Melancholy

I stumbled across this today while looking for something else.

Feeling a little melancholy today, I guess.

Death is nothing at all, I have only slipped away into the next room. I am I, and you are you. Whatever we were to each other, we still are.

Call me by my old familiar name, Speak to me in the easy way you always used. Put not difference in your tone, Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow. 

Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes we enjoyed together. Play, smile, think of me, pray for me. Let my name be ever the household word that it always was. Let it be spoken without effort, Without the trace of a shadow on it.

Life means all that it ever meant. It is the same as it ever was, There is unbroken continuity.

Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight?

I am waiting for you, for an interval, Somewhere very near, Just round the corner. All is well. Nothing is past; Nothing is lost. 

One brief moment and all will be as it was before. How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again!" 

~ Canon Henry Scott-Holland, 1847-1918,Canon of St Paul's Cathedral

Three Weeks Years On

It's hard to believe that it's been three years since I've heard Lex's voice. Actually, in some ways, it feel like much longer.

March 6th was the appropriate date - the anniversary of that sad event. I should have written then, I suppose.

But you see, March 6th is also my youngest daughter's birthday. And, interesting story there - on the first anniversary of Lex's death, I was painfully aware of these two polar opposite events occuring on the same day. On the second anniversary, the fact that March 6th was both the Kit Kat's birthday and the day Lex died was most definitely on my mind from the moment I opened FaceBook. But this year was different.

My baby turned 19, you see (and, by the by, what the hell is up with that?!) and, I am sad to say, the fact that it was also an anniversary of another, much sadder sort slipped my mind. Slipped my mind until I read a Face Book post written by a good friend who, appropriately, I never would have met but for Lex. And then, once again, I experienced that jarring sensation when that juxtaposition caught me unaware and struck me hard - the date my baby was born was also the date that Lex died.

I am "lucky", I supppose, (if that be the right word) ... yes, I *still* miss Lex; but, perhaps not to the depth, to the degree some do. I refer not, of course, to to his "real world" family and friends (no contest there, I am sure), but rather to the more faithful (for lack of a better word) Lexicans, as witnessed on the Neptunus Lex Super Secret FaceBook page.

I still read semi-regularly over there (if reading the first four or five posts at the top of the page a few times a week counts as semi-regularly) and pop up with a comment or post occasionally (okay, very, very occasionally), but ... actually I kind of wonder how people (not just my NepLex friends but all my FB friends) manage to find the time to spend as much time as they seem to on social networks while still meeting the other obligations and needs (including their own) that our reality entails. But that be another story for another day ...

At any rate, I just popped in here to say .. what?

Hmmm, strangely I don't really know. Perhaps just to state that not just as is so evident on the Nep Lex page and elsewhere on the interwebs, Lex is still missed by many significantly quieter voices in the blogsphere (including those who can really can only be counted as semi-irregular regular bloggers, at best).

Fair winds and following seas, Sir ...

Never Forgotten

A FaceBook post by a friend really struck home tonight. She was reposting one of Jann Arden's posts that started like this

I had a break through of sorts a few days ago, right after I had a mini 'breakdown'.... I asked my mom if she thought she would ever forget me and she said, "Well, my brain might, but my heart won't". Those eight words took my breath away. 

"Well, my brain might, but my heart won't " ... those words really struck home for me.

When my Mom was so sick and struggling with dementia, I was very lucky in that there was only one occasion when she didn't know who she was when I came to visit in the hospital.

I bustled around the room, doing my thing and yakking away and suddenly realized something was off. So I sat down on the side of the bed and asked if she knew who I was. "Of course I do" she replied. "No you don't". "Yes, I do". "Okay then, who am I?". The moment of truth ... she looked at me with such peace and warmth in her eyes and simply said "someone who loves me very much". I still tear up just to write of it.

A few months later, after popping up to the hospital for a quick unexpected visit one evening, I told her that I had to leave to pick up my youngest daughter (insert name). It had been a particularly bad day for Mom (they had moved her to another room and her mind had just totally shut down) so when something didn't seem right, I asked "You remember Kit Kat, right?" "No, I don't think I do... ".

I took my daughter's framed school picture out of the closet where they had put it after the move and placed it in her hands. "Now you remember Kit Kat, right?". "No, I'm not sure". I left her with the picture, dropped the subject and started talking about something else. When I turned around and looked at her, she was repeatedly softly stroking my daughter's face on the photograph and once again she had the most peaceful look about her.

When I left that evening, she told me that she had been so afraid that I wouldn't find her because they moved her to another room. I replied, much like you would to soothe a child's fears, that no matter where they moved her, I would always find her. She stopped, seemed to consider that for a moment and then responded, "Yes, yes, I believe you will". Her face visibly relaxed when she said it.

I still miss my Mom desperately even though it's been over six years since that horrible day. But remembering (and writing about) moments such as these, while they pull my heart strings and bring tears to my eyes also bring a smile to my face (albeit a sad one) and a feeling of warmth.

On that note, I came across this poem shortly after Mom died. It, too, spoke to me, which was surprising because I am really not a poetry person.

Which, yeah, I believe I shared that with you before. But maybe I'm wrong, maybe, just maybe when it comes to times of loss, I am. At any rate, I will bid you a fond adieu and leave you with this poem.

And the sentiment that, no matter what, I am so glad that I have this blog that has captured, in perpetuity, such important moments in my life. Because even in reliving rereading such terrible moments of pain and hurt and loss, I can still find love, warmth, (occasionally humour) and a sense of connectedness.

Death is nothing at all, 
I have only slipped away into the next room. 
I am I, and you are you. 
Whatever we were to each other, we still are. 

Speak to me in the easy way you always used. 
Put not difference in your tone, 
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow. 

Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes we enjoyed together. 
Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.
Let my name be ever the household word that it always was. 
Let it be spoken without effort, 
Without the trace of a shadow on it. 

Life means all that it ever meant. 
It is the same as it ever was, 
There is unbroken continuity. 
Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight? 

I am waiting for you, for an interval, 
Somewhere very near, 
Just round the corner. 
All is well.

Nothing is past.
Nothing is lost. 
One brief moment and all will be as it was before.
How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again!"

Lest We Forget

Once upon a time, I use to post on the anniversary of 9/11.

The fact that I haven't recently doesn't mean that I no longer care or have somehow lost interest ... no, I believe it just somehow summarizes the present state of my life.

But when I came across this video for the very first time today, it having been posted on the Super Secret Neptunus Lex Face Book page, I knew I simply must share it with you. Before it is swallowed up once against in the mist of cyberspace.

And so I shall. 

It is beautiful, hauntingly so; don't you agree?

There's a hole in the world tonight. Don't let there be a hole in the world tomorrow.

Disappointed

I must admit I am quite disappointed in myself.

This is the first time, since I started this blog in 2007, that I missed posting for an entire month. Not that my record over the last couple of years was anything to be particularly proud of but still ...

My. Bad.

However, the one bright spot (and in my favour) is the fact that I did significantly change the look of the blog last month. And I think it looks mighty purty at the moment, if I do say so myself.

~  ~  ~

By the by, you might notice a new pic at the top of the sidebar. It's been six months since that horrible day and Nov. 9th would have been Lex's 52nd birthday.

Please raise a glass in honour of His Honour.

And if you’re wondering whether you can buy me a beer, the answer is yes.
Yes, you can.

Still Missing

Time goes on. As does life, doesn't it?

And although time doesn't really heal all wounds, it does tend to provide a protective coating, a scab, if you will. Which, I suppose, is why it hurts so bad if and when that scab, for whatever reason, gets ripped off.

And, along the same vein, Facebook is, of course, Facebook.

And so it is that I receive a notification every time a friend posts on the Neptunus Lex Super Secret FB Page (first rule of the Neptunus Lex Super Secret FB Page - don't talk about the Neptunus Lex Super Secret FB page). Meaning I spend a fair bit of time on Lex's page, keeping up with what's going on.

But as the talk, in general, moves to being less and less about Lex and more and more about other items of "general interest" (defining the term "general interest" to mean of interest to those with a military and/or aviation backgrounds/fixations), it becames less and less satisfying.

It didn't happen immediately, of course. I followed what was being posted and found find a lot of it interesting. But after a while (defined as last Wednesday, I believe), I came to realize that the Neptunus Lex Super Secret FB page was no longer really doing it for me.  I was starting to miss Lex. Again.

I say "again" because, as I noted earlier, time does tend to dull wounds, eventually, in its own way. And life goes on. But this past Wednesday, I found myself "needing" more Lex. And so it was that I headed over The Lexicans blog.

I haven't involved myself a whole lot with that blog. Sure, I read there. Occasionally. But I haven't posted and really (at least for now) feel no need to. I guess what I am trying to say is that although I know it's there, although I "know" most (if not all) the bloggers and I visit occasionally, I don't feel any real connection with the blog. To which one might reply that we all grieve in our own ways. And, for whatever reason, the Neptunus Lex Super Secret FB page had been enough for me. Up until this past Wednesday.

So. Finding myself at the blog, I could have started reading backwards from the most current post, in what would be my usual manner. But I wasn't looking for that. I was looking for Lex. So, instead I only followed the links for "The Daily Lex" posts, moving backwards with the intent of finding my way back to the last one I had read on one of my previous visits.

"The Daily Lex" - some good soul (Todd) has taken it upon himself to find a post Lex has written for every date and post a link to it. With close to 10 years of writing (usually multiple posts on any given day), there are lots of choose from, of course. But that's the job role Todd has taken on for himself. Good man.

Back to Wednesday. I found myself reading these randomly chosen posts of Lex's. And while initially (momentarily) it quieted that need, that craving to hear Lex's voice again, it wasn't long before what looked like a hit on the good idea meter landed solidly on the bad idea meter. Because after that initial "Lex fix", it didn't take too long for the morose to return.

I went to the blog because something was missing but not long after finding what I sought, it started to hurt again. Strange, I wasn't hurting when I went to the blog. I was just searching for something ... missing ...even though I wasn't sure exactly what "it" was. But it wasn't long after finding what I was after that something changed. A dark cloud fell across the sun.

But sucker for punishment brave soul that I am, I kept on reading The Daily Lex. Going back pages and pages. Surprised at how long it had been since I had visited The Lexicans. I never did find my way back to where I had left off, not before life called me back to the present. Things to do, donchya know.

Like a good soldier, I returned to my life although I couldn't tell you for the life of me tell you now what it was that called me back to reality that day. Perhaps just the knowledge that I had been hiding out (and away from what was in front of me) for too long.

But when I returned to the daily grind it was with a definite sense ... the awareness at a very deep level that Lex is still missing. And that I continue to miss him, even when I'm not consciously aware of it.

Also came the realization that sometimes when we find what we're looking for, it hurts. That that old joke, "Be careful what you ask for. You might just get it." is often true. In other words, if I want to hear Lex's voice again, I must be prepared for that sadness to return. The ying and the yang. The give and the take. The good with the bad.

Something else that I realized the other day - I admire greatly those bloggers who, having allowed their blogs to go silent and dark in the days when Lex's voice was with us, have become reinvigorated and taken on the challenge to pick up where Lex left off and put their voices out there once again.

But, for whatever reason, that just doesn't seem to be me at the moment. I almost wish I could say that it's like this, that I can't bring myself to write of other things yet because I still miss Lex too much. But that wouldn't be true.

It's not that I don't still miss him (I just admitted how much I do) but I'm sad to say that whatever it is that had kept me from blogging the way I once did (for the past year or more) is still the culprit. And although my thoughts are developing on that subject (initially - and for quite a while now - I blamed it one thing but now I'm starting to think it's more a combination of things), I haven't yet made it to a place where I know exactly what I will or won't (or can or can't) do about it.

I guess in the meantime I will just have to sit with that. Be okay with it. Let it develop as it will. After all, it's not like I have much choice now, is it?

On Final Approach

An absolutely beatitful post by Lex's close friend, FbL, over at Argghhh! The Home of Two of Jonah's Military Guys.

I thought I was through the worst of it (and I was) until I read her account of the funeral and reception and then I was right back where I was a few weeks ago. We will miss you, my friend, but not only did you live your life large and with a certain je ne sais quoi (that's French), you said farewell in the same way.

Nope, no passing on while snoring in a comfy chair for you. You left us doing what you loved, living your passions right up to the end. One last lesson for us all.

And one final toast to you. For strength. And courage.

Three Weeks On

It was three weeks ago today that the unthinkable happened.

It was three weeks ago today that the blogging world lost, in my humble opinion, one of it's brightest lights.

It was three weeks ago today that many, many people who had never actually met the man first felt the stinging loss of a good friend.

It was three weeks ago today that the United States lost not only one of its finest sons, but also one of its finest ambassadors to the rest of the world.

It was three weeks ago today that a wife lost her husband.

It was three weeks ago today that two daughters and a son lost their father.

People die every day, don't they? And it's sad of course, if and when we stop to think about it. We know that everybody has a family, that everyone is somebody's child, parent, sibling, spouse or friend.

But we don't think much about it unless and until it happens to someone we know. Then the standard words are "He was too young" or "She lived a good, long life" or, the perennial favourite, "at least he's not suffering anymore".

Capt. Carroll (Lex) Lefon, USN (Ret) was laid to rest today in Sandy Eggo, California.

And yet, there seems to be so much wrong with that statement. First of all, it's hard enough to think of Lex as even being "retired", let alone laid to rest. No, me thinks the man is still soaring in the sky somewhere, doing loops, and twists and turns (perhaps even a split S here and there), rushing up to feel the heat of the sun only to swoop over and fall earthward. And then start all over again. For the sheer joy that is in it.

If Heaven is that reward at the end of one's life, if it involves anything like eternal happiness and bliss, then I am comforted to know that Lex will be repeatedly strapping on his aircraft until the end of time.

But for those of us left behind, gravity-bound to the earth, it's been a long three weeks. A time of great sadness and longing, a time of forcing ourselves to turn our minds to family and work obligations while our chests hurt and our hearts are heavy.

The company of friends (again, generally, most whom we've never "met" in the conventional sense of the word) helps to dull a bit of the sting. We share our favourite stories and memories, often with a chuckle here and a tear there. But we know what we must do, we know that life is a gift and must be treated like the precious thing it is. Our family members, too, are gifts, we know and must be treated with the same high regard.

None of us know for certain how long we will be here. Perhaps the best we can do is enjoy each moment while we constantly cultivate our relationships, remaining open to new ones and never forgetting the lives that have truly deeply touched ours. Perhaps, with some luck, we will even do the same for another some day.

But, for now, three weeks later, it hurts. And the "missing" (whether it be in the form of the hole in the missing man formation, the empty chair at the solitary table or the hole that we know must be in the hearts of Lex's wife and children) can seem so huge, so empty, so sad. So eternal.

To Mary, Christopher, Ashley and Kate - I know chances are slim to none that you will ever read these words yet I feel compelled to share them. Your husband, your Dad touched so many lives around the world. Touched lives that I'm sure even he wasn't aware of. You know better than anyone else what kind of man he was and we can only thank you for sharing him with us. May it help you some tiny amount to even have the smallest sense of how many prayers are lifted heavenwards on your behalf.

After my Mom died a few years ago, a friend (whom, ironically enough, I never would have met but for Lex) told me that you don't get "over" these types of loss; you get *through* them. I have found her words to ring true. I still miss my Mom, some days desperately. And I know I always will. But life goes on. And on. And on. With its highs and its lows, its joys and its sorrows.

And, in my heart, I know that  Lex wanted for his family what my mother wanted for hers, in her absence - in her words, not to be sad, but for us to live our lives and enjoy them.

Three weeks on ... and the world still weeps.

The Watch

For many years,
This sailor stood the watch
While some of us were in our bunks at night, ...
This sailor stood the watch

While some of us were in school learning our trade,
This shipmate stood the watch
Before some of us were born into this world,
This shipmate stood the watch

In those years when the storm clouds of war were seen
Brewing on the horizon of history,
This shipmate stood the watch

Many times he would cast an eye ashore and see his family standing there,
Needing his guidance and help,
Needing that hand to hold during those hard times,
But he still stood the watch

He stood the watch for many years,
He stood the watch so that we, our families,
And our fellow countrymen could sleep soundly in safety,
Each and every night,
Knowing that a sailor stood the watch

Today we are here to say: "Shipmate . . . the watch stands relieved.
Relieved by those YOU have trained, guided, and lead
Shipmate you stand relieved . . . we have the watch!"

"Bo’sun . . . Standby to pipe the side . . . Neptunus Lex is going ashore!"

--H/T to Andy Niemyer - adopted from a traditional poem read at retirement ceremonies

"As If We Were Each His Closest Confidant, Friend, or Some Guy Sitting Beside Him at The Bar ..."

I've spent a good chunk of the past 11 days reading. Reading, commenting and reminiscing. Crying, toasting and hurting. And, yes, occasionally (but all too rarely), laughing.

And now, here I sit.

And although I think, like so many others, that Lex might well be wondering what the hell is wrong with all of us, I continue to struggle with the same question that so many others have attempted to answer over the past week and a half. So much ink spilled. So many pixels wasted. Because so many of us continue to ask ourselves the same question.

Why/how did this man effect me so?

I've read many a thought on that question and must confess to having gained some insight from them.

And although it would seem reasonable to speculate that the answer might well vary from person to person (as just a paltry few examples: he was such an excellent writer, always the consummate gentleman, a brother aviator or a brother in arms, a mentor, a warrior poet, a true patriot [Ed. - completely without the negative connotation that sometimes attaches to those words of late], he led by example, he was the type of Officer I would follow anywhere, he could have me repeatedly alternating between laughing and crying in the same post, his blog was a place where everyone [with the exception of trolls, of course] truly felt welcomed), I'm not sure that any or even all of those things truly encapsulate the man.

Yes, undoubtedly, he was all those things. And yet, he was so much more.

Strangely enough, the words that rang the truest for me, that came the closest to summing up why the man effected me on such a personal level, I found buried in AW1Tim's memorial:

In Lex’s blog, his stories, his observations, you got the feeling, reading them, that he wasn’t so much reporting but having a conversation with you.

....

Whether it was personal demons, family or job issues, the loss of a friend, or any of the myriad things that accost us all, he would write of them, openly and honestly, as if we were each his closest confidant, friend, or some guy sitting beside him at the bar. He was like that, and he was wonderful with what he did.

That, right there, comes the closest in anything I have read or yet considered to mirroring my own personal reality.

Yes, the man was an amazing writer - as I pointed out to him as soon as I finished reading Rhythms (on the first go-around), he had somehow managed to completely hook someone like me, someone with no military background or experience. Hooked me with Rhythms. Hooked me on the blog. And thinking about it sadly now, it would, of course, have been his writing that drew all so many of us in. And, yes, on some level, it was his writing that drew us back time and time again.

But that doesn't explain the effect, the reaction, the outpouring of grief that his death has caused. Sadness that a good man, a good writer is no longer with us? Sure. Regret that Neptunus Lex will no longer be part of the daily read? Absolutely.

But not this, not this “... [feeling] like something essential had been suddenly hollowed out of me, something I had always counted on for strength without even knowing it was there.” As Lex well knew, that's a feeling saved for the loss of a parent, a child, a sibling, a spouse or a best friend. Not a blogger the majority of us have never met.

I have finally concluded that it was because of the way that Lex wrote, the manner in which he shared his personal demons, family and job issues, his sea stories, his best job evah, the worst day of his life and the myriad other things he wrote about that we were allowed to get a look behind the blogger and come to know the man behind the words. That was how we each discovered for ourselves that he was the consummate gentleman and a true patriot, how we came to realize just how much he loved his family, his country and his Navy, how we learned that he led by example and was the type of Officer people would follow anywhere and why we came to admire, respect and rely on him the way we have.

I have many friends. I admire many people. But of all the people that have entered and left my life, there have only been two that I can say I totally, completely and utterly respect. Lex was one of them. And I have yet to meet any other person (either virtually or real life) who had has the ability to connect so intimately with another through the written word alone. Something tells me, I likely never will.

And yet, to paraphrase George Patton (and with thanks to one of Lex's many fellow milbloggers, without whom I never would have thought of this quote), it's also the reason that we should must struggle not to mourn the fact that he is gone but, rather, celebrate the fact that such a man has lived.

Live Your Life ...

I heard this quote while watching Criminal Minds, of all things, last night. Immediately thought of Lex. To the best of my knowledge, this is exactly how he lived his life.

Live your life so that when your children think of fairness and integrity, they think of you.
H.   Jackson Brown, Jr.

Carry on, sir.

A Poet I'm Not

Many have referred to Lex as a warrior poet (yes, I'm still getting through all those comments although I'm pleased to say I only have about 5 pages to go ... let's just say that I'm taking a lot of detours along the way) and it's far from me to disagree.

The thing is, personally, I'm really not into poetry. There are very, very few pieces that speak to me. So I must admit that on those occasions when Lex would choose to quote passages from "the classics", well, barbarian that I am ... if the quote went on for too long, my eyes simply glazed over. And stayed that way until they could refocus on some real poetry, like Lex's writing.

So I find it passing strange that I've been posting poetry this past week - like I said, usually, very little of it speaks to me. But, if I post something on these pages (I recall a couple of pieces really resonating with me when my Mom passed away so maybe there's something to that), it's because it does.

I came across this tonight and knew I had to share:

"Going home, going home, I'm a going home
Quiet like, some still day, I'm just going home
It's not far, just close by, through an open door
Work all done, care laid by
Going to fear no more
Mother's there, expecting me
Father's waiting too
Lots of folks gathered there
All the friends I knew
Nothings lost alls gained
No more fear or pain
No more stubbling by the way
No more longing for the day
Going to roam no more

Morning star lights the way
Restless dream all done
Shadows gone, break of day
Real life just begun
There's no break, there's no end
Just a living on
Wide awake with a smile, going on and on
Going home, going home, I'm just going home
It's not far, just close by, I'm just going home

Nothing's lost, all is gain, no longing for the day
No more stumbling on the way
No more fret nor pain
Goin' home, goin' home, I'm a goin' home
Quiet like, still some day, I'm a goin' home

I'm just goin' home
I'm a goin' home

H/T to Skippy Maximus

A Naval Aviator’s Heaven

I'm finally trying to make it through the 1,300+ comments on Whisper's Open Thread at Lex's. Came across this on page 3.

A Naval Aviator’s Heaven (h/t to JAWA)

I hope there’s a place, way up in the sky,

Where Naval Aviators can go, when they have to die.

A place where a guy could buy a cold beer/vodka

For a friend and comrade whose memory is dear.

A place where no Blackshoe or Porkchop could tread,

Nor a Pentagon-type would e’re be caught dead!

Just a quaint little O’Club; kind of dark, full of smoke,

Where they like to sing loud, and love a good joke.

The kind of place, where a lady could go

And feel safe and protected by the men she would know.

There must be a place where old Navy pilots go

When their wings get too weary, and their airspeed gets low.

Where the whiskey is old and the women are young,

And songs about flying and dying are sung,
Where you’d see all the shipmates you’d served with before,
And they’d call out your name, as you came thru the door,

Who would buy you a drink, if your thirst should be bad

And relate to the others, “He was quite a good lad!”

And then thru the mist you’d spot an old guy
You had not seen in years, though he’d taught you to fly.

He’d nod his old head and grin ear to ear,
And say, “Welcome shipmate, I’m pleased that you’re here!

For this is the place where Naval Aviators come

When the battles are over, and the wars have been won.

They’ve come here at last to be safe and afar
From the government clerk and the management czar,
Politicians and lawyers, the Feds and the noise,
Where all hours are happy, and these good old boys

Can relax with a cool one, and a well-deserved rest!

This is Heaven, my son, you’ve passed your last test!

Still Reeling

I really shouldn't be here. The hour is late ... very late ... and I have to work tomorrow. But that is what happens when you spend a couple of hours floating around the internets, reading and responding to tributes to a man you've never even "met". But that you knew so well. Oh well, something tells me sleep will be a might bit difficult tonightt this morning anyway.

It's been over 7 years since I first discovered Lex's. 7 years of reading, laughing, crying and arguing. Of being entertained. Of being educated. Of being very, very educated. 7 years in which I became part of an international online family - a large majority from the US, it's true, but also from around the world.

Anyone who has read here any amount will have seen many items borrowed from Lex's  over the years (as was the previous post), usually marked with a tip of the hat and numerous posts interspersed here and there (more so in the past, I am sad to say) where I directed you back to his place. Had I thought of it, I could have, probably should have created a label that simply read "Lex".

Once, I even left him some advice. Here. He dropped by to thank me, which I thought was awful neighbourly of him.

I haven't been to his blog so much lately. I haven't been to any of my favourite blogs much lately, including my own. It's about all I can do to keep at least some content going on the special needs blawg. But I always managed to still drop by Lex's occasionally,

I no longer drop in numerous times a day, no longer read all the comments for each post and engaged in playful banner or thoughtful conversation with the others. But I did drop by occasionally, skimmed the posts, stopping to read with absorption those where he discussed my favourite topic - flying.

When I dropped by this morning, I saw this post from Whisper at the top of the page, with close to 200 comments noted on it. What? It couldn't mean ... I clicked on the comments to no avail, kicked off the page as sometimes happen when there is simply too much traffic. With a frown, I went on to other things, knowing I would return later and try again. Busy, busy day. Busy, busy week.

I did make it back a few hours later, clicked on the comments again, which were now up to about 350 (I see they are up to 686 now) ... I scrolled through them without reading ... what the hell? And then posted a quick comment, please tell me this isn't what I think it is, supplied my personal email address. Once again went on my way. But I really didn't feel so good. When I checked my email awhile later I had 5 different emails ... some from people I knew, some I didn't (or at least not by their real names). Yes, they said. Yes, it's true.  His plane crashed. Into the side of a building. A few links were left to news stories. I still haven't read them.

When I sat down, I intended to make this short, very short. I knew I couldn't go to bed without saying something but thought I could make a short comment and save more for another day. I think it's now time for that short comment ....

But what do you say about a man who was always the consummate gentlemen? Extremely intelligent, but never coming off as one of "those" people. Who had a gift for writing far beyond any I've seen. Don't believe me? Try Rhythms. [As an aside, I always suspected that young pilot who had such difficulty landing at night was Lex ... he pretty much confirmed that once upon a time.]

He was sweet. He was funny. He had his beliefs, as we all do. But he articulated his so well, that whether or not you shared them, you respected him. He had an amazing sense of honour and duty. He loved his country and served it well. Right to the end. But he loved his family even more. That fact always came shining through. He held himself to a very high standard. And yet always seemed willing to grant another some slack.

And he ran one of the few places in the blogsphere where there could be intelligent, insightful conversations (often among people who disagreed) that never denigrated into those swear-filled internet debacles we're all so familiar with. He simply would not have it at his house. And he garnered enough respect amongst his readers, that it rarely was an issue. Although on occasion, he did see the need to tell us to settle down. To attack the message, if we must, but not the messenger. Because we're all friends here. Funny how he only had to speak once and that was enough.

And yet, when trolls came by, it was a spectacle to watch - without ever attacking the messenger, they were very quickly put in their place. At which point, they generally decided to exit. Stage left. Which reminds me, he wrote a great post on trolls once upon a time...

He threatened to leave us once or twice, when life became too overwhelming (as it does for us all) but we would have none of it.

He gave us the Flight Deck ... where the longest running coversation on health care ever hosted by a naval aviator was held.

I did some searching through Neptunus Lex to find some of the links above. Came across posts that brought a smile to my face. Then a tear to my eye.

There's only one problem, you see. I don't really believe he's gone.

I actually think that might be an occupational hazard of having close internet friends, ones whom you rarely or never actually see in person. A close friend passed away last year. We met once for a wonderful weekend in Oxnard. But I knew her for ... I have no idea ... over 10 years online. We laughed and cried and supported one another through some of the most intimate, personal time in our lives, those involving the health issues of our children.

And yet, much as with Lex, I don't think it's ever actually sunk in for me. That she's. Really. Gone.

Fair winds and following seas, Captain. And thank you for all you've given us. Words are totally inadequate to express my sympathy to your family. I occasionally wondered over the years if his wife knew how lucky she was. But I know. She does.

I can see Lex's son carrying on in the Navy in his father's footsteps, throwing himself all the more into that life in the wake of this tragedy. But I can't see the future for his wife and two daughters. Daughters need a father and I will pray a wee extra bit for one of them. Wives need a husband. We often thanked her for sharing him, now all we can offer are our condolences. Just words but they're sincere.

Theatre

I watched on the television news yesterday as the issue of the "Ground Zero mosque" (complicated by the Preacher from Hell who up until the last minute had appeared hell-bent on burning multiple copies of the Koran) spilled over into protests on the streets in New York on the anniversary of 9/11.

And it got me thinking.  In particular, it made me wonder, for those that hold the anniversary of 9/11 as something precious (or, for some, even sacred), how well do those sentiments mix with the political theatre we witnessed yesterday?

It seems to me that the anniversary of 9/11 should be a time of remembrance, a time of reflection.  Whatever your feelings on the Ground Zero mosque or Pastor Jones, I just can't see the justification for those issues spilling over into what occurred yesterday. 

I'm not suggesting that either one of the above aren't relevant, important issues - things that need to be discussed, debated and, yes, perhaps even protested.  But I just don't think those issues belonged on New York streets.  Not yesterday.

There were two different "camps" out there protesting so I am not condemning one side over the other.  I think that, in a sense, they both should be ashamed of themselves.  Or, at the very least, they should be seriously reconsidering the appropriateness of the choices they made yesterday. 

Because it was all about "choice' - nobody forced either side out on to the streets.  If you really believe these issues require public protest, then by all means protest - do so on September 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7,  8, 9 and 10.   Do so on September 12, 13, 14 and 15 and onward, if you must.  But please have the respect to leave one day out of 365 clear of these type of activities.

Yes, I realize that both issues are all directly linked to 9/11 - some might go so far as to say that are a part of 9/11 or symbolize what 9/11 is all about.  I won't argue that point.

But can we not, for just one day, move the political theatre off of centre stage?  Can we not, just for one day, show the victims of 9/11 and their families the respect and dignity they deserve?  Is that really too much to ask?

The group that plans to build the Grand Zero mosque profess to be about "a platform for multi-faith dialogue", something that will strive to promote "inter-community peace, tolerance and understanding locally in New York City, nationally in America, and globally".  Both they and their supporters might want to consider that loud noisy protests on the very day dedicated to the memory of those who lost their lives on 9/11 might not only be the antithesis of promitng "peace, tolerance and understanding" but could well be seen as very disrespectul of those victimes.

And those on the other side of the issue, who argue so strongly that allowing a mosque to be built so close to Ground Zero is a slap in the face to those victims and their families might want to consier affording those same victims and their families one day of dignity, quiet and remembrance.

To do otherwise is, in my opinion, pretty hypocrical of those on both sides of the issue.

I'm just saying.

'In a Company of Heroes'

As I mentioned, my brother was down this past week for a visit.

He's always putting me on to movies I've missed, usually bringing 2 or 3 from his massive collection down with him for us to watch. Often buying me one he thinks I particularly would like or need to have.

This time, he didn't bring any movies with him. Unless you count the entire six seasons of Get Smart on DVD which he bought down here and now brings back on every visit. He only watches it down here. It's kind of cool, reliving a piece of your childhood that way.

But the first night he was here, he asked if I had ever watched "Band of Brothers" on HBO. No, I hadn't but I had often seen it in the Guide. I really should watch it, he said, it was excellent. The following morning what was on TV but the entire Band of Brothers series, starting with the very first episode.

He convinced me that I could run my few errands the following day, that today this is what we would do. Unfortunately, the phone kept ringing. Then a friend came to the door. I kept returning to the show but after a few hours, I commented that although I was still following the story I had missed enough to still not really know who all the characters were.

Shortly thereafter, I apparently having missed something my brother considered significant, something that I had to see so I could understand and appreciate something that would come later, he proclaimed that he was hungry. We should turn off the TV and go out for lunch. No, really. That's what we should do.

I was a little perturbed. After all, he was the one who had wanted me to watch this, convinced me to give up the day for it and then here I was being essentially told that I couldn't watch the rest of it.

But we went out for lunch. And later, while I ran some errands he stopped in at the Future Shop. Nothing new there, it's one of his favourite places to browse, so I didn't think much of it. When we returned home, he handed me the DVD set of Band of Brothers. "Gee, thanks, but you didn't have to do that." "I know but now you will be able to watch the whole thing."

We started with where we had left off and made it through Part VI before he left, leaving me with four parts left to watch. But as I listened to talk about D-Day, Normandy and the assault on the beaches that would be going on at the same time as Easy Company went about their mission, I turned to my brother and commented on the Canadians at Juno Beach.

And I must admit that it was nice to finally (for once) have knowledge of something that he was a little more fuzzy on - he wasn't entirely sure of the Canadian soldiers involvement in D-Day.

I was.

It was about 2:30 p.m. when Westhaver, Westie to his buddies, landed on Juno Beach for an allied invasion that was the beginning of the end for the German forces pummelling Europe.

He’d joined the army in May 1942, flew to England in August of that year and trained for six or seven months to become a wireless operator with the Army Signal Corps. He and his fellow servicemen spent months more practising for battle on the beaches of Wales, "almost like a rehearsal for a show."

But no amount of training prepared the young men, many just 21 or 22, for what they encountered on that strip of Normandy sand.

WADING THROUGH BODIES

Sailing over the English Channel to get there, Westhaver huddled with British commandoes, who sharpened their knives for battle.

"But there wasn’t much talk," he says. "I think they were all like me because we had never been in action before so we didn’t really know what to expect."

The then-21-year-old spent his first few moments of action wading through bodies.

"The water was up around my shoulders . . . and here the water was full of dead Canadians floating by with their heads down and you could see Canada on their shoulder. . . . So I had to push these guys out of the way to get into the beach," he recalls.

"There were dead bodies everywhere, laying on the beach and everything. So I’m running up the beach — and I’ve thought about this many times — all of a sudden I see an airplane coming.

"Now I used to build airplanes when I was a kid, I was always interested in airplanes. This airplane had two engines, two motors and all of a sudden sparks started coming out of the wings and I’m looking at it . . . coming at me. And all of a sudden it dawned on me, ‘He’s firing at us.’

"This was a German, this was a German airplane so . . . there was a hole there and I ran and jumped in the hole. I landed on top of a dead Canadian."

He shakes his head, but like he did that day, he keeps going.

"As soon as the aircraft went over you could hear the guns going . . . but it was a very confusing day because there were bullets flying everywhere. . . . You’d hear them over your head and the Canadian Navy, they were firing over our heads into the German lines . . . and you could hear these great big shells going over your head — whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa — and I used to think, ‘Oh my God, let’s hope that they keep going.’ "

This dangerous chaos is what D-Day veterans of many stripes have described over the years.

But fewer of them are around these days to talk about the horror and heroism.

Nova Scotia vets Earl Gouchie and Irving Cromwell, now gone, lived the horror then and — off and on — for the remainder of their days.

On the eve of the 60th anniversary of D-Day six years ago, Gouchie, a former sniper, could still smell the blood of his fallen comrades, hear the rat-a-tat-tat of machine-gun fire and feel the artillery shells groan.

Cromwell, his hand still trembling from the "shell shock" of a long gone war, recalled a fear frozen in time — as if he still stood on that beach, on that day, as the bombs and soldiers fell.

It's hard to comprehend, to get your head around, what it must have been like for those young men, for those boys. In fact, I think it's a lot easier not to even try.

And yet, be that as it may, we owe them at least that much, don't you think?

I'm going back to watch some more of Band of Brothers. It's the least I could do.

Passing Me By ...

I haven't been blogging anywhere near as much as usual for quite a while now. And that's a problem for me on various levels.

Not the least of which is the fact that I still find stuff I want to blog about. And that stuff tends to pile up on my computer desk. Until, current events no longer being current, it gets dumped (with no small amount of guilt) into the recycle bin.

For example, the 100th anniversary of Canada's Navy. Halifax, being more or less a Navy town, it has special significance here.



But before I got my sorry butt around to commenting on that, the Canadian Navy experienced another significant first, this one much less happy.

Petty Officer 2nd Class Craig Blake was the 143rd member of the Canadian military to be killed in Afghanistan, but the first sailor. The navy clearance diver, who was based in Halifax, was sent to Afghanistan as an explosive ordnance disposal operator. And it was after disarming an improvised explosive device that he was, ironically enough, killed by an IED while walking back to camp.

Being based in Halifax, Petty Officer Blake returned here yesterday to have his ashes scattered in the Atlantic. The husband and father of two boys was only one week away from his 38th birthday.

But wait, before I could even get to that, yet another Canadian soldier was killed in Afghanistan. 24-year-old Pte. Kevin McKay. # 144.

Which makes me wonder ... is it better if I write about it? Or if I don't?

Les Miserables

It's been a rough few weeks month around here. I thought just for me, but apparently for all of us. If it was true that misery does indeed love company ... we would all be feeling a mite bit happier, I imagine.

As of last night, I finally went through every single picture from Mom's house, every photo album, every framed photograph and every stray one laying in the bottom of a box. Which, while it gave me a feeling of satisfaction (not that I'm 'done' with them, by any means, because I have quite a stack that I still need to figure out exactly what to do with) also left me feeling even more lost and alone.

I found Mom this morning, in my dreams, in the strangest place. She was in what I was calling a memory stick but was actually something more like the size and shape of I-Touch. Not a picture. Not even video. But actually Mom.

Walking around, smiling, talking with me but trapped inside the device. I realized it as a way to have her back, as the only way to have her back, so I was mostly okay with that and she certainly seemed happy enough in there. Still I remember telling her how much I wish I could actually hug her. Didn't seem to fizz her too much though. But then the alarm went off and I had to leave her behind.

Not too far behind though. It seems like she's been with me (or hovering nearby) most of the day. Not in a good way but in a sad way. And something tells me it's only going to get worse as we come closer and closer to that cursed date 11 days hence.

Ironically enough, the girls will be at bereavement retreat for teens that weekend. How strange is that? I think it will be good though. For them at least. And apparently the Kit Kat agrees. I was a little surprised by her comment the other day that she thought it would be a good place to be right then.

Although I must admit that I find myself wishing I had a similar place to go. I'm far from certain how, exactly, I am going to get through that weekend. And I realized today that my husband has similar feelings. It took me a while to realize (and I must confess, it's still very easy for me to forget) how much losing Mom was a personal loss for him, too. Not 'just' his mother-in-law but because both his parents died shortly after we were married and Mom lived with us or right next door for the past 16 years, I think, in a way, she became his mother, too.

Since we have to take the girls to the retreat which is a few hours away, we have decided to stay in Halifax for the weekend as opposed to spending most of it on the road. Which should be nice; we very rarely get away alone for a weekend. Somehow I don't much expect it to be though. Less something to be enjoyed; more something to be survived.

Disjointed

Driving to work this morning. Lost in thought. Mulling over this and that.

When I thought I heard news snippets from that other September 11th. 2001. And then, yeah, there it was again. On the radio.

The song "In a New York Minute", the same song that caused me to write this post one year ago today.

That was when I realized it was a repeat of what our local radio station did last year. Between 9:45 and 10:00 AM Atlantic Standard Time (perhaps when the first planes took off?) they played snippets of news tapes from that awful day, "In a New York Minute" and "I Will Remember You" interspersed between various commercials and The Parent Report.

I like that they do that, that they keep doing that. I wonder how many other Canadian radio stations do the same thing?

~ ~ ~ ~

I moseyed over to Homefront Six's blog today.

She wrote about her memory of that day eight years ago.

Her husband (MacGyver she calls him) is in the military and at the time they were stationed in Alaska. But I will let her tell the full story, from an earlier post in 2007.

We were in Alaska. About as far away from New York and the Pentagon as you can get and still be in the United States. MacGyver had come home from PT and was in the shower. I was on 1/2 days leading up to maternity leave and didn't have to be to school until 11am that day. My alarm went off and it was set to the local country station. When it went off, I slapped at the snooze button. About a half second after I hit the snooze button, my brain registered what the DJ had said..."a plane has crashed into the Pentagon. No word on casualties yet. This, in addition to the World Trade Center...".

I remember the words verbatim.

I sat bolt upright in bed and lunged for the radio and turned it back on and sat there for what felt like minutes but was actually more like seconds listening to the DJ go on about the events that had unfolded thousands of miles away while I slept.

MacGyver shut the shower off and I jumped out of bed and ran to the bathroom. I about ran into him as he came out and told him (like millions of other people said that day), "You have to go downstairs and turn on the TV. Planes have hit the Pentagon and the World Trade center." That is all I could get out. I still couldn't wrap my brain around what I had heard and it would be days...weeks, even...before I was able to do so.

We went downstairs - MacGyver still dripping wet in his towel and me, 10 months pregnant - and turned on the television. We just stood there. I can still feel the sensation of my mouth literally hanging open. I kept closing it and it kept falling open. And we just watched.

Finally, MacGyver said something about maybe now not being the best time to bring a child into the world. I said something back to the effect that it was a little too late for that thought. He then started moving very quickly to get dressed and get to work. I remember him grabbing his A and B bags, not knowing if he would be home...

It was that last part is what struck me so vividly when I read it.

Or as she recalled it today:

We went downstairs and stood, gaping, at the television. We couldn't even cry. We were too shocked. I think the first tower fell while we were watching and that must have sparked MacGvyer to move. He bolted upstairs, threw on his BDUs, grabbed his overnight bag and some food, kissed me goodbye, and left. Still, there were no tears. I didn't know if I would see him again. In my mind, he would deploy. I don't know where I thought he was going or what I expected him to be doing but I did not expect him to come home. Mentally I was trying to steel myself to have this baby alone. And I was ok with that. Hell, after thinking about what the people in New York, DC, and Pennsylvania were going through, having a baby on my own was nothing compared to that.

Still, there were no tears.

Yeah. Can you imagine? I can't.

~ ~ ~ ~

So just how long is too long?

I recall some non-Americans questioning quite a few years ago why the US was still "going on and on" about 9/11. That other countries have had similar tragedies. Bigger tragedies, even. Suck it up and get over it, they said. "Why should you remember 9/11 while we are asked to forget ours?"

Imagine. As if anyone should could ask, could even suggest that some other nation should just "get over" their tragedy, whatever it was. The difference being (if there is one), I suppose, that historically we in North America had such a tradition of being *protected* from so much. Sure, read about it in the newspaper. Turn the page. See it on the TV news. Change the channel. Or just wait a minute. Much like the weather, the story will soon change to something more palatable, less horrifying.

After my first year of college, a good friend and I traveled to Europe. It was a wild trip, we went where we wanted when we wanted. And only came home when we finally ran out of money. Did a lot of backpacking and hitchhiking. Stayed in a lot of hostels.

I have a lot of amazing memories from that trip. But two things in particular are burned into my mind until this day.

One was walking through an open air market in Rome. Accidentally bumping into somebody. Looking up to apologize. And finding myself staring into the face of an old man with only one eye. No patch, no bandage to cover the missing organ. Just one eye. And what looked to my horrified eyes as literally a hole in his head where the other belonged.

I could handle the people begging in the street. Even the woman begging as she sat on the sidewalk while she breastfed her infant and three other little ones played nearby. The man with only one eye ... not so much.

The other incident occurred when we staying at a hostel in Greece. We met a young girl, around 14 or 15, from Israel. Very pretty. She was traveling by herself, which both my friend and I agreed was nuts.

Traveling as a duel, we documented at least 30 pairs teams of guys who tried were determined to pick us up, who were hard-pressed to take No for an answer when if we declined. And then there was the one guy in Paris who approached us on the street at night, grabbed my friend and tried to kiss her on the mouth. She pushed him away and we took off at a mad run for the hotel. Fortunately, he only followed for a block or two. So, yeah, we figured the Israeli girl was either very brave or very stupid. Or maybe a little of both.

And then she made the comment that I will never forget. That all she wanted in life was to find a place to live where you could wake up in the morning without wondering if your father or brother was dead. It completely blew me away, I couldn't imagine living that way.

I believe the word is sheltered. Protected. Not so much any more.

Perhaps that trip to Europe was a wake-up call to me. Perhaps 9/11 was another.

Once is once too often. And, for me at least, having it happen to the US was the same as watching some terrible, unthinkable tragedy happening to your next door neighbour's home. So even if your own house remained unscathed, your psyche didn't. It was the next worse thing to it actually happening in your home.

~ ~ ~ ~

This post. Disjointed.

Sort of like my memories of September 11, 2001, are today.

A Life Well Lived

Two weeks. No newspapers. No TV news. Only the occasional dose of Lex.

It's amazing how cut off from the world you can feel while away on vacation. I commented the other day that the entire world outside a 100 mile radius could have ended and I might not have noticed.

But as I slowly begin to make my way back into the land of the living (pun somewhat intended) today, I note the passing of Eunice Kennedy Shriver. In all honesty, not something likely to raise much comment from me. Until I realized her legacy, that is. As one of the key founders of the Special Olympics.

Regular readers well know the special place the Games hold in my heart. As if that could ever be in any doubt...

So thank you, Ms. Shriver.

Whatever else you may accomplished in your time, this, alone, is enough to make me and my family eternally grateful.