Category: writings (Page 27 of 66)

A Belated Homecoming

October 3, 2013 / jeanne / 6 Comments

Memorial

Shorter Version for those with little time:

~ Stories are the shortest route between two people.
~ It’s never too late to thank a Vietnam veteran, ask them to share a story, then thank them again.
~ Listening deeply, attentively, and without judgment to stories from anybody (but especially veterans) can be healing for the teller and educational for the receiver.

Longer Version:

Our daughter loves history and hates injustice, so last spring when she discovered that this year is the 40th anniversary of the last US troop withdrawal from Vietnam, she decided to throw a belated Welcome Home for the Vietnam veterans, including a parade and a program. It took place last Saturday, 9/28/13.

Mustang

The parade boasted fly-overs by Vietnam helicopters and airplanes, along with various other Vietnam War vehicles. There were cars – now vintage cars – that veterans ordered while they were in Vietnam to have waiting on them when they got home.

Some Vietnam veterans (including some of my friends) couldn’t bring themselves to be in or even watch the parade – they just couldn’t – but others did, some at the very last minute. Wives came with husbands and beamed with pride as their veteran stood in his uniform when his branch was recognized. Adult children came and were amazed at some of the things they learned that day. Parents and grandparents who have no ties to the Vietnam War brought their children and grandchildren, giving them an opportunity to learn history from primary sources and encouraging them to talk to the veterans then quizzing them about what they learned.

Stories floated through the air. Oh my goodness did we hear stories . . .

Flags

You may remember POW/MIA bracelets, and how we wore them until our soldier came home. The program started by remembering those who did not make it home, and David, our first speaker, told us about his brother Gary who was Missing In Action for 41 years – forty-one years – then he thanked the US military for not giving up until his brothers remains were found, identified, and given appropriate burial.

You may remember that returning soldiers were spat on, shunned, had tomatoes thrown at them. We heard story after story of how badly they were treated by people who were actually angry with the decision makers but took it out on the veterans. It was not America’s finest hour.

Tom flew missions over Vietnam, and he’s still very angry (as are many other veterans). We heard lots of anger, and I don’t know about you, but I think these fellas have earned the right to be angry.

Billy was responsible for sweeping mine fields, and he closed his story by telling us that while they may joke about Air Force people getting manicures and pedicures, they were and still are brothers. It took a team, he says. Without one branch doing their job, the other branches were in peril and unable to do their jobs.

You may remember the casualty counts reported at the end of the daily 6:00 newscast. Stubby drove a truck and told us bout making deliveries. They’d unload the trucks, then wait while their trucks were loaded for the return trip. Other people loaded the trucks so that Stubby and the other drivers wouldn’t know which ones were carrying supplies and which ones were carrying the KIA’s (Killed in Action).

In between the stories my daughter and her trio, Bombshells United, performed period music specially requested by the veterans. The number one request? The Animals singing We Gotta’ Get Out of This Place. After hearing their stories, I understand more than ever why that song holds such a special place for them.

It was a magical day, a healing day, an educational day. It was a day when grown men cried, and we cried right alongside them. It was a day when we came together to honor these men and women, giving them the homecoming they should’ve received 40 years ago. If you know a Vietnam veteran, how ’bout thanking them for their service for me, will ya’? And ask them to tell you a story cause their stories need to be told . . . and heard.

[ :: ]

Jeanne Hewell-Chambers is at the International Storytelling Festival this weekend, which means she’s a happy, happy girl.

Not an Insignificant Exchange

September 23, 2013 / jeanne / 10 Comments

DahliaStruts

The short version for those who don’t have much time:

Where I live, there are 3 Great Voices of Authority: God, Doctors, Football.
Single words, short phrases, or simple sentences, have The Power to change lives.
When something stupid, thoughtless, inconsiderate, moronic, or potentially harmful falls out of a mouth – even the mouth of one of the 3 Great Authorities – you have not only the Right but a Duty to speak up.
Speaking up at times like #3 can change lives, too.

The longer version:

Two years ago, at our first visit, the cardiologist looked at my husband (who was then a recent recipient of a stent in his heart) and said, “You’re lucky. You know how you’re going to die.” I sat there and said nothing, in part because I was struck speechless with such a stupid thing being said by one of The Great Authorities, and in part because this was a conversation between my husband and this doctor to which I was a mere observer who didn’t want to risk the doctor “taking it out on my husband.”

Today, this same cardiologist walks into the room, and instead of saying “Wow, you look great. I can tell you’ve been seriously exercising” or anything comparable, he immediately starts hammering away at Andy about nutrition and eventually says (and I quote), “If you want to live to be 88, you need to watch what you eat and to cut down on the fried foods.”

Having heard enough, I take Andy’s face in my two hands, look into his retinas, and say, “Baby, we’re shooting for at least 98, okay?” When he nods, I turn my attention to the cardiologist . . .

“You deal with hearts,” I say, “I deal with psychology and emotions, the driving forces in life.” And before I can finish that train of thought, he says, “I deal with more psychology than you might think.” I am both relieved and borderline thrilled to know he realizes that.

“Then you understand about the power of suggestion,” I tell him. “When you put a finite number on how long my husband or anybody else, for that matter, will live, you plant a seed that might grow into a self-fulfilling prophecy. So what say we leave out the finite numbers and ages and stick to concepts, information, and most important of all: encouragement and support.” I guess it comes as no surprise to hear that my contribution quickly brings the visit to a close.

To his credit, though, when the cardiologist shakes my husband’s hand as we exit the office, he says, “Okay, we’ll shoot for 108. Or 109. Yes, 109. Let’s make it an odd number.”

And me? I just smile and say, “I like odd.”

[ :: ]

Jeanne Hewell-Chambers has long owned and seldom apologized for her authority issues.

The Engineer and The Artist Walk

September 17, 2013 / jeanne / 2 Comments

Rock

Every morning we walk up the falls together, and when we come to the fork in the road, he goes left to walk down to the lake, and I go to the right right to walk up the Way Big Hill. This morning he invited me to join him, and I did – reluctantly. While The Engineer likes walking downhill first (says it warms and loosens him up), I prefer to get the hard stuff out of the way first, then go downhill all the way home. He starts hard and finishes easy. I prefer starting hard and finishing easy.

He listens to music while he walks, I enjoy the sounds of my own thoughts, and the music of the falls. This morning I had three impossibly good ideas (or just impossible, depending on who you ask).

He carries a weight in each hand, and for the life of me I don’t know why, but I always like to have my hands free and uncommitted. Ready.

Then there’s this: I like to stop and take photos. Enough said.

Feather

Purpleflowers

Tree2

Tree1

Pull Your Soapbox Right On Up To The Table

September 11, 2013 / jeanne / 9 Comments

TreeBeauty

9/11.

A day we Americans stop and pause in a moment of silence, in a day of remembering.

Let me be clear about this: I mean no disrespect when I tell you that as much as I enjoy the stories of where you were and what you were doing when you heard, I want more. I want to remember with a wider lens. I want to move forward as we look back. I want . . .

I want to know what you learned on That Day or because of That Day.

I want to know how you changed since 9/11. I want to know if it’s a lasting change or was it a well-intended but short-lived change.

I want to know how you think our country changed on That Day and if you think it changed for better or for worse.

I want to know how you think the world changed on That Day, and again – did it change for better or for worse?

I want to know why countries and people can’t leave each other alone to live according to their own belief and economic and political/governmental systems. I want to know why people don’t just move to another location that suits them better rather than strike out in a desire to take down those who would not be, think, or worship like them. I want to know why it’s not enough to live with Epictetus’s notion in mind that a noble life is one spent being the best woman, the best man you can be. I want to know what it will take to end the conquering mentality, the arrogance of my-way-or-the-highway mindset.

I want to know how we teach people that the way to change an undesirable life is to push up your shirtsleeves and get to work changing what you don’t like about your current situation. Will that be easy? Most likely not. But since when do we turn away from hard work? Which reminds me of another thing I want to know: when did “earn” become a 4-letter word?

I want to know how – on a community level, state level, national, continent level – we instill in ourselves and our children open-mindedness, and not just a tolerance but a love for difference and individuality. How? Tell me how. Please.

So much of what we hear and read today will be about lives lost on That Day. I want you to tell me about your loved ones (people and/or pets welcomed) that have died. Maybe they died in that horribleness we’ve come to call 9/11. Maybe they died somewhere else for some other reason on that infamous day. Maybe they died before the tragedy, maybe they’ve died since. Tell me about them. Tell me why you miss them and how they touched your life. Introduce me to them and tell me why you wish I could have known them. Tell me and know that your missing them today does not in any way diminish the tenderness we feel for all those who lost their lives and whose lives were irrevocably changed on That Day.

[ :: ]

Jeanne Hewell-Chambers has a wildly inquiring mind. Always has.

The Engineer and The Artist: Protection

September 9, 2013 / jeanne / 8 Comments

DahliaFlirts

“Where do you get gas masks?” I ask Him this morning as we eat breakfast, him reading stories on his iPad and me with my pencil and paper. “Haven’t quite finished my list yet, but looks like I need about forty-four or so. Do you think they offer quantity discounts?”

“What in the sam hill do you want with gas masks?” he asks.

And here I thought this was a relatively easy question. “I think the reason for gas masks is pretty obvious,” I tell him. “I just need to know: where do I go to get some?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugs. “Maybe an Army/Navy store.”

“I don’t want leftovers from World War II, and I don’t want any that have little pinholes in ’em. Don’t want any seconds or military rejects. I just want some good, tight, operational gas masks that I can give out to the people I love. I tell you what: this is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, making this list. I mean, what about That Hussy in-law. Now that she and her mama are both out of jail, they’ve made up on account of how they have something in common, so I figure I have to get her a gas mask cause she’s an in-law (maybe I could get her one with a few pinholes, though, now that I think about it), but does that mean I have to get one for her mother, too, so she (the Daughter) won’t worry the stew out of us? Mean and Stupid are a bad mix, and I frankly don’t want to be known as The Woman Who Preserved That Tramp And Her Daughter The Hussy for all posterity. Anyway, I’d like ’em to fold up real small so they’re easy to carry around – the gas masks, I mean, not the Hussy and Her Mother – and it sure would be nice if they came in cute little bags. Oh, and they need to come with a warranty, too, of course.”

Right about then is when he remembers he has some hammering to do outside.

[ :: ]

Jeanne Hewell-Chambers can remember when he stopped for breakfast on his way into work, and she didn’t eat breakfast at all.

The Engineer and The Artist: Trees

September 7, 2013 / jeanne / 6 Comments

“We need to take some trees down before they fall on the house,” he says.
As he points to this:

Trees4

and this:

Trees5

and this:

Trees6

I see this:

Trees2

and this:

Trees1c

and this:

Trees1d

And yet again, we look at the same thing
differently.

[ :: ]

Jeanne Hewell-Chambers (who some declare got thunked up side the head one too many times as a child)
is still getting used to her husband (the retired engineer)
being home 24/7.

While Sweeping Leaves

September 2, 2013 / jeanne / 3 Comments

Leaves

The leaves pile up in clusters,
and after a while their size
becomes impressive
and strong.

Together, they have the power
to rot the boards on which they rest.
Or to keep plants alive through the winter.

As I sweep them across the deck,
they cling to each other tightly
forming what sure feels like a boulder
to my weary arms.

Occasionally a wind comes along
whispering in the opposite direction
we’re going, the leaves and I,
and I notice that it’s only the
leaves who aren’t connected to other leaves,
the ones who aren’t committed
that blow backwards from whence they came.

A Perennial Special Day

August 28, 2013 / jeanne / 11 Comments

KippAugust2013

Today is my son’s birthday. If you’re lucky enough to know Kipp, you might celebrate different things about him – not because he transforms himself into someone different with everyone he meets in hopes of gaining some invisible stamp of approval, but because he is such a delightfully complex and multi-faceted person who is interested in and excels at so many different things.

I celebrate his willingness to take risks – not stupid risks, but educated risks. He digs in, researches, asks questions, and learns before he leaps. Most of the time, anyway. There was the StartUp Weekend in Boulder when he’d gone to scope it out in preparation for presenting one of his three good ideas the following year. But at the last minute – and I do mean very last minute – he stood up, presented one of his ideas, formed his team, developed the prototype company over the weekend, and 48 hours later, he’d won the big prize. (So it all worked out.) There’s also the fact that while he was still sleeping on the floor of some friend’s uncle, he learned his way around Los Angeles by delivering food. And there’s the skydiving, which is pretty daring, if you ask me. (He’s also a certified skydiving instructor, too, if you’re interested.)

Speaking of skydiving, I’d like to take this opportunity to say how much I celebrate the caring and consideration he shows by calling me on the way to any jump then calling me again on his way home from the jump.

I celebrate his willingness to say “I don’t know” right out loud.

I celebrate his knowing that you can learn more about humans and their relationships from poetry, music, art, and literature than from any psychology class or textbook.

I celebrate his creativity that erupts in the poetry, songs, and essays he writes; in the acting he does on film and on stage; in the open mic events I hope he’ll find his way back to.

I celebrate that he is a wildly creative young man who also balances his checkbook.

I celebrate his dependability – if Kipp tells you he’ll do something, you can move on to something else knowing he will do what he promised. And he holds himself accountable, never accepting the blame for others but not shoving blame on others, either.

I celebrate his unwillingness to take a bunch of crap (which is to say his willingness to stand up for himself). On his first day at the new, private middle school, a big fat kid looked at the short, small Kipp, got right up in Kipp’s personal space, starred down into Kipp’s retinas, and barked “You ought to go back to kindergarten” to which Kipp said without missing a beat, “And you ought to go back to Weight Watchers.”

I celebrate his whipsmart and varied intelligences that spring from all parts of his brain.

Alkipp

I celebrate his gentleness and his love of traditions. Kipp got his first stitches when he was in first grade, and we went for ice cream afterwards to make this a celebratory Milestone Life Event. Years later when Alison got her first stitches, Kipp called me in the ER to say that he wanted to pay for her celebratory ice cream.

I celebrate his sense of place . . . when the last box left the house he’d grown up in, Kipp and I spent a few minutes sitting on the front stoop, laughing and crying as we told stories as our way of thanking the house for sheltering us while transitioning into new shelter. It was a tender moment that I’ll remember long after I’ve forgotten his name.

I celebrate his thoughtfulness, his empathetic nature, his bend towards self-reliance.

I celebrate his self-awareness . . . Though he was slow to warm to swimming lessons (I don’t mean swimming lessons in general, but slow to warm to each and every weekly swimming lesson), afterwards he sat in the backseat shivering partly from the chill of a wearing a wet swimsuit in an air conditioned car and partly from the excitement of going straight to his grandmother’s swimming pool for more swimming. The day he went off the diving board at swimming lessons, he went straight to YeaYea’s diving board, walked resolutely to the end of the board, and stood there shivering, his little hands clasped in front of him as he looked down at the water, eventually turning to me and saying, “Mom, I guess you’re just gonna’ have to push me.”

I celebrate his attention to detail and his strive for the remarkable, though he is overly hard on himself sometimes . . . like the time he was learning to ride his bike. He got to the end of the driveway, and as he attempted to turn onto the road, he fell. He took a minute to look at his scraped knee, then picked himself and the bike up, walked it back up to the top of the driveway, and started over, falling again. This time he boo-hooed (and I mean loudly). “Are you okay?” his dad asked rushing over to check on him. “Yeah,” Kipp said, “I’m fine, but I FELL IN THE SAME SPOT.”

I celebrate Kipp’s sense of hospitality, his sense of humor, his precociousness. When I asked our pediatrician why baby Kipp wouldn’t stop crying, she said it’s because he was a 40 years old man trapped in a baby’s body. This woman of science told me that, and she was absolutely right.

I celebrate Kipp’s willingness to be vulnerable and his ability to let other people be vulnerable without rushing to make it better or fix anything. I celebrate his sensitivity, his desire to be his ow man, and how he lives with diabetes, taking good care of himself without whining and complaining of all the extra steps that involves for him.

I celebrate my lucky stars and swimmers and eggs that all came together to place Kipp in my arms, in my heart, in my life. As he said that one Christmas, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he looked down on what Santa had left under the tree: “I didn’t know I be’ed this good.” Whatever I did i a former life, it had to be pretty darn special.

I call him Slug because he is the hottest coal that keeps my fires burning. Happy birthday, Kipp. I love you more than my pocketbooks.

Goodhugger

on today’s menu: existential stew

August 22, 2013 / jeanne / 10 Comments

TheBarefootHeart

i don’t know why people turn away from the nancys of the world.
i don’t know why i find them so much more desirable to be with than hoards of “normal” people i know.

i don’t know why some folks steal other folks’ thunder.
i don’t know why that makes me so damn furious.

i don’t know which colors are analogous and complementary.
(oh, i know where to look it up,
i just don’t know why i can’t remember that.)
(or why i think i should.)

i don’t know what makes for a good hug
(i just know when i get one.)

i don’t know where to add on to our house.
i don’t know why i can’t seem to live a fine life with only what will fit into a backpack.

i don’t know how some people can be so absolutely sure about things.
i don’t know why i question everything and attach qualifiers like “the way i see it . . .” or “in my experience . . . “.
(okay, i lied. i know why the qualifiers: they’re tacked on because i know as well as you do that i don’t know everything.)

i don’t know how to tailor clothes.
(and i’m fine with that.)

i don’t know why plaids and polka dots look just fine on some people
and so atrocious on others.

i don’t know why people feel an intense need to convert others.
and i especially don’t know why they act on it.

i don’t know why i can’t tell you in one short, snappy phrase what i’m about.
some folks have themes,
i have a theme park.

i don’t know which is bigger: a universe or a galaxy.

i don’t know when “earn” became a 4-letter word.

i don’t know how to tell what are load-bearing walls.

i don’t know why or how some people stay.

i don’t know how people can have deep, unwavering religious faith.

i don’t know what the magic ingredient is that has some victims moving on with their lives in the spirit of self-determination while others get all comfy in the victim hood.

i don’t know why people abuse power,
manipulate others,
lie, steal, and cheat.

i don’t know why you don’t just push up your sleeves and set about changing things if you’re not happy with your life.

i don’t know why we don’t value and practice independent thinking any more than we do,
why we don’t ask more questions,
why we roll eyes and attack people who do.
(okay, at the risk of being called a conspiracy theorist, i think i do have a theory here: people who think for themselves are hard to control. we’ll talk more about that later.)

i don’t know why knowing is more valued than not knowing.

these shoes were sure ‘nough made for walking, and that’s just what i’m doin’

August 21, 2013 / jeanne / 4 Comments

Shoes

I recognize all too well that post-rape/abuse/bullying response, the acceptance of what the “Well, what were you wearing at the time?” or “Well, you’re just so pretty, what did you expect?” responses because you desperately need to make sense of the whole thing, to understand why this happened, and they always ask those questions with such authority. It takes a long time – and I mean a l-o-n-g time – to figure out that without a doubt, you were not to blame, so now, decades later, I begin to appreciate and applaud and adorn this body that for far too long I’ve treated as a head rack.

But no more. My clock is ticking, you see, and each tick can put me closer to death OR each tick can put me closer to living the life I want to live. I get to choose, and I choose what’s behind door #2.

My son gave me a fitbit last Christmas, and last week I finally started feeding the thing (and feeding it well), walking 74,636 steps (which translates into 32.11 miles) and climbed 40 flights of stairs – all in these cute shoes that my friend Jeanie introduced me to. One day I walked 23,299 steps, and though I slept real good that night, nothing ached – not my feet, not my ankles, not my legs – not once. These shoes are much more incredible than they look.

I’ve set a goal of 10k steps a day, and (so far) I get my steps in come hell or high water. I’m staying with my daughter this week, and I get the last 3-4k steps in every night by walking up and down the driveway while tucking my husband in. Last Friday night I went to the grocery store at 11 p.m. and walked the aisles till I met my quota mites before turing into a pumpkin. I walk ruts in the floor at my son’s house last week and at my daughter’s house this week, going up and down and down and up the halls.

I’m feeling better, eating less, and looking forward to going shopping for new clothes without hearing other shoppers whisper things like “Who do you think you are looking at that color or that youthful cut?” or my personal favorite “Do you really think that will fit you? Bahahahahahahaha” . . . and so on. They don’t say these things out loud, of course, but I have special hearing, you see, so I know what they’re saying and thinking.

Yes, all this walking to nowhere takes time out of my already full-to-the-busting-point life, but the funny thing is, when I make the effort to live a balanced life that includes things like walking and writing and stitching, time bends to make room for all the parts to fit in the space of a day. Magic. My friend Angela has a treadmill desk, and I see one in my future, too. Thanks to my special hearing, I hear them say “Obsessed. You’re downright obsessed.” But me? I say Nah, I’m dedicated and committed, and there’s a difference.

Delights from today’s 10,000 steps include . . .

blooms:

Flower