I saw a film today in which a line leaped out to me. A husband said to his wife of 45 years that it was a shame that as one grows older we begin to lose our purpose. It zapped me right between the eyes as I received that revelation. It's not that I had not realized that prior to hearing this line delivered, but, at that moment, at that breath, at that mindset it took me aback.
As a youngster I always had a purpose of some sort. It may have only been trying to find a way to get into town to go to a movie, which involved looking for loose change under the couch cushions and looking for empty Coke bottles to turn in for the deposit in order to purchase the nine cents needed for the ticket and a dime for popcorn and maybe a pickle. Hey, it was a purpose! As time moved along the purpose evolved in finding ways to impress my parents and worrying about how to accomplish it. I was raised to play football by a father who had put a small football into my crib. Freshman year came, I lined up to get my shoulder pads and purchased my first jock strap. I trotted onto the field, threw up after a rigorous workout, and got the hell knocked out of me. I kept it up until one night Dad came into my room and said,
"Ronnie, I know the coach isn't doing right and if you want to stop playing, that's fine."
My heart leaped, but I looked thoughtful and replied,
"OK, Dad I'll think about it."
I couldn't turn in my shoulder pads quick enough the next day, put the jock strap in the bottom of my drawer in case, some day I might need it, and joined the band!
I realized years later that Dad knew I was miserable and gave me the honorable way out. My point is that we usually need someone to allow us to reach our purpose.
All through the angst of the teenage years my purpose varied constantly, sometimes even daily! This was the late 50's and my purpose was to get out! College life beckoned and my purposes became clearer and clearer. Again it was my parents who helped me achieve the purposes.
Bam! I grew up! Sort of! (In a sense, at 74, I am still growing up.) I graduated, fell in love, taught, served in the Army, had children, survived loss and my purpose was clear.
The girls grew up, I retired, had the prerequisite heart attack and continued on discovering my purposes as life went on. The nest emptied and then….
Diane became ill. It started out slowly and became increasingly insidious. My purpose at that point became crystal clear. My purpose was to care for the most precious person in my universe. I was focused and I knew what I needed to do. It was the most important job I had ever held.
Then, Diane made the transition and left this plane of existence. I went through all the stages. I was pissed, grieved mightily, cried uncontrollably and shook my fist to the heavens. I swore I was going to slug the next person who told me she was in a better place and that she was no longer in pain. As time passed I had no purpose. However, eventually my logical psyche kicked in and I began to try to find my purpose once again.
I realized that my life had really changed. Suddenly I found myself in a world of couples. Friends began to drift away because they were uncomfortable with the sadness they were experiencing because I was reminder of the loss of Diane. I began to talk to myself in the house, loudly rationalizing my state of mind and trying to find another purpose.
Traveling became one of my purposes. It helps, but eventually you have to go home. I still love to travel and thoroughly enjoy all my adventures, however. I found a church in which I was not known as RonnieandDiane, but simply Ronnie. That helped. I found good single friends with whom I can share fears and joys. I continued to search for my PURPOSE.
Then I went to a movie. I heard the line about losing purpose as one grows older. That caused what few brain cells I have left to begin trying to figure it out. It is now late at night and I think I may have the beginning of the answer. Want to know? Here goes!
Purpose is not a single entity. It does not involve a single goal, but rather is a constantly changing state of mind. It begins with our personal bubble and as we breathe life into it a change happens. It expands. It grows and begins to encompass those around you. You begin to assimilate and the purpose becomes apparent. It is patience, understanding, love, appreciation and a willingness to allow others into your bubble. It involves efforts to tamp down negativity and to reach out to those around you and make them feel comfortable. Pollyanna? Perhaps. I prefer to think of it as common sense and a desire to be comfortable with me. How am I going to accomplish this?
I'm writing this blog, aren't I?
Wednesday, February 17, 2016
Saturday, February 6, 2016
Thailand Memories
Diane and I spent almost two years in Thailand during my Army days. I was the Special Services Officer for Bangkok and the surrounding area from September of 1967 until September of 1969. While there we had many adventures and experiences and the following is only one of many.
In the southern part of Thailand you find the site of the famous bridge on the river Kwai. This area was immortalized by the movie starring Alec Guinness and also gave us the wonderful Colonel Bogey March. Those of us who remember this film remember that, at the conclusion of the film, the bridge was blown up. That, in fact, did happen. However, it was rebuilt and to this day, as far as I know, is still a working railroad between Thailand and Burma. It is located by a small town called Kanchanaburi and I had visited this site once before because there was a small Army site there for which I provided special services. In fact, I had been there because I escorted Ann Margaret down there on a handshake tour. That's another story which I will write more about. This account is when I took Diane down there to see the bridge and the sights.
We were nearing the end of our tour there and I felt I needed to make sure she saw this historical area. In May of 1969 we loaded up the car and, along with our dear friend John Fratta and his guest, took off to the south. It was about 120 miles from Bangkok and was an easy drive. We drove through some very interesting little towns with some beautiful temples in which we stopped and explored on the way down. It was during the dry season and was pretty hot. We had become pretty well acclimated to the heat and that was not a big issue. John's friend was a delightful nurse from Australia named Natalie and for some reason I recall that her street address back in her home country was Peppermint Lane. I found that wonderful and as delightful as her. One other fact you need to know is that Diane was 7 months pregnant with Melissa.
The historical site at the bridge is very sobering and impressive. The bridge, of course, is the focal point. However, next to it is a large cemetery filled with the graves of British POW's who had died while there. It is surrounded by lush tropical jungle and is quite beautiful. Next to the bridge one can rent a boat to take you upriver. There is another cemetery about 3 or 4 miles up the river. On the way there they make a stop at an unusual Buddhist temple that is located in a cave in the jungle.
Let me describe the boat to give you a feel of the experience. These were their long boats. They are about 15 feet long and very narrow. Only two people can sit together and you are almost flat on the bottom of the boat with a narrow slat to sit on and another to lean back against. You sit with your legs straight out from you. They are certainly not built for comfort. It is propelled from the back with a motor with a very long propeller shaft so that shallow water can be navigated. There is no cover.
Being the dry season the river was very shallow, probably only about 3 feet deep. On either sides of the river was the jungle. We were in tiger country and we kept a wary eye out for these animals or perhaps an elephant or two. I was channeling my Jungle Jim and was loving every minute of it! Diane, on the other hand, was not comfortable but was being a good sport.
We arrived at the temple site and made a short hike up the hill through the jungle to the entrance of the cave. We were met by an orange clad monk who took one look at Diane and wiggled his finger and informed us that she would not fit through the very narrow opening of the cave. Melissa was pretty prominent at the time and it kept her from entering. Again, Diane was a good sport and waited for us at the exit of the cave. The interior was very exotic and we soon arrived at a rather impressive Buddha statue along with other religious icons. It was the stuff of which dreams are made. Every Tarzan movie I had ever seen was running through my mind. It was surreal.
We went back to our boat and continued down the river to the second cemetery. There were hundreds of graves of the British POW's. The cemetery is surrounded by the jungle greenery and many flowering trees. The ghosts and spirits of the prisoners hung heavy in the air and it was both beautiful and sobering.
As we arrived back at our river conveyance it was beginning to really get hot. Once we got going on the river we got a little breeze and that made it better. We traveled about a mile and a half and then it happened….!
The motor on the boat sputtered and stopped. After numerous attempts to get it going it became obvious that it was not going to start. There were no other boats in sight and there we sat, getting hotter by the moment, waiting for a passing boat. There we were! Stranded on the River Kwai! Surrounded by communists and tigers!
My lovely dignified wife muttered several choice epithets at our driver in every language she could muster. Finally, we crawled out of the boat and just sat in the water in an attempt to keep cool. Diane was buoyed by our still unborn Melissa and we all waited for a rescue. Soon another boat came by and we were towed back to our starting point. Saved! I could picture the crazed Alec Guinness on the bank shouting, "Huzzah, good show!"
Thus ended our River Kwai adventure. We looked like the wrath of Buddha when we got back to the car and decided that our river mishap only served to make it more memorable. What a day!
In the southern part of Thailand you find the site of the famous bridge on the river Kwai. This area was immortalized by the movie starring Alec Guinness and also gave us the wonderful Colonel Bogey March. Those of us who remember this film remember that, at the conclusion of the film, the bridge was blown up. That, in fact, did happen. However, it was rebuilt and to this day, as far as I know, is still a working railroad between Thailand and Burma. It is located by a small town called Kanchanaburi and I had visited this site once before because there was a small Army site there for which I provided special services. In fact, I had been there because I escorted Ann Margaret down there on a handshake tour. That's another story which I will write more about. This account is when I took Diane down there to see the bridge and the sights.
We were nearing the end of our tour there and I felt I needed to make sure she saw this historical area. In May of 1969 we loaded up the car and, along with our dear friend John Fratta and his guest, took off to the south. It was about 120 miles from Bangkok and was an easy drive. We drove through some very interesting little towns with some beautiful temples in which we stopped and explored on the way down. It was during the dry season and was pretty hot. We had become pretty well acclimated to the heat and that was not a big issue. John's friend was a delightful nurse from Australia named Natalie and for some reason I recall that her street address back in her home country was Peppermint Lane. I found that wonderful and as delightful as her. One other fact you need to know is that Diane was 7 months pregnant with Melissa.
The historical site at the bridge is very sobering and impressive. The bridge, of course, is the focal point. However, next to it is a large cemetery filled with the graves of British POW's who had died while there. It is surrounded by lush tropical jungle and is quite beautiful. Next to the bridge one can rent a boat to take you upriver. There is another cemetery about 3 or 4 miles up the river. On the way there they make a stop at an unusual Buddhist temple that is located in a cave in the jungle.
Let me describe the boat to give you a feel of the experience. These were their long boats. They are about 15 feet long and very narrow. Only two people can sit together and you are almost flat on the bottom of the boat with a narrow slat to sit on and another to lean back against. You sit with your legs straight out from you. They are certainly not built for comfort. It is propelled from the back with a motor with a very long propeller shaft so that shallow water can be navigated. There is no cover.
Being the dry season the river was very shallow, probably only about 3 feet deep. On either sides of the river was the jungle. We were in tiger country and we kept a wary eye out for these animals or perhaps an elephant or two. I was channeling my Jungle Jim and was loving every minute of it! Diane, on the other hand, was not comfortable but was being a good sport.
We arrived at the temple site and made a short hike up the hill through the jungle to the entrance of the cave. We were met by an orange clad monk who took one look at Diane and wiggled his finger and informed us that she would not fit through the very narrow opening of the cave. Melissa was pretty prominent at the time and it kept her from entering. Again, Diane was a good sport and waited for us at the exit of the cave. The interior was very exotic and we soon arrived at a rather impressive Buddha statue along with other religious icons. It was the stuff of which dreams are made. Every Tarzan movie I had ever seen was running through my mind. It was surreal.
We went back to our boat and continued down the river to the second cemetery. There were hundreds of graves of the British POW's. The cemetery is surrounded by the jungle greenery and many flowering trees. The ghosts and spirits of the prisoners hung heavy in the air and it was both beautiful and sobering.
As we arrived back at our river conveyance it was beginning to really get hot. Once we got going on the river we got a little breeze and that made it better. We traveled about a mile and a half and then it happened….!
The motor on the boat sputtered and stopped. After numerous attempts to get it going it became obvious that it was not going to start. There were no other boats in sight and there we sat, getting hotter by the moment, waiting for a passing boat. There we were! Stranded on the River Kwai! Surrounded by communists and tigers!
My lovely dignified wife muttered several choice epithets at our driver in every language she could muster. Finally, we crawled out of the boat and just sat in the water in an attempt to keep cool. Diane was buoyed by our still unborn Melissa and we all waited for a rescue. Soon another boat came by and we were towed back to our starting point. Saved! I could picture the crazed Alec Guinness on the bank shouting, "Huzzah, good show!"
Thus ended our River Kwai adventure. We looked like the wrath of Buddha when we got back to the car and decided that our river mishap only served to make it more memorable. What a day!
Monday, February 1, 2016
…and then it got cold.
On this date 5 years ago we held the funeral services for our sweet Diane. It was a surreal time in which I moved through this dream with very slow deliberate steps. My internal mechanism had kicked in and I was carefully maneuvering my actions and making sure that I allowed myself the appropriate grief and that I allowed others to share it with me. Funerary rituals are often decried, but I believe that they are necessary in order to release the pressure valve of sadness so we do not explode emotionally. Different folk accomplish this in different ways. The Vikings sent the departed off to sea in a fiery vessel. Some American Indians do not even speak the name of their dead in so that their spirit would not be earthbound and allowed to move forward. Some cultures drape pictures of the deceased and others rend their clothing in order to express their grief.
I was raised going to funerals. I actually remember being lifted up so I could view the body of the deceased for one last look. I also remember that it was not only a sad time, but a happy time as well. Stories are shared about the individual and you ATE! Funeral ham is mighty fine! Everyone showed off with their signature casseroles or desserts. I am a descendant of a hardy stock of people from the hills of northern Arkansas and southern Missouri. The distant Irish, German and Welsh genes still run deep in my people and, even though they don't realize it, it plays a large role as far as behavior and tradition in important events.
I digress. Diane went on hospice for only a day before she died. I refused to believe that we were this close to the end of the journey. Thanks to two very kind doctors who spoke to me at midnight two days before I was able to to be slapped into reality. I signed the appropriate papers, talked to the girls, talked to Diane's beloved cousins and began to mentally prepare myself. Once the process began the wheels started turning. I stepped back, let it happen and began to plan. My heritage took hold and I started to consider how we could honor this lovely and extraordinary lady.
I said to someone very recently who had stated that they could never sing or speak at a funeral service for someone very close to them. I know for some this would be very difficult. However, my thought is that if you do not, you will not have the opportunity to make sure the right things are said. I have been to many funerals in which it was obvious that the one eulogizing did not actually know the person very well. That happened at my father's funeral and I swore it would not happen again. I have been asked and given several eulogies over the years for close family members. I was determined that I would be the one to speak. Our daughter, Melissa, spoke as well and both our daughters, Melissa and Pam, sang the Pie Jesu from the Weber Requiem. Our dear friend, Bob Gross, an Episcopal priest, conducted the service. Several of Melissa's singer friends flew in from NYC and Philadelphia and sang. Katie Lacie and Indra Thomas sang His Eye is on the Sparrow and it was exquisite. Our good friend, Rick McDole, played the piano and accompanied everyone. Our buddy, Dov Kupfer, did the flowers and dear friend, Helen Mott, arranged a wonderful luncheon after the service. Do you see the thread? They were all family and good friends. They all knew and loved Diane and used their talents to insure that proper homage was paid. It was glorious.
And then it got cold. There were snowflakes falling as we left the church and the temperatures were plummeting. Hasty farewells were given to out of town guests who were scurrying to leave before the roads became impassable. Some were caught in the storm and what should have been a one day trip became two or three. The entire state of New Mexico and Texas was caught in the grip of one of the worst cold snaps in years. El Paso, along with many other cities, had pipes bursting and lost power. Our east coast singers could not leave because the airport was shut down. We moved them all in with us, lit candles and hunkered down together.
It was as if Diane's death had sucked all the warmth out of the atmosphere. We shivered with grief and also laughed at our predicament. It became an adventure.
As I write this I am looking out my bedroom window. A windy cold front has moved into town. There are small raindrops peppering the panes and it is as if the weather spirits are helping me remember that day five years ago. I am going to allow myself to remember today. Why? Because I know that not long from now the warmth will return and the moisture will allow the rebirth of the green and flowers that Diane loved so well. I don't think I need to belabor the analogy.
…and then it got cold. However, it did not linger.
I was raised going to funerals. I actually remember being lifted up so I could view the body of the deceased for one last look. I also remember that it was not only a sad time, but a happy time as well. Stories are shared about the individual and you ATE! Funeral ham is mighty fine! Everyone showed off with their signature casseroles or desserts. I am a descendant of a hardy stock of people from the hills of northern Arkansas and southern Missouri. The distant Irish, German and Welsh genes still run deep in my people and, even though they don't realize it, it plays a large role as far as behavior and tradition in important events.
I digress. Diane went on hospice for only a day before she died. I refused to believe that we were this close to the end of the journey. Thanks to two very kind doctors who spoke to me at midnight two days before I was able to to be slapped into reality. I signed the appropriate papers, talked to the girls, talked to Diane's beloved cousins and began to mentally prepare myself. Once the process began the wheels started turning. I stepped back, let it happen and began to plan. My heritage took hold and I started to consider how we could honor this lovely and extraordinary lady.
I said to someone very recently who had stated that they could never sing or speak at a funeral service for someone very close to them. I know for some this would be very difficult. However, my thought is that if you do not, you will not have the opportunity to make sure the right things are said. I have been to many funerals in which it was obvious that the one eulogizing did not actually know the person very well. That happened at my father's funeral and I swore it would not happen again. I have been asked and given several eulogies over the years for close family members. I was determined that I would be the one to speak. Our daughter, Melissa, spoke as well and both our daughters, Melissa and Pam, sang the Pie Jesu from the Weber Requiem. Our dear friend, Bob Gross, an Episcopal priest, conducted the service. Several of Melissa's singer friends flew in from NYC and Philadelphia and sang. Katie Lacie and Indra Thomas sang His Eye is on the Sparrow and it was exquisite. Our good friend, Rick McDole, played the piano and accompanied everyone. Our buddy, Dov Kupfer, did the flowers and dear friend, Helen Mott, arranged a wonderful luncheon after the service. Do you see the thread? They were all family and good friends. They all knew and loved Diane and used their talents to insure that proper homage was paid. It was glorious.
And then it got cold. There were snowflakes falling as we left the church and the temperatures were plummeting. Hasty farewells were given to out of town guests who were scurrying to leave before the roads became impassable. Some were caught in the storm and what should have been a one day trip became two or three. The entire state of New Mexico and Texas was caught in the grip of one of the worst cold snaps in years. El Paso, along with many other cities, had pipes bursting and lost power. Our east coast singers could not leave because the airport was shut down. We moved them all in with us, lit candles and hunkered down together.
It was as if Diane's death had sucked all the warmth out of the atmosphere. We shivered with grief and also laughed at our predicament. It became an adventure.
As I write this I am looking out my bedroom window. A windy cold front has moved into town. There are small raindrops peppering the panes and it is as if the weather spirits are helping me remember that day five years ago. I am going to allow myself to remember today. Why? Because I know that not long from now the warmth will return and the moisture will allow the rebirth of the green and flowers that Diane loved so well. I don't think I need to belabor the analogy.
…and then it got cold. However, it did not linger.
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