Cooke. And, the mom looking at clothes whistled, and some chick looking at t-shirts and I hummed along with Sam.

I don't know where I am going with this, except to say that if I follow my gut instinct, then I know that I belong in places like the Central Park area of Topeka, or, the Lawrence Open Shelter, or, Just Food, here in Lawrence, or Headquarters.

Oh, and the second thing we decided:

Anthony Bourdain is a particularly attractive, delightful, yummy kind o' man. And, L. made me snort I laughed so hard describing Anthony Bourdain eating a roasted anus or something of that sort in Namibia.



Thank you, L. for reminding me where I belong.

Mary Kay, Meet Rose's 'Stache

Mary Kay, meet Rose's 'stache. Rose's 'stache, meet Mary Kay.

It is a Saturday night, and for reasons I cannot get into, I was introduced to the memory of Mary Kay today. I have never known much about Mary Kay (the makeup icon). The friends I have who use Mary Kay make up, look great. Their skin is smooth, rosy, lovely. Their hands are smooth. Crow's feet? Forget about it. Eyes and lips and cheeks are very lucky body parts when one uses Mary Kay stuff.

And then there is me. Many moons ago, make up was important to me. I would never leave the house without having make up on. You would never catch me at Wal Mart, for example, buying toilet paper without lip color and maybe a smudge of blush. And then, the kids came....

It would not be unusual for me to shop at Wal Mart in my pajamas. It is all about time management: get the toilet paper and cat food, buy the glitter for the school project due tomorrow morning and get back home. That is/was the drill. If someone sees me without makeup, in my pajamas buying cat food and glitter at 12:30 a.m.? Well, that is their problem.

And here we are, two kids later. No more glitter to buy for school projects. I am working on my own school projects, and, hopefully no graduate course will expect a project that requires glitter or paint or play dough.

But, uh, what the heck? Make up? I don't even know if I would know for sure how to find the make up aisle at Walmart were I in need of buying new blush or whatever the heck! I wear make up when I have have lunch with friends, volunteer, meet with clients. I never wear make up when I am cleaning someone's dirty old house, and I clean a lot.

I know. It's kinda gross to be honest. It doesn't help that I am no longer married, and have no real, concrete interest in finding Mr. 'Right', right now. Maybe later. But, here I sit, a book on my coffee table, the face of Mary Kay staring at me from the book cover. She is sending me messages: "Rose, darlin, the brows, the 'stache, darlin, it's time, time to get things spruced up, baby..."

I have this fancy mirror I bought a while ago that lights up. Considering I am nearly blind (not really) and cannot see my face very well without glasses, I got this fancy shmancy mirror which magnifies a bunch and lights up to reveal every imperfection on one's face. Naturally, I never use it. But, I dusted it off and light it up. Oh. My. God.

I have a 'stache. I have bushy brows, Walter Cronkite-like. I am saggin and puffy and droopy here and there and everywhere. Oh, no amount of magic potion can fix this mess!

But I am not gonna fold. I raid my daughter's cache of makeup. I find 4 pairs of tweezers, of varying points. I find a kind of razor thing to trim runaway hairs. After about an hour of work, my bushy Cronkite brows have been replaced with a fairly uniform brow line, all just in time to reveal the puffy eye lids. But, that is another blog post.

And so, here I sit. Mary Kay staring at me, Oprah on the TV in the background, Cinnamon, the dog crashed next to me on the couch.

Maybe it IS time to care a little about how that mug looks? I dunno. I can't fix it all tonight, that is for damn sure. I wish I had one of those vacuum things you can buy to shrink a bag of sweaters so that they are as thin as a piece of beef jerky and stack neatly on a shelf.... I would like one of THOSE things, to suck out the fat and cynicism that have settled here and there...

But, Mary Kay says I don't need that. I just need some of her magic potion.

I can't afford it. Pricey. Suzie Orman orders me from the TV screen to "Live Below Your Means, People!" Ok! I heard you! My God,you have an annoying voice! I fell asleep the other night with the TV on and her commercials (The OWN network has like 3 commercials they play 24/7) was on, yelling at me, and making its way into bizarro dreams...

And so, compromise. Mary Kay, Suzie Orman, Dr. Oz, Laura Berman (the sex therapist) and Dr. Phil all weigh in on how to fix my sorry ass life....

And, guess what? I gotta half dozen potties for them to clean tomorrow, 'kay? Kay. Night nite.

Pick Myself Up and Move Forward

Such a sad week, this has been. The horrible events in Arizona, then the biting cold, then bidding my son farewell as he returns to school and then the news that one of his first buddies died by suicide has all left me a bit of a mess.

The last thing, the young man who died, has been the one that tipped me over. I have been a mess the last few days. But, seem to have picked myself up and am moving forward.

But, I'm the lucky one. I can pick myself up and move forward.

When Sam was set to leave the other day, I grabbed him and hugged him a little tighter this time. I didn't want to let go of him. I want him to find his own happiness and to experience his own stuff and fix his own problems and revel in fixing his own problems. It's the problems that have all the good 'stuff' that help us learn and grow and all that stuff.

And then I had to let him go to go and live his own life.

He spent the last four weeks merging back into life in our household. Within a few days of his arrival, he was a member of the clan, barking orders and being barked at like we all do. I loved having him home.

But, he confided that he didn't feel like he belonged as much anymore. I noticed that, here and there, him putting dishes away in the wrong places in the kitchen, sleeping on a lumpy couch upstairs in the loft area as his bedroom is long gone with our old house...

I noticed it, too, with his friends. He would call them up and they'd go out and play pool or drink a few beers here and there. But, I could tell that he was not feeling as comfortable here in Lawrence.

I remember that feeling, coming home to visit when I was in college. Things felt awkward. I was always glad to be home but always glad to.... get home.

And, then there is the sweet face, smiling out next to the black and white words of his obituary that I saw this week. My heart actually hurt for a minute. I knew that face. I remember that smile. I remember him driving, I remember him waving. I remember him! And, now he is gone. And, I don't know why.

I am reminded of how much we don't know, as I listen to the reports on tv weighing in as to why the tragedy in Arizona happened. Politics. Gun laws. Mental illness. Troubled families. Heck, even God was in there, too (thanks, Fred P!, asshole). Everyone wants to weigh in and answer the question, "why?"

Here is a news flash: there is no final answer. The answer is still yet to be revealed. It will come, in time, a layer at a time. We want an answer now, for sure, but, it doesn't work that way. It just doesn't.

I wanted to know why this young man died. But, I recognize that he must have had a tipping point of sorts, that there was one reason and there were also a million reasons. And then he was gone.

All I know, is that a mom in Lawrence aches for a son who is no longer there. And, I pray for her and pray for all of the families affected in Arizona. And, I pray for me, too. This thing called 'life', is so, so hard sometimes.

What I did/do Right

Ah, a new year. I sit among piles and piles, and more piles of laundry. It is very apparent that both kids are home! I am embarrassed to disclose the number of loads I have washed in the last 24 hours (read 12) and more to do. My daughter has been told, encouraged, threatened and asked to stop using a towel a day... I usually resort to:

"When I was your age, we used one towel a week, and, that was just fine for us!" and then I assume a posture of superiority, shoulders back, chin up, and walk off in a huff.

In one ear and out the other.

Georgia is not a rotten kid. She's a good kid, but, she's a kid. I can hear Dr. Phil about now, responding that that is no excuse, she needs to respect me, yada yada yada...

Yeah, I know. Respect. Do I pound it into them? That doesn't work. I need to find their 'currency' (another Dr. Phil word) and use that as a, er, bargaining tool. The cell phone.... ha ha ha.

We'll see how it goes.

So, 2011. What is in store for me? I guess I am in charge of determining that. Last year, at this time, I was at the mercy of outrageous mortgage payments and a smaller cleaning client base. I felt trapped. Today, I am not feeling trapped. I live in a place I can afford. I have an opportunity now that my job is over with to pick up some volunteer hours, and grow my little business a bit more. See? Different attitude.

My last post about my grading disaster on my final project has an update. My paper that I claimed I worked so hard over, etc etc? Well, I am re-reading it, with a clear head and, it totally sucked eggs. It was awful. So, starting from scratch, I am writing the paper I wanted to write, but, for a variety of reasons, (read stress and worry), I could not.

So there.

Sam is feeling like a vagabond these days. He lives out of a duffel bag. And, it is getting to him. He needs to get back to Milwaukee. He goes back a week from today. I think a dinner and movie might help. We'll see....

I keep thinking about this question that is written and posted on the door to the room where our support group meets:

What did you do right?

To some people that may seem somewhat basic. But, for someone like a person who lost a spouse, lover, child, parent, brother, sister or friend to suicide, it is a completely new concept.

If the question was, 'what did you do wrong?' well, pull up a chair, pitch a tent, unwrap a sleeping bag 'cuz you are gonna be here a long while as this question is answered. We all know what we did wrong. It is hard to know if the person who died by suicide wanted us to be immersed in that kind of self criticism. I don't think so, but, I can't be certain. Regardless, we know what we did wrong.

But the question hangs in the air, "what did you do right?" Huh? Right? Did I do anything right? It will take time to think about that. It is a different angle. I am unfamiliar with this perspective. And, I intend to become acquainted with it.

New Years Eve is a rough night for me. Gordon proposed to me on New Years Eve, 1987. So, regardless of the stuff I pack into the day (this year, two homemade soups, pumpkin bread, massive cleaning), I am running away from a terribly deep sadness. I run as long as I can, and then I get tired and I am hit with this basic feeling: I miss Gordon. I miss feeling that kind of love that I felt in 1987.

Ok, it hurts, I am sad and he is never coming back. A good cry and I should be feelin better.

And, I do.

I made it over that hump. I anticipate that next year, it might be the same. And, I can get through it.

So, I find myself on January 2, 2011 feeling relieved that it is no longer December 31, 2010. I am relieved that we have clean towels. I am relieved that I recognized a crappy paper and can rewrite it with a clear head.

And, for what I did right? I said, 'yes'.