It was the summer of '86 and I was living in my first apartment sans roommate. I had already put in my daily 2 mile jog, the sun was brilliant against the bright blue sky and my boyfriend was no where to be found. (This was a frequent occurrence and a story in itself) I couldn't waste the day indoors, so I gathered my courage, told my anxiety to wait here at the apt,-that I would be back later and headed to the TaKoma Park Metro station, on my way to downtown DC. I needed to "see stuff". It's the Army BRAT in me. Shortly after I arrived on The Mall (the area with various Smithsonian Buildings, National Gallery of Art, and at one end, the Capital Building), I had to pee. I was close to the Capital, saw a door on the side, and thought, "Hey, even Congress people need to pee...there's got to be a bathroom in here somewhere". On my little quest, I discovered this underground city! It was beautiful in its opulence. Turning to one side, I see a barbershop and who, but (then) Speaker of the House, Tip O'Neil, getting his haircut! Cool. Still, I need a bathroom, so I asked one of the security people, who didn't bat an eyelash at the super tanned, white shorts, best olive green tank top ever, toe ringed sandaled 20 something and pointed me in the direction of the women's toilette. Oh my stars!!!! Now THAT was a bathroom! It was gorgeous in its detail, gold everywhere (or so it seemed), no gross smell, and most importantly, an open stall. Ahhhhhhh....after I finished my quest, I went out the same door I had come in and thought, "Cool" and took myself for a Flying Fruit Fantasy at a place on Federal Triangle. The freedom of choosing to not wait...to not wait for my boyfriend (who disappointed me over and over again with his absence), not wait for a "better day" not wait for my anxiety to "go away" (it's still with me, I divorced the boyfriend who I STUPIDLY married a few years later thinking, "He'll change"...he won't), not waiting brought me that most memorable day.
I grew up near Boston but always knew I wanted to be a farmer (or Dian Fossey). Every weekend as a teenager, I took the train to Cambridge and strolled around all day pretending to myself that I went to Harvard or MIT. One of my favorite places was a hole-in-the-wall organic produce store called Erewhon, and one lucky day I noticed a small hand-written notice on the bulletin board: "Summer help wanted on organic farm, free room and board. $25/week". A month later my parents dropped me off an hour from home at the farm of total strangers.
What did I expect, and how did that match with reality? I knew absolutely nothing about everything, and I expected just to be happy on a farm. But one of those ignorant moments formed the philosophy of my life. In the corn rows the farmer asked if knew how to drive a tractor. (I'm 17 years old...from Boston...uh....) "Hop on". I made my way down the row feeling like Lawrence of Arabia on a camel. Didn't run over too many stalks, got to the end of the row, and realized he never told me where the brake was. Took the tractor straight into the woods until it stopped. From that moment I learned this: Drive into the woods until you figure out where the brake is. Whatever you want to do, whatever pickle you find yourself in, figure it out. Those brakes are somewhere. And if you don't know what a radish looks like when it's underground, just scratch the dirt away a little.
I lost my husband earlier this year and am soon to embark on a solo trip to southern Italy; my own new version of a Trip to Bountiful I suppose. I want to see the small town where my father spent his childhood; far south of Rome and not easily accessible. I have some fear about taking this on, yet at the same time, a strong need to break my routine and feel alive again. I'm going to take a deep breath and bird by bird .... New sights and sounds and steps always kickstart a new mindfulness and remind me that although I'm a grieving widow, I'm still a headstrong girl. It's good to know.
I feel bittersweet about those memory pic pop ups I get. Lately they have been ones when my body has been in a position to spontaneously show up and perform whatever exhilarating idea that comes into my hear to revisit that nostalgia but lately, as I wait in a hospital bed day after day for a surgery that keeps getting postponed due to our systemic flaws in the health care system, I find myself growing sad and deflated at seeing a healthier me and wishing there was more I could do to change the trajectory of where I have been led to. But there isn’t so the image of you and your friend on your electric bikes is an image of hope and compromise for me. If you can reconcile the differences in your life today and still find joy, then I am sure there is some off reading wheelchair action in my near future.
Thank you for being the voice and example of creativity in frustrating times and optimism in dark ones. You are so precious and your energy is infectious. Today I will find a way to experience joy and think of you.
A year ago Tuesday, I lost my beloved rescue Boykin Rusty during surgery to Cushing’s Disease. This stoic, gentle, chill boy gracefully fought through two previous emergency surgeries and countless courses of drugs to try to stay with us a little longer. We didn’t even get to say goodbye because I was barely out of hip replacement surgery and the right thing to do was to beg the surgeon through my tears to have his team hold him and tell him he was loved while he slipped to heaven.
That loss stayed with me during this past year, perhaps the icing on this cake of “awful” we Americans have slogged through, piled on with the heaviness of the Ukraine war, inflation, immigration, my Dad’s death four years ago that still hurts, all of it.
Somedays it feels like we are leaning into the weight of unhappy, enjoying the wallow. And my heart has stayed heavy.
As the days lengthen, Rusty my Boykin has sent me a spaniel that nobody also wanted. Not quite a rescue as he was, but a 41/2 month old which didn’t “sell.”
With a second hip replacement pending in December, the timing couldn’t be worse, but Rusty was relentless. “You’ve bern sad for so long Mom, listen to me and listen to your heart.”
In a few hours my best friend and I venture to the mountains of Virginia to welcome this cocker spaniel teenager into my family. Another spaniel, a grumpy cat, a housemate, friends and neighbors to meet, just the right name to find. Kisses and wags. Unconditional love, zoomies and silliness.
Yes Rusty, Mom is ready to be happy again. Thank you.
Chronicle your first attempt at growing up—at wrenching yourself free from the familiar and throwing yourself into something new. Write about what you expected, and how that matched or mismatched with reality.
During my senior year in high school, I became more concerned about my future. My struggle living at home grew worse and I knew, for some time, there would be no guidance or support coming from my parents who were quite messed up. This was 1971, a time still in the throes of Vietnam, protests, civil unrest, decisions of crazy politicians. But the music of the time was heavenly. Credence Clear Water Revival (Fortunate Son), Jimi Hendrix (any pick will do), Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young (Déjà vu – Carry On, Suite: Judy Blue Eyes), and countless other choices.
One day while I was walking to the library to listen to Beethoven’s symphonies, I walked past the Navy recruiting office. The recruiting poster showed the image of a sailor, standing on the wind-swept deck of a ship, gazing at the horizon. I liked the bell bottoms of his dress blues. I can still see that image very clearly 51 years later (damn, I’m old).
I thought about that image at the library, and I knew what I had to do, what I could do: I had a choice. Fortunately, the recruiting office was open, and I stopped in to talk to the recruiter.
When I left the recruiter, I had signed up to go into the Navy after I graduated from high school. But this was my secret. I would tell no one until the day I left. Having that “edge” felt good and somewhat powerful. I was beginning to realize my future, and the icing on the cake was the GI Bill which would help me go to college later. I walked home energized by the realization that I had chipped away a bit of the uncertainty of my future. I was going to be a sailor wearing those bell bottom blues, sailing all over the world, stopping at ports along the way. What’s not to like?
The departure day came. My little sister was making a burger for lunch- I can still see the steam rising and smell the aroma. My last bit of defiance was refusing to eat anything. My mother came into the kitchen, and I told her I had joined the Navy and I left the house. I walked to the bus station downtown and caught a bus to the Milwaukee AFEES (Armed Forces Entrance and Examination Station) station where I would be inducted. I had signed up for the Advanced Electronics program. To my surprise, I was told at the AFEES station I had to sign an agreement to extend my active service obligation to six years (rather than the standard four years) because of all the training I would be getting. Ha. News to me. They had hooked me and were beginning to reel me in. But I said no – the recruiter had said nothing about this. Consequently, I was assigned to the deck ape category and ultimately to the aviation area where I would be on the flight deck of a carrier launching aircraft. When I got to boot camp in San Diego, I tested out for the medical area. I would become a Navy Corpsman. I chose this area because a close friend in high school was going into nursing school.
My first stop after boot camp was Hospital Corps A School at Balboa Naval Hospital in San Diego. I learned the basic skills of a corpsman. Some said the training was equivalent to that of an LPN (Licensed Practical Nurse). Our instructor had recently served in Vietnam and despite that, he seemed quite sane.
Next stop was the Naval Hospital, Great Lakes, where I worked on a surgical floor. The nurses were beautiful. In fact, I had gained the trust of LCDR Anna Maria Pantel to the point where she asked me to take care of her car while she was away on leave for a week to visit family. I was dumbfounded, but it felt good. Why did she pick me?
From there I went to Hospital Corps C School to work in the operating room as a surgical technician. This was fun! I set up and passed instruments to the surgeons. Some of them were kind, understanding souls; others were complete assholes - adult babies throwing instruments along with their tantrums.
After graduating from this school (I came in fourth so I was not eligible to pick my next duty station), I was assigned to Field Medical Service School at Camp Pendleton, CA. There I would learn about being a combat medic with the Marines. We called them jarheads. They called us squids. But we respected each other. Following this school, I was sent overseas to Okinawa which was a staging area for Vietnam. I would learn how to survive in a jungle, how to respond to an ambush, how to work with tanks without getting crushed, how to handle and care for all of the assault weapons used by the jarheads. I was assigned to rifle company India, 3rd Battalion, 9th Marine Regiment (3/9), 3rd Marine Division. I was lucky. The peace treaty had been signed a few months before I arrived in Okinawa and guys were being rotated out of Vietnam to Okinawa. About a third of my company had arrived from Vietnam. My squad leader, Corporal Walker was a tunnel rat.
I spent a year there playing war games, going on float with Battalion Landing Team (BLT) 3/9 on the USS Juneau, treating Marines, and listening to Joe Walsh when I could. 3/9 was one of the first into Vietnam and one of the last to leave in 1975. My Gunny, Ira E. Black (https://www.dignitymemorial.com/obituaries/oceanside-ca/ira-black-6310028), a very intimidating black man with a precious heart, was at the fall of Saigon and he was badly wounded. We kept in touch for many years afterward. The evening before I left Okinawa, Gunny Black invited me to his hooch for shots of vodka and non-military conversation. He was a leader. A humble and wise man. I miss him.
After Okinawa, I spent my last year at the Naval Regional Medical Center at Camp Pendleton working in the operating room. Lt. Nixdorf was our OR supervisor - a stern lady, I think a lifer, who ran a tight ship. But we loved her. I think she appreciated us.
The day before I got out (sometime in July,1975) a number of the OR members took me out for a few drinks in San Diego at a strip bar. I had never been to one and I was quite shocked by what I was seeing. I had never gotten a tattoo either. A majority of sailors got anchor tattoos, and the jarheads got Devil Dog tattoos. I viewed tattoos as graffiti.
Well, that image of the bell bottom blues brought me safely through a difficult time for our country. I didn’t sail the world and stop at lots of ports. But I learned much about people, primarily that we are unique, yet we share many hopes and fears. We demonstrate courage when called for. We may appear tough on the outside, yet we are compassionate. Each of us is evolving on many levels. And clearly the only thing that matters is love.
I have always been in love with cultures. I love to venture outside beyond the comfort of the familiar. When I was in my teens and early 20s I would have pen pals as a way to meet people from around the world. I was working at a department store in downtown Hartford called G. fox and on lunch breaks I would go to the record/book shop on the mezzanine. I discovered a series of books written by Sergeanne Golon called Angelique and I fell in love with France. I signed up for French class at community college. I found a French one pal and at 21 I took a plane to Paris and visited my pen pal, Michel. We drove from Paris to Versaille and than to Germany for Octoberfest. Than to Geneva Switzerland and back to France. My friend lived in St. Etienne so I started with his family and took road trips. My fondest memory is visiting Michel’s Oncle Julien’sfamily. They had an old mill converted to a weekend getaway in Auvergne and we spent a Sunday having a wonderful dinner homemade by Julien’s wife Marthe. This was my first venture outside the U.S. and I travelled alone, so I took a leap of faith. I’m not fluent in French so there was a language barrier. It was glorious.
Michel came to the U.S. and we eventually married. Sadly Michel died as a result of a horrible car accident. He was in a coma on life support while we waited for his family to get to the U.S. for their good byes. I wasn’t ok for a long time after. I’m sure this time contributed to PTSD and anxiety carried over from childhood trauma. I don’t talk about this part of my life very much. Many people who even know me on real life don’t even know this.
I’m smiling as I read about Humpys. This was the first place I had fried Halibut cheeks and a must eat in Anchorage. Humpys is still there lived in Anchorage, AK for two years pursuing love. It was definitely a risk I took meeting my future in Seattle. He was in the military. Alaska was an adventure and while the marriage didn’t work, I wouldn’t trade the adventure. The ALCAN Highway was a four day trip from Seattle. Driving through British Columbia was like experiencing my personal wild life zoo. After the first day, I looked to the ALCAN guidebook for the next stopping point. I was never so excited to stop at a Pizza Hut and Dairy Queen in the wide open space. The first travel stop was at a campground that we weren’t charged. That should have been a warning. I woke up at 4:00 a.m. shivering. There was frost on the tent pole inside the tent. My boyfriend put me in the car, turned on the heat, and took down our tent. We began travel early and stopped at the first Canadian roadhouse (aka diner). I was never so grateful for a restaurant. I paper toweled bathed in the bathroom and enjoyed my first plate of French fries with gravy - a Canadian staple! I had experiences in Alaska I’ll never forgot during my two years there: seeing women compete equally in the Iditarod with photos of mushing greats Dee Dee Jonrow and Susan Butcher chatting; standing on part of the Iditarod trail watching the dogs joyously running past; traveling to Denali twice and being able to see the mountain (often you can’t see it because of it’s own weather pattern in the park); halibut fishing, traveling to Seward, Cooper River, and Homer; learning to snow ski; going to Aleyska ski resort; seeing whales along the coast; backpacking; seeing a 3 day old moose; not being able to get into my house one day with two moose in my driveway; catching many salmon; losing 24 service members in a horrible AWACS crash after takeoff; and serving proudly as a military spouse. Pure beauty. I’ll tell every person to go to Alaska!
I wonder if that ever goes away – that wanting. It’s a cliche I know, but I’ve had this nagging weight in my chest the past year or so, maybe longer. At times it’s a dull aching weight, at others it’s as if someone’s digging their thumb hard into my sternum. For a while I passed it off as heartburn, or stress, or missing my husband who’s begun traveling pretty regularly for work. Friends told me the planets were to blame, or that it’s all down to me approaching 30 – or both. “Mmmm” they’d say, “Saturn’s return.” And I'd just nod and make some sort of contemplative sound all the while knowing there’s something else. I mean, it could be all of those things and probably is all those things, but I have a sneaky feeling it’s less astrological and more human. Because there’s something in me that’s screaming out. That’s rattling the bars of whatever cage I’ve trapped it in. It’s a want I can’t quiet down. I want. I want. I want. I’m not sure what – but I just want more.
And it doesn’t make any sense, really. Because I’m happy - sometimes blissfully so. I have a partner I love. I’m not overly happy in my career (in fact most of the time I’m downright miserable) but I’m putting a writing degree to use, and that’s something. I’m living abroad, in an interesting city, with interesting things to do, and (thanks mostly to my husband) we’re financially comfortable. When I think back to what all of this would have meant to me eight or nine years ago, when I was living in Brooklyn, juggling classes with two or three jobs at a time, struggling to pay rent and bills while my classmates swiped their parents credit cards for rounds of margaritas after class. It’s not that I was miserable – I loved living in New York. I loved being able to spend hours learning every day. And the jobs I was balancing gave me purpose – gave me a sense of place in the world.
And when I think about how I came to New York: with absolutely nothing. No money, no sense of direction, no friends, just some late night shifts at Urban Outfitters and a shared apartment with a mattress on the floor. God, now that was misery. I had flung myself out of my family home as fast as I could and had landed flat on my face. And I dragged myself, face down, through the mud, for a long time after that.
But when I was that unhappy, I didn’t dare to want. I didn’t have enough in me to want. So, maybe it’s a good thing? Maybe it’s a testimony to the raging hope within us. The knowing that we have more to give, and do, and see. And maybe that’s a really beautiful thing.
Yikes. Change can be something very hard to get into or even accept. It becomes a challenge to which you are submerged into. I remember having to leave Texas due to my husband losing his job. We went from one culture to another in a swift of a car ride in our blue Pepsi colored Volky (2003) my husband had gifted me recently. I found myself having moved from a gorgeous and vintage little house to a mini less than 300 sq of space. It has been one of our hardest moves ever. Our new space was very small. We had no idea where anything was in relation to stores, supermarkets, etc. Everything was new and the culture was completely different from that of Texas. At first I was sad and uneasy moving around our new state but then one day I decided to go out and explore my relatively new neighborhood while my husband was at his new office. It is when I discovered that all the places I thought were distant were actually a 2 minute walk. Then I saw that even our new church would be just a minute away. Then my most favorite discovery was that our new space was about 5 minutes from the gorgeous beach. Right then and there I fell in love with my new home state.
Sometimes our lives are moved or changed due to the unexpected but it can become an experience that takes you to meeting new people and making new friends.
In the summer of 1978 I was a music student in clarinet performance in Cleveland, and things were not going well. Despite hours of practicing I didn’t qualify for the orchestra, and my recital was barely passable. My teacher told me if I didn’t improve significantly in 2 weeks, I would have to leave. I wasn’t used to quitting, and still loved playing in spite of being pretty depressed. So I did two things:I drove to Buffalo and visited a clarinetist there who made me a wonderful new mouthpiece--it was an incredible session, with me telling him what type of sound I wanted and him making skillful adjustments until things were just right. Then I signed up for a summer music program on Victoria Island and went there entirely on my own, without knowing anyone. I still remember getting on the ferry in Vancouver, and feeling like I was freeing myself from all the negativity and entering a new world. Of course, it wasn’t exactly like that--I struggled being alone and it took awhile for my playing to settle in. But the trip was transformative, both musically and emotionally, and I felt like for once, I had done something out of the nest of family and friends, taking things into my own hands.
Dear Suleika, I used to walk in the woods nearby and ask for another 20 years of doing so. I visited them the other day, after an absence, and found I can't walk nearly as far. I keep my eyes on my feet, watch where I put my stick. I was diagnosed with ovarian cancer at 55, so I had considerably more time cancer-free than you've had, but I do on some level get the same feeling of "not yet! more!" For me, it's a knowing in my body what I always knew in my head--there's an end date to all this. I'm one of the lucky ones who's survived beyond predictions and am 15 years out from chemo, but I know it won't last forever. And ironically, now I'm old and my body is wearing out anyway. So I think it's about enjoying the time we have. Also, I'm reading a book now you might want to read, too—Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times, by Katherine May. It's memoir of six months of her life. Meanwhile, we keep breathing and laughing at our pets and savoring the sweetness of life. Love and light to you.
Moving to D.C. after college was the scariest thing I’d ever done. As an only child, I grew up very risk averse. Even dating in college scared me. When it came to my career I went big. I turned down several salaried positions in my hometown of Portland, Oregon and accepted an unpaid position as a press intern for a U.S. senator I admired.
I bought a one-way ticket, packed and flew to a city I didn’t know. I was terrified. I remember thinking learning and understanding the metro system would be its own accomplishment.
During my first week, my boss flipped and completely denied the job description she had sold me on the phone earlier that spring. She told me it was my job to make coffee and do the menial office work I was given. Work that did not require a journalism degree or a cross-country move.
Initially, I panicked. I considered coming home for the safe, reliable, paid option.
Instead in a completely out-of-character move, I stayed and committed to proving my boss wrong. Every day, I made the coffee, did the office work she asked for and then spent the rest of the time on the research project I signed-up for. I spent a little more than three months draining my savings account with rent, metro fees and coffee from Le Panier all while chipping away at the project.
On my final day, I handed in my project. She wasn’t in her office, but I rested in my own sense of accomplishment. I was proud of myself, for persisting. Less than six months later, my project resulted in the implementation of a new press strategy.
When I arrived at Dulles International Airport on my way back to Portland, I checked my bags at the airline counter. One was over the weight limit. I reached for my wallet only to realize I had nothing in my bank account and no cash. I called my dad who loaned me the money.
It was the most expensive, risky leap I had made. I was intimidated every day. It was a completely “Fake it till you make it,” vibe. Looking back, I wonder what my life would look like if I took more risks. If my body let me. This was the last chapter before my chronic illness began. Now I wrestle daily with the drive and ambition that is as eager as a racehorse in the starting gate. All that energy, drive, passion and determination, trapped in a body that often doesn’t let me take a shower.
I suppose my growing up is happening now and not when I was pregnant at age 20 and rushed into marriage and children. I am divorced now, which seems a great irony, and most of my friends have spouses to go on adventures with, and don’t usually think to include a single person. So I am going- on Thursday- somewhere. Somewhere in the direction of South, with no destination in mind- just a return date.
Your book Between Two Kingdoms has been a presence in my life ever since I read it. So I am heading off - maybe not growing up, or growing wiser but growing a little bit more curious about what I will find if I just finally go
It was the summer of '86 and I was living in my first apartment sans roommate. I had already put in my daily 2 mile jog, the sun was brilliant against the bright blue sky and my boyfriend was no where to be found. (This was a frequent occurrence and a story in itself) I couldn't waste the day indoors, so I gathered my courage, told my anxiety to wait here at the apt,-that I would be back later and headed to the TaKoma Park Metro station, on my way to downtown DC. I needed to "see stuff". It's the Army BRAT in me. Shortly after I arrived on The Mall (the area with various Smithsonian Buildings, National Gallery of Art, and at one end, the Capital Building), I had to pee. I was close to the Capital, saw a door on the side, and thought, "Hey, even Congress people need to pee...there's got to be a bathroom in here somewhere". On my little quest, I discovered this underground city! It was beautiful in its opulence. Turning to one side, I see a barbershop and who, but (then) Speaker of the House, Tip O'Neil, getting his haircut! Cool. Still, I need a bathroom, so I asked one of the security people, who didn't bat an eyelash at the super tanned, white shorts, best olive green tank top ever, toe ringed sandaled 20 something and pointed me in the direction of the women's toilette. Oh my stars!!!! Now THAT was a bathroom! It was gorgeous in its detail, gold everywhere (or so it seemed), no gross smell, and most importantly, an open stall. Ahhhhhhh....after I finished my quest, I went out the same door I had come in and thought, "Cool" and took myself for a Flying Fruit Fantasy at a place on Federal Triangle. The freedom of choosing to not wait...to not wait for my boyfriend (who disappointed me over and over again with his absence), not wait for a "better day" not wait for my anxiety to "go away" (it's still with me, I divorced the boyfriend who I STUPIDLY married a few years later thinking, "He'll change"...he won't), not waiting brought me that most memorable day.
What a sweet prompt and great image of Humpy's.
I grew up near Boston but always knew I wanted to be a farmer (or Dian Fossey). Every weekend as a teenager, I took the train to Cambridge and strolled around all day pretending to myself that I went to Harvard or MIT. One of my favorite places was a hole-in-the-wall organic produce store called Erewhon, and one lucky day I noticed a small hand-written notice on the bulletin board: "Summer help wanted on organic farm, free room and board. $25/week". A month later my parents dropped me off an hour from home at the farm of total strangers.
What did I expect, and how did that match with reality? I knew absolutely nothing about everything, and I expected just to be happy on a farm. But one of those ignorant moments formed the philosophy of my life. In the corn rows the farmer asked if knew how to drive a tractor. (I'm 17 years old...from Boston...uh....) "Hop on". I made my way down the row feeling like Lawrence of Arabia on a camel. Didn't run over too many stalks, got to the end of the row, and realized he never told me where the brake was. Took the tractor straight into the woods until it stopped. From that moment I learned this: Drive into the woods until you figure out where the brake is. Whatever you want to do, whatever pickle you find yourself in, figure it out. Those brakes are somewhere. And if you don't know what a radish looks like when it's underground, just scratch the dirt away a little.
I lost my husband earlier this year and am soon to embark on a solo trip to southern Italy; my own new version of a Trip to Bountiful I suppose. I want to see the small town where my father spent his childhood; far south of Rome and not easily accessible. I have some fear about taking this on, yet at the same time, a strong need to break my routine and feel alive again. I'm going to take a deep breath and bird by bird .... New sights and sounds and steps always kickstart a new mindfulness and remind me that although I'm a grieving widow, I'm still a headstrong girl. It's good to know.
Good morning Susu,
I feel bittersweet about those memory pic pop ups I get. Lately they have been ones when my body has been in a position to spontaneously show up and perform whatever exhilarating idea that comes into my hear to revisit that nostalgia but lately, as I wait in a hospital bed day after day for a surgery that keeps getting postponed due to our systemic flaws in the health care system, I find myself growing sad and deflated at seeing a healthier me and wishing there was more I could do to change the trajectory of where I have been led to. But there isn’t so the image of you and your friend on your electric bikes is an image of hope and compromise for me. If you can reconcile the differences in your life today and still find joy, then I am sure there is some off reading wheelchair action in my near future.
Thank you for being the voice and example of creativity in frustrating times and optimism in dark ones. You are so precious and your energy is infectious. Today I will find a way to experience joy and think of you.
Tara xo
A year ago Tuesday, I lost my beloved rescue Boykin Rusty during surgery to Cushing’s Disease. This stoic, gentle, chill boy gracefully fought through two previous emergency surgeries and countless courses of drugs to try to stay with us a little longer. We didn’t even get to say goodbye because I was barely out of hip replacement surgery and the right thing to do was to beg the surgeon through my tears to have his team hold him and tell him he was loved while he slipped to heaven.
That loss stayed with me during this past year, perhaps the icing on this cake of “awful” we Americans have slogged through, piled on with the heaviness of the Ukraine war, inflation, immigration, my Dad’s death four years ago that still hurts, all of it.
Somedays it feels like we are leaning into the weight of unhappy, enjoying the wallow. And my heart has stayed heavy.
As the days lengthen, Rusty my Boykin has sent me a spaniel that nobody also wanted. Not quite a rescue as he was, but a 41/2 month old which didn’t “sell.”
With a second hip replacement pending in December, the timing couldn’t be worse, but Rusty was relentless. “You’ve bern sad for so long Mom, listen to me and listen to your heart.”
In a few hours my best friend and I venture to the mountains of Virginia to welcome this cocker spaniel teenager into my family. Another spaniel, a grumpy cat, a housemate, friends and neighbors to meet, just the right name to find. Kisses and wags. Unconditional love, zoomies and silliness.
Yes Rusty, Mom is ready to be happy again. Thank you.
Dear Suleika, You continue to inspire those of us trapped by our bodies. Thank you.
Still
Sitting at your kitchen table
Sipping tea, 9am still,
Green, all is green,
Layers of still green mist
My skin tingles,
I’m still to feel the slight breeze
And smell the musky wood,
My heart is beating,
I’m still here in this beauty,
There’s time still in Autumn
To feel the yearning for more,
Still, by just being still
Susan Knightly 9/18/22
Prompt 209
Chronicle your first attempt at growing up—at wrenching yourself free from the familiar and throwing yourself into something new. Write about what you expected, and how that matched or mismatched with reality.
During my senior year in high school, I became more concerned about my future. My struggle living at home grew worse and I knew, for some time, there would be no guidance or support coming from my parents who were quite messed up. This was 1971, a time still in the throes of Vietnam, protests, civil unrest, decisions of crazy politicians. But the music of the time was heavenly. Credence Clear Water Revival (Fortunate Son), Jimi Hendrix (any pick will do), Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young (Déjà vu – Carry On, Suite: Judy Blue Eyes), and countless other choices.
One day while I was walking to the library to listen to Beethoven’s symphonies, I walked past the Navy recruiting office. The recruiting poster showed the image of a sailor, standing on the wind-swept deck of a ship, gazing at the horizon. I liked the bell bottoms of his dress blues. I can still see that image very clearly 51 years later (damn, I’m old).
I thought about that image at the library, and I knew what I had to do, what I could do: I had a choice. Fortunately, the recruiting office was open, and I stopped in to talk to the recruiter.
When I left the recruiter, I had signed up to go into the Navy after I graduated from high school. But this was my secret. I would tell no one until the day I left. Having that “edge” felt good and somewhat powerful. I was beginning to realize my future, and the icing on the cake was the GI Bill which would help me go to college later. I walked home energized by the realization that I had chipped away a bit of the uncertainty of my future. I was going to be a sailor wearing those bell bottom blues, sailing all over the world, stopping at ports along the way. What’s not to like?
The departure day came. My little sister was making a burger for lunch- I can still see the steam rising and smell the aroma. My last bit of defiance was refusing to eat anything. My mother came into the kitchen, and I told her I had joined the Navy and I left the house. I walked to the bus station downtown and caught a bus to the Milwaukee AFEES (Armed Forces Entrance and Examination Station) station where I would be inducted. I had signed up for the Advanced Electronics program. To my surprise, I was told at the AFEES station I had to sign an agreement to extend my active service obligation to six years (rather than the standard four years) because of all the training I would be getting. Ha. News to me. They had hooked me and were beginning to reel me in. But I said no – the recruiter had said nothing about this. Consequently, I was assigned to the deck ape category and ultimately to the aviation area where I would be on the flight deck of a carrier launching aircraft. When I got to boot camp in San Diego, I tested out for the medical area. I would become a Navy Corpsman. I chose this area because a close friend in high school was going into nursing school.
My first stop after boot camp was Hospital Corps A School at Balboa Naval Hospital in San Diego. I learned the basic skills of a corpsman. Some said the training was equivalent to that of an LPN (Licensed Practical Nurse). Our instructor had recently served in Vietnam and despite that, he seemed quite sane.
Next stop was the Naval Hospital, Great Lakes, where I worked on a surgical floor. The nurses were beautiful. In fact, I had gained the trust of LCDR Anna Maria Pantel to the point where she asked me to take care of her car while she was away on leave for a week to visit family. I was dumbfounded, but it felt good. Why did she pick me?
From there I went to Hospital Corps C School to work in the operating room as a surgical technician. This was fun! I set up and passed instruments to the surgeons. Some of them were kind, understanding souls; others were complete assholes - adult babies throwing instruments along with their tantrums.
After graduating from this school (I came in fourth so I was not eligible to pick my next duty station), I was assigned to Field Medical Service School at Camp Pendleton, CA. There I would learn about being a combat medic with the Marines. We called them jarheads. They called us squids. But we respected each other. Following this school, I was sent overseas to Okinawa which was a staging area for Vietnam. I would learn how to survive in a jungle, how to respond to an ambush, how to work with tanks without getting crushed, how to handle and care for all of the assault weapons used by the jarheads. I was assigned to rifle company India, 3rd Battalion, 9th Marine Regiment (3/9), 3rd Marine Division. I was lucky. The peace treaty had been signed a few months before I arrived in Okinawa and guys were being rotated out of Vietnam to Okinawa. About a third of my company had arrived from Vietnam. My squad leader, Corporal Walker was a tunnel rat.
I spent a year there playing war games, going on float with Battalion Landing Team (BLT) 3/9 on the USS Juneau, treating Marines, and listening to Joe Walsh when I could. 3/9 was one of the first into Vietnam and one of the last to leave in 1975. My Gunny, Ira E. Black (https://www.dignitymemorial.com/obituaries/oceanside-ca/ira-black-6310028), a very intimidating black man with a precious heart, was at the fall of Saigon and he was badly wounded. We kept in touch for many years afterward. The evening before I left Okinawa, Gunny Black invited me to his hooch for shots of vodka and non-military conversation. He was a leader. A humble and wise man. I miss him.
After Okinawa, I spent my last year at the Naval Regional Medical Center at Camp Pendleton working in the operating room. Lt. Nixdorf was our OR supervisor - a stern lady, I think a lifer, who ran a tight ship. But we loved her. I think she appreciated us.
The day before I got out (sometime in July,1975) a number of the OR members took me out for a few drinks in San Diego at a strip bar. I had never been to one and I was quite shocked by what I was seeing. I had never gotten a tattoo either. A majority of sailors got anchor tattoos, and the jarheads got Devil Dog tattoos. I viewed tattoos as graffiti.
Well, that image of the bell bottom blues brought me safely through a difficult time for our country. I didn’t sail the world and stop at lots of ports. But I learned much about people, primarily that we are unique, yet we share many hopes and fears. We demonstrate courage when called for. We may appear tough on the outside, yet we are compassionate. Each of us is evolving on many levels. And clearly the only thing that matters is love.
By the way, I did use that GI Bill.
I have always been in love with cultures. I love to venture outside beyond the comfort of the familiar. When I was in my teens and early 20s I would have pen pals as a way to meet people from around the world. I was working at a department store in downtown Hartford called G. fox and on lunch breaks I would go to the record/book shop on the mezzanine. I discovered a series of books written by Sergeanne Golon called Angelique and I fell in love with France. I signed up for French class at community college. I found a French one pal and at 21 I took a plane to Paris and visited my pen pal, Michel. We drove from Paris to Versaille and than to Germany for Octoberfest. Than to Geneva Switzerland and back to France. My friend lived in St. Etienne so I started with his family and took road trips. My fondest memory is visiting Michel’s Oncle Julien’sfamily. They had an old mill converted to a weekend getaway in Auvergne and we spent a Sunday having a wonderful dinner homemade by Julien’s wife Marthe. This was my first venture outside the U.S. and I travelled alone, so I took a leap of faith. I’m not fluent in French so there was a language barrier. It was glorious.
Michel came to the U.S. and we eventually married. Sadly Michel died as a result of a horrible car accident. He was in a coma on life support while we waited for his family to get to the U.S. for their good byes. I wasn’t ok for a long time after. I’m sure this time contributed to PTSD and anxiety carried over from childhood trauma. I don’t talk about this part of my life very much. Many people who even know me on real life don’t even know this.
I’m smiling as I read about Humpys. This was the first place I had fried Halibut cheeks and a must eat in Anchorage. Humpys is still there lived in Anchorage, AK for two years pursuing love. It was definitely a risk I took meeting my future in Seattle. He was in the military. Alaska was an adventure and while the marriage didn’t work, I wouldn’t trade the adventure. The ALCAN Highway was a four day trip from Seattle. Driving through British Columbia was like experiencing my personal wild life zoo. After the first day, I looked to the ALCAN guidebook for the next stopping point. I was never so excited to stop at a Pizza Hut and Dairy Queen in the wide open space. The first travel stop was at a campground that we weren’t charged. That should have been a warning. I woke up at 4:00 a.m. shivering. There was frost on the tent pole inside the tent. My boyfriend put me in the car, turned on the heat, and took down our tent. We began travel early and stopped at the first Canadian roadhouse (aka diner). I was never so grateful for a restaurant. I paper toweled bathed in the bathroom and enjoyed my first plate of French fries with gravy - a Canadian staple! I had experiences in Alaska I’ll never forgot during my two years there: seeing women compete equally in the Iditarod with photos of mushing greats Dee Dee Jonrow and Susan Butcher chatting; standing on part of the Iditarod trail watching the dogs joyously running past; traveling to Denali twice and being able to see the mountain (often you can’t see it because of it’s own weather pattern in the park); halibut fishing, traveling to Seward, Cooper River, and Homer; learning to snow ski; going to Aleyska ski resort; seeing whales along the coast; backpacking; seeing a 3 day old moose; not being able to get into my house one day with two moose in my driveway; catching many salmon; losing 24 service members in a horrible AWACS crash after takeoff; and serving proudly as a military spouse. Pure beauty. I’ll tell every person to go to Alaska!
I wonder if that ever goes away – that wanting. It’s a cliche I know, but I’ve had this nagging weight in my chest the past year or so, maybe longer. At times it’s a dull aching weight, at others it’s as if someone’s digging their thumb hard into my sternum. For a while I passed it off as heartburn, or stress, or missing my husband who’s begun traveling pretty regularly for work. Friends told me the planets were to blame, or that it’s all down to me approaching 30 – or both. “Mmmm” they’d say, “Saturn’s return.” And I'd just nod and make some sort of contemplative sound all the while knowing there’s something else. I mean, it could be all of those things and probably is all those things, but I have a sneaky feeling it’s less astrological and more human. Because there’s something in me that’s screaming out. That’s rattling the bars of whatever cage I’ve trapped it in. It’s a want I can’t quiet down. I want. I want. I want. I’m not sure what – but I just want more.
And it doesn’t make any sense, really. Because I’m happy - sometimes blissfully so. I have a partner I love. I’m not overly happy in my career (in fact most of the time I’m downright miserable) but I’m putting a writing degree to use, and that’s something. I’m living abroad, in an interesting city, with interesting things to do, and (thanks mostly to my husband) we’re financially comfortable. When I think back to what all of this would have meant to me eight or nine years ago, when I was living in Brooklyn, juggling classes with two or three jobs at a time, struggling to pay rent and bills while my classmates swiped their parents credit cards for rounds of margaritas after class. It’s not that I was miserable – I loved living in New York. I loved being able to spend hours learning every day. And the jobs I was balancing gave me purpose – gave me a sense of place in the world.
And when I think about how I came to New York: with absolutely nothing. No money, no sense of direction, no friends, just some late night shifts at Urban Outfitters and a shared apartment with a mattress on the floor. God, now that was misery. I had flung myself out of my family home as fast as I could and had landed flat on my face. And I dragged myself, face down, through the mud, for a long time after that.
But when I was that unhappy, I didn’t dare to want. I didn’t have enough in me to want. So, maybe it’s a good thing? Maybe it’s a testimony to the raging hope within us. The knowing that we have more to give, and do, and see. And maybe that’s a really beautiful thing.
Yikes. Change can be something very hard to get into or even accept. It becomes a challenge to which you are submerged into. I remember having to leave Texas due to my husband losing his job. We went from one culture to another in a swift of a car ride in our blue Pepsi colored Volky (2003) my husband had gifted me recently. I found myself having moved from a gorgeous and vintage little house to a mini less than 300 sq of space. It has been one of our hardest moves ever. Our new space was very small. We had no idea where anything was in relation to stores, supermarkets, etc. Everything was new and the culture was completely different from that of Texas. At first I was sad and uneasy moving around our new state but then one day I decided to go out and explore my relatively new neighborhood while my husband was at his new office. It is when I discovered that all the places I thought were distant were actually a 2 minute walk. Then I saw that even our new church would be just a minute away. Then my most favorite discovery was that our new space was about 5 minutes from the gorgeous beach. Right then and there I fell in love with my new home state.
Sometimes our lives are moved or changed due to the unexpected but it can become an experience that takes you to meeting new people and making new friends.
Love,
Liz
❤️
Suleika, your story reminded me of a friend whose first tattoo was the word "more". Her second tattoo said "enough".
Thank you for your beautiful story that started my Sunday.
In the summer of 1978 I was a music student in clarinet performance in Cleveland, and things were not going well. Despite hours of practicing I didn’t qualify for the orchestra, and my recital was barely passable. My teacher told me if I didn’t improve significantly in 2 weeks, I would have to leave. I wasn’t used to quitting, and still loved playing in spite of being pretty depressed. So I did two things:I drove to Buffalo and visited a clarinetist there who made me a wonderful new mouthpiece--it was an incredible session, with me telling him what type of sound I wanted and him making skillful adjustments until things were just right. Then I signed up for a summer music program on Victoria Island and went there entirely on my own, without knowing anyone. I still remember getting on the ferry in Vancouver, and feeling like I was freeing myself from all the negativity and entering a new world. Of course, it wasn’t exactly like that--I struggled being alone and it took awhile for my playing to settle in. But the trip was transformative, both musically and emotionally, and I felt like for once, I had done something out of the nest of family and friends, taking things into my own hands.
Dear Suleika, I used to walk in the woods nearby and ask for another 20 years of doing so. I visited them the other day, after an absence, and found I can't walk nearly as far. I keep my eyes on my feet, watch where I put my stick. I was diagnosed with ovarian cancer at 55, so I had considerably more time cancer-free than you've had, but I do on some level get the same feeling of "not yet! more!" For me, it's a knowing in my body what I always knew in my head--there's an end date to all this. I'm one of the lucky ones who's survived beyond predictions and am 15 years out from chemo, but I know it won't last forever. And ironically, now I'm old and my body is wearing out anyway. So I think it's about enjoying the time we have. Also, I'm reading a book now you might want to read, too—Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times, by Katherine May. It's memoir of six months of her life. Meanwhile, we keep breathing and laughing at our pets and savoring the sweetness of life. Love and light to you.
Moving to D.C. after college was the scariest thing I’d ever done. As an only child, I grew up very risk averse. Even dating in college scared me. When it came to my career I went big. I turned down several salaried positions in my hometown of Portland, Oregon and accepted an unpaid position as a press intern for a U.S. senator I admired.
I bought a one-way ticket, packed and flew to a city I didn’t know. I was terrified. I remember thinking learning and understanding the metro system would be its own accomplishment.
During my first week, my boss flipped and completely denied the job description she had sold me on the phone earlier that spring. She told me it was my job to make coffee and do the menial office work I was given. Work that did not require a journalism degree or a cross-country move.
Initially, I panicked. I considered coming home for the safe, reliable, paid option.
Instead in a completely out-of-character move, I stayed and committed to proving my boss wrong. Every day, I made the coffee, did the office work she asked for and then spent the rest of the time on the research project I signed-up for. I spent a little more than three months draining my savings account with rent, metro fees and coffee from Le Panier all while chipping away at the project.
On my final day, I handed in my project. She wasn’t in her office, but I rested in my own sense of accomplishment. I was proud of myself, for persisting. Less than six months later, my project resulted in the implementation of a new press strategy.
When I arrived at Dulles International Airport on my way back to Portland, I checked my bags at the airline counter. One was over the weight limit. I reached for my wallet only to realize I had nothing in my bank account and no cash. I called my dad who loaned me the money.
It was the most expensive, risky leap I had made. I was intimidated every day. It was a completely “Fake it till you make it,” vibe. Looking back, I wonder what my life would look like if I took more risks. If my body let me. This was the last chapter before my chronic illness began. Now I wrestle daily with the drive and ambition that is as eager as a racehorse in the starting gate. All that energy, drive, passion and determination, trapped in a body that often doesn’t let me take a shower.
I am so, so glad I took that leap when I did.
I suppose my growing up is happening now and not when I was pregnant at age 20 and rushed into marriage and children. I am divorced now, which seems a great irony, and most of my friends have spouses to go on adventures with, and don’t usually think to include a single person. So I am going- on Thursday- somewhere. Somewhere in the direction of South, with no destination in mind- just a return date.
Your book Between Two Kingdoms has been a presence in my life ever since I read it. So I am heading off - maybe not growing up, or growing wiser but growing a little bit more curious about what I will find if I just finally go