SCARS

A very interesting discussion a couple a weeks ago.  Gives me a little different perspective.  What would you call a mark on your physical exterior that has some meaning attached to it?  I've got a few scars.  Chin from baseball, knee from climbing on stuff, shin from biking, hands from knives and throw in a few surgery scars and there are some more that don't seem to have a significant memory attached.  The friend I was discussing this with opined that a tattoo is a mark on the physical exterior that has meaning attached to it.  Interesting point.  All the scars I have that are larger than 2cm have a memory.  The scar came first, the memory second.   Tattoos seem to have a memory first and then the scar.  In my formative years in the Midwest I was taught that sailors got tattoos, and bad girls had tattoos.  And to some extent today I tend to view (right or wrong) tattooed ladies as different.  I'm not as parochial as I use to be, and they don't have the stigma for me that they use to, and I'd like to accept them, but I know deep in my mental processes I still have some reservations - sorry.  I don't want to have the reservations.    I'd be lying to say I have no reservations.

Make it stop, please

As my trip to Homestead to watch NASCAR continues I had a major issue today.   We were watching the cars practice before the late afternoon race.  Lots of noise, a beer, some food and lots of sun.  I'm sitting with my sister-in-law and her husband.

I started feeling weird and nervous.   If I knew what schizophrenia was, I imagined I had it today.   I excused myslef and told them I was just going to go for a walk for awhile and get my head together.   I probably walked for the better part of an hour then I started feeling a crushing sorrow.   Maybe because I'm doing something I only did with my Wife and family, maybe there was a sound or odor, perfume but I was absolutely overwhelmed by sorrow.  I couldn't breath I couldn't organize my thoughts.  I headed back into the grandstands and I couldn't find my lifeline, my sister-in-law.   I was on the verge of bursting into tears while being stressed by the whole situation.   I finally found my sister-in-law and hand signaled that I needed her to come an talk to me instantly, and she did.

She walked with me, held my hand as I broke down.  She saved me from being alone in a crisis. I couldn't breath, couldn't talk, barely walk and was not in control.

I have been shot at with guns, motars and missiles.  I've been in car accidents, fights, near plane wrecks, riots and outside during killer blizzards.  I cannot begin to write about all the things that should have, and in some cases, hurt me physically and maybe psychologically.   And I sit here today proud that I survived.  

I'm not doing this widow thing very well, survival is the only option, I'm not sure what I should be doing.

Cigars and Life

It is November.  My wife has been dead for 2 months and it will be about 2 more months before she will be buried at Arlington National Cemetery with full military honors, by the USAF Honor Guard.  Yes there is a waiting list for Arlington.  I'm in Florida with my wife's sister and her husband.  (i'm not sure how to refer to them.  She was my sister-in-law for 40 years.   I guess I'll keep her as my sister-in-law regardless).  I'm in Florida because My wife had arranged this trip back in February.   This is the annual trip to Homstead, Florida for the very last race of the NASCAR season.   Mary would arrange this trip every year along with a trip to Dover.   The four of us would travel, eat, drink, watch races and generally we would live life.   

Mary's not here this trip.  My wife's sister and husband get to put up with me and entertain me, or humor me or just listen to me.  Expedia screwed up our reservations and that put some added stress on me yesterday, but I didn't throw the phone and I didn't use any profanity to the Expedia folks.   Never again with Expedia.  

So,  last night I asked Mike if he ever smoked a cigar.  He said yes.  The last cigar I remember was in 1973, in Thailand where I was a security policeman.  When I was in Vietnam I started smoking because there were cigarettes in the C-rations.  I kept it up for over 20 years.   In 1973, I'd go a pick up some Hava Tampa's and take them out when I was the north perimeter patrol (jeep).  So i've never smoked a real cigar.

Last night we headed over to a local liquor store, bought some expensive cigars in glass tubes, got some Grand Marnier, got a cigar cutter and then we went back to the veranda at the hotel and lit up and drank up.   We had discussions that for some reason we have never had before.  We told war stories, passed around compliments, renewed our friendship.   I decided I needed my picture taken with a cigar and here I am.   

In what currently seems like a dessert of sorrow, for a while I found an oasis.