Looking Back - Part 11 - Medical Miracles - More or Less

I'm on a roll with this "Looking Back" series because there have been so many things triggering my memories these days. My daughter Kerith’s birthday is next Monday, and I found myself thinking about the birthdays of my all four of my kids – none of which I was supposed to have, and this in turn led me to reflect on my experiences with the medical profession. That’s not hard to do these days when there seem to be more and more nightmare tales of screw-ups not only by doctors, but hospitals and other health care facilities.

My kids and I have frequently joked that we are alive today in spite of doctors rather than because of them and because we spent their early years on a military base I soon became convinced that all the medical students who made Ds in med school automatically went into the military. The fact that I even had a child period, much less four normal, healthy ones was considered unbelievable unless one believes in miracles - which I do.

I had been told early on by several doctors that my chances of getting pregnant in the first place were slim to none, let alone carrying one for a full nine months. But get pregnant I did just three months into my marriage. I carried my baby full term and delivered an eight pound, very normal and beautiful little girl. Needless to say, I thumbed my nose at that early diagnosis.

As soon as my husband returned from Vietnam I promptly got pregnant again but this time, in the process of moving to Germany, I did miscarry. It ended up being a nightmare experience with one complication, one misdiagnosis after another. It took two months before I even began to feel normal -- whatever that is for me anyway. Not sure normal was ever a discription.

We thought that perhaps my first little girl was a miracle and there would be no more. Wrong! Three months later I found myself pregnant again and shortly afterward we were transferred to Madrid, Spain. Again, it was a very normal full term pregnancy, but about a week before I was due I woke up with what felt to me like pleurisy pains and we made a trip to the air base hospital. There I was told by the doctor that there was no indication of anything wrong and I was just getting anxious to deliver and he sent me home. The next day it was worse and we went back to the hospital. This time a different doctor took my husband aside and told him there was nothing wrong with me, I was not in labor, but if he wanted to leave me at the hospital for the weekend, he’d okay it. Wisely, for his own sake, my husband declined the offer. The following day we made a third trip and saw still another doctor who said he could find nothing wrong either, but asked if I had been x-rayed earlier. When I told him no, he said that real or imagined, I was obviously in pain and I was certainly far enough along that an x-ray wouldn’t injure the baby and urged me to have one. It turned out that I had walking pneumonia and the pain I had been experiencing was indeed pleurisy and, with a proper prescription this time, I was sent home. Four days later, pneumonia free, I gave birth to another perfect little seven and a half pound girl. Within three more years I had – remarkably given birth to two more perfect, healthy babies – boys this time. And they’re all still miracles to me.

Over the next years my wariness of the medical profession and aided by extraordinarily healthy children, we were pretty much able to stay out of doctor’s offices except for routine shots etc. Then when my youngest son, Adam, was eighteen months old, our whole family was returning home in the car from an evening swim at the local indoor pool. The kids were hungry and quickly found a jar of their Dad’s favorite dry roasted peanuts between the seats. There was a lot of giggling and teasing and Adam quickly choked on his peanuts. We whopped him on the back and a peanut flew out of his mouth and we continued on our way home. The following morning he was flying around the house as usual, but what wasn’t usual was the fact that he rattled. By mid day it was obvious that the rattle wasn’t going away and I took him in to see the pediatrician. I told him what had happened the previous day. He listened to Adam’s chest and x-rayed him, but could find nothing. I told him again about the peanuts and he patiently explained how it was impossible for Adam to have inhaled a peanut because the oil in the peanut would have set up an infection that would have resulted in pneumonia almost immediately. I explained that they were dry roasted peanuts and he sighed and shook his head and asked me to bring him back in the following day if he was still “rattling”. The next day Adam was still rattling and the doctor still couldn’t find anything, but admitted there was definitely something not right even though Adam was still tearing around like a normal eighteen month old – he just rattled. The doctor then sent us to a thoracic specialist, who also listened and x-rayed without results. I told him the same story of the dry roasted peanuts and got the same head shaking response – impossible, he said. For the next five weeks Adam was subjected to every imaginable test – all to no avail and while he was still tearing around, he was also still rattling.

By that time the specialist said they had no option other than to fluoroscope his lungs and that had to be done in the hospital and could have possible side effects. But, feeling that we really didn’t have a choice, we took him in and I spent the night sitting beside him, feeling so frightened because he looked so small and helpless in that big hospital bed. They were supposed to take him to the operating room at seven the next morning, so he wasn’t allowed to have anything to eat – tell that to a hungry eighteen month old! As it turned out they didn’t come get him until nine and by that time both his Dad and I were worn out from carrying him around the ward trying to distract him from thoughts of food. Adam saw a nurse coming out of a room with a tray of food and kept trying guide his Dad in that direction by tugging his ears like a steering wheel.

Finally, they came for him and let him take his “blankey” with him. I was fighting back the tears and clinging to my husband’s hand. Adam looked so tiny and helpless as they rolled him into the operating room. The next hour seemed like thirty. Finally, the doctor came out and walked towards us.

“Boy, is my face red,” he said, with an embarrassed grin.

“You found the peanut, didn’t you?” I asked, trying not to leap on him scratching and biting.

He nodded.

“I’ll certainly tell all my patients from now on that if they’re going to let their kids eat peanuts, make sure they’re dry roasted.”

Fortunately, Adam was fine and within a couple of days he was running around again, but this time without the rattle.

I’m still wary of doctors and the frequent headlines about the medical and pharmaceutical professions don’t do a lot to encourage trust. But I’ve been more fortunate lately and have no personal complaints.

And as for Adam, well, like his siblings, he’s grown into an incredible young man that I’m outrageously proud of – definitely one of the four best things his Dad and I ever did – in spite of the medical profession.

A note of explanation, my oldest daughter, Robyn is a terrific photographer, but prefers to remain behind the camera, so I have very few photos of her. Also, she and her husband live in Michigan and we're not able to get together as often as we'd like, particularly these days. But believe me, she's beautiful!

Looking Back - Part 10 - Reflections

Sometimes as night begins to fall, the activities of the day completed, the house suddenly quiet, I find myself looking back over the years -- not in a bad or negative way at all, but just with a certain curiosity. I wonder if anyone would have told me fifty years ago when I was twenty-five and working in Dallas, Texas that when I would be getting ready to celebrate my seventy-sixth birthday I would be the mother of four grown children, that I would be living in Seattle, Washington with one of them -- what would I have said? I suddenly found myself laughing out loud and thinking that was exactly what I would have done then --laughed. "Me, get married? Have kids? You've got to be kidding, right? I mean, Seattle wouldn't be bad, but no thanks, to the rest of it." And yet here I am, seventy-six in just a few weeks and I am the mother of four and I am living with one of them in Seattle, Washington and it's working well for both of us. And the others have done well, too. We're scattered all over the country, but thanks to the internet and cell phones etc. etc. we stay in close touch.

I frequently wonder if other people look back over their lives and wonder how they ended up where they are now -- not in a negative way, but just curious. What were the dreams, hopes, plans? How many lives turned out just as they had planned them in their late teens or early twenties? How many find themselves in amazingly different settings than they would have thought possible fifty years ago?

I’ve pretty much lived my life, for the past forty years at least, with the belief that the past is over and done with and you can’t bring it back. Generally speaking I wouldn’t want to anyway. By the same token, tomorrow may never come and that means the only time we have for certain is now, today, this hour, this minute. To live in the moment means, for one thing, letting go of regrets and bad memories. It also means not putting off until tomorrow what you can do today – all kinds of things like getting in touch with old friends, finding the book you’ve been hearing about or wanting to read, glorying in a sunrise or sunset, a day at the beach, a beautiful day regardless of the season. Appreciating good friends and letting them know you care – now, not later. Forgiving everyone and everything that has hurt you in the past. Actually, I feel that forgiveness is the greatest gift you can give to yourself and it doesn’t matter if that means forgiving yourself or someone else. The real reward is a sense of peace and it’s yours forever. Hugging your children every chance you get and that goes for that favorite pet as well. Lingering over a meal long enough to really savor the taste. And laughter, look for and find lots and lots of reasons to laugh. Do your best to get rid of the feelings of anger and frustration because they destroy the beauty of any moment.

Now that I’ve praised this idealistic state of being, do I succeed at doing this for myself all the time? You can bet I don’t – not all the time. I find when I’m not paying attention I can easily let myself remember what it was like to be hurt, disappointed in things, other people, and most of all myself. And for the times when I said or did something that hurt another person. Can you change them? No. Can you eliminate them? Not unless you’re truly willing to let them go, forgive whoever was involved, including yourself and get on with your life here and now, in the present. Too idealistic? Perhaps, but that is and has been my goal at least.

Maybe it's how we begin our journey into our future that determines how far that journey takes us from where we started. Maybe we've become a very different person from the twenty something woman or man that we were. Do we even really remember who we were then? Are there many, who like me, played another role for so many years that we're not sure which one is the real one? I believe that I do know who the real me is now and she isn't that twenty-five year old from Dallas, Texas. For one thing, I've made peace with who I am, who I was and who I hope to be on the other side of seventy-six and that's a very, very good feeling. Still, sometimes I wonder how many lifetimes it took me to finally reach this place?

Well, whatever, it's been a great journey and I'm happy to be where I am. I have so much to be thankful for and happy about. I still have an enormous amount of curiosity about so many things, I still get excited about things that happen every day and I can laugh and have my breath taken away at the sight of a full moon, a bouquet of flowers, the music I love, a beautiful piece of art, the mountains that surround us here and the water! And I have my health. Oh, I know, I get stirred up over politics, I worry about the country, about the environment and grit my teeth over the Republicans, but at the end of the day when I get very still, I know what's real and what matters.

And as I said before it's been a marvelous ride in spite of some bumpy roads and it's not over yet. Who knows how many more lovely surprises are waiting along the way?

So, I don’t have a lot of regrets or at least ones that I’m willing to focus on to the detriment of my peace of mind, happiness and ability to enjoy and live in the moment. Are there things I wish I had done or done differently? Of course, there are, but since it isn’t possible to go back and change those things, they’re not enough to make me waste the “now”, which is all I have, all any of us have. So grin, giggle, laugh and shove as much of the past as you can let go of inside a great big old trunk and toss it over the side of your own personal life boat now! And live -- in the moment!

Looking Back - Part 9 - Adventures on the Road

By late 1971 we had four children ages five, three, two and a half and six months and needless to say I had my hands full. Fortunately, they were all very good kids and well behaved. My first daughter was the epitome of the perfect child from the day she was born and I naturally assumed it was all due to my marvelous parenting. Then my second daughter was born and while she was (and is) beautiful and funny, she was also a holy terror whose greatest pleasure was derived from tormenting her older sister. So much for being the perfect parent. The two boys came later and they were pretty much kept in line by both of their sisters.

By that time we were living in Montana. As you know, my husband was in the Air Force and he was stationed at Malmstrom AFB in Great Falls, Montana once we returned from Europe. He got a month leave every year and while most of our neighbors took a week here and a week there during the year, my husband would save all of his until summer and then we’d travel for a month. We had purchased a small camping trailer a couple of years earlier and it had worked quite well. Still, traveling with four kids in the back of a station wagon – even with a trailer was not conducive to making long trips. And so following fall my husband took the trailer to Dallas and my father sold it for us.

Then just as we were beginning to wonder what our next travel solution might be, my father called to tell us about an ad that he had found in the Sunday Dallas Morning News and that he had checked out. It seems that an oil man in Dallas had purchased a brand new, large, customized Winnebago and had an employee deliver it to him from the Winnebago factory. He planned to use it as his office in the field. He had it two days and died of a heart attack. His family was quite wealthy and no one was interested in having a Winnebago, they just wanted to settle his estate and move on. My father felt that the price they were asking was too unbelievable to pass up. We agreed and arranged for the loan at the bank and my father handled it from there. It was winter and we weren’t going to be able to travel for several months so my father and mother said that they would keep it at their house until spring, at which time they would drive it to Montana. It was the beginning of some wonderful times on the road and was the absolute perfect way to travel with the four kids and the dog and the cat! It had a full bedroom in the back, a bath with a shower, lots of storage room, a kitchen with cabinets, sink and a stove, with an eye level oven and a fridge. The couch made a double bed; there was a double bunk over the driver and passenger seats. There was a comfortable chair in the living room area, a pull out dining table. It had a built in vacuum system and just in case traveling became a little too overwhelming, there was a built in liquor cabinet. Looking back in light of the motor homes they have today, it was crude at best, but back then it was a castle on wheels!

As the children got older we decided to try and make our month long travels educational as well as fun. We thought with all the historical sites within easy traveling distance we could perhaps liven up history and help make it come alive for them. So, we chose sites, found books about them to read along the way. The day school was out we would hit the road.

One of the most interesting trips was one in which we pretty much followed the path of the Nez Perce Indians as they had tried so desperately to escape the military troops who were determined to either kill them or get them back onto the land that had been assigned to them in the Treaty of 1863. Nez Perce country in the Northwest included the territory where Washington, Oregon, and Idaho join together. But when the Treaty of 1863 decreased their lands to one-tenth its original size, some of the Nez Perce bands refused to agree and became known as “non-treaty” Nez Perce. Among them were Joseph and his band, who were located in the Wallowa Valley in Oregon. In 1877, a number of young warriors from Joseph’s band attacked settlements of people who had earlier killed members of their family. When the U.S. Army was sent to make a show of force, the Nez Perce drove them back, and the Nez Perce War of 1877 began.

Fearing retaliation, the non-treaty Nez Perce fled their homelands. They walked or rode, but whatever, just kept moving in any way they could in order to reach safety. They initially hoped the Crow Indians, their hunting partners on the Plains, would give them shelter once they crossed the Rocky Mountains. When the Crows instead attacked them and stole horses, the last chance for the Nez Perce was flight into Canada where they might live with Sitting Bull’s Sioux.

Traveling over 1,500 miles, through what would become the four states of Oregon, Idaho, Wyoming, and finally Montana, the fugitive Nez Perce kept moving – they were determined to reach safety for themselves and their families. Their long journey took them through the newly established Yellowstone National Park where they encountered several groups of tourists. The journey lasted more than three months, across mountains, rivers, and prairies.

As we followed their trail, we would spend the evenings reading to the kids about the next step in the Nez Perce's journey. When we finally reached the Bear Paw along the Montana Canadian border where the last battle was fought, we were on that last leg of our trip as well. It was late when we arrived that first night and in the dark you would swear that you could hear the ghosts of those who had died there. We would find ourselves almost whispering as we wondered and talked about what Chief Joseph's thoughts were. At that time it was a very remote, rugged and somewhat sad place. Early the next morning we walked over the site. At that time there were still holes to be seen where both soldiers and Indians had dug in with the hopes of avoiding bullets. It had the same eerie feeling that you get at the Custer Battlefield where you would swear you can hear the sounds of the battle still raging. Somehow you can feel the history and it makes an impression that books alone could never achieve.

I feel that those trips were among the best things we ever did for our kids and we all still have wonderful memories of those times. Memories that I know none of us will forget.

Looking Back Part 8 – A Cinderella Evening

In 1967 my husband returned from Vietnam and after a month’s leave, we left the states for his new assignment to an air base in Wiesbaden, Germany. Our daughter, Robyn, was nine months old we were excited about picking up the pieces of our lives after Vietnam and making the most of the three year tour in Europe.

As many of you who have been reading these posts of mine know, my husband was a silver medalist in the 1964 Olympics and soon after we arrived in Germany he discovered that one of his team mates, who was in the army, was also stationed in Germany. The two of them became part of an American fencing team that was entered in several fencing tournaments in several countries. The first one was in Milan, Italy. We went by train and took our daughter and had a great trip. Shortly after that David told me that the team had been invited by the Commander of the French Forces in Germany, General Jacques Massu, to participate in a tournament in Baden-Baden.

The fencing tournaments in Europe were quite different from the ones in the states. At the finish of this particular tournament, the finalists would compete in the evening at a formal occasion. The award ceremony for the winning team would be followed by a formal ball. It all sounded very exciting! I set about shopping for an evening gown to wear – just in case the American team won. Our team members weren’t too excited about the tournament as they figured the French or the Germans would take the honors.

A couple we had become good friends with and who had a daughter about the same age as Robyn, suggested that she stay with them for the two nights that we would be gone. Three days later we packed the car with fencing gear and formal attire for both of us – just in case.

The unexpected happened and the US Military Fencing Team was one of the two finalists of the tournament and the excitement really heated up! I got all decked out in a flaming red silk formal and David carried his dress uniform with him to site of the finals/ballroom.

Candlelit dinner tables were set up around the room with the fencing strips down the middle of the floor, the crowd of French military officers, their wives and the wives of those participating in the finals began to fill the room and we were escorted to our tables by members of the French Military. I happened to be seated at a table in the front row so I had the perfect view of the fencing strip.

And the finals began.

The American team did very well from the beginning and I was so excited! And never having been one to sit back quietly and mind my manners, I was soon jumping up and down – formal gown and all. When there was a break, one of the women at my table nudged me and nodded her head toward the table where General Massu and his wife, Suzanne, were sitting along with members of his staff. The general was standing, looking at me and raising a glass of champagne. I stood and acknowledged the toast and raised my own glass. There was a big round of applause. I still feel pretty sure that David was shaking his head wondering just what in the hell I would do next.

The final round found the United States Fencing Team winners of the Military Tournament that night. The fencing strips were removed while the fencers received their awards and were applauded. Trophy in hand, they went to change into their formal attire.

The orchestra settled into one end of the ballroom and the music began. A few minutes later, General Massu walked across the floor and asked me for the opening dance. Oh, yes, it was indeed a Cinderella moment! As we danced he complimented the American Team and David and my gown. When the music stopped, he led me to his table where he introduced me to his wife and the members of their party. Then he walked me back to my table, where he bowed and kissed my hand. The whole room applauded. The American team had indeed won the day!

Needless to say, it was a fantastic, fun evening. Most definitely a night I will never forget.

Several months later I ran across an article in a military paper that told of a book that Suzanne Massu had written about her experiences as an ambulance driver during WW II and how she had met her husband, the general. I read the book and wrote her a note telling her how much I enjoyed it. I had a lovely letter back from her, telling me how much she had enjoyed meeting us. She told me that it was very encouraging to meet two Americans who had risen above the prejudice still so prevalent in our country at that time.

I often hear people in this country complain about the French and their attitude regarding the United States, but a lot of that is our own fault with the attitude that many take to other countries. David and I were an unusual couple back then, but I think it was more than that. It was our willingness to learn or attempt to learn at least a little of the language of other countries, their history, their culture. Whatever it was, we were treated with so much kindness and consideration and respect -- wherever we went.

Suzanne Massu died in 1977. General Massu retired from the military in 1969. He died October 26, 2002, he was 94.

Looking Back - Part 7 -- A Family Hero

The summer of 1948 I turned fourteen and my father decided to take my mother and I to visit a cousin of his and her family who lived in Bandera, Texas. Bandera is a small town on State Highway 16 fifty miles northwest of San Antonio on the beautiful Medina River. It was founded around 1853 although ranchers and farmers had lived in the area since the 1830s. After the Civil War the town boomed as a staging area for cattle drives up the Western Trail. Later it became famous for it’s Dude Ranches, actually it still is.

The cousin we were going to visit was named Ouida and she was married to a member of a family that had lived in the same house since the 1840s and his name was Frank “Big Daddy” Montague. Hmmm does that sound "texan" enough for you? It was a large ranch where they raised mostly sheep at the time. They also owned the one bank in Bandera. They had four sons, Charles, who had died on Tarawa during WW2, Bruce, who was a fighter pilot in the Marines and who had just come home shortly before we arrived. Then there was Frank Jr. , the oldest who ran the bank and the youngest, George who was studying to be a priest. Ouida’s mother, Laura, lived with them. Laura was my grandfathers sister, she was in her ninties, but still very active. She taught her great grandchildren French and also how to play the piano.

The old ranch house had been added on to over all those years and had grown from a tiny two room cabin with walls two feet thick, to a sprawling two story home that maintained the original two rooms with narrow slits on either side of the fireplace that they had used to shoot at attacking Indians. The door frame into that original part of the house had all manner of interesting things from cattle brands, to names and dates, all carved in the surface. It was a fascinating place and I remember being totally awed.

Our first night there, they served dinner out on a broad screened in porch. Young Mexican girls that worked for them scurried about setting the table and then serving us, bringing the next dish whenever Ouida gently rang a small silver bell.

Just as we were finishing dinner, a racy little Ford convertible with its top down pulled up out front and a tall, lanky guy in jeans, a white shirt and a white cowboy hat and boots climbed out and headed for the door of the porch where we were eating. I remember thinking that my heart had stopped beating because with his jet black hair, blue eyes and deeply tanned skin he was the most handsome man I was sure I had ever seen. He was Bruce, Ouida and Big Daddy’s third son and he had just returned from the war, he was a Marine pilot and cousin or not, I was in love!

Later that evening after dinner, Bruce invited all of us to go with him to one of the restaurants in town that had a dance floor and music where he said he would teach me to dance the “Cotton Eyed Joe”! He led us out to the convertible, but instead of opening the door for me, he lifted me up and set me in the front seat. I was certain that I had died and gone to heaven – anyone who could lift my long legs off the ground had won my heart forever. Grinning, my parents then climbed into the back seat and we headed for town. I did learn to do the “Cotton-Eyed Joe”, the “Put Your Little Foot” and a couple of others I can’t remember and it was the most exciting and fun night that I had ever had.

Bruce was also a world champion calf and trick roper and he was getting ready to compete in an event at Madison Square Garden and the day after our night on the dance floor I got a clue as to why I had gotten all the special attention. He was practicing roping calves and he really needed someone to open the gate and shoo the calf out of the shute. It was August, it was hotter than hell, but I happily spent the entire day in the heat and the dust shushing calves out for him to rope. I was a little put out when I learned that he had a real date that night, but we were leaving the next morning anyway and my parents wanted to get to bed early. Next time, I thought to myself.

It was a number of years before I did go back to Bandera. That time it was for an entire summer during which I worked on one of the Dude Ranches. I was surprised to find out as I did some research for this piece, that it is still operating. I also bumped into Bruce years later, he was married and had children of his own by then, but we both laughed about that night years earlier. The years slipped away, I married and my husband was stationed in San Antonio. One weekend I took him to Bandera and we spent the weekend on the ranch that my cousins had converted into a dude ranch. Later when my first daughter, Robyn, was born, my cousin, Ouida, became her godmother. But time slipped by, there was Vietnam and then we were stationed in Europe for three years. We ended up living in Montana and we never made it back to Bandera. I've thought about it many times, often wished that I could go back for a visit.

As I was doing the research I also came across an obituary for that tall, dark and handsome first love. He had a remarkable life as you can see.

Obituaries for Sunday, February 19, 2006

As a member of one of Bandera's pioneer ranching families, Bruce began his ranching duties at a young age. It was in these childhood years that he was taught the art of trick roping. This became a lifelong pastime that he shared with thousands of people all over the world. Entertaining others was encouraged by his parents. ...Bruce grew up a member of the St. Stanislaus Catholic Church and attended St. Joseph's Catholic Grade School in Bandera. After graduating from Central Catholic High School in San Antonio, Texas, he was drafted at the age of 18, and chose the United States Marine Corps to serve his country. After boot camp, Bruce received 'high man' honors at ordinance school in Norman, Okla. He then would serve as an SBD air gunner in World War II and later flew Corsair fighter-bombers in post-war China. During the Korean War, Bruce flew 147 combat missions with Marine Fighter Squadron 311 and then, as an exchange pilot with the USAF, became a flight commander flying F-86 Sabre jets for the 51st Fighter Interceptor Wing. During this conflict, he had the responsibility of leading Ted Williams (Hall of Fame Boston Red Sox) and friend John Glenn (first man to orbit the Earth) on their first combat missions. In addition to flying, he was involved in ground combat as a forward air controller, in which capacity he played a vital role during the first battle of The Hook. He received the bronze star for directing more strikes than any other Marine forward air controller. On one occasion he directed 48 air strikes within a 48 hour period. At the end of the war he is believed to have had the most jet combat time of any Marine. After Korea, Bruce attended Naval Test Pilot School in Patuxent River, Md. He then served as a test pilot, among other duties testing air weaponry at the Naval Ordinance Test Station, China Lake, Calif. He also served as executive officer of Marine Fighter Squadron 114, assigned to the carrier Franklin D. Roosevelt. In Vietnam he was commanding officer of Marine Fighter/Attack Squadron 122, flying F-4 Phantom's from Da Nang. He flew 188 combat missions over Hanoi, over the Ho Chi Minh Trail, and while providing ground support at battles such as Dong Ha in 1968. He and his squadron played a vital role in the defense of Da Nang during the 1968 Tet attack. He then became air officer in charge of Marine air support in the Khe Sanh area. In all, Lt. Col. ...Having received a business administration degree from St. Mary's University, Bruce then pursued a career in real estate as a land broker in Bandera for 30 years. He was also a member of First Baptist Church Bandera. He took particular delight in entertaining children with his trick roping at schools, festivals and community events. He was an inaugural performer at the Texas Folklife Festival, where he participated for more than 21 years. Bruce loved roping, flying and spending time with his family. Many of his daredevil airplane antics and tricks are ingrained in local legend, such as buzzing Main Street, the Montague Ranch and other Bandera landmarks with planes. In his last years, Bruce dedicated much of his time as a board member of the San Antonio State School, serving in all the different officer capacities. He also spent a great deal of time writing a military memoir with his son Bruce Jr., titled "The Hook."

Looking Back - Part 5 - WWII Memories

Today I was looking through old posts and diaries, trying to decide what to write about for my next Looking Back series and I found myself thinking about a time during my own childhood – I guess once the memory takes a backward glance, it gets curious about what else it can root out to look at and this is what it found today.

My family moved to Monahans, Texas in the winter of 1942 when I was eight years old. We lived in a tiny house while my father looked for work. Once he was settled in a permanent job, we moved into a two bedroom house with a lovely yard and a nice big garage. I got to have my very first pet, a black mixed breed dog named Moe.

Soon after I started school in Monahans the teachers decided I should move up to the fourth grade as I was considerably ahead of those in the third grade at the time. It wasn’t the best move because while I had no trouble doing the work, socially I simply didn’t fit in with fourth graders. Plus I was the new kid on the block, my hair was too curly and red, not to mention that I had buck teeth at that time -- well, you get the picture. Not the most fun time for an eight year old. On top of that I was an only child with parents who were far more absorbed in their own problems to spend a lot of time with me. Their relationship wasn't good; my father had frequent affairs and they quarreled constantly. At that time, it seemed to me that they always looked at me with a puzzled expression as if trying to figure out just where in the hell I'd come from in the first place. At least that was how it felt to me at the time.

During this same period a huge new air base was being built in a tiny community about twenty miles from Monahans on Highway 80, about 230 miles east of El Paso. The little town was called Pyote and the air base was nicknamed "Rattlesnake Bomber Base" for the numerous rattlesnake dens that were uncovered during its construction.

For many men in the Air Force at that time it was their last station in the states before heading overseas. The first troops were assigned within a month, well before the base was completed. Troops and civilian technicians poured in, and the population of the base grew steadily to a peak of over 6,500 in October 1944.

Within four months of its opening, the base had become the largest bomber installation in the country. Despite morale problems caused by isolation and the shortage of off-base recreation and of dependents' housing, Pyote achieved a distinguished record in molding inexperienced individuals into effective bomber crews.

And it was this lack of recreation and dependents’ housing that brought about an enormous change in my life. My parents rented out my bedroom to one couple from the base, then they put three beds and some second hand furniture into our garage. My father found an old piece of carpeting and my mother made curtains for the windows. The family car was parked behind the garage on blocks as the tires had worn out and it was difficult if not impossible to replace them during that time. When the garage was more or less livable, the wives of three additional pilots/bomber crew members moved in. The men themselves were required to live on the base, but when they got off in the evenings they would come into town and spend as many hours as possible with their wives. I can still hear them singing and laughing as a bunch of them would take off down the street, on foot, to search for a cafe, a bar, whatever -- there weren't many, so the choice was limited.

But suddenly, I had brothers and sisters! These guys and their wives were, for the most part, a long way from home, it was isolated, it was barren, it was windy with vicious sandstorms, cold, cold in the winter and hotter than hell in the summer. But instead of complaining, they all made the most of their time there – primarily because of being able to see each other as much as possible before the men shipped out into the unknown, not knowing whether they would make it back from the war or not. And I became the little sister to all of them and they spoiled me royally and, needless to say, I loved it.

One of the pilots brought his fiance to town and they had their wedding in the small chapel on the base and I was the flower girl. I was one of the few kids in Monahans during that time that had CHOCOLATE candy! And bubble gum – gum, period! All those delightful goodies that were so sparse and hard to get during the war. Needless to say, this improved my social standing in school considerably.

The couples moved in and they moved out, the men went overseas, wives returned to their homes all over the country and another group would move in. I slept on the sofa bed for nearly three years and loved every minute of it! The guys wrote me letters and sent me presents from overseas, some that were sent to the South Pacific even made me jewelry out of shells they found. Their wives stayed in touch with us for the remainder of the war. Many celebrated the holidays with us and they were my best holidays ever. I had never felt so loved!

Before the war came to an end there was gradually less need for off base housing and I finally moved back into my room, the car moved back into the garage. I knew it was a good thing we were winning the war and when it was finally over I jumped up and down and celebrated along with everyone else, but I missed my “family”.

We continued to hear from many of those that had shared our house. Some of the men didn’t make it back and I cried for them. After the war a few of the couples actually returned to Monahans to visit us and it was wonderful. We heard from many of them for years.

I hadn’t thought of that time in many, many years. It’s been another fun look back.

Looking Back - Part 4 - Discovering Another Side

Sunday morning I was reading a post written by Lin of Letters from Lin in which she wrote about being a dancer in her younger days and the companies she had danced with, the ballets she had performed in during that time. Her post brought back a lot of memories for me as well. Memories about fun things I did in my twenties – as I’m sure many of you can do as well.

When I was in my early twenties and living in Dallas, Texas, working and wondering what else I would like to do with my life I became friends with a young woman originally from Germany. She was involved in a theater group, I got curious and began going to the theater with her. I had no interest in acting -- well, maybe it was more a lack of confidence than a lack of interest, but I did think it was fun working back stage, helping the actors with their lines, being available backstage to prompt them during a performance. It wasn’t long before I could recite the entire play from memory.

The group was performing a play called “The Fantastiks” – their spelling, not my typo – and some of you may have seen it at one time. It was on Broadway and was later made into a movie. It was winter and there was a wild flu bug going around and the girl who had the leading female role in the play got sick just before the weekend performance. We had a sold out house and no one to take her place.

I arrived at the theater early that evening – for whatever reason, and found the director waiting for me in the lobby. He told me that I knew all of her lines, her costumes would fit me and he needed me to get back stage and get dressed. I was stunned, I was terrified, I was excited as he and the stage manager hustled me back to the dressing room.

The performance went quite well and when the final curtain fell, the director came out to tell the audience what had happened and he brought me out on the stage. The applause was mindboggling as I received a standing ovation and then three bouquets of flowers. And that was the beginning of one more era of my life.

About that same time Baruch Lumet – the father of the Hollywood director, Sidney Lumet –was volunteering at the same theater, teaching acting classes and I began attending. I slowly began to lose my Texas accent – it didn’t go away completely, but at least most people never guessed that I had been born and raised in Texas. I continued to be very active in the theater group for several years.

The director with whom I had worked with originally called on me several times to perform in various theater projects of his and in the spring of 1961 he was putting together a musical review for a local coffee house – we had those back then rather than just bars – and they offered musical entertainment of various kinds six nights a week. I was preparing to return to the university by then and was trying very hard to stash enough money away to pay for my first year tuition when my director friend approached me, told me what his plans were for the coffee house and asked if I’d be interested in performing with the group. When he told me what they were willing to pay, my decision was a no brainer. If I performed through the summer, I’d have enough to pay for more than my first year. Needless to say, I accepted the offer and prepared to start summer school at the same time.

It was a wild summer to say the least. I was taking three classes – the first one at seven in the morning. I was home by noon, had to tackle the homework and be at the theater by eight in the evening. I usually got home between one and two in the morning, slept four hours and got up in time to drive thirty miles to Denton, Texas where the University of North Texas is located.

The show was going on tour in the fall and I was asked to join them, but I had to say no, I had determined that I was very serious about finishing my degree and besides I’d lost so much weight, they were having to continually alter my costumes and I figured it was time to quit.

I never regretted my decision, but it was a truly fun and exciting time in my life and I felt -- still do, that it was the beginning of a whole new take on life, on me and what I was capable of achieving.

It frequently seems that too much of the time we tend to focus on the bad periods in our lives rather than the good. But for a change, this has been a fun-look back today, to a creative, rewarding time in my life. I believe we all have those good memories of some kind. I also feel that we should be willing to look back, to search for them and keep them around to remind us during the bad times of the joy, the fun, the fulfillment we have enjoyed in the past. And a big thanks to Lin for reminding me to do just that.

Looking Back - Part 2

Earlier this week I posted a piece about my life simply because I had stumbled across something I had written several years ago and viewing it from where I am now, I found it rather interesting and decided to share it. The response to that post has greatly surprised me and what surprised me even more were the number of people who urged me to write more. Well, I’ll never write another book. To begin with I mostly wrote mysteries that I used as my escape when things got bad – well, look at it this way – you can kill off the “bad guys” in a book and never have to worry about going to jail! Be that as it may, I wrote eight of them, never made much of an effort at getting them published, past a few inquiries. I didn’t write to get published, but just because I loved to write, it was a fun way to have an adventure etc. etc. etc. But over the past ten years I’ve had good reasons to reflect on my life – then and now. And now I have a place to share those thoughts, reflections, memories, lessons learned with people that I’ve come to care for so very much. Again, I would like to thank you all for your warm and generous comments.

So, that being said I will post a “Looking Back” piece once or twice a week and I hope that all of you who have responded so warmly, so generously, will enjoy what I have to say/write and that perhaps you will find an answer or two for yourself or just something worth reflecting on. I'm not posting in any particular order, you can read one here and there or follow along week to week.

Reflections

How softly the days come and go now, so much easier to see the possibilities as light filters softly through the lace curtains I once felt were too prosaic, too frilly, too soft for me, that busy working woman, with responsibilities and always on the go -- or so it seemed at the time. Now lace suits me quite well and through them I can view my life as a mosaic, filled with light and shadows, like the patterns the late afternoon sun sketches on the walls. I wonder, not for the first time, why youth is wasted on the young? Worrying about a date for Saturday night, a new zit, trips to the mall. Bits and pieces scattered, lost like scattered beads from a broken necklace. Then one day there is the need, the urge to gather them, restring them. The result is not what I thought it would be so many years ago, but a new collage, a new, sparkling, different gem, or maybe I was just determined to recapture the glow -- the joy, the beauty that somehow had evaded me since I had retired. Well, whatever, it’s mine now.



The Journey Begins

Several years ago when I was living in Portland, OR I heard about a poetry writing class that was being held near where I lived. Poetry wasn't anything I had tried to write before and I wasn't sure I had any talent whatsoever for writing it, but I decided it sounded interesting and signed up to attend. It was a six week class, we had an excellent teacher and I really enjoyed it -- don't know that I'm particularly talented as a poet, but it was fun. I hoped perhaps there would be a follow-up course.

Several weeks after the course was over I received a notice that there would be a life writing class and my former teacher urged me to give it a try. I did and made a good friend there. It was she who urged me to start a blog. I wasn't too keen on the idea at first, but after I returned to Seattle, I was cleaning some stuff off my computer and ran across the lessons from both the poetry and the life writing classes. After reading them again a few days later, I decided they might be a good place to start with a blog. I realize now that I was looking for the person, the "me" that I thought I had lost somewhere along the way.

Re-reading both the poetry and the life writing lessons made me take another look at not only the hurtful things that I had tried to forget over the years -- those things that have a way of haunting you no matter how hard you try to put them away, but a look at the fun things as well. They brought some tears, some laughter, but above all, the realization of what a truly wonderful life I've had. Hurts? yes, of course, but successes as well and certainly not the least of those are my four children.

So, who knows where all this "stuff" comes from or why we hang on to it, try to bury it or sometimes even try to re-live it. The good and the bad all are part of who we are, so maybe at this stage of the game it's time to make peace with it, celebrate it, make the most of it, because that "stuff" is what has made us who we are, not only older, wiser but in a lot of cases, more fun, more free, more loving, more forgiving, more understanding. In other words all of it can or has made us the person we are today. So celebrate her/him and I lift my glass of wine to all of you this evening.

A Look Back

For reasons that are unimportant, I found myself looking back to a difficult time in my life as I was attempting to adjust to growing older, not working and wondering just what in the hell I was doing or even trying to do. Several years ago I had taken the train to California to spend Christmas with my daughter. It was a good visit and I was in a good mood when I took the bus from Santa Rosa to Martinez where I would catch the train back to Portland -- where I was living at the time.

Well, as luck would have it, a train had been derailed near Los Angeles and the train that I was waiting for was going to be delayed a number of hours -- as in six to eight! But that night I happened to meet another passenger whose name was Esther and we began to talk as we looked for some way to make the hours pass a little more quickly.

We ended up talking a lot about our lives, what we had done, what we hadn't done etc. and at one point, just before we finally boarded our train to Oregon, she looked at me almost wistfully and said, "you should write the story of your life." I just shook my head and smiled -- who would want to read it, I thought.

I never saw Esther again although we did correspond for a while. But later as I continued to struggle to find that place, that comfort zone, I thought again about what she had said.

This is a piece that I wrote about that time for my first blog that I lost in cyber world and wasn't able to regain.

Tuesday, July 1, 2008

I have enjoyed my life, but for a few years I think I lost the ability to really appreciate it. After my encounter with Esther I began to take stock and do some re-evaluating. I have done a lot of things over the years and most of them were interesting, some exciting, a few scary, some costly and some just plain desperate. At the time it was hard for me to be objective, and looking back it seemed that being ready and willing to reach for the proverbial stars may have created an interesting life, but more often than not it had spawned concern, criticism, exasperation and condemnation – first from my parents, then friends – not to mention my ex-husband and four children. But perhaps that’s the cost of living an “interesting life”.

Over the past several years I have met a number of people who have said much the same things that Esther did six years ago and I have found myself looking in the mirror, trying almost desperately to see the person these people believed me to be.

And now in the summer of 2008 I find I have spent a considerable amount of time reflecting on some of these conversations, my life in general and why I so often see that wistful look in a lot of older women’s eyes. What I have discovered is that too many women from my generation were taught more about caution than taking chances, about being safe rather than seeking to explore or try new things, and for the most part, they were certainly no encouraged to find new ways of looking at themselves or the world.

As a result of all this I’m rediscovering a feeling of gratitude for the things I have done and as a reminder for future dark times, I began making a list. For starters, in my twenties I worked for an airline and took advantage of cheap travel opportunities to spend a lot of time exploring the East coast, particularly New York City and Boston. I enjoyed a Mardi Gras in New Orleans, a romantic weekend in Boston watching Harvard and Yale play football with a handsome Navy lieutenant that I had met in New Orleans during that same Mardi Gras. I returned to college when I was twenty-eight and became a teacher. I married an Olympic Silver Medalist and later when he returned from Vietnam, we lived in Germany and Spain for three years. At a formal ball following a fencing tournament in Heidelberg, which my husband’s team won, I was toasted by and invited to dance by the Commander of the French armed forces in Germany at the time. A “Cinderella moment” to be sure. We sailed among the Greek islands and visited temples in Delphi and saw the site of the original Olympics. I gave birth to four healthy, incredible children and adored being a full time mom in Montana. Of having the adventure of traveling with my family in our Winnebago up and down the entire west coast and Canada. Much later I cruised the Western Caribbean, marveled at Chichen Itza and learned how to snorkel off the coast of Cozumel. I lived for a year in San Miguel de Allende, a 450 year old Colonial City in the mountains of Central Mexico where I had the opportunity of watching their version of the running of the bulls, exploring the other colonial cities with a wonderful guide, enjoying fabulous food, meeting many delightful people and learning to speak Spanish with relative fluency. I took up ballroom dancing in my sixties and learned to dance a wicked tango. Over the years I have worked at a number of interesting jobs in addition to teaching. I helped to set up one of the first Independent Living Centers in Montana and was able to be on the ground floor of a Japanese silicon wafer manufacturing company that was building it’s first plant in the states and learning to speak Japanese while I was at it.

I was always willing to take chances, try new things, and even pursue the dream of maybe some day being a writer – in spite of the odds against success. None of these things are out of reach to anyone, but unfortunately the emphasis was always put on the dangers of falling on your face rather than the excitement of discovery. And the consequences of failure were painted pretty graphically. Granted, you do run the risk of stumbling and/or falling on your face – I can testify to that, but you just pick yourself up and try a different strategy and do it again. Failure isn’t the end of the world, just the possible beginning of a new one. I think many of us were more or less victims of our parent’s “Depression mentality”. Caution, being sensible, that was the advice – well, a little of that is good, but a little goes a long way.

But that same spring there was something else that crept into my mind as I sat around watching Oregon’s eternal rain and reflecting – I was on my own, had been for over twenty years and sometimes I would find myself looking at other women with their husbands and homes and security and for a moment I’d feel just a little wistful myself. But then when I talked to many of these women -- not all -- or overhear their conversations, I’d discover that many of them only remained married to their husbands out of fear of being alone, not because they loved and were loved with joy and passion (yes, passion at our age is possible), and not because they actually shared their life with their best friend, but more often than not it is just to keep from being alone. I don’t know about you, but I find that pretty sad. I don’t object to my own company that much and I don’t feel that alone. I guess for me the worst thing would be feeling that I’d settled for second best and I’m willing to bet it’s less than what most people, men or women really want.

There are times, however, when in spite of filling your life with wonderful and exciting things, you can find yourself floundering in a quagmire of some kind and you’re not exactly sure just why or how you got there. That’s where I’ve found myself when I first met Esther and the question I wanted to throw at her was: “Yeah, a great life, but look at where I am now.” Some days it’s hard to see these situations as just another challenge, but I’m beginning to realize that’s all they are and I’m climbing out of this hole just like I’ve climbed out of the others in the past. The rocky cliffs to scale and the cavernous caves to crawl out of are just put there to make the journey interesting. I’ve always wanted it all – I haven’t changed in spite of skinned dreams and bruised hopes.

Looking back to September 11, I remember thinking that it was a wake up call to all of us who are wasting time with things, jobs, or partners that don’t fill the empty spaces inside. But maybe the worst of all is fretting over the past – it’s dead, folks, hang a wreath on it and move on. We’re each given one life, one opportunity to make it the best it can be and that’s going to mean something different to everyone, but the important thing is to not waste anymore time in finding just what it is that lights your fire. It’s reassuring to realize that the joy of discovery and self-realization is possible at any age and it has helped me reaffirm my belief that it doesn’t matter if I’m late getting to the station or that this may be the last train, it’s not leaving without me.

Counting Your Blessings

I was cleaning out some files yesterday and ran across a photo that I thought I had lost. It's this picture of three of my brood. Kerith was here from California and David was up from Texas to visit Adam several years ago, before I moved to Seattle. I'm always amazed when I happen to run across photos of them even now as I remember being told that I would never be able to have children. And I always remember the fun I had walking into that doctor's office years later, with three of them and pregnant with the fourth. The look on his face was priceless!


We've had a couple of gorgeous days, with brilliant blue skies, reasonable tempertures and I know spring is on the way -- even if the rain returns later today as is predicted. Life is good and it seemed like the perfect day to count my blessings!

Happy Memories

I watched a very interesting documentary tonight about Kris Kristofferson and it stirred up a host of memories from the past. I have always been a fan of his and, of course, agreed with his politics and views. But it also led me back many years, to other times, other places. Sometimes that’s fun and sometimes it’s not, depending on what memories you stir up. But tonight this brought back lovely memories of my family traveling in our Winnebago all over the west and northwest and Canada. Memories of our four kids, sitting in the back of the motor home, on our bed, listening to what they called their “traveling music”; music they kept in the motor home, specific tapes (that was in the days of 8 track tapes) that they saved for our trips and as far as I can remember, those were the only times they listened to that particular music. Johnny Cash, Neil Diamond and Kris Kristofferson were among their special “travelin’” favorites.

As they got older they all moved onto different genres, musicians, singers and songwriters, but even today they have some of those “old” guys tucked away in their music collections. In fact, the year that I lived in Mexico, my oldest son, David and my youngest daughter, Kerith, came down for Christmas. David had gone back to college the year before and that Christmas his budget was really tight. My Christmas gift to him that year had been his ticket to join Kerith and I for the holidays and his gift for me was a CD he had burned with all of Neil Diamond’s old favorites, the ones we had played and sung along with, and danced to while the motor home moved down the highways, on many of those lovely trips.

So, as I listened to Kristofferson tonight, not only talking about his life and his battles for human rights, but singing some of the old songs that I could still remember all the words to and sing along with and I felt that lovely, warm glow that comes with beautiful, happy memories. I feel so blessed to have so many of those memories to enjoy; recapturing those happy, fun-filled times.

Yes, it has been a lovely evening and I shall sleep well tonight.