What Would Jimmy Do?

This is another one of these self-therapy sessions for myself. Feel free to just skip over it.

The weather around here is finally beginning to get warm. I have always hated winter — this year it was just especially bad… maybe because it just matched my mood — cold, dark and isolated. I guess in some ways, there’s some sense of comfort in that. During the winter, I’m not out as much and not around other people as much. Maybe that’s a good thing because I don’t think I’ve been especially good company recently.

But now spring is coming and it presents me with a whole new set of issues — I feel like I should get out more and do things, but that involves being around more people. Spring is supposed to make you feel better and find new hope. But actually I don’t and it’s an effort to hide my true feelings. This thing called grief doesn’t go away just because the seasons change. 

A friend offered to come over and help me do “spring cleaning” by helping me sort through all of Claire’s things — things that remind me of her. Her theory is that once I do that, I’ll be able to move on and “get back to normal.” I find it interesting (and annoying) when everybody knows when it’s time for me to get back to living.

But here’s the thing…. spring is a time of rebirth and renewal. The trees get their leaves, and flowers come up, and birds start singing. People spend more time outside — it’s like the whole world wakes up.
But — for me it doesn’t seem like a season of rebirth or renewal. Sunnier and warmer days don’t simply wash away the way I feel. I don’t look forward to trying to ease back into the world along with everyone else.

I think I’ve learned that with grief, there isn’t any predetermined list that you have to work through — it’s like the seasons…. It comes and it goes, and it just keeps cycling over and over. I don’t know if it ever stops.
— 30 —

I’ve written about this before, but today is one of those holidays or festivals that we always celebrated. Obviously I’m not Chinese and Claire wasn’t Chinese, but we’ve spent a fair amount of time in that part of the world and we always found that these Chinese holidays were invariably interesting and always seeped in tradition. Today, April 4 is Qīngmíng jié — the Tomb Sweeping Festival. It takes place every year on the 15th day after the Spring Equinox — this year it’s April 4th.

Qīngmíng Festival is also called Tomb Sweeping Day because it is the time for Chinese people to show respect to their ancestors by cleaning their ancestors’ tombs and placing offerings. 
Qīngmíng in Chinese means “clearness” and “brightness.”

Celebrating the Qīngmíng Festival has two halves, equally balanced between sadness and happiness, death and rebirth. Qīngmíng is generally observed quietly among family by visiting the gravesites of relatives and enjoying the outdoors. It’s a really nice time to fondly share stories about ancestors — Chinese or not. That’s the way we usually celebrated it. 
— 30 —

I’ve decided that trying to convince extremists is a total waste of time. Even if you are able to brilliantly argue your point until the end of time, all you’re going to get out of it is the satisfaction that you think you’ve won the argument and possibly an alienated relationship. 
Just don’t fool yourself that if you argue well enough, you’ll change someone’s mind.
That doesn’t work with extremists.
— 30 —

If you’ve been reading the news lately (if you haven’t I don’t blame you) you know there’s been a bit of “controversy” over the choices to fill cabinet positions and other high-level government jobs. The interviews before congress has left me wondering about some of their responses. After reading about some of the choices to fill these positions and their views on various subjects, and some of their backgrounds and rhetoric, it makes me wonder if this has always been the type of people seeking higher political offices.

In the past few years there’s been a lot of comparisons between several U.S. “politicians” and the rise of the Third Reich in Germany. I thought I’d do some extensive research on those that came to power in Germany in the early 1930s. 

In January 1933, Adolf Hitler, a popular German politician who had launched his career in the beer halls of Munich, reached the top of German government. He was known for inflammatory speeches and for his stances against Jews and Communists.
It’s said that Hitler’s inner circle were the most powerful leaders in the Nazi Party and that it was a finely balanced team of military commanders, administrative leaders and Ministers of the Nazi Party.
But if you look not too far below the surface, it appears that when Hitler assembled his henchmen to help him run the Third Reich, he chose an assortment of losers and failures that represented the bottom rungs of German society. Let’s check out some of that “inner circle.”

Joseph Goebbels — Propaganda master for Nazi Germany with control over all news media, arts and information. He was named in Hitler’s final will, as his official successor. But — although Goebbels propaganda machine praised the perfect Nordic physique, Goebbels himself had a physical disability — a clubfoot so badly twisted that it kept him out of World War I. In the university, Goebbels’ favorite professors were Jews and he was once engaged to a Jewish woman. After he graduated he tried (unsuccessfully) to make a living as a writer before drifting into the Nazi party. In hindsight, his Nazi career can be seen as a desperate overcompensation for his physical shortcoming. 

Rudolph Hess — (Deputy Fuhrer) was born in Alexandria, Egypt and didn’t actually live in Germany until he was 14. Most Nazis started their careers as losers and achieved some sort of career satisfaction by successfully wreaking havoc, but Hess’s career went the other way. His reputation was cemented when he went to prison, voluntarily, to be with his Fuhrer. As his largely ceremonial powers began to recede, he hoped to gain favor with a strange peace mission to Scotland that ended with him being locked in the Tower of London.

Martin Bormann — Head of the Nazi Party Chancellery (a role previously called Deputy Fuhrer until Hess defected and Bormann replaced him with the new title.) He was Hitler’s Personal Private Secretary, controlling all information passed to and from Hitler and controller of all personal access to Hitler. But Bormann has one of the flimsiest resumes of any of the Nazis. A school dropout who worked briefly as a farm laborer, Bormann very briefly served in an artillery regiment during World War I, then went straight into far-right politics — or more exactly, far-right violence. He joined a group of disgruntled former soldiers who spent their time attacking Communists. He even helped murder his former elementary school teacher and served a year in prison. 

Hermann Göring — Commander-in Chief or the Luftwaffe (German Air Force,) founder of the Gestapo in 1933, Minister of the Economic Four Year Plan, and designated by Hitler as his successor and second in command. Goring, a well-bred war hero, was the closest the Nazis came to respectability. He once even succeeded the Red Baron (von Richthofen) as leader of his flying aces. But his personal life was marred by scandal — he lured a Swedish baroness to divorce her husband and marry him and after the attempted government overthrow, he was badly injured in “the groin” and became addicted to morphine. He also became monstrously obese.

So from what I can tell, Hitler put together his team of henchmen to help him run the Third Reich, by choosing an assortment of losers and failures that represented the bottom rungs of German society.
I keep hearing that history repeats itself — I don’t know if that’s true, but I hope not…..
“Evil is unspectacular and always human
And shares our bed and eats at our own table.”
~ W. H. Auden
— 30 —

Many, many years ago I was TDY to help open a diplomatic facility in a really remote part of the world. It was probably only my third or fourth trip outside the United States and it was by far the most underdeveloped area I’d ever been to. The chief of the facility and his wife had arrived a few days before I did. The Marine Guards that were assigned there had also just arrived and the Seabees had been there for a few weeks overseeing the construction of the hew compound, 

After I’d been there a couple of weeks, the facility chief’s wife announced that in a few days it would be her husband’s birthday and he had never had a birthday party. Well, that was all any of us needed to take a little break from work. But — as I said, this was by far the most underdeveloped place I’d ever been and in such a place coming up with suitable gifts presented a challenge. For the party, we all colored on paper “tablecloths” with crayons and came up with a few games to play. But the gifts were what I’d have to say were very creative and really made the party. There were the usual nonsense gifts, but someone came up with a large donkey and the birthday boy also received a ram, with really big horns — a gift from the Seabees, I suppose, because their mascot is a ram. But maybe the best gift was a big, ugly camel — from the Marine Guards. 

These unique gifts made the party even better, because we all got to ride the donkey and camel and a few people even tried to wrestle the ram. Thinking back, it was probably the best birthday party I’ve ever been to. And if there was ever any doubt, it made me realize I had fallen into a job that I could never have imagined and would provide memories forever. 

Some years later I was told that the camel was returned to the Marines and they sold it and used the proceeds to fund their Marine Ball. I’m not sure what happened to the donkey or ram or the other “gifts.”
— 30 —

The news lately has brought back a number of memories of various “foreigners” that I’ve had dealings with over the years. Some I’ve been able to help and others, for one reason or another, I couldn’t. One incident I’ll never forget happened in the early 70’s — I remember it like it was yesterday…..

It was a rainy night — I was to meet someone at a particular restaurant. When I arrived, I stood across the street and looked at the restaurant — I could see a few heads in the window, eating and drinking and it looked a bit smoky because most everyone smoked back then. I waited because the person I was meeting didn’t appear to be inside. But then a small Asian man wearing a cheap windbreaker came walking down the street from the direction of the bus stop and went into the restaurant. I waited for about five minutes — a few people came by, but it looked clear. There didn’t appear to be any surveillance so I crossed the street and went into the restaurant.

He was at a table by the back wall, still wearing his wet jacket. He smiled when he saw me — he was smoking, but hadn’t ordered a drink… probably because he couldn’t afford it. We shook hands and talked about the weather and family. His wife and children were fine, but he didn’t have heat or air conditioning or running water in his two room “house.” I asked if he wanted coffee — he asked for tea. We sipped our drinks and smiled at each other. 

I pointed to the menu and motioned for a bored-looking waiter. But he said the food could wait — he had to know the answer… it was important to him. Had we found him a job — a job that would give him what his alien status couldn’t. A chance to earn a salary, to be the breadwinner in his family and to earn his neighbors respect. A steady job was all he wanted in return for his help with our mission. Just paying him wasn’t the same thing — didn’t I understand that? I did, but I couldn’t tell him the truth — that my management thought he was of poor moral character.

My superiors agreed that, of course, we had an obligation to “defectors” but we had done more than enough for him years ago, even though he still had certain potential. No — all I could say was I couldn’t help him with a job. We stared at one another for what seemed like forever. Thank you, he said and carefully put out his cigarette. He pushed his tea cup away, stood up and wished me a good evening. He went out the restaurant door without looking back — out into the rain.

I sat and finished my coffee. The waiter came over and asked me if I’d like to order now. I just asked for the check, pointing to the drinks. Then I walked out — into the rain.
— 30 —

I’ve mentioned here before that the last year we lived in Manilla, we moved into a house. We previously lived in an old apartment building in the older part of town. But we needed to move because an earthquake damaged our apartment pretty severely.

For some reason, the house we originally were to move into suddenly wasn’t available, so the embassy rented another house. The house belonged to a doctor and he had moved to a new house a couple of months earlier — and — he had left all his furniture. He had apparently bought all new furniture along with his new house.
Since the embassy was providing all our furniture, they asked that all the furniture be removed and also requested that the interior be painted before we moved in. I guess the doctor agreed to that, 

When our moving day came, I was on a short trip and Claire went to see our new house and found that the inside had all been newly painted, but apparently the painters came before the old furniture was removed and they had simply painted around each piece of furniture. No one could understand why that would be a problem for Claire — never mind that the embassy provided furniture didn’t quite fit in the right spaces.I still remember that phone call I got from her. She told me that she had moved in and I asked how she liked it. She said something like, “It’s different — you’ll probably have to see it to believe it….”
— 30 —

A few  weeks ago a friend borrowed one of the books with my blog entries that my daughter had printed, and when she returned it, she was curious about one entry that mentioned the Jivaro tribe in South America that was “famous” for shrunken heads. 
For reasons I can’t go into here, one of my more interesting “adventures” a number of years ago involved the Jivaros. 

In case your haven’t been keeping up with this blog, the Jivaros were the famed head-shrinkers that lived in the rain forest in the southernmost part of the Amazon jungle. When this adventure took place, the area was virtually untouched by civilization. My “guide” periodically visited the rain forests for some reason that was never explained to me. I was familiar with the stories about the Jivaro tribe and their unique technique used to shrink heads. Before we left, my guide told me that they only shrunk the heads of monkeys, because missionaries had convinced them that it was wrong to use humans. I guess maybe I was young and naive enough to have bought that story, but the shrunken heads I saw didn’t look like monkeys. But to be fair, they didn’t really look very human either — they were very small and grotesque, and if I remember, they almost all had long hair. I’m not an expert, but I don’t remember seeing many long-haired monkeys. 

Anyhow, my very knowledgeable guide said that the Jivaros didn’t shrink just anybody’s head — it had to be an enemy that they had defeated in battle. The shrunken head was then worn around the waist as a warrior’s trophy. I kept thinking about what could make the Jivaros that mad at monkeys…. so I think I didn’t really buy the missionary story. But just to be on the safe side, I remember smiling a lot — I wanted to appear to be friendly. But I’m pretty sure they just thought I was retarded, or strange — they didn’t smile back.

But obviously I survived because here I am blogging about it. I’ve always heard that when you’re in a difficult or strange situation, you should keep your head about you…. I kept my head.
— 30 —

I really like rice.When I was growing up in Oklahoma, I don’t ever remember having rice — Maysville, Oklahoma was the land of “meat and potatoes.” I guess my taste for rice developed because in a lot of the countries I’ve lived in, rice was a staple — pretty much at every meal. 

While rice in this country often means “Uncle Ben’s” from the local Food Lion, there are many, many different types of rice. One of my favorites is sticky rice. It’s possible to get “sticky rice” around here, but it in no way compares to the the sticky rice from, say, Thailand.

But what I started out to write about today was an experience we had when living in Asia. A local employee that worked at the American Embassy invited us to dinner at his house one evening and served a rice and fish dish. The rice was kind of like wild rice, but it was reddish brown in color and had a nutty, sweet flavor. Neither of us had ever had rice that tasted like it before. We both commented on how good it was, and our friend gave us the local name to give to our maid so she could buy some for us. We gave the maid the name of the rice and asked her to buy some at the local market. But for some reason she didn’t get the rice. We asked again and she still didn’t get the rice. Finally, we questioned her as to why she hadn’t purchased the rice like we had asked. She finally admitted her reason. The rice, that we called red rice, in their language, translated to prisoner’s food. There seemed to be some unwritten rule that no respectable cook would  buy it — didn’t matter how good or healthful it might be. 
— 30 —

Today is St. Patrick’s Day. We always celebrated St. Patrick’s day, but this is the second St. Patrick’s Day without Claire — no corned beef and cabbage or green beer today. It appears that celebrating St. Patrick’s Day, or any other day, isn’t the same when you’re grieving — nothing is. 

The day itself commemorates the death of Ireland’s patron saint  — originally it was a religious observation. Of course in recent years its solemnity has mostly been forgotten and the day has turned into a day for people to celebrate their Irish heritage (whether they have one or not.)

Not that all days aren’t, but holidays are especially hard for me — experiencing them without Claire is a real downer. I don’t seem to be able to avoid an unwilling resentment toward couples I see enjoying days like this together. My urge is to walk up to them and say, “Whatever you do, don’t take each other for granted — you’re together. You don’t know how important that is.”

I absolutely understand when someone says Happy St. Patrick’s Day, or happy this, or happy that. Sure, I want to be happy, but the fact is I’m not. I guess I’d rather hear from people that they’re sure Claire is celebrating the day in Heaven…. for some reason it bothers me that others don’t acknowledge her absence. I think I’d rather hear, “I’m sure you’re missing Claire today. I’m thinking of you,” instead of “Happy (whatever) day.”

But life goes on and holidays come and go…. and Claire walks beside me every day, unseen, unheard, but always near — still loved, still missed. I guess, for now, that’s enough.
Happy St. Patrick’s Day.
— 30 —