“You have got to stop this war in Afghanistan.”

Richard Holbrook’s last words.  Although there seems to be some dispute about that.

I want to believe that these were his last words.  I want to believe that the mission of ending the war in Afghanistan never left him.  I want to believe in men like Richard Holbrook, in their dedication to our country.

I want this war over.  At the same time, I want Afghanistan out of the dark ages.

When this war was just an idea, I found myself at my friend Catherine & her husband Jim’s house, the only Democrat among a plethora of Republicans, including a Marine in the National Guard.

I was also the eldest present.

The only one who experienced or remembered Vietnam.

Fiercely pro-invasion, these young people did not want to hear about watching the war play out in the news, seeing the draped coffins come home, standing graveside with grieving friends who lost their siblings.  

They did not want to hear that during my years in DC, I never was able to walk the entire wall of the Vietnam Memorial.

While I did not feel pressured or defeated by the those against my stance, one of Cat & Jim’s friends, Judd, standing next to me, put his arm around me & said:  “I don’t agree with your position, but I defend & respect your right to voice it.  I won’t let you stand alone.”

He stood with me for a very long time.

He did not let me stand alone.

Like the Army:  No man left behind.

Jean & Memory

Today Jean came to me & said I know this is a strange thing for me to be thinking about. . .\She paused & I waited.

But I cannot remember when Papa John died.  I can’t remember what kind of funeral he had or if I took you.

I told my mother that I remember a moment when my grandfather died – a look on my father’s face.  But I did not remember the funeral, that I thought they had not taken me.

Papa John used to keep peppermint Life Savers in his pocket for me.  He used to take me to Love Field to watch the planes.

Jean & her friend Bill used to take Sam out to Hull Airport to watch the planes.

Sam loved planes, a legacy from his great-grandfather.  Whom he was never to know

.

I don’t know what else Jean has forgotten.  

But I will do my best to fill in the blanks.

Smurfs & Life

When my friend Rob posted this photo on Facebook, I thought:  Smurfs.

In the early eighties, I shared one-half of a duplex with a girlfriend in the Binz district of Houston.   

We were in our twenties & single & enjoyed our lives.

Which means that we partied big time.

Whenever my roommate was in town on the weekends (she was a diver & quite often absent), she cooked Saturday morning breakfast.  Hash browns, omelets – both in iron skillets.  Very impressive.

Our kitchen was huge, large ceilings, lots of windows, a party kitchen, with a small space for a table & some space I don’t remember for a black & white TV.  So while Linda cooked ; I sipped Bloody Marys, I watched the Smurfs in black & white.

I began to talk about the Smurfs at work – people brought me Smurf bowls & plates & cups & key chains & little figures.

My roommate’s response was:  OMG, I feared the day you found out the Smurfs were blue.

Blue, any shade of blue, is my favorite color.  Much of our shared space was blue.  I think she feared our whole half of the duplex would turn various shades of blue.

Which would have suited me fine.

I have a  printer’s box, featuring several Smurf figures, including Smurfette.

Thank you, Rob, for bringing back those memories.

Taking Jean to Vote

This morning I took Jean to vote early in the November 2010 elections. 

First, I went to vote to make her trek there as short & painless as possible. I learned the last time we went the time it takes to help her out of the truck, stand behind her as she moves with the walker, helping her in & out of the chair at the voting booth.

Before I voted, I told the polling judges (including our long-time friend & neighbor, Miss Melanie) that I would be returning with Jean.

Because I knew that Miss Melanie would make sure that Jean was treated with respect & that her voting experience was pleasant & stress free.

While the polling judges have offered us the option of taking the booth out to the car, Jean will not hear of this.  She wants to participate in the process, the whole experience.

So we load up the walker (necessary to ascend & descend out of the Blazer) & the wheel chair & head off to Meadows Place City Hall.

Meadows Place residents vote & Election Day turn out can be a nightmare.  Early voting is less crowded, no lines, but fills the small parking lot of city hall.

There are two handicapped parking places in the parking lot of Meadows Place City Hall.  Only one is wheel chair / walker accessible.  Unless you are loading & unloading from a van designed for the handicapped with rear entry & exit.

The one wheel chair accessible spot was occupied by a very well kept red truck & the vehicle in the spot adjacent to the other handicapped spot had parked over the line.  No chance of getting Jean in & out of the Blazer.

So I parked in a nearby drive & waited.  Then I got militant.  Why was there only ONE wheel chair accessible space?  

I turned on the A/C, put on the emergency brake, told Jean not to let anyone kidnap her (she has really, really fierce blue eyes) & walked over to that very well kept red truck to verify that it had a handicapped sticker.

It did.  

I took a lot of deep breaths on my way back to the Blazer & Jean until I looked back & 

saw a very fit, very well kept young man, walk from City Hall to the very well kept red truck in the only wheel chair accessible space.

And I wanted to ram that very self-indulgent young man & his well kept red truck with the Blazer.

Peace Corp Vets

Thinking of Richard Pulley.  The Peace Corps Alumn, the Navy Vet, the only man I have ever heard of except for Rosy Grier who did incredible needlepoint.

Not to mention the man who introduced me to mystery novels.

And how he came down the street to my Montrose apartment & told me it was time to come the party.

 

On more than one occasion.

How he cut his wife Marguerite & I off the margaritas at The Spanish Village, always with the excuse – “I can handle either one of you alone but the two of you together. . .”

Marguerite . . .who found my first inner city apartment.  With her friend John Chambless, who took us out in his little MGB to Spanish Village..  

Marguerite & Richard, Rice grads.  Richard in Geology.  Marguerite with a PHD in Philosophy.  Richard working as a geologist.  Marguerite as an accountant.

Adopting me & introducing me to an amazing group of people. 

 

Richard went into the Peace Corps during Vietnam.  He found water.  He hung out with some Jesuit priests.  Richard had some interesting adventures.  It is not my place to tell those stories.

But I do remember my “last” birthday party – my 29^th – when Richard & Marguerite took me to the zoo & then to a picnic along Buffalo Bayou.  

 Complete with linens & Waterford & chocolate covered fruit & little slivers of white bread & beluga caviar Richard had purchased at the Russian Embassy in Afghanistan.  And champagne.

I don’t remember what possessed us to look at my driver’s license but it turned out to be my 28th, not my 29^th birthday.  Richard & Maggie took the sacrifice of the beluga in stride.

I miss them.

If I have written about this, please forgive me . . .

If I have written about this before, please forgive me.   

So much of memory is filtered over time & when the memories are clear & concise, one should tell the story.

Before I moved to Dorrance Lane & Fort Bend County, I dreamt about my future high school.

A high school named after a man I personally held responsible for the Vietnam war – John Foster Dulles,

I dreamt about my first day at my new school.  

I was sitting in a strange room, with tables instead of desks.  

Lots of sinks & faucets – not unlike a chem lab.  I only learned later that my home room assignment was in the Home Ec Lab.

In my dream, a boy with a great face & voice came up & said hello.  Next, a girl dressed in red, white & blue (JFD colors) in what I found a sad replica of a cheerleader uniform, joined the boy with a great face & voice & said hello.

She was unlike any cheerleader we ever knew at CHS.  Wonderful hair, horrible nose, great energy.  She would have never made the squad at CHS.

Funny dream, I thought.

How did I know that John Foster Dulles’ namesake’s colors were red, white & blue?

When at last we moved, & I breathed water & feared the encroachment of mildew, I went with Jean to drop off my sister & brother at Dulles Middle School & Dulles High School sent a student office worker to walk me across the campus.

Becky Lubojosky – the first person I met in my new high school.  Who talked about how my Coronado Ring was so similar to the Dulles ring & how great it was that girls were allowed to wear pant suits & what great timing for me to arrive for the day off devoted to the Fort Bend County Rodeo.

And I thought, beam me up, Scotty. 

 Then I went to my homeroom.

With tables & sinks & faucets & stoves & ovens & sewing machines.

And I thought, beam me up, Scotty.

And then a guy with a great face & a wonderful voice came into the room & introduced himself.  And then a girl with a really bad cheerleader outfit came to the table & introduced herself.

And I thought, beam me up Scotty.

That guy with a wonderful face & voice & that cheerleader were the epicenter of Dulles High School & they took me under their wings & filled a void.

Becky Lubojosky & her friends pushed my name forward in every election – Jaki Jean as Wittiest, Jaki Jean as Most Talented, Jaki Jean as Most Unforgettable.

 In the end, I only got Wittiest. 

But more than that, I learned to listen to my dreams & my inner voice.  

Now I just want Jean Luc to beam me up . . . ;-)  Forget Scotty.

CHS. All those Friday night lights

The morning pep rallies with piñatas & little chocolate footballs & signs.  The Blazer Girls (would I have been a Blazer Girl, I wonder). The afternoon rallies in the gym, with each class yell leader, competing to prove which class was had the most team spirit.

It wasn’t just about football or basketball or baseball or track at CHS (although we were the best in the city).  

I remember how Papa Field of the speech department made me work harder than anyone else, how he had me talk into a tape recorder until all traces of my East Texas accent were gone, how he gave me extra assignments.  

 I had to read Time, Newsweek & US News & World Report.  How I had to give extra speeches.

I thought, I must be the worst speaker in the class.

Then he started making me keep note cards with bits & pieces of what I read about current events.

Why, I thought, does this man hate me?

Then, on a Monday, he called me to his desk after class & told me that I would be representing CHS at the Lydia Stark Speech Tournament in Persuasive Speaking.

I don’t remember what I thought.  That particular year Papa Field & Mama Card decided to take novices to the very prestigious & competitive Lydia Stark Tournament.  Veterans went on the trip, to mentor the novices.

Before we got off the bus, Mama Card told us:  I want you to walk into that room with your heads held how, knowing that each & every one of you is a winner – you are the best.

I doubted that on my part, but relied on my acting abilities to fake confidence.

At every round, at every posting of the standings, Ken Korn (upper classman & a great actor) stood with me, telling me I was great.

When I made the finals, I was amazed.  Ken told me I was brilliant – he sat in on every round (Mama Card & Papa Field were very clever).

I knew I would not win, I could not possibly win.  The judges in the final round were fierce – all newscasters from the local stations.

So I hid.  I was not even in the auditorium when results were announced & trophies were handed out. 

Ken Korn found me.

It’s your event – you have to be there, he said.

I said no, I have let everyone down.

He took my hand & literally pulled me through the door.

They announced third place in Persuasive Speaking.

If I did not get third, I was shit out of luck.

Ken held onto me & kept me there.

I did not get second.  I looked at him, desperate for help.  He held on.

And then they announced my name & Ken hugged me & kissed the top of my head & pushed me down the aisle.

That is the magic of CHS – that we all believed we could be first place.

Most of the time, we were.