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FROM MY MOUTH TO YOUR EARS
Memorial Day 2006 I have no patience for patriotism. It's too close to xenophobia, whose effects result in the conclusion that there are two groups of people on this earth: Them and Us. We are Us. Them changes, depending upon the economic, political, and philosophical goals of the those making policy, or upon our basest fears. All this too often ends in young men's and women's names being inscribed on that monument in the heart of our little town, to be read out on Memorial Day when the bands quiet and we remove our hats. I doubt if war has ever made life better for anyone in the long run.
The great creator gives us children for many reasons, not the least of which is that they haul us into places we would never have gone otherwise. When, right out of high school, my son chose to join the US Marine Corps, I was drawn into a world that I had only objectified and protested against. Suddenly, broad shouldered uniformed recruiters from South Dakota and Georgia found their way into our living room. They were nice young men who believed deeply in the job they were doing. They never talked politics. They chose to be the foot soldiers, the warriors, the protectors of this nation, and they left the decision-making to those they assumed better-educated and -equipped for it. They left it to those who, they believed, had their and our best interests at heart. After boot camp, my son came home with 3 new friends, and though they were indeed trained killers ("Ah," my husband mused, "I wish someone would try to mess with us tonight!") each young man had a good heart and truly wanted to be of service, to be a warrior, to do "good." My son was in the Marine Corps for 4 years, saw two tours in
Iraq, served in Liberia, and in the Balkans. I believe we are
functioning under the most corrupt government this nation has
ever experienced, but the Marine Corps, the US Marine Corps,
did help to shape a spectacular, responsible, organized, conscientious
young man from an intelligent, chaotic, rebellious boy. That
young man addressed his town this morning. He spoke of honoring
those who, when called by their nation, gave their lives. He
spoke of the sorrow of losing young men and women who will never
grow into the roles of father, mother, artist, writer, bricklayer,
or carpenter because they made "the ultimate sacrifice."
He honored the young men he served with who will never return
to their homes, and he knows that their deaths made his life
possible. I am almost 55 years old, and it has taken this much
time, over half a century, to understand that Memorial Day is
about honoring the dead, not the wars they died in. Why it does
it take so long to get out of your own way? This is why we have
children. Well, the troops came around religiously, imagining and altering
their tree associated environment until March. Snow did not
dissuade them. Ice did not dissuade them. Once a storm was knocking
tree limbs asunder (don't you love the term 'climate change'
for how we have caused inextricable damage to our environment?)
and in a panic I called their homes and told them "Do not
come over for the next week until everything that's been weakened
has shaken down and it's safe." Sure enough a huge limb
came down! Then, as suddenly as Jackie Paper abandoned Puff
the Magic Dragon, the yard was empty. March, April, they showed
up once in May. The new neighbors were giving the slightly organized
chaos the hairy eyeball, my good friend Sarah kept reminding
me how dangerous it was to have strange children with full access
to your property at any time, it was very hard to get my bicycle
through the barriers they'd created, and even imminent domain
requires that the imperializers live on or utilize their annexed
kingdom. At the beginning of July I left messages at the two
primary households: Two months later one of the regulars sees me walking down the
street. I feel hideously guilty. He shots me a 10 year old savage
look and turns his back. I, the adult here, want to run away.
"Chris." I venture. He turns a stony silence in my
direction. "I'm sorry, but you really weren't using it
anymore." His lower lip protrudes slightly "We might
of." He brightened slightly and answered "OK." About 4 weeks later a gaggle of them did make their way into the yard. They recalled the glory days of the tree house, used the garden posts to dig up some muck and left. They had some serious biking and card collecting to do.
OK, mice are one thing. They are popular cartoon critters,
adorable and not deeply destructive. They'd scurry in from the
shed, burrow under the corner where the frig is and zip about
when the house was dark. What was required was a little cement
to reinforce the house base, some 'Havaheart' traps, a slightly
more compulsive approach to cleanup and food storage. I can
do this. It's the rats that turned the tide. Like an Edgar Allen
Poe story, you could hear the scratch scratch scratching in
the walls. Relentlessly clawing their way closer and closer
to your kitchen. I'd patch up one open area and they'd scratch
through towards another. I laid in more cement around the house
base, bought larger Havaheart traps, set up big pots filled
with water and lined with peanut butter and created little ramps
up to them. (A friend had said this a full proof way to lure
them towards their doom.) The next morning i'd find their little
ratty sized bathing suits hanging in the peanut butter next
to a thank-you notes "The goodies you left in the Haveaheart
were delicious. Could you please put out small lawn chairs for
us tonight." Dear General Environmental Services, You guys have $300 of my money and I still have rats dining
out in the kitchen, eating my home made apple pie, and running
through the walls!............. Well duh! These guys were obviously not the professionals. Rats are very smart at what they do. What they don't do is worry about fashion, politics, personal relationships, sex appeal, environmental degradation, or illegal invasions of third world countries. What they do is eat and survive, and they are extremely good at both tasks. Well, nature has provided a professional who is equally focussed and on task. Went over to the Marblehead Animal Shelter. It's a small space
filled with passionately committed animal people and animals. One of women called over "He runs this place. Nothing happens that he doesn't supervise, boss, let us know what should happen. He can be....aggresive." "So far, he's been a real pussy cat, but i'm hoping the aggressive side is still there. Hey Bo Bo Fischer, how'd you like to come home with me?" He jumped down from his perch and I figured we were a match. Two weeks later, once he and Portia had worked out their territorial arrangement and he felt at home, we found a foot long Norway rat, stone dead in the middle of the kitchen floor. Evidently rodents are much smarter than politicians. They knew dangerous territory immediately, and have not stuck a nasty whisker anywhere near our home since. In the spirit of this lands indigenous people's I renamed the cat for his act of ferocity. He is now Ashmedai (A demon from Jewish folklore) the Rat Killer and a proud member of our family. When you need a job done. Call a real professional! A NEW SHOW
Even though my beloved husband warned me that the title alone would get me banned in Boston The Fading Scent of Pussy premiered at the National Storytelling Network's annual Fringe Festival this past July. It's one storytellers ruminations, rants, and revelations about women and aging in America. It all started when I picked up a copy of the AARP Magazine and on the cover was a picture of Goldie Hawn, looking every bit as if she was coming out of one those laugh in windows 30 years ago. The headline read: Goldie Still Sexy at Sexy. I went into a manic seizure and began ranting. "Sexy at 60. Sexy at 60! Sexy at 16 is as natural as the
sun rising and setting. 16 year olds are luscious. They are
the flowers that attract the bees that keep the species populating.
They are entering their years of sexuality, they are celebrating
that transition into being full, blooming, sensual, sexual women......But
sexy at 60? Why is it good to be sexy at 60? Why would the premier
magazine about aging in America want to engrandize the idea
of Sexy at 60. Why not 'Generative at 60' 'Community Organizer
at 60' 'Wise at 60' 'Incisive at 60' 'A Good Pie Maker at 60'.
You can be sure that if you're still sexy at 60 ( ala Goldie)
then all you do is work at it. It's like climbing a mountain
or entropy. 16, it's easy, it's the law of nature, but the longer
you climb,the harder it gets, and gravity just starts to tug
away at you. And who wants to spend the last 20 years of their
allotted time on this planet in a life and death battle with
gravity, when we could be lobbying for voting machines that
actually count votes, or trying to reclaim the few parts of
our natural world that have yet to be destroyed by natural greed?
..... Following are some of the comments that emerged from this 'maiden' voyage: I just wanted to let you know once more how much I enjoyed
your fringe at the conference last week. It was clever, original,
and (as I am menopausal myself) I can heartily vouch for its
authenticity! Dear Judith, |
Today,
my son, 23 years old, a veteran of the US Marine Corps, the
War in Iraq, and the Battle of Fallujah, where he won the Navy/Marine
Achievement Medal for Courage Under Fire, was the speaker at
our town's Memorial Day Commemoration.
Every
year, since he shaped his first gun from a pretzel at the age
of two, the kid and I would get up on Memorial Day and head
down to the parade. His eyes would open an extra 6 inches as
the policemen and uniformed soldiers would march by, and after
the gun salute to the dead he would leap onto the parade ground,
scouring the grass for the bullet shells. They were the greatest
of prizes for his 4- and 5-year-old self. As a cub scout, he
was an honor guard one year, wearing the first thing I had ironed
in 20 years and the short haircut he insisted on for the event.
During his teenage years, when he'd choose an early and painful
death over being seen with his mother, I have no idea if he
went to the parades. I sometimes went, drawn by the energy of
the town, but always it was with powerfully mixed emotions.
Why were we filling the streets? Were we giving our unshaken
support for the wars this nation had engaged in and aggrandizing
those who died in them? Whenever I shared these thoughts with
my growing son, he would look at me and scowl. "Mom, you
think too much."
In
last seasons newsletter you heard about a group of local waifs
who invaded and claimed the old tree house in my backyard. They
were practicing imperialism and quite successful at it.
Our
16 year old cat, Portia, has gone into retirement. She eats,
she sleeps, and like many elders I know, (usually fussy old
men) will no longer use any toileting facility outside of her
own litter box. Most significantly, she also declines the traditional
duties of patrolling the house for unwanted furry visitors.
This became evident when the cold weather last rolled into New
England and every rodent in a 6 mile radius said: