Wake of Echoes

Bureau of Ships Collection, U.S. National Archives. According to the Veteran’s Administration, approximately 850 World War II vets are dying every day.  There are only about two million left.  Last year, I chaperoned a middle school field trip to the Warhawk Museum in Nampa, where we got to listen to some of them describe their experiences.  Their hair was white and thin, their skin wrinkled and spotted.  Their hands shook, their joints were rheumy; their eyes watered.  Some were soft-spoken, some loud.  They couldn’t always hear the questions we asked; they couldn’t hear each other.  But at the end of the day, they stood arm in arm – brothers in arms still, though the war ended sixty-five years ago. I imagined another in their ranks:  one who might have stood by their side.  I like to imagine that he would have stood by mine.  I don’t know.  He was my grandfather.  He died in 1984, but forty years earlier, he was in the Na...

I’m feeling a bit churlish, a bit negative – probably because I’ve been fighting a headache all week and losing.  When my head feels upside down and inside out, sometimes my thoughts follow suit.  I’m not Alice at the tea party; I’m the Mad Hatter.  Keep that in mind as you read my Writer’s Top Ten List*. Don’t write.  Talk about writing; fantasize about writing.  You would write if you had time. While you are fantasizing about being a writer, imagine the fame you will achieve.  Think of the buckets of cash you’ll make.  Plan to quit your day job.  Spend plenty of time imagining your story on the big screen too.  (I’ll bet Brad Pitt would fight Tom Cruise over the leading role.  ( Squeal! )) Don’t waste your time reading.  Especially avoid the classics.  Plots from movies and television are great fodder for story ideas. Don’t worry about grammar, spelling and punctuation.  (That’s what Spell Check is for!)  A...

My family and I are going to see the Broadway musical, WICKED, tonight.  The story, based on the book written by Gregory Maguire, is part prequel, part retelling of the WIZARD OF OZ from the viewpoints of Glinda the Good Witch and The Wicked Witch of the West.  In WICKED, we see a very different version of events than those depicted in L. Frank Baum’s classic.  I won’t spoil it by telling you more.  I suggest you see it and decide for yourself which version is “the truth.” But it’s funny timing.  I’ve been thinking about truth a lot recently:  Particularly in books, but also in other forms of entertainment.  Think, for a minute, about the way we talk about things we have read, watched or heard: Did that really happen? You can’t make this stuff up. That’s hard to believe! It’s right out of a novel. It’s stranger than fiction. You can’t believe everything you read! Ain’t that the truth! We’re obsessed with the “truth” – but not in an ...

She’s eleven years old and she’s already my hero. She’s not on the spectrum, but she’s anything but typical. With a heart of compassion and a fiery, stubborn temper, she burst into our lives like every color of the rainbow. As she grows, her quirky mirth continues to bubble over, infecting us all -- especially her brother. Whether he’s mired in anxiety or sorrow, anger or guilt, she can pull him free -- sometimes with love and sympathy; sometimes with sass and attitude. She doesn’t overthink it, like I do. No hand wringing, no furrowed brow. Her hand might be on her hip; she may be crossing her eyes and sticking out her tongue.  Whatever she’s doing, she doesn’t pull her punches. And it works: one way or another. Whether he’s pulled from his darker thoughts to laugh and engage or only to holler, “MOM! Tell her to stop!” I can’t help but feel immense gratitude. She teaches me how to cope, how best to react. And she’s only a little girl.   When she wa...

[ Rant / r ă nt/ : to speak or declaim extravagantly or violently; talk in a wild or vehement way; to rave.]   T here’s a new magic word. It’s nothing like the one your mother taught you. In fact, mothers everywhere will be horrified that I’m calling it magic. I’m horrified myself.  But the word frustrates me. It mystifies me.  I can’t get past it – it’s everywhere I turn. It’s thrown into modern literature without profit, adding nothing. It clutters movies, like the intake of breath.  And it seems to have power – like magic. My mother’s magic word was a good word. Simple and useful – a word that got me second helpings at dinner or juice.  This new magic word can get you things too, I’m afraid. An R rating, if it’s used twice. A nice write up in Rolling Stone if you use it in your song lyrics. Critical acclaim for novelists – maybe even an award. In fact, I can hardly find a novel to read anymore without running into the magic word. Doesn’t th...

“Wash your hands for dinner!” Drew comes toward the sink and then takes a step back. “Mom.  I can’t.” I look at the faucet, covered in soap suds. “Hang on,” I say, liberally dousing it with water until the bubbles are completely gone.  “There you go.” He steps up to the sink and washes his hands. Bubbles.  He can’t even stand the word.  The sight of them makes his stomach twist.  He forces himself to tolerate hand soap, but prefers hand sanitizers that don’t create suds.  I shudder to think about how he washes his hair – or doesn’t.  There was a time when I would have tried to understand – tried to rationalize it for him.  They’re just bubbles.  He likes clean things – what’s cleaner than a soap bubble? I don’t do that anymore.  I’ve learned that sometimes it’s best to jump on the spectrum with him. How can I say that?   Isn’t drawing him toward a typical life view the best thing for a kid who’s so “high” on the spectrum tha...

   I stop and start. I type words and delete them all. Words usually matter, but not this week. A child has died and there are no words that will make it untrue.    Tears fall. Days pass and I feel unworthy to shed them. I didn’t really know her. That wasn’t my privilege. Pain is real, God reminds me, even when it has nothing to do with me.    So even though I have no right to mourn, I do not fight my sorrow. I hope it is a result of prayer – that God is easing rightful grief by placing some of it on me.    But platitudes are meaningless. Flowers can’t be spared for language; they are needed for her grave.   She is a light returned to God, but her parents are still here, feeling everything and nothing all at once.  Numbness gives way, sleep is impossible.  When it finally shrouds, it bursts with nightmares – none worse than the reality morning brings. Nourishment seems pointless; when finally taken, it’s swallowed with guil...