A Guy Named Joe

My dad Joe was a small man with a big personality. By small I mean small, maybe 5' 3" on a good day.  He married my 4' 11" mother and they produced a tribe of Keebler elves, of which I'm the last.

When Joe entered the Navy in 1942 at the age of 19, he did so willingly. This seemingly brave act, enlisting at the height of WWII, was not performed out of a sense of patriotism. Simply put, my dad was hungry. For food. The Navy offered three squares and a nifty white uniform. The possibility that said uniform might someday be soaked in his life's blood was a risk he was willing to take.

In fact, Joe's entry into the U.S. Navy did not mark the beginning of the end but rather the start of a new life. Through the Navy he met a friendly Italian fellow named Frank. Frank introduced Joe to his baby sister, Jean, thus unlocking a series of events ultimately culminating in the development of the great Maryland Elf dynasty mentioned above.

But that is the story of my beginning, which will have to wait another day for its telling. Today I speak of the end of my father's tale.

As I have already mentioned, Joe was vertically-challenged, a fact that did not go overlooked (pun intended) by his superiors. He was given the job of radioman, a perilous position which meant he had to  inhabit the tiny front seat of a two seater surveillance plane for many, many hours at a time.

One of my dad's main jobs was to make sure his plane was immediately hooked to the ship upon landing in the sea. In those days, this type of plane always landed in the sea behind the ship. A cable was thrown into the sea. One end was attached to the plane and it was then dragged alongside the ship.

Joe's job was to haul himself out of the cockpit, crawl along the wing and look for the hook. Once he spotted the hook floating in the ocean, occasionally surrounded by sharks, he would attach the hook to the plane. While the seas of the Atlantic heaved around him. And enemy ships circled. And my father's ship floated away from him on the 10 foot swells.

Perhaps Joe might not have minded climbing out onto the wing if he knew this little lamb chop awaited him.

Not an easy job for anyone, much less a man whose sense of self-preservation once caused him to accidentally push me out of his way while rushing into the house during a lightening storm.

Think Bilbo Baggins in a military aircraft. You get the picture.






But God had something different in mind for my dad, one which did not involve a brave military death in high seas. My dad survived the war, and traveled to the one room Bronx apartment his friend Frank shared with his sister and parents. He swept my 99 lb mother off her tiny Italian feet, and whisked her away to start of a shiny, new life in a decrepit mobile home nestled in a trashy suburban NY trailer park.

Yes, Dad survived the War and went on to live a full middle class life. He took great advantage of the opportunities afforded him by the military, finishing four years of college in three and going on for a master's degree, all on the G.I. bill. After completing his college courses, he and my mom moved from New York down to Baltimore, to a Cape Cod house in the small town of Catonsville. In short succession three daughters were born. Nine years later (oops!) I came along to complete the picture of the American dream.

58 years after the end of WWII my father died after a 2 year struggle with Alzheimer's disease. He was laid to rest in a U.S. military cemetery outside of Baltimore. He was 80 years of age.

At the time of my father's death, a WWII veteran was being buried every 10 minutes. We had to wait 2 weeks for internment, and were not allowed to have a service at the graveside because of the instability of the soil from the newly dug graves surrounding his.

Today I visited my father's grave.






It was a beautiful day and I sat for a long while contemplating my surroundings. Row after row of stone slabs marched before me, each stating the identity and rank of the man or woman slumbering beneath.







Here and there others visited loved ones.

A son brought his mother, coaxing her from the car to stand over her husband or son.

A woman spread a blanket to lie next to her beloved husband, son, brother or friend.






And I sat on the cool ground, absorbing the waning November sun, engaging in a one-sided conversation with the best men I ever knew.

I lay back so I could take in Dad's view of things.

Not a bad spot, as final resting places go.  The guys on either side look like a pretty feisty bunch.

As I headed back to the car I thought of how proud I am of my father, for his service to our country, and for the life he carved out for himself and his family, one paycheck at a time.

I thought of the lessons he learned from a difficult childhood, the forthright manner in which he tackled adulthood, and the quiet joy that shone from his entire being every time he visited with one of us girls in his later years.

Happy Veteran's Day, Dad. Yours truly was the greatest generation.

A Yogi I can Bear

There was once a time when my toes did not seem a lifetime away from my fingertips, a time when downward dog was not just something I yelled at Linus. Back in the day I was quite the yogi, attending class religiously once a week and practicing by myself once or twice more.

But then the trials and tribulations of my mid-forties hit, and yoga quietly slipped away. Physical aches and pains, and one scary couple of months where I thought I was dying, caused me to give up yoga, and once I felt better I never seemed to pick it back up.

This summer I developed a fairly hellacious case of sciatica in my right hip, caused by an uneven gait, caused by plantar fasciitis in my left foot, caused by a bad tennis game, caused by years of alcohol, pizza and dying brain cells.

The plantar fasciitis has seemed to resolve itself (although my mortification of having to suffer a summer of closed toe shoes meant for the aged shall never fade), but I am still left with a case of sciatica so bad it feels like my hip should scream like a dementor every time I rise.

Today I bit the bullet and revisited my old yoga class. As I expected, my teacher, Karina, took one look at me, guided me directly past the level 3's (my old namaste'in grounds), level 2's and even level 1's, and deposited me in the "Light Yoga and Meditation Class". The fact that I had to grunt as I unfolded my yoga mat in no way diminished my disdain for Karina.

Within minutes of the beginning of class my disdain for Karina turned to grateful love. Karina's voice as she led us through easy asanas that had me sweating profusely, was literally like a German-accented melody. Low and full, I forgave her everything, even the fact that my arms were shaking uncontrollably as I attempted to hold a low Cobra.

An hour of slow, mindful yoga, was followed by a half hour of meditation, wherein Karina completely convinced me my head was indeed in heaven while literal roots were coming out of my ass. I shook my head as I left the class, wondering how I ever let such joy slip away.

My walk home was just as enjoyable and I noticed a visible difference in the world around me. While I had noticed this as I walked to the yoga center:

I now noticed this:

and this:

and this:

Namaste.

Decluttering my Mind

I have what may be the Mother of all junk drawers in my kitchen. Accordng to my husband the drawer contains 99% crap, and 1%, well, crap. 9 out of 10 of the pens pictured below are completely out of ink.

Items in this drawer are diverse. From tampons to fishing tackle, the Dunigan junk drawer has it all.

While my husband hates to open this drawer, I find great joy in it's contents. Each item alone might be relatively useless (ok, broken), but taken together, who knows?! The sky's the limit. Use enough ingenuity and the possibility of a nuclear bomb suddenly becomes a reality. I actually think there is a H+ atom or two lurking under the used tissues.

My mind is much like this drawer. Chock full of random items arranged in a haphazard fashion. But each day as I quiet my mind for even a few minutes, I find some of these items come together and form some pretty great ideas.

Today's idea is that I need to clean my junk drawer.