Thoughts

The Beginning of the End

Jersey

2015 is nearing the end. Little bells of doom are popping up with each step toward Christmas. The death knell is being heralded by every store front Santa.

This year seems different from the rest. It is unseasonably warm across the country, no sign of snow, no jack frost nipping at your nose. No, this year we are in shorts and laying about at the beach — in December.

This holiday season is filled with a lot of mixed emotions. It was a year of firsts for me from beginning to end — stops and starts.

I’ve worked hard at not becoming melancholy in the last couple of months and have mostly succeeded. The warm weather has helped greatly in not feeling like Christmas. So Christmas pasts are doing just that — staying in the past.

I have kept busy and enjoyed the parties and social scene that I have created for myself. A last minute invite has me going to Connecticut for Christmas proper. I think a white Christmas would be fun, but not sure mother nature has that in store for us. 60? in New England in December?

Well, I was looking for warmer climes so I guess the universe is cooperating on a big scale no matter where I go to ring in the last of 2015.

I haven’t spent Christmas in New England since before my grandmother passed away. The last time we were there I was not even a teen. The walls of snow were taller than me. We mucked around is snow boots and parkas. My grandmother’s house was too warm.

We put together puzzles, ate too much food, and had the required family meltdown in the middle of the trip.

I cried all the way home from the moment we left my grandmother’s driveway until we entered our home in south Jersey hours later.

I know this trip will be vastly different in every aspect, but I am looking forward to every minute of it. From the plane ride out there, to visiting family, to remincing over past Christmases.

Who knows, maybe Santa will grant me my one gift of a White Christmas — or a heat wave from Mister Heat Miser.

Anyway way you shake it, it shall be a grand way to spend Christmas before my seeds sprout in the new year!

I’ve felt on the verge of everything and nothing for all of 2015 that finally, 2016 holds promises of seeds ready to bloom. I can’t wait to see what kinds of flowers and colors await me.

I hope that you and yours get everything your heart desires and Santa is good to you. Merry Christmas!

 

My Day in Infamy

Jersey

“Yesterday, December 7, 1941—a date which will live in infamy—the United States of America was suddenly and deliberately attacked by naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan.” ~ President Franklin D. Roosevelt   

These words ring true for all veterans of all services from 1941 to this day. For me, this date will always be a sacred date — not only because it plunged our country into World War II (which my grandfather and father served in) where so many military and civilians sacrificed their lives, but because 46 years later (to the day) I entered  the United States Air Force.

I didn’t chose that date to enlist, it just was the way the courses of events occurred.

I am grateful that my enlistment date is December 7th. I somehow feel more connected to the men and women who served and sacrificed so much for our country.

There are few days of the year that I hold dear to my heart and December 7th is one of them. My grandmother lost a brother in the US Army Air Corp. I don’t know the whole story other that he was on a bomber and none of the crew were ever found.

My grandfather (my mom’s father) served in the Army and my father (served in the Merchant Marines (part of the coast guard). They were both blessed to come home — for that I am grateful.

I’m always touched when I see the sacrifice of the service members on that day. The grainy black and white photos, static recordings of announcers breaking into a football game to announce the tragedy, the slow still movies of the destruction of one of our bases by what was (at the time) a formidable air force.

I watch the dedications and the photos of the memorial we placed at the site of this tragedy. I feel drawn to it, like a moth to a light. It is something I wish to see in person one day. To touch the water, to breath in the air, to be for one brief moment part of the military past.

During one of the spots on tv, I watched older former service men stand on a deck saluting those that did not make it that day. One particular sailor caught my attention. His hand shook slightly while he saluted. I wondered where he was that day. Was he sleeping as were so many? Was he on duty? The old sailors faded into a new modern more colorful guard that stood behind them. I was hard pressed not to cry along with the sailors of 1941.

I love our military traditions — the respect we feel to honor the past and to those who sacrificed their lives.

The speech that Roosevelt gave before congress has become part of the American fabric, as was the attack itself. It lasted 7 minutes and like his opening line, his last was just as memorable:

“…But always will our whole nation remember the character of the onslaught against us. . .”

I shall never forget.

 

Capturing Images on PaperJersey | Writing Rants

Capturing Images on Paper

Jersey

I do it a lot, not always for work. The kind I enjoy the most are my short shorts or these posts or (when I can stay focused long enough) my novel.

I have put my novel to the side because my attention span is that of a gnat. Ok, maybe a little longer, like the length of a short short (my friends call them poems (debatable in my opinion)). On a good day I can make it through a post without stopping, but a novel? Not hardly.

The day dreams of my alter ego taking on a life of her own have been drowned out by health problems (i.e., short attention span) to medication to fix said health issues (i.e., no creative thoughts) to well, life in general.

It’s not like I don’t want to finish my novel. I’m proud and happy that I am writing. Posts and short shorts are a really good thing; I just need to figure out how to transition that process back to my novel.

I love the written word. It can be beautiful and lyrical. Putting Pen to Paper is becoming a lost art.

English: Draft letter of 1669 from Sir Robert ...

English: Draft letter of 1669 from Sir Robert Long to Sir George Downing, instructing that Downing pay Sir Denny Ashburnham 6 pounds interest on 200 pounds lent. Signed by Long. Hand written. 86 mm x 240 mm. Courtesy of the British Museum, London. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It is through pen and paper that I can craft my feelings for my characters. Unlike the spoke word, I can take my time to find the right words, the right set of words to convey exactly what I feel, what my thoughts are — the meaning of all of it.

Writers will always be, but pen to paper writers are almost obsolete. I love technology and the way I can easily move thoughts around and quickly reconstruct my imagination, but somehow, the art of the imagination is less shiny.

Pen and paper make it crisp and eloquent — like a good paperback book on a chilly day in front of a roaring fireplace. The weight of a good fountain pen between finger tips. The way the pen glides softly against the crisp lined paper. The whiteness disappearing beneath solid black lines forming letters. The letters wrap around the sentences and images rise to the surface.

The crafting seems much more intimate when the brain moves the hand to stroke the words on paper, sliding from left to right rhythmically. A dance of the internal illusion to form a picture for the world.

It is easier to carry a pen and notebook to cafes or restaurants or docks by the lake. It is not dependent on power or lack thereof. The only requirement is ink in the pen and a blank page. Details seem more crisp and come layered with complexity when you have one chance to get it right.

The satisfaction of your fingers — hand — hurting after a while makes it seem more accomplished — something achieved at the end of the day. Like a good hard bike ride that leaves you out of breath and slightly sore (but in that good sore way).

Thanksgiving Gratitudes

Jersey

They tell me it’s Thanksgiving.  Well — almost.

They had to tell me because there are no falling leavings, no cooling of the air with threats of rain or snow on the horizon. There are no homes with fireplaces sending luscious scents of burning wood into the open air.

There were no markers that the seasons had changed and the opening salvo of the holidays were upon us.

As I sit in a local coffee shop, no decorations for Thanksgiving or Christmas for that matter, are on display.

English: Turkey (bird)

English: Turkey (bird) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I am perplexed and not sure if I like the anonymity of the season or long for the days where Thanksgiving and Christmas are rammed down your throat with every step from October 31 to Jan 3.

Part of me misses my childhood where the holidays brought friends and family from all corners of the planet to celebrate the time of year and each other. It felt and smelled like home.

As I grew up and moved on, I tried to replicate those occasions as closely as I could like my mother did. I liked the smell, the camaraderie, the seasonal changes.

In the last few years, ten to be exact, I started to dread the holidays. It felt like more of a chore than a party. I was distant with my family and closest friends; due to circumstances beyond my control (and frankly some that were in my control), I fell silent. Partly, so I didn’t think of all that had been and partly because it was an easier way to weather the stormy seas I was in.

Now as I stand on the other side of the rough water, I find it is still choppy, but not threatening. I brace for the impact of Thanksgiving quickly drowned out by the worse holiday — Christmas.

I have moved on in my life, but not sure how to reclaim all that I let slip away. How does one reach back without appearing needy or mean? How does one move forward into the past?

It’s funny. I have moved into a place where I hear people talk about thanksgiving, but I don’t feel the warmth and love that used to be in the holiday. Like people are just going through the motions  — or maybe it’s just me.

I am lucky enough to have found other foreigners in my current land to spend Bird day with. I am looking forward to not working, but playing and spending time with good people and new friends.

I am grateful for my life and the direction I am heading in.

I hope this year brings back some of the old time feelings of past holidays of warmth, laughter, and good cheer.

May you have an awesome and happy thanksgiving surrounded by those you love.

Little Things in Life

Jersey

I wonder if anyone can be happy all the time. Lately, I wonder if people can be happy most of the time. I think I may have lost that somewhere along the way.

I am happy — for this brief spit of time.

It’s not the big things, work or relationships. Today it was all about the small things.

Leaving work a little early: traffic was almost non-existent, even around the crowded LAX airport.

Checking into a nice hotel: front desk upgraded me to the concierge floor with access to the lounge.

West Side room: over looks the runway to the airport where I could watch planes landing and taking off.

A beautiful pink and gray sunset: my mother would have loved it, she never missed a sunset.

The lights on the runways come to life as the sun hides behind the gray fluffy clouds.

Planes large and small drop into view sporadically mere moments before touching down. Smoke billows behind the plane as rubber meets tarmac and air brakes are applied.

On the other side of the field, white lights guide the metallic colorful planes toward me. One then two start the queue. Slowly joined by more and then they turn facing away. The pilot throttles forward, the engines come to life and mere seconds later the plane roars down the runway before it separates itself from earth.

As I watch the dark field changes. Red lights, green lights, white lights twinkle on the ground. I find that for one perfect peaceful moment I am happy.

It is the little things from checking in, to watching planes in my own space, to a memory of sunset sent from mom that make me happy.

It is a rare thing I feel lately and one I would love to welcome back into my life on a more permanent long term basis. I enjoy the little things that bring me peace and a smile to my face.

I know tomorrow will bring me a few more moments of happiness because I will get to sleep in slightly before heading to the airport I now watch and board a plane which will return me to my home.

I will be greeted by a calico who will curl up in my lap as I sit on the couch to read. If the weather turns nice I will even find time to fly along a road in the country on my bike.

Yes, it is the little things that make me happy.