For Mindy Sue

It seems when I was younger, I didn’t have nearly as many conflicting thoughts as I do now.  I remember a time in my life, well into my thirties, where things seemed nearly perfect.  I had a nice house and a steady, decent paying job.  That’s not to say it was worry-free, because it wasn’t.  It just seemed that the path to the future was pretty clear, albeit frighteningly boring.  Things are different these days, but if nothing else, I know I saved myself from working in a factory for 40 years, and I’m good with that.  But I didn’t write this to talk about my problems.  I wrote it to make the point that it’s funny how things work out.

I won’t go through the entire timeline, but I started out worrying about money and ended up waxing nostalgic all the way back to grade school.  I can’t say it was the best time of my life, but it sure was fun.  We lived in a small town and I went to school with the same kids from kindergarten through the seventh grade.  I had friends, good friends that I’d known for years.  We had a lot of laughs.  Out of the blue, I absurdly remembered a pep rally from the seventh grade where every kid in the school was laughing at the same time. 

I remembered a girl who had to speak at the pep rally, but she wasn’t just any girl.  She was that one girl in the school who was developed far beyond her years.  Unlike most of the girls there, she had far outgrown her trainer bra.  She had boobs that jiggled and swayed when she walked.  When she walked, her ass was poetry in motion.  She was every 12 year old’s dream.  Anyway, she had to read something from behind a lectern to the entire student body, and as she started, she shifted her weight from one foot to another.  Then she did it again.  And again and again, almost every 10 seconds or so.  I don’t think she knew why everyone was laughing because she kept doing it.  She almost looked like she was dancing.  I laughed too, but only because I was deeply in lust with her.  I’m not sure I knew what lust was then, but she did make me feel real funny whenever she got close…like in the same room. 

I didn’t mention the girl’s name, but if you went to Parkside Jr. High in Normal, you know who I’m talking about.  I got to thinking of people’s names, of the kids I went to school with, and was surprised I could remember so many of them.  We all do that, don’t we?  Think about people we knew as kids, and wonder what happened to them?  I suppose I could probably find them on Facebook, but that was so long ago.  Would they remember me, and what would I say after hello?  Anyway, one name in particular came to mind, and for just a few minutes, nothing else mattered except the memory of Mindy Sue Lenning. 

She was my first girlfriend.  She was my first hand-hold, my first kiss.  She was also my twin sister’s best friend, so she was always near, even if in gossip.  Everybody in grade school knew it was me and Mindy.  She was short.  She had moved from Birmingham Alabama; I can still hear exactly the way she enunciated “Birmingham”.  Her father’s name (which I knew from looking them up in the phone book) was Gerhard, which, at the time, was just hilarious.  She had an exotic look, like a pacific islander, and imperfect teeth that were perfect.  She was happy and fun and laughed at everything I said.  It didn’t matter what we were doing, because whatever it was, we would have a good time doing it.  We moved away from Illinois after I finished the 7^th grade to a Detroit suburb.  Things there were far different there, but that’s another story. 

The point is (and I hate that I sound like an old person when I say it) that those were good and much simpler times.  When I get down on the way things are now, it’s good to remember that things were good before and with any luck, they’ll get good again sometime.  Of course, they’ll never be as good as childhood; that time has come and gone and it can never be recaptured.  I don’t think of those times often, but when I do, it’s always good.  I did some digging on Mindy, though, and found that while it is good to remember the past, it’s also good to leave it right there.

After some digging, my sister and I finally found Mindy.  Well, her obituary anyway.  She died September 8, 2008 at 12:35am in her home.  It didn’t say what kind, but it was cancer that killed her.  I had to stop and sit down for a minute.  All of our childhood plans came back:  Her family lived in an apartment, and I can remember going there and knocking on the door and sweating bullets asking her mom or dad if she were home and could she come out?  We’d walk down to Normal Park and there was never enough time to make our plans before she had to go back in.  When her dad whistled, she had to go NOW.  We had time to plan our marriage; there was no question about that happening.  We didn’t have a profession planned, we didn’t think of college, because none of that mattered yet.  The only important thing was that we were going to be together forever, holding hands (kissing sometimes), and playing and daydreaming in the park. 

Mindy was married and divorced (to a guy named Jeff, oddly enough).  She had two kids and died at the age of 46.  From what little I’ve been able to find, she had a normal life, and I’m happy for her to have had it.  I felt badly, though, because she had been dead for four years before I knew it.  I wish I had a different picture of her; the one posted is the only one I could find.  Her smile was magical. 

I’m sure things would have been different had I not moved.  The Detroit area, and shortly thereafter, Flint, MI, was much, much different than the small farming town I spent the first 13 years of my life.  There’s no changing the way things are, but every now and then, because I’m old, I remember the old days and old friends…and it’s good.  In my digging I found a lot of names that I recognized.  I remember some names that I couldn’t find at all.  I’m torn between seeing how they are now and remembering them as they were.  Such is my fate as an old person.

Let’s talk about killers!

 

Confessed Killer Released From Jail After Two Days

When I first read this I knew I wanted to say something about it.  I ran into some trouble, though, because I couldn’t decide how to start.  I don’t want this to sound sappy, because it’s something every single one of us potentially faces:  That you’ll kill the person you love the most. 

Here are the facts:  George Sanders, in Sun City, AZ, shot his wife last Friday, November 9^th.  She survived for a couple days, but died in the hospital Sunday.  After his arraignment, he was released from jail on his own recognizance.  How can this be?

Here’s the story:  George and Virginia Sanders had been married for over forty years.  Virginia, 81, suffered from multiple sclerosis; she had been in a wheelchair since 1971.  George had been an avid golfer, but gave it up to take better care of his wife.  Neighbors said they would see them strolling together, he pushing her wheelchair around the block.  He would play the piano or guitar and sing to her.  By all accounts, he was the perfect loving husband. 

George says Virginia asked him to kill her.  He says she was tired of the pain.  She had recently been told that she needed to be hospitalized for her condition.  George shot his wife in the head.  Once he had done it, he called 911 and told police what he’d done.  He was arrested.  At his arraignment, wearing a prison jumpsuit and facing a charge of premeditated murder, he interrupted the judge to tell him that he wanted a blanket.  He said, “I’m so cold, and I’ve been so cold.  My back is spasming.  Could I be given a blanket or two?”  He was released.

There are so many things to say about this story; as I wrote the facts (or as much as I could find from news reports) I hoped I would latch onto that one hook that would make this easier to write about, but it never happened.  You should also have several unanswered (or unanswerable) questions, the most pressing being this:  He admitted to murdering his wife.  We generally lock people up for that sort of activity don’t we?  Why then, do I feel like this guy should be immediately be surrounded by his family and given a hot meal and a warm bed and an endless ear in which to pour what must surely be a heavier burden than can be imagined?

The sixth commandment (you knew I’d work the bible in here somewhere), according to KJV says “Thou shalt not kill”.  I have an acquaintance very well versed in the Talmud who holds that the literal translation of the sixth commandment isn’t “kill”, it’s “murder”.  Thou shalt not murder, and there’s a big difference between killing and murder, isn’t there?  We kill enemies, but we murder innocents, and who is more innocent than a wheelchair-bound victim of MS?

I could go on and on about this story.  There are so many things about this that could be argued from different religious or philosophical viewpoints, but the bottom line, the one thing I took away was this:  I have the utmost respect for George Sanders.  I’ll bet as he left jail, there were only two sounds those around him could hear:  His muffled weeping, and the clanging of his giant brass balls as he shuffled off.

Here’s the most complete story of George I could find:  http://www.myfoxphoenix.com/story/20088368/2012/11/13/man-shoots-elderly-wife-in-alleged-mercy-killing

 

 

Every year, on November 11, we celebrate Veterans Day.  It was originally known as “Armistice Day” to commemorate the end of WWI, but was amended in 1954 by President Eisenhower to be “veterans” day.  Sometimes it’s confused with Memorial Day, but in a nutshell, Memorial Day is for those who died, and Veterans Day is for those who served.  As a US Army veteran, I must confess to spending last Sunday having a few self-congratulatory drinks.  They were very good, but I also spent some time thinking about the recent vets, the ones who actually stood in harm’s way, and to tell you the truth, I felt guilty.  I felt guilty because even though I served, no one ever shot at me.

I’m not sure I can fully explain why it is that I felt that way.  It is the height of folly to wish to be in a combat situation, but I must confess that I remember doing just that.  I spent 15 months at the DMZ in Korea, and it seemed like not a week went by when we weren’t jarred awake by someone screaming that the North Koreans were on their way over the border and by God it was time to grab your shit and get ready to fight.  It always turned out to be a drill, but for that 3 or 4 hours, it was an adrenaline rush like I’ve never experienced since.  And I feel guilty for being a veteran but never having fought.

This has been bugging me for some time, but I got to thinking about it, and I have (tentatively) found a panacea for my “lack of combat” guilt.  First, I retrospectively have to thank my lucky stars that during the time of my enlistment (83-86), there were no major conflicts in the world that we were involved in.  Second, as I remember, when we had to go through those constant alerts, it wasn’t just those of us whose role was a combat engineer standing in the cold waiting to get our rifles.  The cooks were there.  The supply guys were there.  The commo guys were there.  The goddam mail clerk was there.  Everyone was facing the same scenario:  Time to kill or be killed.  We all fulfilled our obligation to be ready if needed.  There’s no shame in that.

Napoleon Bonaparte is quoted as saying “An army marches on its stomach”, and anyone who’s ever been out where there is nothing knows that you might be able to forage for a while, but sooner or later, you’ll be looking for the mess tent.  Bullets are also very important.  The enemy doesn’t wait for you to reload.  Someone has to bring them to you.  Someone has to be operating a radio; you can’t combat if you’re not in contact.  The obvious point is, they guys on the front can’t do their job unless the rear is there.  Everyone who knows me knows I mean no disrespect to the green berets when I say that in the big picture, all those deployed are in fact, Special Forces.

 

 

We make heroes of those who kill the enemy, and make no mistake:  I fully endorse that label.  If you stand and fight when the bullets are flying, and you are lucky enough to return home, you are a hero in my book.  There are those who say that our forces fighting in Afghanistan or Iraq are fighting meaningless wars for oil or profit, and there’s probably a good deal of truth in that, but the bottom line is, they’re facing real bullets from real guns and they’re not running away.  The war in Iraq is derided as a “war for oil”, but Saddam Hussein killed innocent people by the hundreds of thousands for the accident of their birth.  (Look up Kurdish massacres.)  Should we just allow that to continue?  The Taliban shoots 12 year old girls in the head for the crime of going to school.  Should we turn our backs away from that?

Some say we stick our noses in where we don’t belong, so as long as I’m ranting, I’m going to just say it:  Yes, we are the world’s police.  Call me a xenophobe, but remember this:  There is any number of groups in the world that would, if given the chance, march into your town and show you how shitty your short life could be.  If we don’t stop them there, they’ll be on our doorstep before you know it.

And that’s my military rant.  I have a lot more to say about killing and murder and death.  Just ask me.