Standing with a dozen other singers ranging in age from fifteen to seventy, we performed the patriotic songs prepared for the Veteran’s Day theme of the club meeting. The audience consisted of about 30 women and one man, the Mayor of our city. Smiles were everywhere, as we sang “This is My Country,” “Giant,” and the silly song about how you can always tell a Texan from the rest, he’s got no buttons on his vest from sticking out his chest and shouting I hail from Texas!

But when we began singing the service hymns, ladies sang along and stood during their favorite song with tears in their eyes. “The Caisson Song” for the Army, went right into “Anchors Away” for the Navy. We soared with “The Air Force Song,” and, starting softly and ending with a roar, the "Marine’s Hymn."

What I saw was the love they had not only for the husbands, sons and friends who served in the armed forces, but for all servicemen who sacrificed for our country. That love came to the surface and trickled down their faces in tears. I could feel their pride, their sorrow, their love. It was a connection unlike any I had ever felt while singing.

We then went into a resounding version of “God of our Fathers” and when we began singing “The Pledge of Allegiance” one by one, everyone came to their feet. Some with hands over their hearts, tears streaming down their cheeks and looking out the windows to the sky. I felt my own tears well up, but kept on singing through to the last line: “…liberty and justice for all.”

What a unique and marvelous moment. My father, the Air Corps Vet and lifelong singer likely knew that feeling. I felt his hand on my shoulder telling me, “Well done.”
 

Often nightmares disturb my sleep. In this example, myself, my husband Glenn, and one other person were driving through San Antonio, TX. So many buildings lined the freeway it was hard to see when we reached the downtown section. Pulling off in search of a motel, we stopped on a dark street and walked into a place which seemed to be a game room. But only skee-ball games were being played. It was odd, uncomfortable, and not the motel so we walked outside. A black man on a bicycle rode up to us, stopped and approached Glenn. He took out a switchblade and clicked it open with a demand for money. Glenn pulled out a large knife, like those men carry in sheathes at their sides, and stabbed the guy in the belly.

Removing the knife, my husband turned and ran away.  The other person disappeared. To my horror, the stabbed man staggered toward me, eyes rolling into the back of his head, clutching his stomach, with an expression of pain and disbelief on his face. He fell forward and landed at my feet face down in the grass. In panic, I looked around, seeing Glenn running in the distance. Why was he running? His actions were obviously in self-defense. I turned to chase after him, but the man on the ground moaned. Torn between escaping the scene and staying with what I believed was a dying man-a stranger-a criminal, I stood where I was looking back and forth with my eyes at last locked on the dying man.

I started to kneel beside the prostrate figure and then awoke from the nightmare. Wondering why such images would appear in my dreams, I thought of someone saying it was a test. Images of the man rising to his feet flashed through my mind. Strangely, the formerly injured man was smiling. Glenn returned with the knife unblemished. He told me my humanity and empathy was strong. He was proud that I didn’t run away, fearful of the consequences of the situation. I faced the issue and stood still.

Through this analysis, in reality, I semi-consciously did escape the situation. Justifying this line of thought further, Glenn would never run and leave me alone like that. He wouldn’t stab an attacker, he would shoot him. We wouldn’t put ourselves in that position in the first place.  But if I was to be thrust into something like that, I hope my deep sense of right and wrong, as well as my compassion for others will lead me to do the right thing. Truth is, one never really knows what one will do until actually faced with the difficult issue. We just hope our inner selves will govern our outward actions and compel us to do the right thing.
 
 
 

Why must they play sad music at Taco Bell? What's wrong with some upbeat stuff to go with the hot sauce? I guess sadness is the emotion most people can relate to. It's much more difficult to do something which makes the masses smile.

The little things throughout the day should add up and make one feel good. There may be a shot or burst, but those moments when a friend’s eyes light up at the sight of you. The touch of your love on skin or soul is comforting and good. Or a phrase spoken or an unexpected pleasantry can help make the day go well.

The fact those who have much are often more unhappy then those without enforces the idea relationships are the most important and rewarding thing a person can have. We often feel alone and thus seek God or some type of satisfaction. We must remember we are not alone, our loves, our relationships, and even our own selves can keep us company.
Therefore, it is quite all right to talk to oneself. That is journaling or free writing. At least you always have yourself to talk to. Just pick up a pen and paper or sit at a computer and put words on a page. Often some wisdom will flow out…something of interest or even a burden released. Dang, we deep thinkers are a strange lot.
 
Footnote: After writing this in the Taco Bell, a somewhat strange man sat next to me, indeed too close. I readied myself to leave, but noticed he sat very still with eyes closed. He had been huffing and puffing as if out of breath and was squeezed into the booth with belly lapped over the table. Sneaking a look, I glanced at him and decided to be still, as if I were to exit my side of the booth, my butt would be in his face. Directly he opened his eyes and sighed. I decided he had been praying. Glad I hadn’t interrupted, I spoke. “Excuse me, I need to slide out of here.” He answered something I didn’t catch and I slid out. Then he spoke aloud. “You have a nice day, now,” he said with a smile. I replied, “I’m workin’ on it!” He laughed. That was well after my above comment about “an unexpected pleasantry.” What might have been an unpleasant and uncomfortable situation became a bright spot in my day.

While writing a book based on my time at college, an attempt to contact everyone who would become a character in the story was made. My friend Nanci, Nan i, as we called her after the iron-on “C” fell off her Superman Tshirt emblazoned with her name, figured prominently in my memories. I was delighted when she sent me an email. However, that moment was bittersweet, as the reading of her words revealed this wonderful person had been diagnosed with terminal breast cancer.

After a few weeks, while taking a break from the chemotherapy and allowing her hair to grow, she agreed to meet with a few of us old college buddies. Before long we were corresponding often. She attended the “Ridin’ Around” book launch as an honored guest. A few weeks later we decided to take a day trip and were having the time of our lives.

While riding along in my midlife crisis Camaro z28 with this dear college friend, we talked and joked and laughed despite having no communication for the previous twenty-five years. She could make me laugh like no other person on earth. Oh, for a transcript of all the quips and jokes we made that day in the car! It was spontaneous, natural, and really funny. However, no recording was necessary for one thing she said. It will forever be a meaningful moment in my memory. Motoring down the highway Nanci turned to me and stated:

“Elaine, I didn’t know if we’d have anything to talk about because I’m not the same person I was back when we were in college. But, you know, I found out, I AM the same person!”

Tears came to my eyes and if I hadn’t been driving, I would have hugged her. Not too firmly though-the cancer had ravaged her body to the point of fragility. We took full advantage of the next few months, until that terrible disease took her spirit from us. Even the last time we met, a few days before her death, we laughed. Well, we were trying not to cry.

So many years can pass by unnoticed and the layers of life seem to separate us not only from our friends, but from our true selves. This memory gives me the courage to throw off those layers and reach out to the people I love no matter how long we have been apart. Because that love, though buried, is probably still there and can thrive if you’ll just let it out.  And, also, you may be older, fatter, grayer or even a bit wiser, but deep down inside, you’re still you.

 

Recently, some work on the big air conditioning units was performed behind brick walls near the building where I go to work. Cranes blocked the driveway and parking spaces and various other inconveniences occurred. But the work was completed. The result cannot be seen, but there is a new phenomenon.  A hum, it is, at a certain pitch and quality to remind one of something specific.

Hummmmmmmmmmmm it goes constantly, as I walk by. Then it hit me. It was the first haunting note in the Steve Miller Band song, “Jet Airliner!” The air conditioning was kicking off the classic rock song. So, of course, I had to continue and break into the song: “Leavin’ home out on the road…thinkin’ about my home…big ol jet air liner, don’t carry me too far away…”

This feeling did not go away, nor did the song, so I found it on youtube to listen. A quick pass through FaceBook found my high school and great musician friend Keith Reynolds to be logged in. Sending him a quick message about listening to the classic rock and needing to tell someone about the weird phenomenon, we got the inspiration to rhyme, and traded writing verses off the proverbial cuff:

Elaine: Thanks go to youtube, they got the greatest hits,
           Whether you like that weirdo Ice Cube, or even a Ballroom Blitz.

Keith:  Steve Miller was the sound I liked, no matter how hard I tried,
           The sounds just kept flowin' by, takin' me to way up to the skies.

Elaine: When the ac unit started hummin,
            I found myself a drummin,
            Fought the urge to break into “Jet Airliner,”
            People would a thunk I'd hit the Shiner.

Keith:  Shiner is a beer, tequila puts you into gear,
           Everclear just makes you queer,
           And bourbon if mixed with all three will bring you where????
           I certainly don't know....

Elaine: And I don't really wanna know,
            Just wanna go out to the show.
            Grandpa's pickin,
            The chicken's finger lickin',
            Let's just dance, let’s GO GO GO!

(Note the song playing during the last verse, “Dance, Dance, Dance,” begins “My grandpa, he’s ninety-five, and he keeps on dancin’, he’s still alive.” So grandpa made an appearance…)

Ain’t it great when the music touches your soul, lightens your mood, brightens your day, and inspires you to be completely goofy? Most times people don’t see me be goofy, but it does happen… here’s a link to the song on youtube and the hummmmmmmmm… Jet Airliner

Mother was a worrier. Perhaps growing up during the Depression and observing all the hardships and heartache associated with World War II caused her to anticipate trouble. One of my jokes about this trait is if I were to tell my mom about an incident where we had a flat tire, but found a $100 bill on the side of the road, she would only hear the “had a flat tire part.” She focused on the worrisome things.

But, worrying is not usually part of being me. Dad tended not to worry about much of anything. Perhaps my usually calm nature took after him with regard to fretting over things. That temperament saved him from having ulcers and heart problems. I fought the ulcer problem years ago during a very unhappy work situation and learned to control anxiety. Yet in the past few days I’ve found myself preoccupied about something over which there can be little control. Coincidentally, a garage sale find made it to the top of my “books to read” stack—a hardback version of the Dale Carnegie, “How to Stop Worrying and Start Living.” This famous book was copyrighted in 1944, ’45, ’46, ’47, and ’48, and who knows how many subsequent printings exist.

The past few days I’ve been agonizing over finding a way to raise enough money to fund a trip to a great two-day event in September in a town a three hour drive from my home. Ideas bounced around my head, plans, good and bad were examined. I contacted several friends to see if a night’s lodging could be bummed. Reviewing the pros and cons revealed the cost of the trip to be the only negative. The pros were numerous. So, taking action, I designed a flyer for a “Package Deal” with my books and some John Wayne movies and posted it as an “offer” on Facebook. Sadly, twenty-four hours later, not one sale was realized. Ideas of various things to sell or make money ping-ponged around in my head. The fretting exploded into honest to goodness worry.

Then the thought of something I read in that book a few nights back came to me. Carnegie quoted a  formerly bankrupt investment banker who received some valuable advice. He was instructed to put a stop loss on any investment to reduce the amount of losses should that investment go sour. The man realized the theory was applicable to other facets of life. Stop Loss. Cut your losses and move on. Worry is like throwing good money after bad. Assess the situation and assign a stop loss point. Worry and fretting about something you can't seem to resolve gets you nowhere. It does create frowns and heart palpitations and various other unpleasant symptoms. But it doesn’t fix the problem.

Back to my desire to attend the event to show off my books, make important contacts, and possibly see old friends who live in the area. The cost of this venture would likely not be covered with sales revenue. The money would have to come from another source. The whole plan was becoming too difficult to execute. Why should I bother friends to put me up for a night or two? Would the experience be worth the cost?

When those questions roared through my mind, I said, “Whoa. Stop. Stop Loss. Cut and run.” The thought of the many car restoration projects which were abandoned and placed on Craig’s List hit me. We’ve done that. Thrown up our hands and sold a car for which we had great plans at a loss. So I figuratively threw up my hands and said, “Enough, Elaine. If it’s going to happen, it will happen.” Shortly thereafter, our friend called and said I’m welcome to stay with them. They live less than 30 minutes from the event.

So with that good sign, I stopped worrying, fretting, and being overly concerned about something which, in the whole scheme of things, isn’t all that important. What’s vital is to live each moment in happiness and contentment. If something is to be, it will be. Struggling to make it happen does no good for me or the world around me. Hmm, maybe I should write a poem:

If a thing is to be, it will be.

No need to struggle or plea

Time will allow us to see

If that thing is really to be.

E

Having a photographic memory should be a wonderful attribute. However, imagine, if you will, this characteristic is solely activated upon an encounter with a horrific, shocking, or even just very unpleasant image. The afflicted person may bemoan the feature is not at all helpful with more constructive pursuits such as memorizing poetry or remembering where to go when she forgot to bring the map. Yet, the person is encumbered with terrible images stored in her brain.

For example, a long time ago a very scary movie was playing on cable with the most hideous, frightening looking vampire one could imagine. The face was blue with death and the hooked nose seemed to have its own sharp claw. Nowadays, vampires are romantic figures, a notion I simply cannot understand, whereas this THING was evil. The image of that horrible face is burned into my memory from just one look at the TV screen over thirty years ago. Another example of the impressionability of my mind is when I walked through the living room where my father in law was watching the movie, “The Jackal.” My eyes were drawn to the screen, as it seems is natural to do, just as Bruce Willis purposely fired a large gun of some sort and completely blew his assistant’s arm off at the shoulder.  The image of the man twirling, spewing blood in all directions and the mangled arm socket is etched in my memory. Even now, my heart races while thinking of this.

Perhaps it began when I was a small child. My mother and sister were collecting tarantulas for a science project in our front yard. They would pour a little gasoline in the hole, and out would crawl a large and very agitated spider. They scooped them up with a shovel and dropped a total ten or fifteen into a metal trash can. Curious little me put my little fingers on the edge of the can and stood on tiptoe to look inside. The mass of writhing, hairy horrors likely made me scream and surely cemented a strong case of arachnophobia which keeps the local exterminator with a regular customer.

The image of the girl’s leg sinking through the water at the beginning of “Jaws.” My foot turned toes backward after being pushed and while falling down some stairs in junior high. The dirt on the inside of my helmet shield after tumbling into a ditch with an upside down motorcycle.

What brings this issue to mind at this time is something which occurred recently at an outdoor event here in Central Texas. The temperature was 102 in the shade. The day dragged on. A woman from a radio station had conducted some interviews complete with headphones and sitting next to her equipment. She apparently overheated and felt faint, as she rushed to lie down on a bench. But, just as quickly, she rose straight upward and projectile vomited over the handrail. The sight of her stomach contents shooting from her mouth now joins the substantial amount of unpleasant images in my mind.

And I wonder why I have nightmares.

So, just as anyone who has witnessed something disturbing, I must pigeonhole these images and, remember what my mom would have said, “Just put it out of your mind, Elaine.”

I do try, Mama, I do try.