Monday, December 07, 2009

Monday Evening

A ramble tonight from the amazing storyteller phair.
And, somehow, it has become December again. This year it is particularly poignant. It is the last month of the last year of the first decade of the new millennium. Or, something significantly cerebral like that. It is more than the beginning of the end of another year. It is the end of the end of our first decade into 2K.

How are we doing so far, do you think?

If I remember it right, all we were worried about when 1999 rolled into 2000 was the computers getting confused and shutting down plunging our way of life back to 1899 technology. If only that was all that happened. It would have been a cake walk; to turn a Cheneyian phrase.

Instead, we are looking back at a decade of carnage. If somebody predicted on New Year's Eve 1999 that the United States would suffer a catastrophic main land attack, launch two military offensives against two separate and unrelated countries, and crash the world wide economy, I would have laughed. US, start a war? PAH SHAW!

"We don't start wars, we finish 'em." That's what my Dad's brother used to say.
My Dad's brother suffered PTSD from his military service in the South Pacific during WWII; 'the big one' - my Dad always called it that. Back when I was a kid, PTSD was not the term used to describe my crazy old uncle who went gray at 22 while still a soldier; a soldier trying to stay alive in the Philippines until MacArthur could figure out what to do next. No, people didn't say my uncle was sick with a mental health disorder from the horror he witness but could never talk about. Nope, they just said he was 'shell shocked.' It was a so much better diagnosis than the fellows who came back as 'basket cases.'

My uncle was, to be blunt, weird. He had horrible hygiene. He ate hamburger three meals a day. He smoked like he was on fire and was careless with the ashes. He would burn you with the cigarette and yell, "watch my butt." He thought farting in public was acceptable behavior. He told crappy jokes. "What does a cheap hotel and a tight pair of pants have in common...no ballroom." He was a racist and a sexist. And, he detested my mother. His only redeeming value, in my eyes, was he loved my Dad. My Dad loved him too. My uncle was the big brother who'd take the lickin' from their Mom for him. We ain't talking spankin' either.

I grew not to like my uncle. As a kid, he seemed great because he always brought candy and soda and gave us money. As a teenager, he was a total embarrassment. The feeling was reciprocal. He had no use for teenagers. Teens don't enjoy amusement park outings chaperoned by their crazy uncle who likes to gamble on rigged games of chance. Teens didn't like to go for long, pointless walks with a meandering old man. My siblings and I called them death marches. Teenagers can be unwittingly cruel and accurate.

All his nieces and nephews outgrew him long before he got Alzheimer's. We stopped taking strolls with him years before his legs finally gave out. I, in particular, had few nice things to say about him and even less good feelings to feel about him. It hurt my Dad but I just couldn't get by how much my uncle hated my Mom. My feelings were only compounded by my folks silence to keep the peace.
At work the other day, I getting water boarded by the company compliance officer. She's was drowning me with demands. During a lull in the torture, she tried to be conversational. The fits and starts of the stilted exchange culminated in her connecting my name with my uncle's. She sneered just a little with a hint of disgust.

"I know what you're thinking," I blurted. "But, you don't know what he went through. He was in the Pacific in world war 2. He saw some horrible stuff but could never talk about it. It messed him up something terrible."

She shifted nervously and said, "He was a kind man."

I laughed out loud. "Oh no, he wasn't. He was crazier than a box of doorknobs but he went crazy trying to save the world. He thought it was worth it because nobody would ever have to fight like him and his buddies again."

My sister listened to my story a few days later. She sighed and said, "Dad would be so happy to hear you."

"Huh?" towards the end of the week I'm very dim and slow on the uptake.

"You defended him."

"No, I did not," I was indignant. "I did no such thing."

"It's okay," she reassured me. "It doesn't mean you changed your feelings. You can continue to not like him and make fun of him but nobody else better try it. Family is family."

And, here I am this cold winter night as this terrible decade drags to a close, pondering a man long dead and nearly forgotten. He fought a war most folks agree was necessary. The evil tearing across Europe was obvious and the threat to civilization was clear. Yet, it destroyed him emotionally. So much so, that more than 60 years after he came home a stranger remembers him as the creepy neighbor.
I wonder how the soldiers returning from our ambiguous wars will be remembered in 60 years when their nieces talk to a stranger who only knew them after their service to our nation. A nation that only used to finish wars not start 'em.

My uncle thought he fought so nobody else would have to go back out there and fight again.

Too bad he was wrong.

phair


Phair, thank you for sharing. As sad as your stories are, most leave me smiling as well. I'm glad you share with us and I hope you continue to for a very long time.

Now to the rest of you, enjoy the update and feel free to let phair know what you think as well.

Have a great night.

Elisa

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