Veterans' Day 2011

Following return from the European Theater after World War II, my primary thought as a veteran was to grasp the G.I.Bill of Rights and complete interrupted studies. As with most of the men with whom I'd served, there was little time to waste nurturing psychic wounds of battle -- move ahead, get on with life, put that war (as the civilians wanted us to) behind you. I joined no veterans' organizations, attended no battalion reunions or military observances, lost contact with all but a very few of closest combat comrades. If the phrase had as yet been coined, none of us had heard of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and dealt quietly, discretely, with whatever demons in flashback surfaced. The new life in a victorious, prosperous, confidently glorious America was to be embraced!

But it never goes away, that experience of soldering wars, and sooner or later one acknowledges the indelible brand of Veteran. It is most manifest in the instant recognition and bond you know with all veterans, frequently on first encounter recognizing that this stranger has been there, is one of us, shares the unfathomable alienation -- that impenetrable wall -- which exists between those who've looked on the carnage of battlegrounds and those who've not. Just this year, during travel abroad, another such instant: While seated on a bench overlooking a panoramic view of the Mediterranean, a white-haired gentleman on a cane unsteadily approached me. An American. I wasn't particularly surprised at his first words -- "you too, I assume, are a World War II vet."

In recent years, evaluating decades of a richly full life, I concede -- if rarely considered when younger -- that having soldiered infused my every other ordained persona: son, husband, father, professional, traveler. I supported the funding campaign for and attended the opening of the World War II Memorial on the Mall at Washington, DC. I am a Founding Member of the National World War II Museum, New Orleans; and of The National Museum of the United States Army, scheduled to open at Fort Belvoir, Virginia, June 2015. In on-going communication with the organization Paralyzed Veterans of America, I welcome the opportunity to extend them support.

This Veterans' Day (2011), I'll undoubtedly have word via e-mail from the one surviving member of my old outfit whom I know to be yet among us. He faithfully communicates on every national holiday or when personal news warrants it. If neither of us feel (or admit to being) anachronistic, I nevertheless savor a vanished America his brief words evoke -- a proud and progressive nation, world leader in the rebuilding of former enemies, democratically convinced of a bright future, idealistic and in many ways still innocent, globally respected as the liberator of conquered peoples. I'll remember, too, a tableau from a Veteran's Day Parade witnessed when a lad on the streets of Baltimore -- a slim, frail, whitened nonagenarian from the War Between the States in step beside a Doughboy from World War I. Never eradicated, could that glimpse etched in the mind of an impressionable small boy have possibly predicated a kinship which flowered in subsequent years?

If Winter Comes . . .

The message from Sorrento on my computer reads Ti aspettiamo! Un caro saluto. I know what prompted it—my own posting the previous day of an early snowfall in Santa Fe with its ubiquitous betrayal of my longstanding, well-known aversion to the approach of winter. I’d like not to disappoint those amici awaiting my return to Penisola Sorrentina and take the next flight out to distant shores of warmer climes.

It’s been this way most of my life. As a boy of the Great Depression, I contributed modest sums to the family income with after school and weekend jobs which often meant outdoor work on bitterly cold days: Assisting an uncle through long Saturdays at his stall in Baltimore’s Broadway Market; working for one of that city’s aggressive entrepreneurs who commandeered a cadre of boys selling pennants, buttons and pins at big-league football games or Christmas ornaments on darkened downtown streets (too many Thanksgvings freezing at the old Orioles’ Stadium or Christmas Eves under snow equating myself with urchins from the Dickens’ novels I devoured during warmer hours). Youthful imagination frequently countered limbs numbed by cold with visions of Faraway-Places-With-Strange-Sounding-Names, invariably romantic isles under the sun.

So much for childish dreams. If Roosevelt’s “this generation has a rendezvous with destiny” meant the South Pacific for many of my peers, it took me to Europe with one of its coldest winters on record. Both theaters of operation exceeded Sherman’s observation that War is Hell, but the oppressive jungle heats of the Pacific must have been like the freezing depths of Europe in tempering fear of the enemy with dread of the elements. I certainly a few times felt that sleeping on the frozen fields of a ravaged continent could mean never waking, welcoming oblivion of white-banked freedom from the obscenities of a world gone mad without end. And once, wandering alone under heavy snow, falling exhausted, embracing sleep, would have perished if a comrade hadn’t found me and carried me back to campground.

One finds ways—with luck— of compensating for what’s disliked, gaining what’s desired. And I’ve been lucky. Or blessed. Or clever, at maneuvering work, opportunities, chance, to get myself to places where sun bathes landscapes golden, sets seas shimmering, prompts the shedding of clothing. The US Southwest, of course; Mexico and Hawaii; but mostly the Mediterranean. Indelible images from countless hours over many stays within the Cradle of Western Civilization accompany all my days. No matter the undertaken task or demanding priority, an unexpected sound, word, sight can transport me to what lives in my soul—Roman walls burnished sienna at sunset, bright ochre columns of the temples at Paestum, glistening marbles of the Acropolis, sun-dappled reflections in pools at the Alhambra, dazzling dancing gurgles at Grotto Azzurro, blindingly white houses at mid-day on the isle of Crete. And, ever in my heart, the colorful seaside towns of Ligure di Riviera, Camogli, Santa Margherita, Rapallo, Lerici, Portovenere; and the enchantment of La Costiera Amalfitana, Meta, Piano, Sant’ Agnello, Sorrento, Amalfi.

One didn’t do badly, either, in establishing homebase at Santa Fe. Certainly the bright light justifies the acclaim documented by D. H. Lawrence during his New Mexico residence. The sun, winter as well as summer, outshines in clarity other regions of the US, gray days are few and there can be blessed respites of thaw during the coldest days of snow and ice in January or February. But now at four score and six, Santa Fe winters are not so easily borne or quickly over as I once considered them. October has me remembering words of so many poets who wrote wistfully of summer’s end and the long haul till spring. And if I once questioned Emil Ludwig’s contention (in his book The Mediterranean) that great cultures can only be spawned in warm sunny regions, I now court rationalization and concede that he knew what he was talking/writing about.

Ti aspettiamo! you post, amico caro. In response, let’s hope your awaiting me is not long while I listen to the song of the sirens, your peninsula’s anthem, Torna a surriento.

Old Soldier Fades Away

He mentioned no ailments nor complained of anything, but there was uncharacteristic urgency in the phonecall declaring he’d like to visit Santa Fe. My response that I’d not be in town, that I planned to visit a daughter and her family in Minnesota was greeted with the proposal that we do it together. “Fly to Chicago, I’ll meet you at O’Hare, and well drive to Minnesota.”

Comrades for three years from training grounds Stateside to the festering fields and skeletal cities of Europe, we’d rarely seen each other once the guns were silenced. But the infrequent meetings as civilians—years, sometimes decades apart—confirmed the bond of brothers-in-arms as among the strongest determinants of who and what we were as men.

Yet it became obvious within minutes at O’Hare that something was amiss. Yes, like always, it was as if we’d seen each other just yesterday, that Eat-Drink-And-Be-Merry-For-Tomorrow-We Die remained intact, that we’d enjoy a high-spirited reunion. But I noticed his gait was slowed, there was bewilderment about where in the parking garage he’d left his car. Leaving the garage, he sideswiped another car, causing considerable delay with the police report, exchange of auto-insurance information, etc. We left O’Hare with our car’s dislodged passenger door held shut by a rope fortuitously found among paraphernalia on the back deck.

Having been through a helluva lot worse together than driving across Wisconsin and into Minnesota in a severely-damaged automobile, we didn’t consider stopping for repairs. Despite my puzzlement at something “different” about Old Buddy, we’d trusted each other too long for alarm about competency at this time. Past adventures and misadventures not in the line of duty, rough, irreverent respites free of military posts, had recklessly risked honor, even our lives, among the rubble and human flotsam of war. Close and tough soldiering not only fostered deliverance from those threats, but had—I’d long been aware—helped sustain sanity in a world gone mad. Not to worry about a damaged vehicle and a driver who seemed not quite himself.

Safely arrived in Minnesota, we enjoyed spacious and private guest quarters at my daughter’s home, and spent happy hours sharing the pleasures and outdoor tasks of the family’s wooded acreage. My friend, ever a charmer, won the hearts of all, son-in-law working beside him pruning fruit trees, a young child to whom he gave much attention admonishing me “Grandpa, don’t ever come back without him.” Evenings, sometimes dusk to dawn, we two oldtimers in our removed accommodations, mindful we did not disturb others, sat over a bottle before a blazing fireplace and talked the night away. Septuagenarians at the time, I was amused by the fact that we seemed essentially the same as the boys whose bold escapist carousals once countered pain and horror.

But undeniable, if not discussed, were moments of sudden alienation. Why did he linger on a stair landing, seemingly lost, on a flight of steps he climbed many times each day. Why did his left arm go occasionally limp. Once he spoke of his deceased wife in the present tense. Complaint had rarely been broached during our friendship, hardships were an accepted given, and my one cautious query about his health was quickly dismissed. When I expressed concern to my daughter and her husband, they felt it was unjustified. They saw the gracious, joyous, loveable man I’d always known. Only that, none of the changes I sensed.

At visit’s end, I elected to do all the driving back to Illinois. Dislodged car door secured by a rope couldn’t deter the assumption that we’d be safer with me at the wheel. We enjoyed the drive, laughing at, relishing memories dredged up from half a century ago. The lengthy drive tired me, but he was the first to collapse once we were at the small farm house where he lived alone. His surrender to exhaustion and the deep sleep which followed betrayed the courage mastered for the mirthful camaraderie while at my daughter’s home.

Not wanting to wound his pride, I did not argue his insistence on driving me to the bus-shuttle for the O’Hare airport. I remained silent when the car jumped a curb and careened wildly before regaining the road. Convinced by now that my friend needed medical attention, I couldn’t fully empathize—being in excellent health myself—with what he was experiencing. I knew his loving daughter lived nearby, checked in daily with visits or phonecalls. I chose to assume I could not be helpful. But truth registered as our eyes locked in parting. Before I left the car, he impulsively, tightly embraced me. No sentimental word or gesture had ever previously infiltrated the fierce loyalty and intractably mute compassion which forged our brotherhood. Was this warm embrace our Farewell to Arms?

Within two weeks, I received word that he was dead. I was haunted by the urgency remembered from his first mention of visiting Santa Fe, expressed to his daughter that I wondered about his strong determination to travel when he was certainly aware that his strength was failing. “He knew he was dying,” she said. “I and his brothers and sisters also suspected the end was near. But he wanted to see you one more time.” That knowledge was humbling, and remains so. But was not surprising. There was a time, never forgotten, when home, parents, loved ones, America itself ceased to exist, when there was nothing but wasteland, we alone on bleak terrain, no yesterdays or tomorrows, only today, and a man beside you to confirm that for now, these moments at least, life continued to exist. That gruff man remains at your side for so long as you live.

Camino Canon - Peerless peer encountered

Though exorbitant gasoline prices and the threat of economic recession have sparked a decline in tourism to Santa Fe this summer, visitors to our gallery number about the same as other years. True, our modest establishment has never attracted casual sight-seers lured by larger, more prominent commercial facades and outdoor exhibits, has for decades drawn limited visitors and clients curious about what lies within the humble adobe. Many of those who've crossed the threshold became lifetime friends; many more, colorful and loquacious characters, have afforded indelible memories. Another such came through the door just this morning.

Petite, ambling with two canes and with an oxygen tank slung over her shoulder, she entered the studio with a much younger companion, obviously employed to assist her. When the aide suggested that he charge take advantage of a vacant settee, sit and rest, the older woman strongly refused, slowly circling the room to study paintings and sculpture. It was only after long minutes that she steered herself toward the settee. I heard the familiar heavy breathing of someone who has difficulty sitting or rising, the heavy sigh as her body collapsed rather than lowered into the upholstery.

She and I exchanged few words, as years greeting visitors to the gallery has taught me when silence is best. The old lady's companion seemed to know, too, the less said the better. Her employer's furrowed brow did not invite chit-chat. Yet, I studied that commanding presence -- white-haired, face lined but fine-boned and testament to great beauty, figure slim, held erect despite dependence on the canes. A multi-hued Mexican serape draped the austerely ochered Moroccan caftan she wore, and Navajo silver and turquoise jewelry adorned her bosom and arms. She'd traveled far. Yet I envisioned her in a stately parlor, simple black dress, pearls and white gloves, taking tea with the ladies, the American matron from decades long gone. Her first words to me were confrontational: "You damned artists, staring into people. The arrogance, thinking you can see more than others." The younger woman lowered her head and stared at the floor.

"But the work is good," the dowager conceded, "and those bronze medallions would be appropriate Christmas gifts for my great-granddaughters." Remaining seated, she directed her aide to bring medallions to her for selection, and chose six from the semi-abstract, stylized forms of angels and madonnas I've designed. As I wrapped the purchase, I heard her call across the room, loudly, addressing me. "You're a World War II veteran, aren't you," she stated rather than asked, and my affirmative response triggered the remark "I can always smell them out. My husband was one. Terse to the point of rudeness, you silent generation of bonded brothers." I've rarely been accused of reticence, often damned as extrovert, and her comment made me laugh. There was no need, really, for me to respond further, as the lady -- apparently assuming she was with a peer who'd comprehend whereof she spoke -- launched into a lengthy monologue of what was wrong with the world and how those of our vintage could set it right.

It was difficult to find proper gifts for young great-grandchildren because decency wasn't part of marketing for youth these days. Book she perused -- "designated children's literature!" -- focused on the trauma of teenaged protagonists from broken families, or their problems with drugs, and "always, sexual awakening, sexual orientation. A world devoid of Innocents." One of the great-grandsons asked for video games as birthday gifts, but all she previewed were awash in violence. A great-granddaughter collected discs of pop music, but most she monitored were strewn with lascivious, vile lyrics "no doubt even worse than phrases once restricted to the barracks you and my husband frequented." She'd always loved the arts, she said, all of it, but now when in New York, frequent attendance at the performing arts and in museums paid little dividends. Too much theater and "most of the cinema" contended that good drama has to be bolstered by ubiquitous profanity, pornographic language, a brutal offense to her ears. Too often museum exhibits were the neuroses of celebrated artists blatantly exploited in their paintings and sculpture. She was sick of "installations and happenings" in galleries where once she found walls aglow with modern works interesting, even beautiful, if challenging. She periodically sought escape to Europe to be again among the great public arts in the streets of Paris or Rome, to look once more on ancient masterworks. "But nowhere today is there true graciousness. I go back to my hotel and the local newspaper is at my door, wide-screen TV's in the room. No matter the country, the journals headline corruption, scandal, violence. Abhorrent American television ads cross oceans, and wherever in the world you are, assault you in English with their spiels on bowel and bladder medications, yeast infections, erectile dysfunction. Lewd. Disgusting. Sewers may be necessary, but must we frequent them." She paused, drew a deep breath. "Have some of us," the voice went plaintive, "Stayed -- as some wit put it -- Too Long at the Fair."

Talk exhausted her. Assisted by her aide, she rose from the settee with great difficulty, and I had a better appreciation of her years -- and the toll they'd taken on her -- than when she entered the room. She teetered just a bit on the two canes before achieving balance. She'd not used the oxygen mask while in the gallery, nor did she apply it on leaving, yet I was certain she would once inside their vehicle parked in our driveway. Santa Fe's 7,000-foot elevation doesn't well tolerate extended monologues. And I saw her pinch at a slight bulge in the elegant caftan. Did it conceal some kind of back or spinal brace? But once outside the gallery, on our front terrace, she straightened her back, held high her chin to face the brilliant northern New Mexico light, and with one of her canes tapped the foot of her anxious companion. "Okay, Girl, let's get on with it."