The Rootless Ones

I have confession to make.

It's not much of a confession, as far as confessions go.  Generally speaking, confessions ought to be at least somewhat of a surprise, right?  Or at least involve some sort of naughtiness?  This one just involves confusion, mostly.  And guilt.

I guess it's the guilt that makes it a confession.

Anyway.

My confession is this: I don't understand roots.

Or perhaps- I don't know how to do roots.

I am the military brat progeny of two military brats.  My husband is also a military brat by way of at least one military brat.  We are really, truly, not from anywhere, and the culture of our childhoods is not one that we can go back and visit on a whim, because our dependent ID cards were revoked when we turned 21.

We bought a house in this town, after years of wandering for the both of us, with the idea of staying here long term- of settling down, if you will.  Putting down roots.  Four years later a little shoot popped out, young and tender and easy to transport.  Rootless, just like us.

Before he was born- before he was even conceived, we'd talked about our fears regarding raising a child in one place, without moving every three years.  We have no experience with that- we're not sure how to do it.  All we knew is that there are people in the world, people we have met, who have lived their whole lives never leaving the county they were born in- the same county their parents were born in- and they are content with that.  And that concept chilled us to the bone: we wanted more for our child.  Better.

Hence the importance of budgeting for travel.  We want to make sure he is exposed to other places, other cultures, other peoples.  We want to make sure he can adapt and thrive wherever he is planted.

And I worry I will fail at that, because the only way I know how to do it- the way it was done for me- is not what I can do for him.  And what I can do for him- will it work?

And I worry that there will be such a disconnect between us- that he will have roots and ties to a specific place, a specific house, a specific town, and I will not be able to understand it, and he will suffer from that lack of understanding.

I guess all we can do is try.

Straight to the Heart

It's been over twenty years since I've done this, she thinks, taking a wide stance. 

And technically, she corrects herself, I've never actually done this.

She breathes out and pulls the trigger slowly, as she's been told, and a small hole appears at the outer edge of the neon yellow bullseye.

A handgun feels very different from a rifle.

She takes another steadying breath.  Fires again.  Breathes.  Fires.  Again.  More small holes appear, and she's cognizant, now, of the luscious tang of hot metal in the air, accented by the low-slung pungence of gunpowder.  She hadn't realized she knew them so well.

The scents settle into the pleasure centers of her brain so easily, so comfortably, that she understands they must have carved out their dens when she was still a child.  They must have been waiting for years to come home again, to twine about her heart like a pair of contented cats.

God, it smells like safety, like comfort.  Like belonging to and adoration for the man who first handed her a gun, taught her to respect it as a tool and a thing of beauty.  Didn't teach her nearly enough, before he was taken from her.

She fires again.

Mrs. Hare

When you are a military brat, you develop a very special sort of relationship with your grandparents.  Because you so rarely see them, seeing them is Very Special, indeed.  And if you are very lucky, you have the sorts of grandparents who make an effort to keep close to you even if you don't see them more than once a year or two.

I was very lucky.

I was going through some old papers this afternoon and came across some letters that my paternal grandmother had written me when I was young.  These letters took the form of stories- specifically stories about Mrs. March Hare and her relations.

Mrs. Hare missed her grandchildren, too.

Now the thing is, these stories are not technically proficient- they are riddled with instances of the passive voice, and changes in tense.  But they are wonderful, nonetheless, and I love them.  They brought me great joy as a child, and they bring me joy now, as an adult.  And it made me think that that's all I really want, when you get down to it- to tell stories that people love, that bring them joy in the reading.

Michael's Sword

Warriors have been very much on my mind, lately, a state of being which led to today's doodle of a flaming sword done in the same style as my angel wings, because why not?

(as well as some random thoughts)

Which brings me to my next point about what sorts of images I find appropriate for Memorial Day.  I am the daughter and granddaughter and sister and niece and cousin of military men and women, and I feel pretty secure in my entitlement to an Opinion on the matter.  Which is why I will tell you that I, personally, am greatly aggravated by all these images of grieving people sprawled across graves that keep popping up on my Facebook feed.  It is not obnoxious to me because I don't think Memorial Day is important or that it shouldn't be acknowledged as something more than just a day off from work- in fact I do know that it's about and I do believe it's important that people remember that men and women have given their lives for freedom.  What aggravates me is that these particular photographs arise from one of two scenarios: either they have been set up for effect, in which case they are a slap in the face to everyone who has experienced actual loss, or else they are exploiting people's genuine suffering so that others might put self-congratulatory status updates on their Facebook page because they remember the "true meaning" of Memorial Day, one long weekend out of 365 days.  And I find both scenarios equally distasteful.

Other people's grief should not be a spectacle or a mockery.  Let us remember the sacrifices made, yes- but let us do it with dignity and respect for all parties involved.

Flashback

Dusk is just starting to settle her skirts as we wheel our bicycles out of the apartment.  It's still fairly warm out, so my tissue-thin, white-is-most-visible t-shirt is feeling quite comfortable- although I've strapped a fleece to the Zuri's carrier, just in case.

I let Nathan take point- it's true that I prefer to lead (in this as in most things) but trial-and-error has taught me that after dark it's wiser to fall back, because checking my six with him behind me invariably leads to me being blinded.  At least it gives me the fun of swinging my own headlight back and forth, back and forth across his form in a private game of Searchlight.  ("Are you having an epileptic fit back there?")

People are out in the streets shooting off firecrackers (as people do on the 4th) and I have to admit- it's more than a little nerve wracking.  The noise, the lights- the general drunkenness that means people don't necessarily recognize a cyclist as someone to look out for.  I'm stressing out a little, and I'm thinking about the men and women in the military who have to deal with said conditions on a daily basis- without the comforting knowledge that it's just firecrackers, and that if anyone gets hit it will more likely than not be an accident.  And not fatal.  How odd that we celebrate our independence by reconstructing the sounds and smells of war- by taming it, making it a pet whose claws we've gilded.

It's three miles down to the waterfront, and we find a grassy patch to park our bikes and our selves.  Our timing is impeccable: not five minutes later the show over the fort gets started.  Since we didn't pay to get in we get to experience the strange disconnect between flash and bang, and I find myself making a game of guessing what noise each display will make.

I ask Nathan what his favorites are, and he tells me that it's the ones that are mostly noise- just a big flash and a big bang.  Me?  I like the glittery ones- specifically the gold, although I never say no to purple.  The ones that seem to swim like minnows intrigue me, too- I've only seen them in recent years, and they always make me think of Gandalf, or maybe Hogwarts... they have a sort of life to them I'd not have though possible with mere gunpowder.

I watch explosion after explosion and I realize I'm a little bored.  It makes me sad: when did fireworks stop being a big deal?  Is this a natural part of growing up?  Or am I just spoiled?  Either way, when the finale comes (the real one- we thought it happened twice before it did) we don't waste much time hopping back on our bikes and cycling home.  There are fewer explosions now that it's nearing midnight, but definitely more drunks- and more belligerent drunks, at that.  Although I'm not afraid, exactly, I am grateful for the nimble speed of my aluminum steed, and for Nathan's imposing bulk beside me.

We cruise through quieter neighborhoods and talk in giddy terms about the house that will soon be ours.  I realize how happy I am in this moment, with this man, and I feel overwhelmed with gratitude for this life that we have found and made together.  And as we put our bikes to bed in our safe little apartment I think of the soldiers out in the darkness, who will never feel jaded about fiery night-time explosions, and I feel grateful for them, too- and I hope they too get to go home soon.

Organized Nostalgia

I’m definitely so on Central time it’s not even funny. I popped awake around 0530, and had to make myself go back to sleep. And then again about once an hour for the next three hours. I probably would have just gone ahead and gotten up, but my brother had very sweetly let me have the bed, which meant he was sleeping out on the couch, and I didn’t want to wake him by wandering around the suite.

Once he woke up he had to go run a few errands, so I took the opportunity to get some BodyFlow in, which I most certainly needed, in light of yesterday’s extended airplane time. My left hamstring was particularly sulky. I was finishing up about the same time he got back, so we were able to take off on our adventures soon thereafter.

We drove around Fairchild for a while, with him pointing out pertinent areas. I will say that it’s really nice to be on base again- there’s just a certain feel to it that you just don’t get in the civilian world. For me it’s a very nostalgic, childhood feel. What’s more, everything is clearly labeled, and let me tell you I wish they’d get on board with that in the civilian world, I really do. But I guess the rest of the world is not use to its population turning over every three years. ::sigh:: Sometimes I really regret not going into the military…

After that we were starving, so David took me out to the one actually authentic Mexican restaurant in the area (you have to understand that authentic Mexican is perplexingly difficult to come by in the PNW), where we proceeded to stuff our bellies and groan with satisfaction. The drive out there took a while, and as we went I found myself thinking wistfully that it might not be such a bad thing to be settled down in a semi-rural area like this one, with family nearby. This comes hard on the heels of my recent borderline obsessive desire to throw a dinner-party. I don’t know: the moon must be hitting my Domestic Phase, or something. I wish I could do both- a little apartment in the city and a nice house out in a national park. That would be ideal. And friends and family nearby both.

Anyway.

We went back into Spokane to go to the movies, specifically to see Hereafter. I don’t particularly recommend it, which is a shame. I like Damon, and Eastwood is a fine director, but the movie… well, David and I both agreed that it just felt pointless. And it was far, far too long to get away with feeling pointless. Plus the little British kids were just frigging off-putting.

We came back on base and did some bowling. Well, David did some bowling, and I did some throwing-a-ball-at-some-pins. I didn’t break 100 even once, which was kind of below-average for me (although not by much). Then again, I hadn’t bowled in so long that I couldn’t remember the last time, so I don’t feel too poorly about it. Of course, I never feel bad about the way I bowl- I’ve long ago accepted that I’m just no good at it, no matter how my Mom (or in this instance, brother) try to fix me. It’s not even like darts, where at least I can increase my skill in proportion to my BAC.

After three games we just sort of sat around finishing up our beers (he knows me well enough that he got a pitcher of nice amber ale that I actually enjoyed drinking) and talking about our dreams for/theories on the future. It reminded me of how much I miss just sitting in a bar, shooting the shit with friends.

We came back to the hotel and watched Hot Tub Time Machine, which I do recommend to those of you who enjoy a good raucous comedy, and now I’m writing this entry. Tomorrow I’ll hit the road for Yakima, and he’ll start packing for Alaska. Adventures galore.