The Right Stuff

I love biscuits and gravy. As far as I’m concerned, it is the best breakfast ever. A few weeks ago, I pulled down the canister of Bisquick and made biscuits that didn’t raise. “The Bisquick is too old,” I told my husband. Nevertheless, we poured sausage gravy on top and ate them anyway.

After I bought a new box of Bisquick, I made a batch of tasty biscuits that didn’t require gravy to make them edible. Strangely, the next batch was hard and heavy. I grumbled and threatened to buy canned biscuits. Just as we finished eating, Harold said, “You have that new box of Bisquick,” and he pointed at the small box nestled between the cereal canisters.

“No wonder they were a flop! I didn’t use the right stuff.” I had forgotten that I hadn’t put the new Bisquick in the canister. No matter what we do, if we don’t use the right stuff, we don’t get optimal results.

I made good biscuits again Monday. Normally, on Memorial Day, I’d be rushing to make it to the ceremony at the Veterans Cemetery in Higginsville, but between the oppressive heat and road construction, my sister-in-law Ginger and I went Sunday to place flowers in front of Jim’s resting place. An unexpected advantage of being at home was that my son dropped by for a visit and joined us for biscuits and gravy. I was glad I’d used the right stuff!

When Jim joined the U.S. Army, he showed that he had the right stuff. He fulfilled his obligation as a citizen by serving a tour of duty in Vietnam. Although he didn’t agree with the war, he loved his country. The war changed his life. Between PTSD, a neck injury, and exposure to Agent Orange, he lived with chronic physical and mental pain until his death from dementia.

On Memorial Day, we think of the people who sacrificed for our freedom. We think about the soldiers who died and those who died inside. We honor those who had the right stuff to risk life and life altering injury to fight for the United States of America. We place our hands on our hearts and pledge allegiance to the flag.

The original pledge of 1892 was recited as “I pledge allegiance to my Flag and to the Republic for which it stands: One Nation indivisible with Liberty and Justice for all.” With these twenty-three words, Americans pledged that we would not be divided and that we wanted liberty and justice for everyone.

Later, of course, “my flag” was changed to “the flag of the United States of America.” The U.S. was a land of immigrants, and this change was to clarify the pledge was to the U.S. flag. The last change in 1954 was to add “under God.”

A lot has been said lately about respecting the flag, but we disrespect it in many ways without a second thought, or being aware that we’ve done so. The flag is not to be used for advertising, printed or otherwise impressed on paper napkins or boxes that are for temporary use and discarded. No part of the flag is to be used in a costume or athletic uniform.

It is important to think about the right stuff that goes into being an American. The right stuff begins on the inside and manifests itself in how we treat others. Anything less and we disrespect the flag and those who risked everything to protect our freedoms.

On Memorial Day, we think about the sacrifices that make this the country it is, but it’s our everyday behavior that makes that sacrifice worthwhile.    

Copyright © May 2018 by L.S. Fisher

http://earlyonset.blogspot.com

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Memorial Day Weekend Ahead

I’ve heard that some people fear public speaking more than death, but I enjoy speaking when I know my subject well. Because of Jim’s dementia, Alzheimer’s is a subject that I have become intimately acquainted with over the past fifteen years.

Some of my presentations are more lighthearted than others, but the one I was scheduled to give at 6 PM Friday night—the day that marked the beginning of Memorial Day Weekend—was Dementia Specific Training for a group of in-home service providers. When my contact, Tracy, suggested the last Friday of May, I had no plans to go out of town for the weekend so it fit nicely into my schedule.

The closer the time came for the program, I kept thinking about how I would be standing between a group of workers who had finished their workweek and a weekend of fun, sun, and getting away from it all. How restless were these hardworking individuals going to be when their holiday was delayed by a full one-hour of training? Would they pay attention, or were they going to keep checking their watches and mentally be on the way to the lake for a weekend of boating?

Before I began, I handed out note sheets with several fill-in-the-blank statements for each of the areas covered during the training: An Alzheimer’s overview, Communications and Behavior, daily activities, and helping families cope.

“This dementia specific training is important to provide good care for your clients with Alzheimer’s. You can fill in the blanks on the note sheet as we go.”

It didn’t take me long to discover the audience was attentive, asked questions, and shared some of their personal experiences. One lady was a primary caregiver for her mother who had Alzheimer’s and another expressed her concern that her husband was beginning to show signs of dementia. A young lady told me she couldn’t visit her grandmother at the same time as her mother because they looked too much alike and grandma was confused as to which one was her daughter.

It was an interactive discussion with a group that was eager to learn and took notes in addition to the fill-in-the-blank forms I had given them. I forged onward, as they interwove their personal experiences into the context of the training session. By being part of the program they took ownership of the information they needed.

I ended by reading “Honor Our Everyday Heroes” from Early Onset Blog: The Friendship Connection. As I read, I glanced up to see participants brushing away tears. My voice broke slightly on the words, “I think about how Jim told our sons they were his heroes, and how prophetic his words would become. They truly became his heroes when they cared for him with love and respect as he faded away.”

After the presentation, some left in a hurry to begin their weekend, but a few lingered for more discussion and to get some pamphlets I had left in the car. After our final goodbyes, I started my car to hear the opening bars of “Jingle Jangle.”

A rush of feelings swept over me as I instantly flashed back to Honolulu, Hawaii, 1969, and a small chapel where Jim and I exchanged the vows that marked the beginning of our life together. On our wedding day we heard “Jingle Jangle” for the first time and dubbed it “our” song.

I thought about living on Humboldt Street in Manhattan, Kansas, and how one night we were shopping and heard “Jingle Jangle” and followed the sound to a stereo system. Seeing it as a divine sign, we bought the walnut stereo cabinet once they agreed to include the “Jingle Jangle” album.

I became lost in the feelings of 1970 when we held our newborn baby in our arms and celebrated with Mama Burgers and Papa Burgers at A & W. Life lay ahead of us like a yellow brick road leading us from Kansas to a wonderful land “somewhere over the rainbow.” Hopes and dreams helped us through the hard times of too much month at the end of the money.

The song ended, and the sixties drifted to the back of my mind to rest in the area of my brain where I store my long-term memories. I put my car in drive and left the parking lot. My mind was already on the weekend ahead—a time for honoring those who served our country and remembrance of love that is never truly lost.

Honor our Everyday Heroes

Memorial Day is a time to pause and think about heroes and to honor those who have died in our nation’s wars. At least, that was the original purpose.

It stands to reason that we would use the day to also honor other loved ones. My Grandma Whittle called the holiday “Decoration Day.” She and Grandpa loaded up a picnic lunch and went to Big Rock Cemetery to decorate graves.

After Jim and I married, we made our annual pilgrimage to the cemeteries where our loved ones were buried. Sometimes it was a strain on our budget to buy the flowers to decorate the graves, but it brought a sense of peace as we continued the traditions of our youth.

Our first stop was always Mt. Carmel. From there we went to Big Rock Cemetery, stopped at Stover Cemetery, and then drove back to Sedalia to decorate graves at Crown Hill. We made a complete circle and headed home with a heart full of memories.

When Jim first developed dementia, I drove our usual route while Jim placed the flowers on the graves. When Jim went in the nursing home, I went alone. Decorating graves without him was not an experience I cared to repeat.

Memorial Day 2005 was the first time I participated in the ceremony at the Missouri Veterans Cemetery at Higginsville. I haven’t missed a year since Jim’s death.

I was a little bummed about a conflict this year. My granddaughter is graduating kindergarten Sunday. My youngest son’s family lives in the Lake of the Ozarks area, the opposite direction from the cemetery. I told my older son, Eric, that I was going to the graduation. “I’ll miss the Memorial Day ceremony,” I told him.

I was disappointed, but I know Jim would have never chosen a ceremony for the dead over one for the living. He often wondered aloud what good it did to make someone a hero after they died. Jim always said, “Dying doesn’t automatically make you a hero.” Instead, he would tell our sons when they were small, “You are my hero.”

Jim never considered himself to be a hero. He was tightlipped when it came to Vietnam, and I never knew Jim had received an Army Commendation Medal until he could no longer tell me why he received the award. The commendation was nowhere to be found, and the Army couldn’t produce it when I asked.

“Why would you miss the ceremony when the graduation is Sunday and Memorial Day is Monday?” Eric asked.

“I don’t know why I thought Memorial Day was Sunday,” I said. “After all, it’s always been Monday.”

On Memorial Day, I’ll drive to Higginsville cemetery to place flowers in front of Jim’s niche. I’ll be there with my sister-in-law, Ginger, and with other families to think about and honor our loved ones. When we pause to honor our fallen heroes, we should honor our everyday heroes too. We all know people who face life’s challenges with bravery.

I think about how Jim told our sons they were his heroes, and how prophetic his words would become. They truly became his heroes when they cared for him with love and respect as he faded away.

For most people, decorating graves is an afterthought as they travel home from a weekend at the lake. Others spend the weekend shopping at Memorial Day sales or pigging out at backyard barbecues.

I always thought it ironic that Memorial Day has become a party weekend, not a somber occasion to remember the dead. Maybe it makes more sense to use Memorial Day as a time to celebrate life and honor the living as well as our fallen heroes. After all, we are surrounded by everyday heroes who deserve recognition for facing life with courage.

Red Roses in a Blue Plastic Bottle

The Veterans Cemetery has a rule that during certain times of the year, live flowers in non-breakable vases are the only acceptable decorations. The day before Memorial Day, I look over the fresh flowers at Wal-Mart.

Sentimentality wins out and I purchase a half-dozen red roses to put in front of Jim’s niche. The roses may not be the most practical choice. If the day is hot, they may wilt before the ceremony is finished. But my heart is set on the red roses. A single long-stemmed red rose was Jim’s way of saying “I love you” on anniversaries, Valentine’s Day, and for no reason at all.

Do you think I could find a plastic vase in the entire Wal-Mart Supercenter? I risk my groceries to stop at Big Lots, but they don’t have any plastic vases either. At home, I find a plastic jar that I decide I can use if my last ditch stop at the Higginsville Wal-Mart ends in failure.

Once we pull off I-70 on the way to the cemetery, my sister-in-law, Ginger, and I storm into the store; two women on a mission. First we look in the obvious places and find the normal grave arrangements along a wall. Picnic supplies are jammed onto shelves nearby.

“How about these water bottles?” Ginger asked.

“They have possibilities,” I said.

The bottles are translucent red and blue, and don’t have logos or ounce markers on them. The price is good—two for $4. They look much like vases, or at least will if we remove the lids.

We put the bottles into the cart and head for the craft section where we select white wired ribbon and some decorative pebbles. In the parking lot, we take scissors to the roses and put pebbles in the bottom of the blue bottle. The arrangement seems a little top heavy so Ginger continues to stuff pebbles into the bottle on the ride to the cemetery. By the time we put a ribbon on the improvised vase, we have a red, white, and blue floral arrangement.

A light rain falls, and we think the ceremony may be cancelled. The rain dwindles off, and the stars and stripes proudly line the white fence, and the service flags atop the columbarium whip in the gusty breeze.

Of course, when I place Jim’s roses in front of his niche, I notice about half the decorations are artificial arrangements or potted plants. Jim’s roses look nice and smell good and are worth the extra effort. Ginger and I sit a stone bench for the ceremony, and watch the roses open up to embrace the day and proclaim that love is the one thing that doesn’t die.