The old story teller began “There was a war. There is always another war.” Wars don’t ever end, they shift. Even as we celebrate a surrender or a cease fire, there are still wars. Some are more obvious than others.
My parents came to adulthood during World War Two. Their life together was formed and shaped in service to the needs of the war. Even beyond “wartime” they served the needs of the military until my dad couldn’t go on.
After 13 years in control towers, somewhere in England, almost a decade after the “end” of the war, they were done.
The story my mom told was 3 “permanent” transfers in 6 months, with my brother reaching school age. And the work schedule: 1st shift, 2nd shift, 3rd shift, 4th day off, start again. The breaking point was when my dad dozed off one night on duty. He jerked awake to realize he had just landed a plane in his sleep.
They didn’t talk about PTSD then, or the stress that has since been studied in air traffic controllers. Or the process of mourning the daughter they held so briefly. I’m not sure when it was that my dad crashed the car, missing the end of the bridge at night. My dad was alright but the little Morris Minor was totaled.
They headed into civilian life. They tried to start over in a mid century suburban life, already in their 30’s, not ever knowing anything beyond the military.
At that point, they were sure they would never be able to have another child. They bought a small two bedroom bungalow in Santa Monica. My dad went to work for the phone company and sold Fuller Brush on the side. My mom got a job as a Department store clerk. When she became pregnant, they thought she would lose it. When she didn’t lose it, they were sure it would be another boy. When a healthy girl was born, they were almost afraid to touch me.
Two kids and a house in a nice cookie cutter neighborhood. They had lived in all kinds of housing, in different countries, according to military needs. This was supposed to be the happily ever after part.
Has there ever been a time of real peace? Today, as I write, I think about the battles over homeless camps, and often this includes homeless vets. The support and care of those who have served continues to be a political hot button. Too often, veterans are almost a caricature as the actual people are forgotten.
Yesterday we celebrated Memorial Day. There were people across our country laying wreaths and making speeches to honor those who have died in service. We remember and memorialize our noble dead with symbols. Even this remembrance has been turned into another battle ground of decisive politics.
I don’t know if stepping out from under the shadow of war is even possible. I have grown old in the ongoing trauma. The news is filled with war. It sure would be nice if we could “give peace a chance.” Who knows what we could do, if we could work together.
My brother started school in England
Off the bridge and into the water
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