Heroes

“We can’t all be heroes. Some of us have to stand on the curb and clap as they go by.” - Will Rogers

It wasn’t a ticker tape parade through the streets of New York but the energy in the cramped gates of Reagan National Airport rivaled even the wildest of parades. I heard the clapping and the band and saw the red, white and blue before I even made it through security, immediately assuming it was a returning active duty unit. I soon realized these soldiers weren’t the young strapping ACU clad men and women that I was expecting. They arrived in wheelchairs, with walkers and some pulled oxygen tanks behind them. They wore tissue paper poppies on their shirts and faded hats perched high on their foreheads. Some looked bewildered at all the fanfare, most humbly smiled and a few openly wept.

These men had braved the trenches, survived the shores of Normandy and rained fire down on German warplanes. They risked their lives on land, sea and in the air and lived to tell about it. Over sixty years later, they face a new enemy: age. Statistics show that around 1,000 WWII veterans die every day.

The Honor Flight Network has, in a sense, begun a race against time to honor this generation of veterans by providing all expenses paid trips to Washington, DC. to visit the WWII memorial. Donations are solicited via Honor Flight’s website, commercial flights are chartered and veterans who can’t afford the trip on their own are flown into the city for a day that is all about them. They are assisted during the flight and city tour by “guardians” (volunteers) and greeted at the airports by a band and “ground crew” of volunteers waving flags and clapping. The mood is infectious and, as I saw at Reagan, the general public is eager to join in the festivities.

It was moving, to say the least, watching such a rare display of patriotism, respect and awe. Complete strangers heading to their gates stopped to hug the veterans, another woman put her bags down to tie the shoe of a former pilot who couldn’t accomplish the task on his own without great difficulty. A WWII widow shook the hand of every one of the service members and thanked them over and over again. Tears were flowing freely. Many of these men won’t live more than a few weeks or months after their trip but Honor Flight has made it possible for them to fulfill a final wish. The Honor Flight Network relies entirely on Donations to make these trips possible—please visit their website today, read the story of how they got started and do your part to honor our WWII veterans.

www.honorflight.org

Truxtun

The relationship between a man and his ship is nearly incomprehensible for the average landlubber. The vessel is more than just wooden ribs or a metal hull—she is a living organism. At sea, her crew becomes attuned to her innermost intricacies and within days of first meeting, they are a seamless mechanism-an active and absolute symbiosis. She becomes their home, in some cases, their protection. It is understandable then that a decommissioning is much like the passing of a dear friend and conversely, that a commissioning can bring a swell of emotion and pride to the throat of even the most seasoned sailor.

This weekend I had the privilege of attending the commissioning ceremony of the USS Truxtun, the Navy’s newest destroyer, with my father. The crowd was comprised of the usual assortment of uniforms, young sun-dressed Navy-wives, children who can’t yet grasp the greatness of this life they are a part of and Veterans. Scores of Veterans in tweed jackets, loud patriotic ties and ship’s caps that have weathered more generations than I have lived. Some are bedecked with medals, some with pins. All bespeak the rich histories of these men who are, in themselves, national treasures.

We sat in rows of plastic chairs facing a scorching sun and slapping at the clouds of gnats that threatened to carry us off. We listened quietly as a new command was bestowed. We stood and applauded the bright and energetic young sailors as they ran to their posts and we cheered as the hulking ship came to life. With her colors flying, she and her crew become one—ready to face whatever lies ahead. The voice of the Chaplain rang out over the crowd, invoking the blessing of the Almighty God upon her to the strains of the Navy hymn and bringing tears and memories to many who had been at this place before—

“They’re all plank owners now” says my Father. “No one can ever take that away from you.”

Eternal Father, strong to save,
Whose arm hath bound the restless wave,
Who bidd'st the mighty ocean deep
Its own appointed limits keep;
Oh, hear us when we cry to Thee,
For those in peril on the sea!

O Christ! Whose voice the waters heard
And hushed their raging at Thy word,
Who walkedst on the foaming deep,
And calm amidst its rage didst sleep;
Oh, hear us when we cry to Thee,
For those in peril on the sea!

Most Holy Spirit! Who didst brood
Upon the chaos dark and rude,
And bid its angry tumult cease,
And give, for wild confusion, peace;
Oh, hear us when we cry to Thee,
For those in peril on the sea!

O Trinity of love and power!
Our brethren shield in danger's hour;
From rock and tempest, fire and foe,
Protect them wheresoe'er they go;
Thus evermore shall rise to Thee
Glad hymns of praise from land and sea.

the 18th, 8 months later

Completely unwittingly, I logged into my old blog on the exact same day as my last post--just 8 months later.

Who knew how much 8 months could hold.

On August 18th, 2008, I was in my first week of nursing school, single (VERY single) and I had exactly 3 friends in this city. Now, I'm halfway through nursing school, have been married for two months, and have made more friends than I can count.

About 3 weeks ago, I had my best friend change the password on my facebook account so I couldn't be distracted by it for the last month or so of school. The absence of my favorite vice forced me back into the land of the living where people use pen and paper to communicate and where they sit over coffee or tea to chat. It's been an invigorating past couple of weeks--I started running again, started going to yoga and I wrote letters. I dug out dusty boxes of creamy white stationary and favorite pens and a part of me that had been supressed by Mac-worship came alive. I also inadvertently unearthed several old journals and found myself almost distraught at having let 8 months get away from me with only facebook statuses to document their goings-on.

I've felt somewhat renewed in the last month--the realization that I'm halfway through school and less than 8 months away from truly beginning my adult life has put an extra little bit of verve in my step. Perhaps I'll start a new journal and perhaps I'll keep this blog up a bit more.

((blows dust off the blog))

Thus begins a new chapter in the oh-so-riveting life of Gwen.

Today was more hours of completely mind-numbingly boring information than I ever care to spend again. Hopefully not indicative of what the next four semesters holds....

I've spent the evening fighting with every form of technology I own except, thankfully, my cell phone.

The internet decided to go on sabbatical this evening just as I needed to finish my webCT orientation, my new printer which was finally delivered today (a full week late) was broken upon arrival, thus prompting a trip to Staples to return it and another trip to Circuit City to get a different one. Oh, and did I mention that I left my laptop charger in Greenville yesterday? Fortunately my ridiculously and unbelievably amazing parents drove down here to deliver it (a trip NOT requested by me, in fact I felt awful that they went out of their way like that just for a computer cable..but as it turned out, it was providential in light of the broken printer mess. Dads are way better at trouble shooting that kind of crap)

So here it is, midnight, one glass of Cabernet and a bowl of chocolate velvet ice cream down and time to get ready for another stimulating day tomorrow.

concerning cancer and art

I'm a painter which is supposed to mean I express things via brush and pigment...or something like that.

I have a confession: until the last 36 hours, I have never "expressed" anything. I have merely reproduced, added a little personal flair and contributed to the already overflowing mass of pretty art and kitsch in the world.

I have searched vainly for a muse and I have finally found her in the most unlikely of places: 5D, oncology, Greenville Memorial Hospital.

My job exposes me to the most raw aspects of the human soul and nature. Modesty is stripped away, dignity lost and faith tested to the Nth degree. Nine months of dealing with death, both physically and emotionally, have created a veritable Niagra of feeling within me--the tension of which grew so great that the creative dam finally broke and the result is two days of incessant painting.

My first piece is intense but still beautiful in ways. My second piece makes me uncomfortable. I have poured enormous amounts of my own self into this painting, almost without realizing it. I'm exhausted after 2 very focused hours of working it but I feel such a release--unlike any I've ever felt where my art is concerned. It could be labeled innappropriate by some. Shocking by others.

I may post pictures eventually but I'm currently still trying to process.

Friday's fare

Oh my...

I already know I'm a children's book snob.
I won't even pick it up if the illustrations don't meet my standards.

I generally feel about the same way everytime I pass the toy department at any of the major stores--they've become so cheap looking, too electronic...I just get disgusted.

but THESE!!!