Memorial Day and Remembrance Day and D-Day and other such days honor our men and women who fought and lived and those who fought and died. We fly flags and wear poppies in remembrance. We loudly celebrate our country’s victories. We quietly remember our country's losses.
WWII came along and both uncles were conscripted. Old photos showed a couple of young boys in uniform. Handsome boys, with excitement in their eyes and just a touch of nervous anticipation. Neither boy had been further than the small town that abutted their farm. They were only boys, but soon they would be trained to kill before traveling to the other side of the world and doing just that. As then General Eisenhower said “boys jumped from those planes; men landed”.
Since they were brothers, they were placed in different divisions and shipped to different parts of Europe. Letters were sparse and few between. Both boys wrote of being warm and having plenty of food, a consolation to their worried mother. Their father knew better, having lived through the first war. Nothing was further than the truth, but quietly he was proud of his sons for their white lies. Their mother and my mother knew nothing of the horrors of war.
Their soldiering years marched on, but as the war was nearing its end, they both found themselves in Paris after France had been retaken by the Allies. The French cheered and waved as they entered the city, certain that the war would shortly come to an end. Neither boy knew the other was in Paris, but coincidentally, they both had a day’s leave so, being young, happy to be alive and happy to be in Paris, they enjoyed the sights and sounds of the city, time with the pretty girls and somewhere in the evening magically found themselves in the same bar with their buddies. And, to paraphrase the song, across the crowded room, as one brother recognized the other, unbelieving that such a joyous moment could occur, they screamed each other’s names above the din, identifying themselves to one and all as brothers. They beat their way through the crowd into each other’s arms, hugged, cried and laughed, while the horde of weary soldiers fell silent, watching this miracle: how two brothers found each other in war torn Paris. And a moment later the crowd went wild, cheering and laughing and sharing their greatest happiness. Both boys were alive and safe and well. The fraternal bond that was never to be broken.
The story was repeated for years afterwards but, as oftentimes happens with brothers, little arguments came between them. Their ensuing years were sometimes tumultuous for whatever petty reasons, but they were brothers, each other’s best friends; eventually they would make up. They always traded holiday feasts at each other’s homes, which became more and more crowded as their offspring multiplied. They taught their, and each other’s, children to swim, to ride a bicycle, to fish, to take photographs, to dance. The years passed and the daring young boys were replaced by grumpy old men who kept their spirits up by indulging in familial feuds.
My mother called one day to tell me about the latest fraternal feud. I loved hearing about the family feuds; mom and I could, and did, laugh about the boys' antics for days. This one became one of our favorite feuds. What could those uncles of mine possibly be feuding over now. They had been alive long enough to argue about everything from chicken wire fences to Himalayan salt, so what emotional turmoil could they possibly be putting themselves through now. Apparently this was not a new feud, but a revival of an old feud. The Hatfields and the McCoys had nothing on this pair. It seemed that a couple of years ago, my uncles had a very strong disagreement about something, which was undoubtedly truly irrelevant, and resolved never to speak to each other again. We all knew that was another contratemp that would amount to nothing. Eventually they would make up. Adding to the humor, as they had gotten older, there were times when their memories failed them. At this point, one uncle was angry with the other, not because of whatever the original transgression had been, but because he couldn’t remember what it was but he knew that the other uncle remembered and wouldn’t tell him. Eventually, enough time would pass that they both forgot so peace in the kingdom would be restored. Unfortunately, in time, one uncle would remember that the other uncle “always did things like this” to him. We all tried to learn exactly what it was that one did to the other, but didn’t have much information to go on because no one knew what “this” was, albeit we were all supposed to know, and if we didn't know, it was not to be discussed. And so it went.
As the years passed, they knew their days were growing shorter, their voices became softer and their smiles more winsome. Still they sat across the table from each other, gave thanks and celebrated. When the first uncle died, the remaining uncle was inconsolable, heartbreakingly lost without his brother. A short while later he too passed away. And so we remember them on Memorial Day, on Remembrance Day, on D-Day: these two young soldiers who now are gone but who will always have Paris.
Thursday, June 8, 2017
Wednesday, June 7, 2017
Bicycling On Martha's Vineyard
The pool is open, the flowers are in bloom, the boat has been cleaned and the bicycle riders are clogging the lanes along the road. Summer is here. As I drive, I watch for the bicycle riders, sometimes riding solo, sometimes in pairs and sometimes in full tour group mode. I remember a biking trip to Martha’s Vineyard, 18 years ago, meeting up with a friend from Colorado.
Super Shuttle picked me up. The driver’s Russian accent was charming; he was from the Ukraine. He had been working for SS for only a couple of weeks, ergo the constant reference to maps. Apparently when he first came to the USA two years prior he worked for a Russian limo service. Since he chauffeured only Russians, it didn’t matter that he spoke no English. Spoke no English? When I asked how he read the signs, he responded that he would call in to the central desk and read the letters to them. More urgent, to my mind, was the question of a drivers license. How did he get a drivers license if he couldn’t read. “Ah well” he said “a license was not important to the Russians”. He went to night school to learn English, then left the Russians. The long line of waiting passengers snaking out to the sidewalk sank my heart. Russians saw lines as an ordinary part of life. It was just a line, “no big deal” as he slapped my back.
I met up with my Colorado friend. We had an hour to wait so we grabbed a bite to eat. We asked a young guy, who was seated at a table for four, alone, whether we could join him. He said his wife was in line for food, but grinned and said he could dump her. While eating, we discussed current events. Throughout lunch, the young man opined that it was time to take the country back from all these foreigners. Hell, in Florida everyone spoke Cuban, and California had all these Mexicans. Something had to be done about the foreigners. His wife nodded in agreement. At the end of lunch I HAD to ask: was he a member of the Apache tribe or the Ojibways; to which original tribe did he belong, precisely.
Finally reaching Martha’s Vineyard, after planes, trains and boat rides, we met up with a few members from our group, then proceeded to drinks and dinner to get to know each other. One young man, a nice Jewish boy from Jersey, was honeymooning with his bride, a nice Catholic Italian girl from across the bridge. When my eyebrow shot up, he shrugged and said he needed some balance in his life. Later, we wandered aimlessly around town, admiring the scenery, the cobblestones, the fresh air and stars, until someone asked “does anyone know where we are, and how to get back to the inn?”
We gathered the next morning, ready to enjoy the sun and ocean breezes. Instead we were met with cold rain and a strong nor’easter, or a sou’wester, or a nor’wester; I was never quite sure about the direction of origin but it was a very strong howling wind. However, we were tough and single minded in our pursuit of healthy bicycle riding. Off we went, pedaling against the wind, pedaling, pedaling; I was in the zone, until I looked down and realized that I wasn’t moving. The wind was keeping me in the same spot. Rocks in my pocket would not have helped so we decided to tour the shops. The next day was sunny and clear. We bicycled out to Chappaquidick “don’t worry, Mary Jo, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”
There must have been a muni code that specified grey shingles with white trim because every home was painted exactly alike. The inn keeper said one of the local jokes was to direct a lost tourist to walk down the road a couple of blocks, then turn right at the grey house with the white trim. The people all looked alike too. They were all white, longish faces, aquiline noses, the men all looked like James Taylor while the women all sported pageboys. Even the hired help was all white. It got a little creepy there in Stepfordland. I started paying attention to the names on the mailboxes: Harrison, James, Sargent, Potter, MacKenzie, and then I found one — Cohen. Yes! No pizza parlors though.
The creepiness was offset by the fact that Bluto was buried at the local graveyard. Yes, John Belushi is buried on Martha’s Vineyard. I easily found his headstone. The grave was marked with empty beer cans. I noticed that he was buried next to Lilian Hellman. Apparently I was the only one in the group who appreciated the irony. I rambled on about her works for a bit, until I noticed that I had lost the audience. First we kill the playwrights.
We boarded the ferry. The captain was a three generation local, so I asked why there were so many bits and pieces of sea shells on the Atlantic shore sands, but none on the Pacific shores. He was stumped too. If anyone has an answer, please advise.
I grabbed a cab at LAX and once again found myself with a Russian driver. He remarked that he loved this country; people could do anything. He was living in a room at his uncle’s house. Apparently his parent’s pension was not enough to feed him. Gorbachov stopped further pensions so he was on his own. His problem, by his own admission, was that he was lazy. He didn’t like to work. He was perfectly content to drive a cab. Ambition was not in his DNA. We pulled up to the house, which he openly admired, and asked how many people lived there. When I told him I lived alone, he asked for my hand in marriage. Who says Russians weren’t romantic.
Super Shuttle picked me up. The driver’s Russian accent was charming; he was from the Ukraine. He had been working for SS for only a couple of weeks, ergo the constant reference to maps. Apparently when he first came to the USA two years prior he worked for a Russian limo service. Since he chauffeured only Russians, it didn’t matter that he spoke no English. Spoke no English? When I asked how he read the signs, he responded that he would call in to the central desk and read the letters to them. More urgent, to my mind, was the question of a drivers license. How did he get a drivers license if he couldn’t read. “Ah well” he said “a license was not important to the Russians”. He went to night school to learn English, then left the Russians. The long line of waiting passengers snaking out to the sidewalk sank my heart. Russians saw lines as an ordinary part of life. It was just a line, “no big deal” as he slapped my back.
I met up with my Colorado friend. We had an hour to wait so we grabbed a bite to eat. We asked a young guy, who was seated at a table for four, alone, whether we could join him. He said his wife was in line for food, but grinned and said he could dump her. While eating, we discussed current events. Throughout lunch, the young man opined that it was time to take the country back from all these foreigners. Hell, in Florida everyone spoke Cuban, and California had all these Mexicans. Something had to be done about the foreigners. His wife nodded in agreement. At the end of lunch I HAD to ask: was he a member of the Apache tribe or the Ojibways; to which original tribe did he belong, precisely.
Finally reaching Martha’s Vineyard, after planes, trains and boat rides, we met up with a few members from our group, then proceeded to drinks and dinner to get to know each other. One young man, a nice Jewish boy from Jersey, was honeymooning with his bride, a nice Catholic Italian girl from across the bridge. When my eyebrow shot up, he shrugged and said he needed some balance in his life. Later, we wandered aimlessly around town, admiring the scenery, the cobblestones, the fresh air and stars, until someone asked “does anyone know where we are, and how to get back to the inn?”
We gathered the next morning, ready to enjoy the sun and ocean breezes. Instead we were met with cold rain and a strong nor’easter, or a sou’wester, or a nor’wester; I was never quite sure about the direction of origin but it was a very strong howling wind. However, we were tough and single minded in our pursuit of healthy bicycle riding. Off we went, pedaling against the wind, pedaling, pedaling; I was in the zone, until I looked down and realized that I wasn’t moving. The wind was keeping me in the same spot. Rocks in my pocket would not have helped so we decided to tour the shops. The next day was sunny and clear. We bicycled out to Chappaquidick “don’t worry, Mary Jo, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”
There must have been a muni code that specified grey shingles with white trim because every home was painted exactly alike. The inn keeper said one of the local jokes was to direct a lost tourist to walk down the road a couple of blocks, then turn right at the grey house with the white trim. The people all looked alike too. They were all white, longish faces, aquiline noses, the men all looked like James Taylor while the women all sported pageboys. Even the hired help was all white. It got a little creepy there in Stepfordland. I started paying attention to the names on the mailboxes: Harrison, James, Sargent, Potter, MacKenzie, and then I found one — Cohen. Yes! No pizza parlors though.
The creepiness was offset by the fact that Bluto was buried at the local graveyard. Yes, John Belushi is buried on Martha’s Vineyard. I easily found his headstone. The grave was marked with empty beer cans. I noticed that he was buried next to Lilian Hellman. Apparently I was the only one in the group who appreciated the irony. I rambled on about her works for a bit, until I noticed that I had lost the audience. First we kill the playwrights.
We boarded the ferry. The captain was a three generation local, so I asked why there were so many bits and pieces of sea shells on the Atlantic shore sands, but none on the Pacific shores. He was stumped too. If anyone has an answer, please advise.
I grabbed a cab at LAX and once again found myself with a Russian driver. He remarked that he loved this country; people could do anything. He was living in a room at his uncle’s house. Apparently his parent’s pension was not enough to feed him. Gorbachov stopped further pensions so he was on his own. His problem, by his own admission, was that he was lazy. He didn’t like to work. He was perfectly content to drive a cab. Ambition was not in his DNA. We pulled up to the house, which he openly admired, and asked how many people lived there. When I told him I lived alone, he asked for my hand in marriage. Who says Russians weren’t romantic.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)