Posts Tagged ‘war memorials’

The moon goes dark, the winter storms lash the homelands of soldiers in harm’s way far away. American soldiers had a relatively death-free week; but England’s forces and others suffered more losses. Remember those lost in our cause!

US Army Sgt. Dillon B. Foxx, 22, of Traverse City, Mich., died Feb. 5 in Afghanistan, of wounds suffered when enemy forces attacked his unit with an improvised explosive device.

Capt. John Palmlov, 28, of Sundbyberg, Sweden and
Lt. Gunnar Anderson, 31, of Stockholm, Sweden both died in Afghanistan in a firefight on February 7th.

Cpl Johnathan Moore, 22, of Lanarkshire, Scotland and
Pvt Sean McDonald, 27, of Edinborough, Scotland both died in Afghanistan of wounds from an IED detonation on February 7th.

WO2 David Markland, 36, of East Lancashire, England died in Afghanistan on February 8th, when an IED exploded.

Pvt Enguerrand Libaert, 20, of Lyon, France died February 9th, in a firefight in Afghanistan.

US Army Sgt. Adam J. Ray, 23, of Louisville, Ky., died Feb. 9 in southern Afghanistan, of wounds suffered when insurgents attacked his unit with an improvised explosive device. (local post soldier)

US Army Pfc. Adriana Alvarez, 20, of San Benito, Texas, died Feb. 10 in Baghdad, of injuries sustained while supporting combat operations.

Late additions:
LCpl Darren Hicks, 29 of Cornwall, England, died in Afghanistan on February 11 when an IED detonated.

Cpl Joshua Caleb-Baker, 24 of Edmonton, Canada, died in Afghanistan in a training range accident on February 12.

LSgt Dave Greenhalgh, 25, of Derbyshire, England, died in Afghanistan on February 13, when his vehicle hit an IED.

US Marine Cpl. Jacob H. Turbett, 21, of Canton, Mich., died Feb. 13 while supporting combat operations in Afghanistan.

Running late on a rainy, sodden, cold week. The month turns in this new year, and the death count grows. Same sh*t, different day, we used to say. I’d like to say something inspiring, but bitter grief weighs my words. I can only bow my head in sorrow and salute those who are finished with the wars.

US Army Spc. Brushaun X. Anderson, 20, of Columbus, Ga., died Jan. 1 in Iraq, of wounds suffered from a non-combat related incident. He died of wounds suffered when attacked by an unknown assailant.

US Air Force Senior Airman Bradley R. Smith, 24, of Troy, Ill., died Jan. 3 in Afghanistan, of wounds sustained while supporting combat operations

The following three US Army personnel died Jan. 3, in Afghanistan, when their position was attacked with multiple IEDs and small arms fire:

Sgt. Joshua A. Lengstorf, 24, of Yoncalla, Ore.

Spc. Brian R. Bowman, 24, of Crawfordsville, Ind.

Pvt. John P. Dion, 19, of Shattuck, Okla.

Pvt. Robert Hayes, 19, of England, died Jan. 3 in Afghanistan, when an IED exploded as his security patrol passed.

US Army Spc. David A. Croft Jr., 22, of Plant City, Fla., died Jan. 5 in Iraq, of wounds suffered when insurgents attacked his unit with an improvised explosive device and small arms fire.

The ancient Greeks had many holy days.  One I have picked up, although I am not a hard-core Hellenic reconstructionist in my religious life is Nekysia.  This holiday falls in late summer or early fall and is somewhat their version of Memorial Day.  The anicient Greek calendar was a lunar calendar and began every month on the New Moon, so each of the twelve normal months might have 29 or 30 days and the leftover days to make the solar year match up were tossed into a very short end-of-the-year month.

So, it was with considerable surprise as I wrapped my mind around this complex version of time keeping to figure out when Nekysia falls this year.  Surprise!  It is in August.  My plan this year, besides the usual cleaning of the monument and addition of more counting beads at need, was to read the entire list of names of U.S. and Coalition dead for both Iraq and Afghanistan out at the Labyrinth altar.  The last time I read my entire list was 2005; there are more than twice as many names now.

Since late summer weather can be unpredictable, I never take my carefully tabulated books outside.  So I am copying the names.  One slip of paper per name.  Each slip will be read and dropped into a brazier of coals  and fragrant woods beside me.  But first, I must write them all down.  I began last night.  Each stack of paper on the table you see is 500 sheets high.  Hail to the honored dead!

Yes, it is summer and the time of the highly ritualized War of the Weeds. But, you say, violets are not weeds! No, they aren’t, but today, they were Goose lunch. I seeded wild violets onto the Labyrinth, along with a host of other experimental ground covers. The soil there is pretty much unamended thin volcanic deposit atop glacial moraine rocks. So, growth there is a battle, especially in the baking summer sun.

The ritual goes like this as the temperature climbs with the morning sun: I make coffee and while it seeps through the filter, I set the sprinkler to its rounds on the Walk of the Fallen. I drink coffee, check email and reply to message board posts while the ferrets ravage the house, steal my bras from the laundry hamper and hide treats under the bathroom armoire. I drink a frozen protein fruit smoothie for breakfast.

And out to the dappled shade of the Labyrinth I go, bucket and tool in red natril gloved hands.
The wooly thyme and Irish moss (and less pedigreed normal moss) and the ground cover called “Brass Buttons” is all allowed free rein to wander amidst the stones. It does not impede walking or vision and can be scissor cut clear. But the violets are violently leaping up in the moss interlaced interstices of the walk and when fall rains come, they and the sneaky clover hidden amidst the moss, will grow tall enough to obscure the stones. And then, on some grief-soaked heavy-listed day, distracted into forgetting my song, I will suddenly stand becalmed like a small gray sailboat on my own labyrinth—frozen like Lot’s wife. I have to focus there, even so familiar as it is, or I am stricken with the sheer continuation of it all. So, starting at center, round I go, pulling infant violets and some of the larger parents too near the stones. I tug out the clover, too, often ripping phlox, moss, and thyme bits with it. Normal weeds get less mercy still—even scorpion grass, the wild forget-me-nots, are ripped with glee.

A crow sits above me and converses with himself about the idiocy of me duck-walking round the stones as noon approaches with solar fury. I make a note to attack the small patch of weedy grass between the Walk and the Honey House tomorrow morning. Finally, bucket full, and the stones in the sun beginning to steam off the morning’s water, I go to dump the bucket of greenery into the little pond in the goose enclosure. Their “Hey…get out of our space” honking turns to anticipatory murmurs as I turn and they contemplate their lunch.

Now, having begun at the heart of my daily life, with the best maintained part of the gardens, I will move outward to attack the rest. Order will be restored. I am grounded in the element of Earth…even thru gloves, it is beneath my fingernails sinking into me. And the cycle goes on and on and on…month after month. My piece of the planet owns me day by day. And like a captivated lover…..I submit.

Happy Independence Day!  You do know that is what we are to be celebrating, right?  The day our Founders could say, “Ok, we made a decision…this is IT.”  “It” being had enough, taken all that was to be taken….the day they decided what to do instead; come wrack, come ruin!

How America has changed since then.  Mind you, our Founders were not wild eyed anarchists; good order and law abiding citizens were a good idea to them.  Unfairness, taxation without representation, military rule—those things were NOT alright with them.  They really wanted King George to just wake the hell up and knock off treating them like convicts instead of citizens.  And contrary to what school history books teach, it was not a united opinion.  The hated “Tories”…loyalists to the king, existed in large numbers.  And they had to fly for their lives, they were horribly abused and tortured by their rebellious neighbors once the emotions ran high.

War is never a good thing, and technically, our revolution was a civil war….we were fighting our own colonial and English brethren.  History books are fond of pictures of Hessian mercenaries so the “those damned Germans” emotions can be called forth to shield us from the unpleasant notion that we fought and killed our own.  It was a necessary war for America to exist, and the determination was launched upon the day we celebrate.

Even Thomas Jefferson fell into bombastic statements so often isolatedly misquoted—bits about the tree of liberty being watered by the blood of heroes.  Keep in mind, those heroes were sons, brothers, husbands, fathers, and yes…women, too.  It was a desperate and dire time.  Hard choices had to be made and results endured.  And it really was a sort of miracle that infant America prevailed.

So, my wish for America today?  That we don’t forget those terrible sacrifices and sufferings.  That we remain willing to rock the correct boats—rich boats, corporate boats, comfortable self-satisfied boats—for the good of the nation. and the world.   And we need to be willing to make hard choices for OURSELVES, too.  We need to recognize our place in the world—the ONE world that we must share even if some would like to live in isolationist dreams.  We need to knuckle down as a nation and stop acting like spoilt children with a list for Santa.  We need to reach out to help friends and neighbors and not expect lock-step agreement on every issue.  We need to learn the difference between negotiation and compromise and merely being sheeple because it is easier to be told how to live.  Remember our history this weekend.  Rock the boat, including the boat of your own comforts.

Men and women are “watering the tree of liberty” with their blood even now, and possibly for reasons that have nothing to do with liberty.  I keep their names, I count their broken bodies with shining beads of glass and gemstone.  I walk through the seasons on their memorial and hold their memory to my heart.  It might be good for American souls to do the same on this weekend; it is not only about BBQs and noise and lights.  It is also about the seasons of wars and returning bodies that goes on and on and on.

To see the slide show of the Seasons of my memorial labyrinth, all time scrambled, you may follow this link and heed the instructions pertaining to your chosen browser:

Seasons Slide Show

It is not yet a movie, that technical conundrum is not solved yet.  It is a slide show with music—hit the image that appears after you choose ‘flash’ or ‘html’ and remember.  Freedom isn’t free, and neither is the life style you relish.

The first spring weeding of the Labyrinth began yesterday.  It is always a long task, involving a good deal of time crouched on my knees on stone, or duck walking around the spirals with a weeding tool in hand.  Yesterday, I “duck walked” in a whole new way: accompanied by a tiny black duckling.

The Labyrinth has been an evolving piece of art in terms of plant life there.  I tolerate many wildflowers there, such as the sweet violets.  Wooly thyme and moss live side by side and California poppies sprout on the larger outer rings.  But a local weed pest known as “shotweed” is my Garden Enemy #1.  It grows from a pretty rosette of leaves, sending up a stalk with non-descript white flowers very early in spring.  Before the last frost is over, long thin seed pods hang where the blossoms were a week before and the merest touch of the plant sends them shooting like a biological Claymore mine.  So, while I pull many weeds, I really do search and destroy for the shotweed before its blossoms can go to seed.

The little duckling, Daffy, was an impulsive purchase at the feed store—alone in a cageful of buff ducklings, I suspect he was a Easter duck that parents talked the feed store into accepting just to be rid of it.  Daffy is unusually fond of humans, far beyond the incubator raised human imprinting of other ducks we have known.  He is small enough to sleep in my hand and yet keeps up even as I stride from Labyrinth to compost bin, peeping frantically at me.  Daffy is companionable, staying close and pecking speculatively at the weeds I pull.  Tiny fluff that he is, he uses a water filled plant saucer as a bird bath; and when I find and drop an earthworm into said saucer  a madness of peeping, pecking and gobbling ensues.  When a big raven or a few crows go overhead, Daffy dives between my knees or climbs UP my knees to shelter in my shirt.

The weeding is less onerous with such a tiny feathery friend alongside.  I take breaks more often for the duckling’s sake, to feed him soft food from my fingers or fill his water saucer so he can cool down as the shade of morning vanishes and the sun bakes us both.  Usually, while weeding the Walk, my mind is filled with 21 gun salutes and folded flags; but this spring I am thinking of Easter egg hunts with children, violets in the garden and  the laughter of hide and seek.  And perhaps those for whom the Walk was built would prefer those memories as well?