Armistice Day 1942

"In all of us there is a hunger, marrow deep, to know our heritage -
to know who we are and where we come from. 
- Alex Haley

Telegram from May 1, 1945, when my grandfather was stationed in Manila under General McArthur

 In the months following the attacks on Pearl Harbor, my grandfather, Joseph Sedivy, decided to enlist in the Army; he was sworn in on October 29, 1942.  Less than two weeks later--on Armistice Day--he married my grandmother, Ruby Wampler, in LaMoure, ND.  My grandpa passed away last January, but I think it is still permissible for me to think of today as their 69th wedding anniversary.

I blogged earlier in the year about my grandfather's death, and also a little bit about the process of my grandparent's lake home being sold.  While preparing to put the house on the market, I came across a substantial collection of old photos, letters, newspaper clippings, and my grandpa's scrapbook from his time as a Teletype Operator with the 52nd Signal Battalion during WWII.  Between the dates of 5/18/44 and 1/13/46, his service included the campaigns of New Guinea, the Southern Philippines, and Luzon.  I have only begun to sift through everything, but I am enjoying all the little discoveries I am making as I love family history.

Copy of the message sent from General McArthur to the Emperor of Japan that my grandfather kept and brought home from the war.  He said this was one of the rare messages sent in English as most were sent in a 4-letter code, and he had charge of six teletype machines on the floor below McArthur's office.  The building had a functional elevator as I remember my grandpa telling me of riding in the elevator with General McArthur on several occasions.

Milne Bay, New Guinea
Grandpa Joe is 2nd from the left
(the REALLY TAN one!)

I have come across many really unique keepsakes (I would consider the image above to be a much bigger deal than just a "unique keepsake,") but what matters most to me are the items that are of no real historical significance--the little journal where he recorded notes, or the tiny black and white photographs of his time in the service.  On the back of the photo to the left he had written the names of all the men in the picture along with their home states.  He listed them from left to right, and when he got to himself (second from the left) he wrote:

? who -- some native

I couldn't help but laugh at his little joke.  I never knew my grandfather to be very talkative, especially about his time in the service.  But with this one snapshot, and this little caption, I can feel his sense of humor.  The guy next to my grandpa has his arm around him, tucked into his shirt, (undoubtedly squeezing his nipple as only screwball young--and not so young--men can do.)  The Sedivy heritage is Czech, and my grandfather always had dark skin, so maybe they teased him about how tan he is, leading to the "some native" self-label.  I don't know...but despite having my grandfather in my life for 32 years, I feel like I am seeing him only now.

On my lap is a small leather notebook that he carried with him.  Inside he had made two lists, one of money orders he sent home (likely to either my grandma or his own mother,) and another of memorable dates from his time in the service.  At first, I felt disoriented reading it.  I only knew my grandfather's handwriting after he had a slight case of Parkinson's--the shaky, yet even, script he used to record the daily weather, or their monthly bills, as even late in life his mind was sharp and he liked to make lists.  It took me a minute before I smiled and realized, this was the handwriting of my grandpa when he was young!  As a calligrapher, I can appreciate his little swashes, or the emotion behind his letters.  I can feel the evenness of the first set of "Some dates to remember," which I suspect he wrote in one sitting and not as he went along.  I can feel his shock on March 16, 1944, when he arrived in Manila and wrote, "Left Subic Bay, arrived Manila same day.  What a sight.  Harbor a graveyard of sunken Jap ships.  Jap bodies floating around in the bay...(at this point, his pen dies, and he swaps it out for a different one)...Jap bodies floating around in the bay.  Dead Japs lying all around the place."  I can hear his excitement later that year, on November 18, when he scripts in elated letters, "Transferred into 2nd Co Det 1, 4025th.  52nd Sig busted up going home!"

My gratitude for these little insights into him is overwhelming!

The Spider's Silk

I am not ready to write about the dog I have lost.  The dog of my heart and soul.  My sun and moon.  My stars, my dawn.  I cannot yet write of Jay, the dog that has been taken from me.  Of how our mutual existence created a private world of fluid love, compromise, and unspoken secrets.  Of how no matter the surroundings, Jay and I were always alone.  If you understand my grief, then you, too, have lost your forever dog.  I am sorry.  If you are reading this with curiosity, you have never met your forever dog.  Of that, I am even sorrier.

Tonight, I choose to write about a different dog.  Tonight, I write about Mac—who is no longer my “younger dog” but is my only dog. 

 

To lose a soul mate is to be incomplete, and the thought of withdrawing from daily life seduces me.  Of gently folding inward, like the petals of a flower in evening, and letting myself fall silently into darkness.  What stops me, what allows me to resist this temptation, is the small thread running from my heart to Mac’s.  

The spider’s silk.

As I write, a small spider is crawling across the bar, behind the laptop screen, over an unopened wine bottle.  Spiders have the unique ability to spin silk which they then put to multiple uses.  The most widely known, of course, is for web weaving: rigid silks provide support while sticky threads capture the insects necessary to sustain life.  Different silks form a protective case around eggs, ensuring future generations.  Other silks can be spun into little tufts that allow a spider to travel on the breeze.  The one that matters to me today is the silk that can be rapidly spun into a lifeline, allowing a spider to hold fast and quickly escape danger.

Spider silk conforms to a variety of necessary requirements.  It is nearly invisible, and it is able to stretch to absorb shock.  It can be made longer or recycled and made shorter, depending on the immediate need.  Spider silk is soft yet strong, with a tensile strength similar to steel.

The morning after Jay died, I looked at Mac and felt as if I didn’t know him.  As if his emotional presence, by some incredulous trick, had escaped my notice for the past four years.  My brain tells me this notion is ludicrous: I helped Mac take his first breath the morning he was born.  I have trained him, I have cared for him, and I have loved him.  We have made countless memories together, many of which are relayed as humorous little stories shared with friends or co-workers.  I have, of course, noticed his unique personality and charm.  Right?  Yes, of course.  Why do I have to argue with myself about this?  Yet, I pause, and I reflect.  Did I ever open my heart to him?  Did I ever ask him to share in the responsibility of my life?  Did I give him my sadness, my insecurities, my sleepless nights?  No, I didn’t.  I never did.  I never even considered it.  I reached for Jay at every turn.  It was Jay I went to for solace, it was Jay who fell asleep in my arms at night, with our eyes fluttering shut and our breaths becoming gentle.

If I don’t know Mac, that is my own fault.  Because he certainly knows me.

The spider’s silk holds fast.  I couldn’t shake it if I wanted to.  Mac won’t meet my grief in the middle, he is insistent on pulling me up to safety.  To life.  There is no point in fighting him; instead, I have become silent, become mindful, of all the little ways Mac loves me.  When I read by the fireplace, he sleeps behind the chair, so if I look to the right, I can just see his feet or his ear poking out from behind the chair.  When I get out of the shower, my feet can feel where the floor is warm, because he has been resting there, waiting for me.  When he discovers something that makes me laugh he will do it over and over—my laughter fuels him, it is his reward.  He tickles me with his soft whiskers and lets me tickle his feet.  He can fit perfectly in the crook of my legs when I am sleeping.  Mac encourages me to believe that we can accomplish anything, for he does not know how to fail.

I have my entire life to grieve for Jay.  To miss him.  To feel incomplete in his absence.  I don’t have a lifetime to spend with Mac, and I will not waste these days with him.  I will give him my burdens along with my joy, and I will trust that the silk he spins is able to bear both.

Suspension

My mom sent me an abridged version of this poem on Monday night, after the sudden loss of my beautiful Jay.  No doubt she intended for me to research the poem for myself to find the original.  This small passage was not included in the shorter version she teaches.

When you come to something, stop to let it pass
So you can see what else is there. At home, no matter where,
Internal tracks pose dangers, too: one memory
Certainly hides another, that being what memory is all about,
The eternal reverse succession of contemplated entities.

From Kenneth Koch's One Train


She was right to suggest this work has many meanings.

How Thich Nhat Hanh Gave Me Rhinovirus

Growing up, I wasn't really into human affection.  In many ways, I think owning dogs is very healthy for me, as I have always been able to effortlessly embrace a dog.  It is easy to let my guard down in their warm fur and good doggy smells.  To nuzzle them, cuddle them.  Plus, dogs demand affection.  "Scratch my ears!  Share your pillow!  Whadda ya mean 60lbs and my sharp elbows don't fit in your lap?!"  I'd be lying if I said I could resist a dog.

However, somewhere along the way, I became...gasp...a hugger.  

This is 2009's fault somehow.  I think.  I suppose it all started building way before that.

Ok, so, here are the kinds of hugs I remember.  My Grandma Ruby, who always does the back pat while hugging, which is just kind of weird.  As if she's consoling me of some tragedy despite it being July 4th, and in reality, we just had fruit salad without mortal incident.  Boyfriend hugs, which were generally acceptable/nice.  Girl hugs, which can be awkward (boobs.)   Godfather hugs, ooh, they were rare but good.  He is a bear of a man and smothers me in a great hug.  Wedding hugs, they were never ending!  How long is the line of people?  Might as well just hug them all, even the teacher I hadn't seen for ages and the new family I'd never met before.  Grooms can get by with a hand shake and a back pat, but brides must hug.  It's a rule.  If you're wearing a white dress, you MUST hug everyone and smile until your face hurts for a week.

In college, I acquired a book by Thich Nhat Hanh called "Peace Is Every Step."  This is a very important book to me--a book full of simple wisdom, a book which always grounds and fortifies my soul.  (Buy it for yourself used, it is common.)  I have never read it all the way through, I just open to a random page and read one of the short entries in an attempt to integrate his solid advice into my own life. 

Enter 2009.  Pages flipping like a roulette wheel.  I land on page 85, Hugging Meditation. 

"Hugging is a beautiful Western custom, and we from the East would like to contribute the practice of conscious breathing to it.  When you hold a child in your arms, or hug your mother, or your husband, or your friend, if you breathe in and out three times, your happiness will be multiplied at least tenfold."

I'll never forget where I was in that moment.  I was in my bedroom at the lake, under the covers.  Everyone was asleep, and I was reading with just the little light on and the window facing the lake open.  The breeze smelled so pristine.  The frogs were croaking.  And I started really mulling this whole three breaths while hugging thing over, because let's face it, who doesn't want to multiply happiness tenfold.

"It takes time to become comfortable hugging this way.  If you feel a little hollow inside, you may want to slap your friend's back while you hug him in order to prove that you are really there.  But to be really there, you only need to breathe, and suddenly he becomes completely real.  The two of you really exist in that moment.  It may be one of the best moments of your life."

I set the book down and flopped back on the pillow, eyes closed. My mind blank, then perplexed, then blank again. Only a Virgo would have to read about how to hug in a book.

I thought of the back slapping while hugging times in my life.  Gulp.  And I asked myself if I was hollow inside.  The answer was no, I'm not.  I'm not hollow at all. But my wary and guarded nature can make me appear that way.  How often had I cheated someone out of a real hug?  How often had I cheated myself?! I decided then and there to commit myself to hugging like a real person.  Hugging like I mean it.  Because I do mean it.

I thought back to my Godfather.  His hugs are so good because they are completely authentic.  He never hugs out of obligation.  He's looking for someone to hug at any moment.  He just runs up and gets his big mitts around you and squeezes everything bad out.  Then when he lets go...good rushes in.  That is who I aspire to be: the reckless abandon hugger.

Ok, so, the rhinovirus.  Well, I got that after our annual Halloween party this year.  Why?  Because I hugged everyone who came, most people more than once. Every single one was authentic.  Totally worth the head cold.  Can't wait to do it all over again next year.

The Space Between Two Lights

I grew up on Pickerel Lake, which is shaped somewhat like a peanut, only with three lobes instead of two.  (So, like a mutant peanut.)  Across the lake from my parents' house is my grandparents' house.  They bought the lot sometime in the '50s, and had a camper on it for several years before building a cabin in 1960.  They expanded it into a small house and retired there in 1978, the year I was born.

When Leslie and I were pretty young, my grandparents had one of those really big yard lights put in--you know the type.  A huge floodlight that illuminated the garage, driveway, and backyard.  (As an aside, if you live in the city, the front yard is between the house and the street.  But, if you live at the lake, the opposite is true--the front yard is between the house and the lake.)  Anyway--it was a big light.  Not many people had them at that point, especially in the winter when most of the summer residents went somewhere much warmer, and only a handful of us were left to enjoy the solitude of our mutant peanut.  The first night they turned the light on, my dad took my sister and I to the window and pointed it out to us.  He said that their light was a little different in color from most, so that even if other people eventually installed lights of their own, we would still always know which light was theirs.

My grandfather, Joe Sedivy, died last week at the age of 97.  He had lived at the lake with my grandmother until a few years ago when he transitioned through three nursing homes and eventually became a resident of the Veteran's Home in Fergus Falls, MN.  After my grandmother moved into an assisted living apartment, it was decided that their lake home should be sold.  It is scheduled to close next week, on February 1st.

Tomorrow, my grandpa will be remembered during a service at his tiny country church, and buried in the equally tiny cemetery across the road.  Tonight was my chance to remember him in my own way.

It is about 16 F here, which feels like a heat wave compared to the last few weeks.  Overcast.  No stars.  No moon.  At 9:30, Jon and I clicked on our skis, I clicked on my headlamp, and we headed to the lake with Jay and Mac.  I picked out my grandparents yard light, and I went for it.

Not far into our trip, Jon called out that he was turning back.  The lake can be an abysmal expanse, and he couldn't stay on top of the snow.  He beats me touring every time because of my fat backcountry skis, but I can outdo him off the trail by floating on the drifts.  He went back, the dogs and I went forward.  I clicked off my headlamp.  When you're not the leader, you no longer need to broadcast your position.

We went and went.  The dogs were joyful shadows running beside me, away from me, towards me, in circles.  The memories flowed.  The memories of a childhood I had wanted so desperately to outgrow.  The memories of my grandpa eating breakfast in his robe, drinking water with both hands on his glass after he acquired a mild case of Parkinson's, the day he helped me figure out how to put my shoes on the correct feet when he decided I was old enough to start tying them.  The joy in his eyes the day he told me he was too old for another dog, but I gave him Max (not to be confused with Mac) anyway.

Joseph E. and Constance B. (Stanek) Sedivy,
Julia, Joe (my grandpa,) and Mary

As you ski closer, the light disappears behind the trees.  Yet I did not overshoot to the north or to the south, but arrived right at their house.  Up the bank we went.  Across the dock (the snow is deep this year.)  Carefully sideslipped to the southwest corner window.  That was my target, I didn't know it when we left, but I knew when I got there.  I rested my head on that window, the window that for so many years overlooked my grandfather's desk, where he still meticulously recorded the weather every day along with their personal finances.  The window above the couch he napped on every afternoon.  The window that invited the most sun.  After a cold ski, my always elusive tears burned hotter than I knew they could.

So many people never know their grandparents, never have them for 32+ years.  Is it selfish to mourn the loss of a man who lived as long, as full, as fortunate a life?  I don't know.  Maybe.  I haven't decided yet.  I don't need to decide today.

Virgos left alone can easily slip into a little place I like to call "reflective oblivion."  This is common knowledge.  Especially on a cold, dark night.  Jay gently bumped my hand, reminding me of the time.  Mac was sitting on the end of the dock, teetering precariously in Mac fashion.  My ski caught under the siding.  Is the house asking me to stay?  Don't be ridiculous.  In a matter of days the house will belong to someone else, to some other family.  It will become their legacy, to be handed down to their children and grandchildren.  Loose the ski.  Down the bank we went, towards the only light blazing on the north shore, the light of my parents' home.

Ski, ski, ski.  Thinking about childhood, years gone by, how absurdly cold it has been the past couple weeks, did I pack the right shoes for tomorrow?  Ski, ski, ski.  I am sliding into memories now, sliding quickly.  My writing is sliding out of tenses.  The dogs are running with purpose.  Where are they going?  Dogs running faster and becoming shadowy shapes, I am no longer able to discern which is Jay and which is Mac.  Dogs running towards a little pinprick of light, so small that I am not sure it is really there.  Squinting.  Is it a fisherman?  Shadow dogs jumping.  It's Jon!  He has come back with my mom's sad little headlamp, desperately in need of new batteries.  Although I will probably never tell him, I have not been so surprised, or so grateful, to see him as in that moment.

Home again, home again.  I have lived many places, and may live many more...but the space between these two lights will always be my home.