11th Hour, 11th Day, 11th Month

In memory of Air Force Lieutenant Colonel Charles Wayne Stratton, MIA Laos, January 3, 1971, to July 5, 2007. DNA determination KIA Savannakhet Province, Laos, January 3, 1971, age 30.

And in everlasting love for and support of his wife and their sons, my playmates, Butch, Scotty, and Stephen.

 

"The Star Spangled Banner"
by
Madison Rising

 Chuck, I remember you.

"Missing in Action," May 2, 2011

You Can Take the Gal Outta Texas...

Jeremiah was a Bull Frog! da DA

His name was Bruce, and he lived across the alley from me. We went to the same elementary school. We were 11 years old.

When I think of Bruce, I see him in a bright yellow button-down shirt and khaki colored pants. (Boys weren't allowed to wear T-shirts and jeans in my school in those days). He had a slight build, bright eyes, and brown hair in a crew cut.

I recall running down the hallway with him after school one day, hoping we'd reach the Exit door before we were caught. We were singing at the top of our lungs: "Jeremiah was a bull frog, da DA, was a good friend of mine, da DA, never understood a single word he said..." About that time, teachers spilled out of classrooms and we slammed out the Exit door, doubled over in laughter.

One morning, toward the end of the school year, I got to class and heard deafening whispers. Bruce was dead. No one knew how or why. Some said he was POISONED. There was going to be an AUTOPSY.

I never heard or learned any more. I don't even remember hearing about a funeral. I think his family moved away. He was gone. The End

But Bruce, I remember you. "Singin' JOY to the world, ALL the boys and girls now; joy to the fishes in the deep blue sea, JOY to you and me."

My Youth, Encapsulated

It was shortly before 8:00 a.m. CST on December 9, 1980. I arrived at my college class, taking one of the remaining seats.

The young woman across from me was speaking to her friend, and I heard her say, "I know! No matter what station you turn to, all you hear are Beatles' songs!"

I asked, "Why are all the radio stations playing Beatles' songs?"

She answered, "Haven't you heard?! John Lennon was murdered last night!"

And I said, "Who's John Lennon?"

Telephone Poles

From my childhood:

Q: What's the difference between an orange?

A: Telephone poles, 'cause motorcycles don't have doors!

Broken Girl

Although statistics vary by source, in the United States approximately 1 in 4 girls and 1 in 6 boys are sexually abused in their childhood. Approximately 95% know their abuser. That's about 135,500 reported cases. Studies indicate that only 12-20 per cent of such cases are reported, indicating the actual number could be as high as 650,000.

"Broken Girl"

by Matthew West

Look what he’s done to you
It isn’t fair
Your light was bright and new
But he didn’t care
He took the heart of a little girl
And made it grow up too fast

Now words like innocence
Don’t mean a thing
You hear the music play
But you can’t sing
Those pictures in your mind
Keep you locked up inside your past

This is a song for the broken girl
The one pushed aside by the cold, cold world
You are
Hear me when I say
You’re not the worthless they made you feel
There is a Love they can never steal away
And you don’t have to stay the broken girl

Those damaged goods you see
In your reflection
Love sees them differently
Love sees perfection
A beautiful display
Of healing on the way tonight
Tonight

 This is a song for the broken girl
The one pushed aside by the cold, cold world
You are
Hear me when I say
You’re not the worthless they made you feel
There is a Love they can never steal away
And you don’t have to stay the broken girl, girl
You don't have to stay the broken girl, girl

Let your tears touch the ground
Lay all your shattered pieces down
And be amazed by how Grace can take a broken girl
And put her back together again

This is a song for the broken girl
The one pushed aside by the cold, cold world
You are
Hear me when I say
You're not the worthless they made you feel
There is a Love they can never steal away
And you don't have to stay the broken girl, girl
You don't have to stay the broken girl, girl
You don't have to stay the broken girl

This song is for all my friends and family members who have been victims of child sexual abuse. May God restore your childhood. I remember you.

Sweet Rosemary

Rosemary looked plain enough. She was just a common baby doll, with plastic hands, feet, and head, and a body made of pink fabric stuffed with lumpy cotton. She usually wore a pink-and-white striped suit with a clock on it, even though she had other clothes. Sometimes I think pink was her favorite color.

But Rosemary was no ordinary doll. She had a sweet disposition. She had personality, she had feelings. And she was so affectionate, just what this little girl needed.

Rosemary and I had adventures together. She understood me when no one else did. She was always there beside me when times were bad. I loved Rosemary more than any material item I'd ever had. I hope she knew that.

The day came when Rosemary had lost too much of her stuffing to be operated on successfully. I'll never forget the day she died. My mother was at the kitchen sink, and behind her I saw Rosemary in the garbage, covered with food debris and used tea leaves and greasy paper towels. My heart stopped and then broke.

Soon my parents gave me another baby doll. She looked a lot like Rosemary. I named her Nadine. But we never bonded, because Nadine was just a doll. Being given Nadine after Rosemary was gone was like being given a stuffed dog after your puppy died. No one could ever take Rosemary's place.

Rosemary was the doll with something extra. And I miss her still.

Written by my 16-year-old self.

Copyright 1976-2012 Faith Louise

Nadine, I remember you. And sweet Rosemary, I will always remember you!

Remembering Teresa

Teresa was a beautiful little girl, with dark black hair cut in a pageboy. She was a very light skinned Hispanic, but that meant nothing to me then. We were eight years old. We'd been friends since first grade and had grown closer after my best friend Cindy died of leukemia.

I remember playing on the monkey bars with Teresa and thinking that she really should wear shorts under her dress so no one could see her underpants. (We all had to wear dresses to school back then). I even remember telling my mommy that I saw Teresa's underpants.

I don't have even a hint of a memory of being told that Teresa was dead. I remember the facts, though. She was playing in her front yard and had run out into the street after her ball, from between two parked cars. The car that hit her was going fast for a shaded suburban street, especially in the 1960s era when children spent all their play time outside. When the car hit her, Teresa was thrown into the air and landed on her head about twenty yards down the street. She died instantly.

I do remember some hushed talk at my house, which was unusual. Then my mother took me to the funeral home one evening for Teresa's visitation. I remember every detail of that. (My mother hadn't taken me to see Cindy).

The room was narrow and it was lit with candles. The casket at the front was very small, and it was white with a satin cushioned interior. The opened portion of the casket was to my left as I walked slowly forward, my mother holding my hand. Teresa was wearing a frilly pink dress and on her head was a white doily. In her white-gloved hands she held a small white Bible and a string of beads with a strange-looking cross on it.

I silently cried and cried. I had never seen a dead person before. And Teresa didn't look asleep, like my parents had said she would. She looked gone.

After spending a few moments looking down at my friend, my mother pulled me back a little so others could approach. And then I stared at Teresa. She was breathing! I could see her breathing! This was all just a terrible mistake; I didn't know why she looked gone, but she had to be alive because she was breathing!

I got an idea. I took in the biggest, fullest breath I could, and I held it. I studied Teresa. She wasn't breathing. I gasped out the breath and tried the experiment again. When I was holding my own breath, Teresa wasn't breathing. Teresa was really dead. She was really gone, just like she looked.

In front of Teresa's casket was a satin padded kneeling bench, and women dressed in black kept kneeling to pray, all of them holding variations of the same beads that Teresa was holding. The beads had crosses on them, but Jesus was on the cross. That didn't make sense to me. I had asked Jesus into my heart at the age of four, and I knew that a critical aspect of salvation was believing that Jesus rose from the dead. Why would these people be holding necklaces with Jesus still on the cross?

I could hear some of the women praying for Teresa's soul, praying she'd be accepted into Heaven. Now I was really confused. A person accepted Jesus into their heart when they were alive, so they would go to Heaven when they died. But Teresa was already dead. If she hadn't accepted Jesus when she was alive, it was too late now.

I tearfully and quietly asked my mother a few questions, and she explained that Teresa and her family were Catholics and believed differently than we did. She briefly told me about rosaries and about purgatory. The rosaries made sense to me. Purgatory didn't.

When we got home, I have a vague memory of talking with my parents about how the beliefs of Catholics differed from ours. I remember telling my parents about how I tested whether or not Teresa was breathing. And I remember my mother saying, "I knew I never should have taken you there."

About six years ago, not long before my mother died, I talked to her about Teresa's visitation, and about her comment that she never should have taken me. She remembered that night, and she remembered her comment. My mother told me that she hadn't realized that I would be so upset, and she hadn't realized that I would absorb the Catholic rituals and become so confused.

I'm 51 years old now, and I have long since adopted my own religious beliefs, most of which are still based on that early training. I use prayer beads, although not in the same way that Catholics do. And my beads have an empty cross, because Jesus hasn't been on the cross for almost 2000 years.

And I have to say, praying for the soul of someone who is already dead still makes no sense to me. God gives us a choice, and we have to make that choice for ourselves; once we die, no one can make that choice for us, no one can pray us into Heaven.

So I don't know where you are, dear Teresa, but I remember you.

Day 5 - Driving Vacations

"A picture of my favorite memory."

  "See the U.S.A. in your Chevrolet"
And that's what we did every summer, took a road trip,
eventually to 48 states, Canada, and Mexico.

Mommy

I planned to run away. I had memorized all the streets, all the turns, to my grandmother's house. I had assembled my running-away outfit and hidden it in the bottom drawer. I had waited for my sister, in the bed next to me, to fall asleep. Now I just had to wait until my parents stopped yelling at each other. Until they were worn out from the fighting and finally went to bed, went to sleep.

I knew very well that it would be hours. I battled sleep. I sat up in bed, not leaning against the wall, just sitting straight up, in an effort to stay awake. I reviewed the locations of all the creaky boards in the hardwood floor. A hundred times I visualized every turn of my running-away route. Then I sat on the side of my bed, swinging my legs, trying so hard to stay awake. Eventually, I sat against the wall, jerking my head up every time I started to nod.

Finally, I couldn't do it any longer. My last sleepy thought was, "I guess I'll have to run away tomorrow night." I was six years old.

So you see, I knew what marriage was all about. Whenever other people were around, those that were outside immediate family, Mommy and Daddy smiled and laughed, told jokes and visited, and sometimes even touched each other.

But at home, even the best of times were uneasy, and normally, they fought. Their fights never became physical, but they yelled at each other. For hours. Daddy would eventually give up in frustration. He'd throw his BLT sandwich up and leave a grease mark on the ceiling, or drop-kick a phone book through the back window, or put his fist through the wall. I know, because my little eyes were there. Or, more commonly, he would grab his keys and leave in the car with the customary squealing of tires and the smell of burning rubber, leaving black marks on the street. Then Mommy would go out on the back steps and sob. For hours.

When I was older, sometimes I would join her on the back steps. I would try to hold her hand while she cried. Sometimes she'd let me, sometimes she wouldn't. But always she sobbed uncontrollably, usually having difficulty breathing. And she would always say the same thing to me. Every time. "None of you will ever be happy until I'm six feet under." I would shake my head and cry and tell her it wasn't true. I didn't want her six feet under. I wanted her to stop crying.

For my parents, divorce wasn't an option. The Bible taught against it. But as the years went by, life got worse. Then, during my last years in college, my mother filed for divorce. It was final just one month short of their 30th wedding anniversary.

Mommy began to laugh again. She had a job. She came home to silence and peace. She became a woman I had never known.

And Daddy remarried. Years went by before I met his new wife. Because somehow, I had always identified with my mother. So my father and I were estranged for many years. But that's another story.

For fourteen years, my mother and I lived about three or four miles apart. We spent most of our free time together. We went to quilt shows, we visited relatives, we went to family reunions, we went on wildflower weekends. She fixed special meals for me at my house, I fixed broken things for her at her house. We watched television, we did laundry, we played cards and games and dominoes with family and friends. We joined quilt guilds, we went on picnics (sometimes just in my yard), we played with my dogs. We took road trips, we took plane trips. We went to my high school reunion together and to employee Christmas parties together and on an Alaskan cruise together.

As my mother aged and her health became worse, we went to the emergency room together. Often. And to various doctors. And to the hospital. My sisters would come in from other states whenever they could to help out, but they had families, they had lives.

Then my mother had cardiac bypass surgery, and when she left the hospital she came home to me. To my house. My sisters were taking turns being with her while I had minor surgery, then as mother and I both healed, my sisters went back to their families.

My mother returned to work but she never returned to her home. My house was her home. And for five years we lived together, while I also tried to prevent her house from falling into decay. I tried to make sure it looked lived in. I was over there almost every day. I watered the plants. I would alternate lights and blinds. In the summer, I mowed the lawn and cleaned the flower beds. In the winter, I wrapped the pipes and warmed the house with gas heaters. I even kept one of my dogs over there, and I visited unknown neighbors when I could. Because Mother worried about her house. She'd lived there for more than fifty years, and everything that represented her identity was in that house.

Meanwhile at my house, we lived comfortably together. I watched televised church programs and Martha Stewart  and Sewing with Nancy with her, and she watched 24 and LOST and Buffy the Vampire Slayer with me. She became less legalistic and I became less wild. And we still did all those things together. My friends were her friends and her friends were my friends.

But her health continued to decline and eventually she couldn't work any longer. Then I became almost her entire world. And I got tired. I got tired of emergency room visits, of doctors' offices, of consecutive all-nighters in the hospital. I got tired of insulin shots, and wound dressings, and cooking meals. I stopped taking her to family reunions, or to quilt guild meetings, or to visit her siblings. I stopped taking her on wildflower trips. And I never took to her to the one place she most wanted to go, the place that I had promised her that I would take her: Switzerland.

Finally, I stopped talking to her. I put a television in my bedroom. I'd come home from work, say "hello" as I grabbed something out of the kitchen, then go to my room and shut the door. And I wouldn't come out. On my days off, I would sleep in and then read in bed, only allowing hunger to drive me out, and then only briefly. I did what I had to do to take care of her physical needs but ignored her emotional and social needs. And when we did talk, it was superficial. And there was always hurt in her voice. I'd even laugh about her to my friends.

Then my mother went into the hospital for pneumonia. And during that next month, I was in complete denial. After all, we'd been through this so many times before. I left her alone most of the time. I didn't stand up for her needs with the nursing staff. I didn't follow through on issues with her care. So her condition worsened.

Even after my sisters came, I still thought Mother would come back home to me. But by then, the guilt had set in. So I promised myself I'd do better. I'd treat her the way she deserved. I wouldn't be so selfish. I'd take her to family reunions again so she wouldn't be so depressed when she missed one. We'd start going to quilt guild meetings again. We'd visit her family often. We'd drive through the wildflowers she loved so much. And we would go to Switzerland.

For the last nine and a half hours of her life, my mother was on an increasing morphine drip. She was unaware that she was still surrounded by her three daughters, one of her sons-in-law, her oldest and her youngest grandchildren, and our close friend who is a physician.

For the majority of those nine and a half hours, I sat beside her bed and held her hand while I lay my head down on her mattress and cried. Occasionally there were soft voices in the room, and people milling about, but the sound of my sobbing permeated everyone and everything. I was filled with grief and with guilt.

And I was back on those porch steps, hearing her sob, "None of you will ever be happy until I'm six feet under."

My sisters handled the funeral planning, although I did write the obituary. And even after all these years, I still haven't recovered. I never will. The grief and the guilt twist my heart and eat my insides, and every day is a battle. Every day, I tell Mommy that I love her and that I miss her and that I am so, so sorry! And that I'm not at all happy that she's six feet under. That I would do anything to change the way I acted, the way I treated her.

I know she's in Heaven now. She has no more sorrow, no more pain. And I know I'll see her again. God promised. And God keeps His promises. That's all that keeps me going.

Today is Mother's Day. The rain has been falling most of the day, as have my tears. This blog entry took hours to write.

The only other thing I can say is, Mommy, I remember you.

"My Immortal" by Evanescence

Missing in Action

Back in the late 1990s, I received one of those fill-in-the-blank emails intended to enable friends to know each other better. One of the questions I'm sure is now familiar to all: "If you could have dinner with three people, living or dead, who would they be and why?" Being who I am, I immediately typed, "Why would I want to have dinner with dead people?!"

Then my mind flooded with memories, and I deleted my flippant answer. Three people stood out, like lights in the midnight blackness: author Richard Brautigan, because he was a continual inspiration to my creative writing; my PaPa, because I had forgotten the sound of his voice; and my neighbor Chuck, still missing from the Vietnam War, because I wanted him to know that I hadn't forgotten his sacrifice.

The day Chuck's family, and mine, heard the news is still crystal clear in my mind, though I was only ten years old. There was a knock at the front door, and I answered it. It was Chuck's mother-in-law from next door, and she was sobbing. I let her in, then turned as my mother entered the front room from behind me and said, "Go in yonder!"

I fled to the back part of the house. One of my older sisters was in our bedroom, and the oldest one, who knew Chuck's family the best, was in the bathroom. I pounded on the bathroom door and announced the first of what I now call my psychic flashes: "Chuck's been shot down! He's missing!" The bathroom door flew open as my sister pulled up her clothes, and both sisters joined me in the hallway.

"What happened? How do you know?" they demanded. I said, "Mrs. _______ just came over, and she's crying!" My oldest sister asked, "What did she say?" I paused in momentary confusion. "I don't know, she didn't say anything, she's talking to Mommy." "What did you overhear?" she asked. "Nothing," I replied, "I just know." That was when she slapped me.

My sisters may remember this differently; after all, they were older. But in my memory, that's how it happened. It was the one and only time in my life that my sister ever hit me.

After our neighbor left, my mother came to us. "Mrs._______ was just here. Chuck's been shot down. He's missing in action." Both of my sisters slowly turned their heads toward me, their eyes wide. But then we began to cry. Our hearts had taken their first real blow. My mother walked away, not knowing what else to say.

Time went by slowly at first. Both sisters looked at me strangely for a while. I played with Chuck's kids, as usual. But all of us were forever changed. I was finally aware of the war, and I started paying attention to the television coverage. I cried for Chuck's children. The youngest was very young and hardly remembered his father, but he would talk to me about him sometimes. (I remember being told that when Chuck was about to ship out overseas, his youngest child locked all the doors and windows so his daddy couldn't leave).

I wore a POW-MIA bracelet for Chuck for a long time. The bracelet was a metal band, nickle-plated, and about a half-inch wide. It was imprinted with his name, rank, and the date he went missing. That bracelet became as much a part of me and who I am as a wedding ring does to a married woman. I never took it off. My sisters and our friends wore his bracelets, too.

Eventually, the bracelet began irritating my skin, as moisture was always trapped beneath it. I had to take it off, and it was severely corroded inside. So my mother got me a new one and I thoroughly coated the inside of it with clear nail polish so it wouldn't corrode again. But over time, the polish wore off, and I had to have another bracelet. This one I not only coated with clear nail polish, but I also removed it before taking a bath. But taking it off frequently weakened the middle of the band, and ultimately it broke in half right through Chuck's name. (I still have the two pieces, I just don't know where). I don't recall how many years had passed since Chuck went missing when that bracelet broke. And my last bracelet has a place of honor on my living room shelf.

As I got older, I began to babysit Chuck's children. I remember when they told me how to make coffee: half coffee, half milk, and half sugar!

And when Chuck was declared legally dead, I cried again.

As more years went by, I knew that Chuck had only three possible fates: 1) He was now dead; 2) He was a prisoner of war; or 3) He had been a prisoner of war, and it had so changed him that he hadn't come home. I talked about him with new friends. I purchased POW-MIA bumper stickers. I wore POW-MIA pins. I prayed for him and his family. And I never forgot, although our families moved and drifted apart.

Several years ago, I reconnected with Chuck's wife and his youngest child. And now we keep in contact maybe twice a year or so. Chuck's mother is gone, his mother-in-law is gone, and my mother is gone.

Very recently, the unbelievable happened. Chuck's wife received word from the military that the wreckage of Chuck's plane had been found, along with a small amount of human remains. DNA confirmed that the bones were Chuck's. The waiting is over. He had died before we knew he was missing. And I am thankful to God that Chuck never had to endure a prison camp.

This one man, who left his family to die for his country, is part of who I am today. And the interesting thing is, I never met Chuck. He moved his family into the house next door, then left for Vietnam.

But Chuck, I remember you.

"More Than a Name on a Wall" by The Statler Brothers

(Image from http://woodstockamericanlegionpost1026.org/POWMIA.html)

(For information on the history of POW-MIA bracelets, click here.)

Best Friends

I was scared on my first day of school. I remember walking up the steps, stopping halfway. I looked back at my mother in the car; she smiled and motioned me inside.

My classroom was the first one inside the door on the left. I was in awe of so many children. But my teacher was pretty and nice and treated me like I was gold. And I quickly found my first best friend.

Cindy was a sweet and tender child. Her joy of life was not dimmed by the leukemia she battled. She attended school when possible but was mostly a home-bound student. So I wasn't able to see her and play with her much. But we were best friends, and we reveled in the time we had together.

On her birthday, Cindy and her mother came to class so we could all celebrate together. I hadn't seen Cindy in a very long time. The teacher said that Cindy had to have extra shots so she could be around all of us. It made me sad that she had to endure pain just to see her friends.

But her mother had brought a beautiful cake with mounds of chocolate icing. I was so excited: chocolate was my favorite. I hopped from one foot to the other in anticipation. I was the first one in line for my share of the cake with the luscious chocolate frosting.

When Cindy handed me my plate, I took the biggest bite of cake that my mouth could hold. And gagged. The icing wasn't chocolate. It was licorice.

When Cindy died, my mother clipped her obituary from the newspaper. I still have it. Her photo is grainy and unclear, but it's my Cindy.

From the clipping, I know that she experienced exciting events in her short life. She toured Washington, D.C., as a guest of two members of the House of Representatives. She was also an on-stage guest of television stars Carol Burnett and Gomer Pyle during a live performance. And she was named Junior Queen at the local hospital during National Hospital Week.

I've thought of Cindy often throughout the years. I remember that she was always smiling, even when she wasn't well. And I remember that connection I felt, when Cindy became my first best friend. Many times I thought about putting flowers and a note on her grave, but I never did. And now she's far away.

And I suppose I've recounted all this to say one simple thing: Cindy, I remember you.

The Most Important Job

This morning as I read my Bible and worked through my prayer beads, I reflected unexpectedly on my Christian heritage. I accepted Jesus into my heart when I was 4 years old, ample evidence of a Christian home. I have always been certain of my salvation.

Although my daddy was an ordained minister, my family didn't attend church regularly when I was growing up. Nevertheless, my parents ensured that we were well-grounded in the conservative Christian faith.

We watched Day of Discovery on the television and listened to Radio Bible Class on the radio, and we did our individual daily devotions using Our Daily Bread.

We memorized Scripture through Bible Memory Association and went to camp every summer. I remember memorizing in Primary Books through Adult Books, and I went to camp for the first time when I was old enough by camp policy: nine. I was there every summer for nine years.

When I was 15, my parents allowed me to leave home for a private Christian boarding school. It was the most freedom I had ever had, and my faith continued to blossom.

When I was 17, they encouraged me to travel to British Columbia as a summer missionary, a privilege I obtained through my attendance at boarding school.

Yes, my family was flawed, in some areas excessively. Yes, discipline was harsh and, by today's standards, completely unacceptable. Yes, a portion of my damaged psyche arose from my childhood.

But a parent's greatest mandate from God is the salvation of their children once they reach the age of accountability, and a parent's subsequent greatest responsibility to their children is Christian education. My parents fulfilled the assignment God gave them or I would not have survived to the age I am now.

Have I had crises of faith? Of course. Almost every day I doubt and question. And though I miss my parents terribly, I'll see them again, and I'll have the wonderful, the exquisite opportunity of thanking them for doing their job, the most important job of all.

(Written July 31, 2009)