So, it's been almost two weeks since I've had the time to sit and concentrate on a post. Where should I start? How about with the latest of my earth's tiltings....
Da Man lost his job. He got mad one night, so mad, in fact, that his nose started bleeding, so he left. I was shocked when I saw Daisy, my beloved $3.99 a gallon gas guzzlingof a truck, making her way to the house. Da Man awoke bright and early the next day and went back to speak in person to his supervisor. He was told that he would have to be written up. Two hours later he received a phone call from the head of the place telling him that he had been fired for abandoning his position the night before.
I'm not going to go into it too much because it's truly his story to tell and not mine. But I will say that I have yet to panic over it. I don't know if that's because I drove past a church not a week before the earth tilt and read one of those throw a catchy phrase in your face in hopes of drawing you through the door signs and it read "Faith means never having to panic." And panic I have not.
As a matter of fact, I have probably been more peaceful and calm within the past month than I have been in a long time, and I am not quite sure why. I just know that I feel good.
I have also substituted my computer time for backyard time. In between the rain drops I have been trying to get things done outside. I still have Mother's Day flowers sitting in their pots because of the blasted rain. But this weekend is a good weekend, and I have vowed to get it done today. We'll see, eh. *chuckle*
Friday night we joined Da Man in a parade for veterans that was held here in town. It was a torch relay, and I was honored to be walking alongside the men and women who participated. Da Man was frustrated at me because I insisted that he wear his uniform. See, I always insist that he wear his uniform and then he's always the only one who does. That held true again Friday evening. He couldn't make it up the big hill (we're in West Virginia and the state is one big hill that closely resembles mountains), and his physical therapist told him pointblank not to walk the big hill, so we rode to the top and then joined the group at the bottom of the hill. It was a very moving event for me.
Mom and C, my stepdad, met us at the bottom with Mak in her stroller. Grace made the trip with me and Da Man. And admittedly I caught myself standing there more than once wondering exactly how I ended up standing amongst a group of war veterans, ranging from WWII and Korea to the present Operation Iraqi Freedom and Operation Enduring Freedom. Me, the hippieish chick, standing with soldiers, and never prouder. But that's for another post.
After the parade Grace participated in a race. I can't believe that I am a mother of a kid. I mean, I just had Grace yesterday, and now she's riding her bike and running in races. Wow.
There was a Blackhawk helicopter on display. And Da Man, dressed in his Army uniform, was making his way with us to check it out. A woman stopped us and said, "Excuse me, sir. I just want to thank you for your service." Noticing his cane, she said, "My grandson just signed up and is headed to Iraq in July. Is that where you were hurt?"
Da Man replied, "Yes, ma'am, I was hurt in Iraq. I'll pray for your grandson." She shook his hand and said, "Buy a drink or some ice cream for your daughters, and thank you again." She disappeared then as quickly as she had appeared. And she had slipped a ten dollar bill into Da Man's hand. I instantly got tears in my eyes. And then I said, "Oh, you didn't want to wear your uniform, so five of that's mine." Ha.
He also had his picture taken with four different people at the site of the helicopter. He was indeed treated like a hero. And I spent most of the time with tears in my eyes. Da Man isn't proud of much in way of his service in Iraq because his memories are overridden with the death of a best friend and a "brother." He left Iraq banged up and guilty that he didn't know the car beside his "brother" was going to blow up. He left Iraq with the memories of picking up the pieces of two of those he loved. And he's not proud.
That's why I insist that Da Man wear his uniform. It's because I feel as if he should be proud to wear the uniform, if for no other reason than to show that he spat in the face of death and survived. Because his battle buddies died in the way they were prepared to die: defending freedom while in service to their country.
We're getting there. I'm developing a different understanding of Da Man and he is too. His therapist told him that maybe losing his job was the best thing that could have happened to him right now. And maybe it was. Now he is able to get out of bed early in the morning and head to his newly formed physical therapy appointments. Now he can be a part of the family instead of absent all the time. Now he doesn't have to juggle so much. And there's an obvious change in him. A positive change in him. And for that I am grateful.
I have lately been given the chance to show him that good brings about good. He has been spending quite a bit of time at Grace's school volunteering. He's been heading to the library with us for story time. He's doing things, and that's wonderful. Things have been better between the two of us lately too, and that's always a good thing, eh. We've been a team.
Yesterday was my family reunion. Bear in mind that we drove almost an hour and a half away into the middle of bum fucked Egypt to get there. There isn't anything around except for a mom and pop's grocery store and a Family Dollar. The reunion lasted longer yesterday than it has in years.
On the way home I decided to stop for something to drink and picked up some ice cream bars. As we were in the middle of one of West Virginia's kiss your assturns, I saw mom's van pulled off the side of the road. She had blown a tire. Da Man and I quickly discovered that she had no spare so we figured that we would take the flat one off and drive the half hour to town, get it fixed, and drive back. Well, that was a fine plan--except mom's jack was broken.
We tried to call for roadside assistance and had no signal on any of the three cell phones. Lovely. While everyone was freaking out about what next, I put Da Man in the truck and headed down the road.
"Where are you going," he wanted to know.
"To Somebody's."
"Who's Somebody?"
"I don't know."
"Where are you going," he again asked.
I pulled into a driveway and said, "To somebody's."
"Who lives here?"
"Somebody in a white t-shirt. See?" I pointed to a young man in a t-shirt mowing the grass.
"Who's he?"
"I don't know. Go and ask him about getting a tow truck."
Da Man thought I had lost my mind, but I knew that somebody would help. And help he did, though the young man in the white t-shirt went inside and got his daddy. *smile*
The dad told us that there was no way we would get a tow truck because there wasn't one around. But he brought his jack and ratchet set to the van and took mom's tire off. He then took it back to his house and fixed mom's tire, complete with a plug in the hole. He put a lot of effort into helping us. When he was done and we were ready to roll, Da Man tried to pay him. "I can't take that from you," he told Da Man. "God would never forgive me if I took money for helping a brother in need." And with that he was gone.
Da Man was shocked by the whole thing. He couldn't believe that I just pulled into someone's driveway, asked for help and got over the top help. Good brings about good. Trust me, it really does.