By Deborah K. Martin sitting in for Crystal Laramore Lutz
This is Thanksgiving week, the start of the long holiday season which will encompass Thanksgiving, Christmas, Hanukkah, Ashura and I’m sure many others. Being a tried and true American I’m glad this season starts off in the United States with a celebration of abundance, cooperation and gratitude.
Getting together with family and friends over a very large, calorie laden, fragrant meal has always been one of my favorite things but it’s not the only thing I think about at this time in November. Each year I stop for some serious thought about what has happened in my life over the past 12 months. I think about how I could have made it better, about my own mistakes in judgment and wasted opportunities. It’s not a time for beating myself up, just doing an honest self-evaluation.
I also think a lot about the true blessings in my life and try to be consciously grateful for each one. Things like my wonderful children who really aren’t children anymore. My older son has 4 daughters of his own. My younger son has added a beautiful wife to his life this year. I’m grateful for my grandchildren and my siblings. My two brothers are especially precious to me. They are both great men with many talents. I love them dearly.
I’m grateful for wonderful friends who encourage me during the tough times and keep me grounded during the good ones. Especially Miss Crystal, who has been my buddy and soul-mate for many years. What a blessing she is. She makes me laugh, she encourages me, she curses the latest guy who has hurt me and she challenges me to be more. Thank you, honey.
All this thinking got me wondering about attitude. It is everything, isn’t it? Some bad things have happened in my life this year (and last year and the year before and the year before, you get the picture) but I still have the ability to be cheerful, happy and grateful. Now please, don’t think I’m patting myself on the back here. I’m just as human as the rest. There are days when I think my life just plain sucks. But that passes.
Why? Because I CHOOSE to let it pass. I CHOOSE to look on the bright side. I CHOOSE to learn from those sucky days. I think maybe I was born with this bent anyway, but I’ve had many opportunities over the years to keep making the choice to be happy and cheerful. You CAN make that a habit like any other habit.
This brings me to the “glass half full or empty” question. There are two men who, over the years, have been very dear to me, each for different reasons. One I have known for over 13 years. We became instant friends and over the years he has been a buddy, a mentor and spiritual guide for me. He is a very successful businessman who has built quite a nice life for himself and his family. Last week we found out he has a rare, incurable cancer. He may live a year. He may live ten. It’s devastating news for someone who was planning an early retirement in the hill country with his wife and his Harley. He said he has to find different dreams now, short term ones. He has his bad moments but all in all, he is handling this news with grace and dignity. His life will be full for however long he is here.
The other man I have known for about 5 years. He has been a friend, a playmate, a lover, a fiancé. We’re no longer together as a couple but he calls every once in awhile. He also has been diagnosed with cancer. Prostate cancer. It seems to have spread to his kidneys, which is never good news, but still and all there are treatments and cures for his disease.
Like the first man, he is smart. He is also successful in his work. He has a loving family. He can still make me laugh. But none of that matters. He says his life is over. He’s done. He’s thinking seriously of not getting any treatment for his cancer. (Seriously? Give up? I can’t fathom that kind of thinking.) He says he’ll just live until he dies because he hates his life anyway. But would that be living? It’s not the disease that will kill him, but his attitude.
My first friend doesn’t just have a glass half full mentality. His glass is always overflowing, now as much as ever, just in different ways. My former fiancé’s glass apparently has always been empty. (just one of the reasons we’re no longer together) Isn’t that an amazing difference? I draw a complete blank when trying to figure it out.
So what’s my point? It’s not to look at your life and say, “Oh thank God, I don’t have cancer so I’ll be extra grateful! Yippee! Aren’t I lucky?!” No. That doesn’t usually work with me. Sometimes I look at that other person’s life and still say, “Well, my life sucks anyway. What’s your point?!” My point is that even though I may feel that my life sucks in some temporary way, it’s my choice to stay stuck there or to adjust my mind and move on.
It’s a choice. Sometimes a pretty difficult one, I’ll grant you, but a choice nonetheless. Frankly, at my age I no longer dread those challenges because I’ve already been through enough of them to know I’ll not only survive them, I’ll learn something valuable I can pass along to others. Every challenge makes me more grateful. It gives me more hope. More faith. More strength. Not less.
Anyone reading this little article in this little paper is blessed beyond measure. You can read. You have enough income to buy a paper. You have enough brainpower to understand what you’re reading. You live in a country which allows someone like you to read the scribblings of someone like me. Likely you have someone who loves you. Maybe a lot of someones. You have friends. Perhaps you have a career which thrills you every day. Or maybe you’re facing challenges. Physical. Mental. Financial. Emotional.
This is a great week to count your blessings. I dare you. Write them out. One by one. Seriously. Don’t bother with the negative unless you just can’t help yourself. Write out everything you can think of. Not only your job or your health. How about being grateful for how sweet your child looks when he’s asleep. Or how about the smell of a pumpkin pie straight out of the oven? The fact that your dog wiggles all over whether you’ve been out of the room 5 minutes or 5 days? Hugs? Smiles? Double Stuff Oreos? Hearing someone says I love you. Or how about this one – automatic deposit of your paycheck. Cell phones so you’re never out of touch. Or maybe leaving the cell phone at home. Any golf course at 7:30 in the morning. And the perfect tee shot. Take nothing for granted.
Make your list. Then choose. Will you have an attitude of gratitude? Will your glass be half empty or half full?
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Honoring Veterans – Old & Young/Past & Present
by Crystal Laramore
Veteran’s day; a time for reflection and gratitude for many. And boy, do we have a lot to be grateful for! Just in my family and circle of friends alone I spent a few hours today (Tuesday) making phone calls and sending emails, thanking them for serving our country. I even received a few “thank-you’s” myself, which humbled my heart beyond measure.
One of my friends, CW 4 Luke Sweeney, flew an apache helicopter in the downtown parade in Houston on Veterans Day last year. His co-pilot was CW2 Darrick McGill. The lead Apache was expertly piloted by CW3 Roka (Rock) Wolgamott and co-piloted by CW2 Dusty Davis and they were followed by CW2 Ross Hovey and his front-seater was CW2 Jonathan Johnson.
Apparently this was a death-defying act! We were in Baghdad together and he said the flight that day was more frightening than most of the flying he did over there! The buildings downtown were only 75 feet apart and his span on the helo is about 50 feet! Warrant Officer Sweeney, aka Coco, lives here in Coldspring with his children, Brooke & Lucas Sweeney and his sister Sue Sweeney. If you live in Conroe, you may see him flying overhead a lot. He is based out of Lone Star Executive Airport. He belongs to the 7/6 Calvary Regiment. So, those guys you see practicing are doing it for a reason. And when you do see them, take a moment to say a silent “thank you” or heck, yell it till your throat hurts!
Until you’ve been in a war or a war zone you cannot begin to understand the level of commitment the men and women serving your country have embraced. Almost every day people ask me what it was like “over there”. Being Veteran’s Day today and having a chopper fly over my restaurant today made me remember this article and want to re-run it…
The military hospital is called the CASH (combat support hospital; incidentally, they used to be called M*A*S*H hospitals so says Col. Uncle Bill). When I first arrived I was sick with flu-like symptoms for the first three months. The doctors and civilians called it the Baghdad bug and many people were sick with it. So, I was in the CASH a lot. Then my neck stiffened up on me and I could not turn my head so I was in physical therapy for about six-8 weeks every day.
While I was hanging out at the hospital I would visit soldiers who were wounded and find out about their injuries and their lives at home and where they came from. Most of the soldiers had their purple hearts or their silver stars sitting right by their bedside. I caught a few of them watching Oprah, but as soon as I’d walk in and said “Hey, how’s it going?” they’d change the channel to WWF or something. (Not really WWF since we didn’t get that channel, but you get the idea!) And I never once called ‘em out on it. It was a secret among friends.
Other times, when I was coming in for treatment, I’d see a Chinook in the parking lot with a big red cross on it or a Blackhawk with blades running. Sometimes the medics would be taking soldiers off and carrying them in the CASH right in front of me. People screaming, men running, blood dripping. ER in a war zone. No commercials. No actors. No do-overs. Other times the only noise in all the area would be the deep, heavy thudding of the chopper blades. Either scenario was a grave situation. Those young men were in that chopper, on that gurney, in those bandages, bleeding red-for me. (And not all of them were Americans. This is a coalition of forces.) And I would always say a little prayer before walking through those ominous glass sliding doors, because of what awaited me on the other side; a soldier or a marine would often be lying on a gurney with his buddies standing around him in prayer. And I always knew (or thought I did) if the young man would make it or not. Sometimes I couldn’t even get through my physical therapy session b/c I was crying so hard. Probably what pulled at my heart more than anything is that I always expected to see a man; a grown man; an older man; a man who had lived most of his life; a man ready to die;. What I saw were men all right; it’s just that they were men at young boy’s ages; they hadn’t lived their lives; they just graduated from high school; they weren’t ready to die. But they were ready to fight for their country. Their faces were so young and so innocent, and yet so very brave.
At night, when we would all be sitting around winding down, we’d hear the choppers coming in; always, two-by-two. First one, then the other. If I was on the phone with a family member or friend I’d have to say, “Hold on, a chopper’s coming in” and after the chopper passed the person would start talking again and I’d have to say “Hold on, there’s another one coming in about 30 seconds”.
After being over there for a few months you could determine if an Apache, a Blackhawk or a Chinook was coming in. If it was a Chinook, chances were, the second one always had a big red cross painted on the side indicating there were wounded or fallen soldiers on board. The mood always fell to a heavy silence. Sometimes people would cry. It makes my heart beat fast just writing about it. We could hear the war in the background and we could always drown it out with laughter and chit chat and a few Coronas-naked not dressed-who had limes and salt? But, we could not drown out the sound of Chinooks coming in; two-by-two; first one, then the other. It was a heavy, thudding noise that cut through and drowned out our laughter as if demanding attention and prayer; respect and thought. It was ominous, surreal and sad.
And sometimes hearing the choppers coming in, feeling them come in, well, it felt patriotic, brave and warrior-like. I miss the sounds of the choppers flying over-head at night, rocking my hooch (where we lived-term brought back from the Vietnam War). I miss the feeling that I am well protected and loved by those who know me not. I miss feeling protected by the best armed forces in the world simply because I was blessed enough, by God, to be born an American.
So this veteran’s day, when I flew my flag I flew it out of respect for veterans of wars past, but especially for the young men and women who are fighting now. The one’s I’ve met and the one’s I know not. God bless them and God bless America!
Check out my new Blogs:
http://randomthoughtsonpaper-crystal.blogspot.com
http://sexinthewoods.blogspot.com
Veteran’s day; a time for reflection and gratitude for many. And boy, do we have a lot to be grateful for! Just in my family and circle of friends alone I spent a few hours today (Tuesday) making phone calls and sending emails, thanking them for serving our country. I even received a few “thank-you’s” myself, which humbled my heart beyond measure.
One of my friends, CW 4 Luke Sweeney, flew an apache helicopter in the downtown parade in Houston on Veterans Day last year. His co-pilot was CW2 Darrick McGill. The lead Apache was expertly piloted by CW3 Roka (Rock) Wolgamott and co-piloted by CW2 Dusty Davis and they were followed by CW2 Ross Hovey and his front-seater was CW2 Jonathan Johnson.
Apparently this was a death-defying act! We were in Baghdad together and he said the flight that day was more frightening than most of the flying he did over there! The buildings downtown were only 75 feet apart and his span on the helo is about 50 feet! Warrant Officer Sweeney, aka Coco, lives here in Coldspring with his children, Brooke & Lucas Sweeney and his sister Sue Sweeney. If you live in Conroe, you may see him flying overhead a lot. He is based out of Lone Star Executive Airport. He belongs to the 7/6 Calvary Regiment. So, those guys you see practicing are doing it for a reason. And when you do see them, take a moment to say a silent “thank you” or heck, yell it till your throat hurts!
Until you’ve been in a war or a war zone you cannot begin to understand the level of commitment the men and women serving your country have embraced. Almost every day people ask me what it was like “over there”. Being Veteran’s Day today and having a chopper fly over my restaurant today made me remember this article and want to re-run it…
The military hospital is called the CASH (combat support hospital; incidentally, they used to be called M*A*S*H hospitals so says Col. Uncle Bill). When I first arrived I was sick with flu-like symptoms for the first three months. The doctors and civilians called it the Baghdad bug and many people were sick with it. So, I was in the CASH a lot. Then my neck stiffened up on me and I could not turn my head so I was in physical therapy for about six-8 weeks every day.
While I was hanging out at the hospital I would visit soldiers who were wounded and find out about their injuries and their lives at home and where they came from. Most of the soldiers had their purple hearts or their silver stars sitting right by their bedside. I caught a few of them watching Oprah, but as soon as I’d walk in and said “Hey, how’s it going?” they’d change the channel to WWF or something. (Not really WWF since we didn’t get that channel, but you get the idea!) And I never once called ‘em out on it. It was a secret among friends.
Other times, when I was coming in for treatment, I’d see a Chinook in the parking lot with a big red cross on it or a Blackhawk with blades running. Sometimes the medics would be taking soldiers off and carrying them in the CASH right in front of me. People screaming, men running, blood dripping. ER in a war zone. No commercials. No actors. No do-overs. Other times the only noise in all the area would be the deep, heavy thudding of the chopper blades. Either scenario was a grave situation. Those young men were in that chopper, on that gurney, in those bandages, bleeding red-for me. (And not all of them were Americans. This is a coalition of forces.) And I would always say a little prayer before walking through those ominous glass sliding doors, because of what awaited me on the other side; a soldier or a marine would often be lying on a gurney with his buddies standing around him in prayer. And I always knew (or thought I did) if the young man would make it or not. Sometimes I couldn’t even get through my physical therapy session b/c I was crying so hard. Probably what pulled at my heart more than anything is that I always expected to see a man; a grown man; an older man; a man who had lived most of his life; a man ready to die;. What I saw were men all right; it’s just that they were men at young boy’s ages; they hadn’t lived their lives; they just graduated from high school; they weren’t ready to die. But they were ready to fight for their country. Their faces were so young and so innocent, and yet so very brave.
At night, when we would all be sitting around winding down, we’d hear the choppers coming in; always, two-by-two. First one, then the other. If I was on the phone with a family member or friend I’d have to say, “Hold on, a chopper’s coming in” and after the chopper passed the person would start talking again and I’d have to say “Hold on, there’s another one coming in about 30 seconds”.
After being over there for a few months you could determine if an Apache, a Blackhawk or a Chinook was coming in. If it was a Chinook, chances were, the second one always had a big red cross painted on the side indicating there were wounded or fallen soldiers on board. The mood always fell to a heavy silence. Sometimes people would cry. It makes my heart beat fast just writing about it. We could hear the war in the background and we could always drown it out with laughter and chit chat and a few Coronas-naked not dressed-who had limes and salt? But, we could not drown out the sound of Chinooks coming in; two-by-two; first one, then the other. It was a heavy, thudding noise that cut through and drowned out our laughter as if demanding attention and prayer; respect and thought. It was ominous, surreal and sad.
And sometimes hearing the choppers coming in, feeling them come in, well, it felt patriotic, brave and warrior-like. I miss the sounds of the choppers flying over-head at night, rocking my hooch (where we lived-term brought back from the Vietnam War). I miss the feeling that I am well protected and loved by those who know me not. I miss feeling protected by the best armed forces in the world simply because I was blessed enough, by God, to be born an American.
So this veteran’s day, when I flew my flag I flew it out of respect for veterans of wars past, but especially for the young men and women who are fighting now. The one’s I’ve met and the one’s I know not. God bless them and God bless America!
Check out my new Blogs:
http://randomthoughtsonpaper-crystal.blogspot.com
http://sexinthewoods.blogspot.com
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