The neighborhood looks much the same as it has the past 50 or so years. Oh, there have been changes; the dairy where I would buy ice cream bars (Big Sticks or Two-Tones for me, Krunch Bars for my brother who would occasionally deign to give me one) is long gone, replaced by housing, the office across the street now housing a Chabad. The elementary school that both I and my spouse attended is also long gone, replaced again by houses, but at least the little park is still there with the hill I used to roll down as a child -- perhaps it's just an illusion, but the hill seems so much smaller now. As I get off the bus I note approvingly that the gardeners are at the house sprucing up the front yard, trimming the hedge so the bus stop sign is visible. I speak with the head gardener, a long-time friend of my spouse's family, and he apologizes for the delay in coming by; the usual increase in business brought about by spring as people want to get the yards in shape for outdoor activities and the like. I assured him it was no problem and thanked him and his crew for coming.
I unlock the door and enter the house, dropping off my lunch in the nearly empty refrigerator, making a note to tackle that and the pantry very soon. There is a chill in the air so I turn up the thermostat just slightly. Then, setting my shoulders, I enter what may be the closest thing to hallowed ground in my mind: my late father-in-law's former office.
Those of you familiar with my comments and recent history know that life has taken some quite strange turns over the last year plus; the hospitalization of my mother-in-law, followed by my father-in-law just a month later, with both of them transferred to extended nursing care. My mother-in-law survived; my father-in-law did not, suffering a swift decline into dementia before suffering a stroke which contributed to his death.
Since my mother-in-law is in a wheelchair and unable to come over to the house frequently, and my spouse's work schedule keeps him busy much of the time, much of the task of clearing out the house and preparing things for sale, donation, storage or disposal falls to me. I have the flexibility to come over and wait for appraisers and inspectors and repairmen and the like. Coming over here is bittersweet; there are memories in every nook and cranny. I remember celebrations such as my in-laws' 40th wedding anniversary (my mother-in-law's health was precarious enough that they didn't want to wait till 50 in case she didn't make it; ironically they made it to 54), Thanksgivings and Christmases (the little tree is still set up in the sunroom, where it has been since December 2009), election discussions over Chinese take-out (especially making heads and tails of the myriad California propositions), and many more events big and small.
My father-in-law was born in 1930, a child of the Depression; he also was the product of a broken home, his parents divorcing when he was still quite young. In fact, he did not even get back in touch with his birth father until grown with two sons of his own. I think both those factors contributed to his tendency to be a saver; he kept EVERYTHING, and much of that was in the room that became his office once his eldest son left home in the 1980s and went off on his own. (That eldest son and I were married 20 years ago last week, but that's another tale, as is the fact that said eldest son seems to have inherited his father's pack rat tendencies.) I was not looking forward to this task, but it had to be done, and soon; we have a potential buyer but are looking at closing on the sale at the end of May so everything has to be out.
My father-in-law was an engineer by training, but was also a gifted writer, artist and photographer; it was his gift with words that led him to leave the engineering field and take over the writing and editorship of his company's newsletter and other publications. But in his office, I found connections to his former life: slide rules in a cabinet drawer, copies of his Civil Service Certification when he worked for Boeing in Seattle before he, his wife and infant son moved to the Bay Area. Journals that he kept for several years, mostly a recounting of what he had done that day and what spiritual insights gathered; he was a deep man of faith, and rose early every day to to engage in "centering prayer", part prayer, part deep meditation. I skimmed through many of the journals before putting them aside; I still haven't decided whether to read them in depth or to consign them to history -- sometimes ignorance is indeed bliss.
But one drew me, in the wake of Sunday's events. I glanced at it and saw it was from 2001, evidenced by the mention of my spouse's 45th birthday. I turned the pages and reached the entry for September 11th:
HOW HORRIBLE UNBELIEVABLE -- This morning when I got up came out of our bedroom David [note: younger son, who still lived at home at the time] says Have you heard -- Then he led me to the TV set -- The World Trade Center in NYC -- First one tower and then the other had been destroyed by two commercial air craft -- flown into them by two Palestinian Hijackers!!! Words fail me to express my feelings about this tragedy. Is there NO END to the Hate-Rage-Evil Done in the Name of Freedom. Oh LOVE-DESTROYED BY HATE.
So I devoted my centering prayer time to prayers for peace, peace of mind beyond understanding for all those who died and all those who lost loved ones in this Horror of Destruction.
In his life, he was extremely opposed to war, both those in Iraq and in Afghanistan. I wondered how he would feel to know that finally, Obama had done what Bush failed to do, and had exacted final justice on the mastermind and financier of those brutal attacks. He and my mother-in-law had supported Obama long before I (I'd been an early Edwards supporter); it was partially their support that brought me around. And he continued to support Obama though I know he was disappointed in some of his actions and non-actions.
Going through more papers on the spare bed in the office, I had at least a partial answer. In a folder marked "Letters", I found a carbon copy of a typed letter from May 9, 1972. (I told you he kept EVERYTHING.) The letter was addressed to an Hon. William S. Mailliard, House of Representatives, Washington DC. According to Wikipedia and the Biographical Directory of the US Congress, he was a representative from the Bay Area for 20 years -- a Republican but that was in the era when Republicans actually listened to the people, an era before "Republican" was a synonym for "wingnut fundie asshole".
It is the final paragraph of that letter that I think gives me the answer to my question. After listing what he wished Mailliard's committee to issue a bill to accomplish (cut off funding by December 1972, require full withdrawal by that same date, and to use that to demand release of all POWs and information on MIAs), the final paragraph sums up his feelings:
America will never achieve its destiny as a peacemaker if it continues to make war. History has proved that killing never brings about real peace. We must take a revolutionary step -- into a new age of cooperation of all peoples on this planet, if we are to survive.
The words remind me…we've been here before, only the names have changed. Korea morphs into Vietnam morphs into Central America morphs into Kuwait morphs into Kosovo morphs into Iraq/Afghanistan. Technologically we've come a long way since 1972 -- the typewriter he used for that letter was replaced by computers and email -- but socially we still turn to war to find solutions. It's been said that insanity is doing the same thing over and over expecting different results…by that token, war is the most insidious form of insanity.
It's not easy -- the weight of the world lies heavy on my shoulders, as I try to clear loose ends left behind and do as much as I can do on my own. But someday soon, I must take up the cause my father-in-law left behind, and work in my own way to end this insanity, to expect more of my country that it expects of itself, to fulfill both his wish and the wish reflected in my sig: to end the wars we ask our gay and straight soldiers to fight.