CoyoteOldStyle's Open Salon Blog

The Last Full Measure

Mon, 28 May 2012 14:05:25 -0400

“. . . from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause
for which they gave the last full measure of devotion—that we here
highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain . . . ”

–Abraham Lincoln

This year I have experienced loss. Incomprehensible, unfair, out-of-the-accepted-timeline loss.

On March 1, after one of the most spectacular snowstorms in a ski season that featured less than ideal conditions at most of the major ski areas across the country, three young men went into the back country and made their way up an ungroomed, pristine slope. They did everything right, testing for potential avalanche conditions, wearing emergency beacons that would help them be found in case of an accident, using equipment that was correct for the conditions. The afternoon was filled with sunshine and a wealth of fresh powder just begging to be shared with good friends.

That afternoon also contained the avalanche that killed my former Boy Scout, Ben. At 29 he was living his dream. He loved high adventure and after earning a degree in English at a New Hampshire university, he headed for California to pursue a life of skiing, white water rafting, rock climbing, bicycling; if an activity included adventure, extreme fun and friends, Ben was ready. Full of life, thrilled by friendships as well as his many adventures, his very being burned as bright and rare as a comet across the awareness of everyone who knew him.

How his parents dealt with this loss I may never know. We parents cannot conceive of a child dying before we do, and certainly not before the age of 30. It makes no sense. It’s not part of the trail we expect for our beloved child. That nightmare phone call is not even a chapter in any of the child care books we are recommended.

And yet, this scenario is happens nearly every day to the families of American military people. I do not know them all, nor do I know their families, but that disbelief, crumpling into a chair with a scream of shock and sadness is the same no matter where the family lives. Young men and women with fantastic plans are gone in an instant. Loving arms can no longer hold them. A place at the holiday table is forever empty. Children grow up without a parent. Parents grow old without their daughter or son.

Memorial Day should be devoted not only to remembering our honored dead, but to questioning how long the human race will continue the devastating destruction of war. How many more spectacular people will have their comets extinguished before their mark can be made?

If you received value from this post, please “rate” it.

Glass

Tue, 14 Feb 2012 07:02:02 -0500

Through the window a

Spiral of parking lot players.

A glimpse, a swift impression.

Standing next to me: such presence,

Energy, fusing past memory and

Unknown supposition. A hot splash

Of light, star-shaped, radiates from

Deep inside, engulfing us both

In a narrative that will never occur,

A dream world can never be

More than a parchment reminiscence.

If you enjoyed this post, please "rate" it.

Banner, Text and Photo
Copyright © 2012 CoyoteOldStyle. All Rights Reserved.

Green Friday

Fri, 25 Nov 2011 19:11:19 -0500

For many years, my Christmas tree came not from a lot or a store, but from the acres of land where my grandfather lived. Each year after Thanksgiving he and I would meet at his house, dressed in Sorels, parkas and heavy gloves, grab a hand saw and head out into the woods.

Some years there was deep snow that we had to crush paths through. It was hard work and often we'd decide we'd settle for a tree that was not so good. Other years there was no snow, but hard-packed frozen pasture, the grasses matted down or frosted in place. But it wasn't a neatly grown or manicured tree we were after. What we were looking for was to cut the top from a 10- or 20-foot tree that had serious problems.

Some of the trees had insect infestations that would soon kill them. Some had grown too close to other trees and were stunted or mis-shapen. A few had viable limbs on only one side. Every tree we took was destined to be cut for one good forestry reason or another.

Depending on the temperature on the day we chose to go tree hunting, we could be out for a half hour or all afternoon. Most of the time, if it was warm enough, we just enjoyed each other's company. Grampa took every opportunity for a quiet lesson, whether it be algebra or woodcraft. I can't tell you how many times he'd stop me and just silently point to some wonder I hadn't seen, like a lodge in the middle of a beaver-created pond or the tracks of a bird in fresh powder snow.

There were times that we'd come upon two trees grown so close together that we'd cut both and drag them back to the house. There, he'd strip the dead branches from the side of one and drill holes in the trunk. Then the live branches would be cut from the side of the other tree. Ever the resourceful electrical engineer, he took copper wire and, inserting the branches into the holes, used the wire to fasten the live branches from one tree to the other, making one acceptable Christmas Tannenbaum from two nearly deceased spruces.

A dozen Christmases ago was Grampa's last. I purchased a "permanent tree" and I've not gone into the woods to cut a Christmas tree since.

On a chilly Thanksgiving afternoon, my brother and my dad cut a tree from our parents' back yard where the forester has been doing a lot of trimming. They got a good top and lashed it to my brother's car roof like a hunting trophy. It was very full and smelled so much better than balsam-scented anything. His daughters are blessed with the beginning of a string of memories like mine.

Watching the tree come down and hearing the whine of the chain saw, I swear I could hear Grampa's voice in my ear, saying of my brother's tree choice, "He got a good one, didn't he?"

If you enjoyed this post, please "rate" it.

Text and All Photos
Copyright © 2011 CoyoteOldStyle. All Rights Reserved.

For Timmy on Veterans Day

Fri, 11 Nov 2011 07:11:20 -0500

Reposting this poem on Veterans Day 2011 is fitting. My friend Timmy never came back from Vietnam. His body didn’t die there but his spirit was changed forever. Timmy existed in a world of pain medicated with VA prescriptions and street drugs and alcohol. He put himself into situations during which others would focus their anger on him. It seemed to somehow ameliorate the rage and despair he felt inside and for himself.

Timmy ended his life by becoming involved in a fight
during which he was beaten to death.

On Veterans Day, dedicate yourself to honoring those who have honored our country with their military service and work toward a future that will no longer require the gift of so much from so few.

Later I would name what I saw

In your eyes that morning,

Knowing that no power in heaven or earth

Could return you to that frozen moment in time,

And change the day when the dreamer in you died.

You spent the rest of your life

Trying to release the man it was too hard to be

From the body you brought back to the world.

Even making love to you

Couldn’t bring you all the way back

From the village where you left your youth.

Your sadness was lessened in my arms

But the distance, the cold and aching silence

Of your thousand-yard

stare

Made me want to shelter you.

There is a place near Lincoln’s gaze

That holds the healing

And the peace you never found here.

A name is missing from the black granite roll call

Because no one counts the casualties

That happen twenty-five years later.

If you received value from this post, please don’t forget to “rate” it.

Post Script: I learned just today that the guy who introduced me to Timmy died a couple of months ago. John was a cab driver and dispatcher who we affectionately called "Doc." He served two tours as a medic in Vietnam. Doc and I spent many of his birthdays together during which he would talk about the men he served with; the men he saved, and more often the ones he could not. He and I lost touch a couple of years ago and knowing that we no longer have the opportunity to get together again in this life leaves a giant empty place in my heart.

Good night, Doc. Hope it's peaceful where you are.

What is right with people: for micalpeace

Sun, 23 Oct 2011 19:10:12 -0400

My friend, micalpeace, has an excellent post that speaks to the frustration we all have felt at Open Salon over the treatment of others by trolls, unkind commenters and people who, instead of keeping quiet and moving on or saying something nice, have seen fit to fill our comment boxes with their negativity.

Here I offer micalpeace a moment of light, of appreciation, of care for another person. After all, what else do we have but each other.

Much like this flower from my yard,we fit next to, above, behind and around each other. Together, we create a tapestry illuminating a story of humanity's light and love. Unfortunately, there are petals that are brown, weak, shaped incorrectly on every bloom.

Do they take away all the beauty of the blossom or do they provide a counterpoint so that we might enjoy and appreciate the wonder that we see on all the other petals?

Micalpeace, I cannot fix the fools of Open Salon. They are like the unhappy bullies who enjoy walking along the beach stepping in children's sand castles. But I can hope that if you stop at my page to breathe the crisp air surrounding this flower, you will find a little peace and love.

"The real Buddha's sacred place we must build within our hearts."
the Dalai Lama