2011-09-08T19:42:00.002-04:00

I am in DC, and it is raining terribly with thunder and lightning. Oh well, tomorrow I go to Spirit of America at 10:30 am, if I can get in. If not, I will try every show until I do.

Memories of My Father

2011-09-05T00:42:00.000-04:00

When I was young my father, or Daddy, as we called him, always took me places on Saturdays. We went all over the city, as far as we could. You see, I suffered from motion sickness as a child. I would ride two subway stops and get sick. My mother, who had no patience, decided that this only meant one thing; I would never travel anywhere. She felt that I would become one of those people who never left the neighborhood. My father, on the other hand, had a completely different view. He felt that if I was going to live in a city where you had to ride the subway, then I had to ride the subway. He would not settle for the idea of my becoming one of those people who never left the neighborhood; oh no. In fact, he was determined to make me into one of those people who traveled everywhere, saw and learned as much as I could and became stronger for it. There was just one problem; I couldn’t ride the subway, or bus or car, for that matter, without getting sick. What to do? Well, my father knew what to do. He decided that every Saturday he would make me ride the subway. Yes, and he always came prepared - he carried lots of brown paper bags. And they never went to waste. Week after week, we did the same routine. He made me ride the subway, I would get sick and then we got back on the train and rode some more. He always took me places though, sometimes to the zoo, the park, a museum, the Brooklyn Botanic Garden (of which I am still a member). After a few months, a change began to happen. We did our usual trip. When it was all said and done, and we came home from our outing, he leaned over and said to me “Jeanie (his nickname for me) you know, you rode two more stops this time before you got sick. You’re getting stronger.” Those encouraging words always made me feel good. Eventually, I got over it completely and began to ride not only the subway, but fly, go on ships and cross-country trains as well. Now, some people reading this may think “How terrible, forcing a little girl to do something that he knew would make her sick.” My answer to that is this, he didn’t force me to do something that he knew would make me sick, he forced me to do something that he knew would make me strong. I asked him once in his later years how he had the patience to do that, and his answer was that he had to because if I was going to live in a city where you have to ride the subway, then I would have to ride the subway, and the only way that I would ever be able to do it would be if I did it when I wasn’t able to do it. Those words may not make sense to some people, I’m sure; but they make perfect sense to me. Regina C

Five Minutes with a United States Marine

2011-09-04T22:45:00.000-04:00

While I know that some people are tired of hearing about my five-minute encounter with a Marine in DC in July, 2011, I feel compelled to write what I am about to. My father passed away in 1987; but recently, I have begun to think of him a lot. Certain memories from childhood on have been popping up in my head. While I will not go into detail in this blog posting about those memories, I will say that these memories (along with the realization that I did not honor him as I should have on one occasion when he was still living, which still bothers me to this day) are what have pushed me lately to attend as many military ceremonies as I can. My sole purpose for attending the Marine Barracks Evening Parade was to show honor to my father; honor that I should have shown him while he was living, but failed to. This is the only memory that I will outline here since it directly impacts my reason for attending the parade. My father was military. He was born in New York City. His father was from New Jersey and his mother was from Limerick City, Ireland. When he was two years of age, his father died; so, his mother sent him to Limerick to be raised by his grandmother. There, he lived in poverty in a country that was in its own battle with England. When he was approximately 16 years old, he returned to the States. Of course, he was a citizen because he was born here and never became a British citizen while living in Ireland (there were no Irish citizens in those days). Upon returning here, he found out that his mother had had another son, but never wrote to tell him that he had a brother. This was a total shock to him. In short, my father had a very hard life growing up. After returning here, he got a job with the Interboro Rapid Transit System (the IRT). This, of course, was later incorporated into the New York City Subway, and is still referred to by the name the IRT line. He then decided to join the Army National Guard; in particular, the 69th Regiment. He wound up joining the 71st Infantry because he walked into the wrong Armory. Once he realized that he joined the wrong one, he shifted his loyalties to the regiment he had joined and never looked back. He was proud to be a member of the 71st. He fought in WWII with the 342nd in Europe. He came home with what we now know is PTSD, in those days called “Battle Fatigue.” He also suffered from survivor guilt because of an incident where a sniper on a rooftop in Italy shot and killed the soldier standing next to my father, but he didn’t even have a scratch on him. He always broke down when he spoke of this, and always asked the question ‘Why am I alive and why was he killed.’ He was the First Sgt., he felt responsible for his men. He rarely spoke of the war; in fact, the only times I ever remember hearing him speak of the War was when he was drinking. And he drank a lot, but he didn't speak of the War every time he drank. For some reason, I was the one he would speak to about the war. I don’t know why. I am the youngest of four children. Maybe it was because I was the closest to him. Maybe because I was the last child left after my older sisters moved out and my older brother died. (He died at age nine in a drowning accident. I was eight at the time.) Whatever the reason, I was the one he confided in most. So, how does all of this relate to my not honoring him as I should have while he was living? Well, I’ll tell you. About a year after he left the Army National Guard, he got a letter from the Dept. of the Army asking him why he had not claimed his benefits since he spent twenty-five years in service, maybe even a little more. So, he, my mother and I (I was probably 14 then) went to Fort Hamilton in Brooklyn to get the paperwork and the I.D. cards so we could enter any military base. At age 14, I thought this was stupid, I didn’t want to do it, you do it, I’m not doing it, I’m sick of military stuff. He made me go anyway. Then, a few years later, my cousin’s mother (I am related to them through their father, a deadbeat) married a Naval Officer who was stationed at Floyd Bennett Field which was also in Brooklyn at the time, but is now long closed. Oh, great, I thought, more military in the family. Then, in about 1973, there was an Inspection at Fort Tilden in Rockaway Beach (actually, Roxbury). We lived in Rockaway, so the fort was close. My father asked me if I would go to the Inspection with him, and I said no. Then, he asked me two more times, and both times I said no. He went alone. My mother even came up to me and said “You can’t let him go to that inspection alone, he’s expecting you to accompany him.” And I, being a bratty teenager, shrugged it off. I wanted to do other things. When he came home, he said that my cousins were there with their step-father and they all asked why I wasn’t there. I still shrugged it off. Sometime later we were at the house of the Naval Officer that my cousin’s mother married for some party, I don’t remember what. There were a lot of Officers there. At one point he pulled me aside and said “Your father was very hurt that you didn’t go to that inspection with him.” I still shrugged it off. Eventually, I forgot about it, until now. Recently, I have been thinking about it a lot and, quite frankly, crying about it. If I could travel back in time, I would go with my father. But I can’t. It’s as if my father is not really at rest. So, I am trying to honor him now, any way I can. That’s why I have begun to attend as many Military Ceremonies as possible. So, what about the Marine that I spoke to for five minutes? I was given the wrong directions by my hotel. When the train pulled into Eastern Market Station, I saw a man wearing a shirt that said “Marine Barracks” on it. He got off at Eastern Market, so, I thought that it must be the right stop, but wasn’t really sure. So I got off, figuring I could ask him. Well, at first I kept calling, “hello, excuse me.” He didn’t answer. I have no idea what made me shout out “Marine Barracks,” but when I did, he stopped and turned around. I ran up to him (no wonder he thought I was trying to pick him up, I did kind of chase after him), and apologized for disturbing him, but said I noticed his shirt said marine Barracks on it and I was going to the parade but wasn’t sure if this was the right stop because my hotel gave me a different stop. He said it was the right stop, I then said that I didn’t know where to go when I left the station. He said he would show me the way. Good, now I won’t get lost. (I didn’t actually say that, I just thought it.) OK, when I ran up to him, my eyes did get glued onto his muscular arms and I’m sure he noticed that. In fact, I know he noticed that because for a split second he looked away with a smile on his face. He saw where I was looking. I can’t help it, I’m a woman, grant it older now, but some things don’t go away with age. Other than that, he looked me straight in the eye, staring at me. I started up some small talk, asked him if he was in the parade, he said yes, he’s a Squad Leader and would be on the left side. (I looked for him in the parade, but couldn’t find him because once they are in uniform, they all look alike. No offense. Plus, I wasn’t really sure which ones the Squad Leaders were.) Anyway, I told him that my father was military, he asked which branch, I told him Army and that I was here as a tribute to him. I told him my father was deceased and that I missed him, but not how long he was deceased. That was pretty much the conversation. When we got to the top of the stairs, he pointed the way to me, then stood there staring at me. I looked at my watch and saw that I was early, and asked him if they would let me in the Barracks that early. After a three-second staring delay (I counted), he said no. He never took his eyes off of me and I’m not sure why. I would love to think that it was because he found me attractive, maybe irresistible, but let’s be real, I’m a lot older than he, I doubt that that was the reason. Plus, I was dressed in crappy kind of clothing. I asked about places to eat, and he mentioned the kinds of places but didn’t really recommend any particular place. Then, he asked if I wanted to walk down the same side of the street as he. WOW, maybe he was attracted to me. However, I can’t stay in the sun because I burn too easily, so I said I’d rather walk down the shady side. He took that as a brush off, but I didn’t mean it that way. Actually, I thought he would walk down the shady side with me, but he didn't. So, that is the story about the Marine that I spoke to for all of five minutes. For some reason, I keep thinking of him, it must have been that stare. But, I will probably never see him again; in fact, I don’t even know his name. But if I do see him again, I will walk down the street with him this time, if he asks me to.

Roses and Peonies

Memories of My Father

Five Minutes with a United States Marine