Velveteen Mind

All that work and I don't get to be in the picture?

Peek-a-Booooooooo!....

Two days before this 1919 photograph was taken of World War I R.A.F. Airmen, fellow airman Freddy Jackson, an air mechanic, was killed in an accident involving an airplane propeller. 

The group squadron photo was taken the day of his funeral...

Looks like Freddy was sticking around for the group photo op.   See him in the back row, four guys from the left?
His fellow airmen easily recognized him immediately upon seeing the photograph.

Ghosts love a Kodak moment just as much as the rest of us.

Happy Halloween, ya'll!

 

...........................

Please share this post on or so others can find us, too.

New Here?  Subscribe to Velveteen Mind or have it delivered via email so you can continue to revel with me!

One More Day til Halloween

from a simple apology by Mark Gleim

Just a Boy

This Saturday Squatter guest post is brought to you by Mamma of Mamma Loves...

Finally, he was no longer a freshman. Though he could probably still pass for an eighth grader, he had survived his freshman year and was looking forward to this school year when he would eventually get his driver's license...and a car. It would still be a while before he shaved, or be taller than most of the girls, but he was no longer a freshman. He planned to spend the summer mowing lawns. A great workout and a good tan all while making money.

She was new. Just moved here from somewhere "up north." She didn't look like most of the girls in school. She was tall, she had long dark hair and she didn't wear any makeup. She didn't know anyone having moved there in the middle of the summer. She was desperate to have someone her own age to talk to...someone other than her sister that is.

Did they meet that summer? Did he mow her yard? Was it his friend who had the business? Did he just tag along? And if he tagged along, did he do it because he was bored or did he notice the new girl living in that house?

He probably remembers. She doesn't. One thing is for sure--they were in the same Algebra class that fall. She was still taller than he was,but he made her laugh.

At some point, they started taking walks around the neighborhood. They watched a movie at his house once. She doesn't really remember being inside it other than that one time...though there may have been others. He never really spent any time in her house either even though they lived in the same neighborhood. She did run over to his house the time it caught on fire. She was worried about him--about his family--more so than if it had been just any old neighbor,but she didn't tell him that.

She had a big crush on him her freshman year. There was some kissing...some other stuff...all pretty innocent. He bought her a few gifts. He visited her while she was babysitting, but they never became an item. She's pretty sure she made it clear she was interested. They may have even talked about it, but he wasn't--or at least that's what she thought. She was the girl from the neighborhood. She was a freshman...and he wasn't.

They didn't have any more classes together. They were interested in different things, but they were friends. Not the kind of friends that spend all of their time together. Not the kind of friends who go to the movies together, but they cared about each other more deeply than anyone probably ever guessed.

He didn't have a curfew. She didn't either as long as she was in her yard. Almost every weekend he drove by her house on his way home. His car's engine was so loud she could hear it rumble over the music playing in her room. And usually when she did, she'd head on out to the driveway to say hi. Sometimes they'd talk for a bit, a couple of times they fooled around, but many times they just talked...and talked. They shared stories of what they had done that evening. They talked about people they knew in common. She talked about the boys she was dating, and she listened as he fell in love.

His senior year he set his sights on a girl. By then he was tall and looked like he belonged in high school--even if he was barely shaving. In the beginning this girl wasn't so sure about dating him, but he was persistent. The girl finally realized what a great guy he was...probably by how far he was willing to go to get her to go out with him. When she finally said yes he was over the moon.

And the girl from the neighborhood? She was so happy for him. Maybe she was a little jealous too. He had turned into a man in those three short years, and she would have loved for a guy (maybe this guy?) to be as crazy about her as he was for this girl, but it wasn't the right time for her to say anything. He was happy. She had a boyfriend.  So, she listened and she smiled as he told her his plans.

Soon his senior year was up and he enlisted with the Navy. She still one year left until she left the neighbor too--only for college much farther than most of their friends would consider. She couldn't believe that his visits would stop soon, that she wouldn't hear roar of his car's engine roaring down her street. She'd get a lump in her throat every time she thought about it. She tried to tell him, but he was so excited to start his new life and to share it with his new girl. Besides, she was never very good with good-byes, so she smiled, she gave him a hug and she told him to be safe. A few tears rolled down her cheeks as she turned around that last night to walk into the house.

Letters came from all over the world. She was a senior now and not very good about writing back. But she loved to hear about his adventures. Whenever she heard stories about things happening on Navy ships she perked up her ears to make sure he was safe. He was her Navy connection and she knew it could be dangerous. She worried about him.

The next year she went away to college as planned. For a year or two they might find themselves home at the same time--around the holidays. There were a few more late night chats in front of her house--quick and secret ones because his girl wasn't so crazy about them...though they were just chats. They got to say hi though and visit. She got to hear his stories of the Navy and his plans for the future.

And then as time went by they just didn't see each other anymore.

She would hear about him from her mom from time to time. She heard he married that girl. She was happy for them. They were going to live in town. She moved away. She came home once or twice a year for a while but then less and less frequently. She thought of him more infrequently. She got married.

Many, many years went by.

Then one day she heard from a friend who said he saw him--and the biggest smile crossed her face. She hadn't realized how much she had missed him. How much she really considered him a friend...how much she did care about him. And she wondered how he was.

Visit Mamma of Mamma Loves...

Hierarchy of Suffering. Who wins?

{Audioblog} Listen to or Download 'Hierarchy of Suffering' read by the author

Suburban Oblivion recently complained that her two year old had been replaced by demon spawn.  She welcomed any interest in buying him on eBay. 

As luck would have it, someone took her up on the offer.  Someone that apparently can not have children.  Sara responded with an exercise in gratitude, expressing that it sometimes takes getting bitch-slapped in the comments to remember how good you have it. 

What followed was a discussion in Suburban Oblivion's comments that touched on a topic that I take very personally.  The topic of gratitude and our right to be ungrateful some days.  This is something that I've been meaning to write about for some time, but always back down.  Sara is a great fire-starter, so here goes.

In response to Sara's post on gratitude, CharmingBitch said that "some days off-handed comments about selling children hurt worse than other days. Just like most days with your kids are great but some suck..."  I'm paraphrasing.  Apparently, some of Sara's readers took part of CharmingBitch's comment to suggest that she wanted Sara to be a man and stop complaining.  Again, paraphrasing.  Actually, that's conjecture.  Nevertheless, CharmingBitch was inundated with emails telling her that Sara has a right to complain about a bad day and to back off.

You've got to be kidding me.

To paraphrase my own comment left on Suburban Oblivion:  of all people, CharmingBitch knows that playing the "who has the worse life?" game is pointless.  More specifically, the “I have no right to complain because your life is worse than mine” game is ridiculous.

Bad days are bad days. 
The hierarchy of bad is irrelevant.

CharmingBitch further responded (this was before my comment, by the way): 

"I never said Sara (or anyone else for that matter) doesn’t have the right to complain or vent about a bad day. I know that one life cannot compare to another and that we all have our own crosses to bear; I get that, honestly."

Amen.  I have a right to complain about my house washing away.  I also have a right to complain about my car looking like a ghetto-fabulous poop heap.  It's all relevant because it is all me.   

My problems can not compare to yours, but they are mine.

Do you read CharmingBitch?  Let me tell you, my problems could never compare to hers, and yet I don't hesitate to share my problems with her.  Why not?  She never tries to "one up" me in the problems game.  She could always win, but homey don't play dat.

After Hurricane Katrina, there developed something of a hierarchy of suffering along the Gulf Coast:

• You lost the bottom floor of your house?  I lost my whole house.
  
• You lost your whole house?  I lost my house and my job. 
• You lost your house and your job?  I lost my sister. 
• You lost your sister?  I lost my whole family. 
• You lost your whole family?  I am dead.

That's right, the ghosts of the dead walk the streets of the Gulf Coast.  Their presence is always there, reminding us that it could be worse.  We could be dead.

Bullshit.

Your life could always be worse.  Someone will always have it worse than you.  Seriously.  But does that mean that we have no right to complain about the mundane?  Hell no.

I'll complain about our Bar exam woes and the fact that I haven't had a manicure in forever...  all within the same breath.  Because they are my problems.  They are important to me.  Screw you if you don't think I am grateful enough to keep them in perspective.  Your insinuating that I am not keeping my problems in perspective is an insult.  Your suggesting that I am not grateful is an outrage.

I got gratitude for you right here.  Bend over, let me show you.

The next time someone tells you, "Well, it could be worse..."  just slap them for me.  What they are saying is that they have no idea what to tell you, you are making them uncomfortable, and they would like to deflect the conversation and preferably end it right there.

"Our bills are killing me.  I don't know where I expect to get the money this month." 

"Really?  Well, it could be worse.  Your child could have an incurable flesh-eating disease and be deathly allergic to painkillers."

Wha-what?  Um, yeah, you're right...  I don't know...  I mean, I just...  Uh, okay, I, uh, well...  Okay.

Conversation killed.  Now let's talk about how your mother-in-law insulted your housekeeping, because that is important.

Look, our problems are our problems.  We own them.  They are ours.  I'm not trying to beat you in the competition for who has the worse life.  In the end, if you win, what have you won, anyway?  Hey, I'll just give you that one.  Congratulations.  Your life sucks. 

Now I'm still going to talk about how my diamond shoes are too tight.  Because they are and I don't like blisters.  So sue me.

I am grateful for everything and everyone that I have in my life.  I know how good I have it.  But damn it if I have to couch every single fookin' thing that irks me with "I know it could be worse but..."  Hell.  No. 

The other day, I guest posted over at moosh in indy and dared to complain about how being the wife of a young lawyer sucks.  Ass.  A big hairy ass.  I said that I'm sick of my life being about my husband and had the balls to ask, "When is it going to be about me?" 

I then demanded a Volvo wagon, an annual spa vacation, and a housekeeper.

Oh yes I did.

And you know what?  I'm going to complain freely when my Volvo breaks down.  I'm going to whine when my massages aren't deep enough.  And I'm going to bitch when my housekeeper doesn't scrub my toilets the way I like it. 

I don't expect you to care.  But I do expect you to listen.  Because if you love me, you know me.  You know that I am grateful and you know that I am not a raving idiot that has no perspective.  You know that I know what is important. 

And yet you will still let me vent about the small stuff.

Because if you don't let me vent about the small stuff, I will utterly blow my lid when it comes time to deal with the big stuff.

Get it?

...........................

Please share this post on or so others can find us, too.

New Here?  Subscribe to Velveteen Mind or have it delivered via email so you can continue to revel with me!

smooshin' the moosh

I'm hiding over at moosh in indy today.