Things I Would Say to My Parents

When I flipped my calendar over to March a couple of weeks back, it struck me with a little bit of a surprise that this March will usher in the third anniversary of my mom's death.  The same mother whose care was strenuous and stressful enough to cause me to create this blog.  She's gone, but the blog lives on.  Ironic (since I haven't used that word in at least a couple of hours - maybe a record for me).

But, the fact that I was so surprised that it had already been three years was what really struck me.  Because it seems like forever ago that Kelsey died - like I've been away from her for half a lifetime, even though there were really only a few months between the two events.  What I've decided about the difference in perception is that when my daughter died so did our lives for a time.  Time wore on, but had no joy, no meaning, no purpose.  It just existed - something to endure.  After Mom died, so much suddenly started happening so fast, with all of it ending up landing us all in Pittsburgh, that I feel at times like we were Dorothy being whisked away from Kansas and landing in Oz, only with a black and yellow brick road.

That's not to say that I didn't and don't mourn my mom, but I will confess to a release in a way - there's just no denying it - because there was suddenly no one who needed our immediate and intensive care taking.  And, the naked reality of it is that some of the reflecting a personality like mine would have done after burying a parent was lost in the hefty shadow of losing a daughter, coupled with the mad dash to shut down not only Mother's affairs, but mine as well and move clear across the country.  So, here I am, three years later, looking at a calendar, wondering where the time went.  I think Mother would be hurt - just honestly - that she didn't merit a higher degree of mourning.  I think she would mistake the flurry of action as a lack of sadness.  I would like her to know that's not the case at all, but it was a great coping mechanism, which led me to think that there are actually a lot of things I would say to both my parents if I had a chance, so why not take that opportunity now to say at least a few of them?  So, here goes...

To Dad:  I don't know if I said this ever to you, but if I did, I certainly didn't say it enough, but thank you so much for your service to the country.  I know it happened before I was even born, but you were part of a generation that fought and sacrificed to give my generation a good life.  And it was.  Maybe I whined a lot about the things I didn't have:  a phone in my room, a color TV in my room, a better stereo, but the reality is that you gave me everything I really needed and, truly, wanted.  And that was warmth, shelter, food and love - in your own way.  I know we puzzled one another very often.  I grew up in a far different time than you had and embodied the rebellion of my generation, and that, I think, was something you were not particularly prepared to deal with well, and I never took the time to understand that about you for my part.  My largest regret, as a matter of fact, is that I never truly understood the weight you carried with you everyday - the trauma the war left you with.  As a matter of fact, it would be years after you were gone before I think I got a handle on exactly how large of a factor  it was for you.  I wish so much I could have been more sensitive to that when you were alive.  I wish I could have helped you more.

I think the thing I most want you to know is that you are the largest single influence in my life.  That's both bad and good, I have to confess, but everything I am and do is a direct result of the values that you instilled in me:  work hard to support your family.  That was something above all you always did, no matter what else was going on in your own head - you made sure we did not want for things.  I appreciate that a lot - and I never told you that.

To Mom:  First, let me just say that I really wish I had let you make a wedding dress for me.  When the very perfect dress fell in my lap so to speak (vintage, velvet with a cathedral train and a sentimental meaning - Greg's mom's dress), I felt it was like a miracle, but I never stopped to think what it would mean to you, an accomplished seamstress, to make your only child her dress.  I was so young and dumb, there is actually a whole lot about our wedding I would do differently now, but that's the big thing.  I know that always upset you, and it bothers me that I was so insensitive about it.

In general, I kept a lot of secrets from you (not telling you I was pregnant until my second trimester for instance because I was scared if something happened it would be too traumatic), and I'm sorry about that.  I thought I had a noble purpose each and every time, but I never gave you a real chance to be a full part of my adult life as a result.  I think the exception to that was the first few years after Dad died.  We were close then, and I treasure that time.  I hope you do too.

The biggest thing to tell you is that having gotten to know your family a little and realizing what awesome people they all are, I know that you sacrificed a lot to live so far from them.  I suspect you did it in large part to keep the secret of my birth exactly that:  a secret.  You know by now that I am upset and sometimes angry about not knowing my true history, but what I realize is that you believed so strongly that it was something I should NOT be told that you held that secret tightly all your life and sacrificed a lot to keep it that way.  I know you did that out of real true love.

What I would say to both of them:  like many families, we had our ups and downs, but I know you loved me and did your very best for me.  I want to thank you for that.  I love you both - time does not change that.

The Family Photo Project

"...Has a rat ever done anything to you to create this animosity you feel towards them?... Rats were the cause of the bubonic plague, but that's some time ago. I propose to you, any disease a rat could spread, a squirrel could equally carry. Would you agree?...Yet I assume you don't share the same animosity with squirrels that you do with rats, do you?...But they're both rodents, are they not? And except for the tail, they even rather look alike, don't they?...Ha! However interesting as the thought may be, it makes not one bit of difference to how you feel. If a rat were to walk in here right now, as I'm talking, would you greet it with a saucer of your delicious milk?...I didn't think so. You don't like them. You don't really know why you don't like them; all you know is you find them repulsive."

-Hans Landa, Inglourious Basterds

It should have come to no surprise to me that my Dr. Doolittle routine would at some point usher in some unwelcome house guests, yet, as I watched from my dining room window as a family of rats happily crawled up and down a pole to access the bird feeder off my deck, I was genuinely surprised.  I think maybe I was more surprised that I live in a house with two cats and five - count 'em - five dogs, yet a family of four not particularly small rats felt so completely comfortable as to scamper around my back deck in broad daylight helping themselves to the food I set out for others (meaning squirrels and birds - it is like an Eat N'Park breakfast buffet for critters out there).  Of course, I actually know the answer to that: this is why the little rat family knows no fear --

Hard to chase varmints from the sofa.

And why do I feel like I need to feed the entire wild population of suburban Pittsburgh anyway?  Well, for the same reason I attracted a herd of some 30 deer that would actually respond by name back in Texas.   And for the same reason I've had up to eight dogs at a time.  And it's the same reason that I have put us through the ardor of raising an active puppy in a 1,308 sq. ft. house in the middle of winter at our age.  I'm the most transparent person on the face of the planet.  There are no secrets here:  I am trying to surround myself with a pseudo family.  And if you wonder why I still feel compelled to gather all these four legged bundles of fur around me - invited or not - even though I now live close to my mother's family, it's because it's pretty deeply ingrained in me at this point.  The dye is cast, but there is little doubt that my present is rooted in my past.

But, one thing I have to realize about my past that might never change now is that it stops with me.  Past my own childhood, my history - the connective tissue that binds me to a family and a legacy - is a locked book.  The pages are written, but I can't get into them to read it.  And that's frustrating on several levels.  About this time last year I shelled out a fairly hefty sum to an agency that specializes in locating adoptee's birth parents.  As I explained to the woman when I initially made the deal, I am not interested in meeting my birth parents even if they are still alive, but I want to know my true history.  I grew up believing one thing about myself, which then translated into what I believed about my children and turns out that is not true.  And that frustrates me on my best days and angers me on my worst.  I pulled the trigger therefore at the time to try and find out Marissa's true medical history.  She still deals with some of the physical after-effects of her own addiction and eating disorder issues, and someday in all likelihood she will be at a point where she wants to have a family.  I'm sure, given our experiences as a family, she'd like to know what kind of genetic bullet she is loading into the gun.  She has a right to know.

But, it's more than that.  One of the things we wrestle with as humans is the knowledge that life is fleeting and we cope with that in part by passing on pieces of ourselves and our past to the younger members of our families and knowing that we live on in some small way, just as we carried the torch for our ancestors before us.  I have a photo of my mother and all her siblings taken in the early 40's in my office.  They were so young, so vibrant, so beautiful.  Now only one of those six people in that photo is still alive.  Yet, each of them lives on in a way.  The legacy of who they were is remembered by their children, grandchildren, nieces and nephews and will be passed on in that way to future generations.  They therefore carry on in the hearts and minds of their loved ones, as well as in the  DNA strands that they pass along.  There is a comfort that is hard to put into words of knowing where you come from.  Even just the ability to be able to say, "I'm Irish" or "I'm German".  It's why, after generations of living here, we all still do say things like that.  You've all heard me label where I live as an "Irish-Catholic" neighborhood.  Yet, not one of the people who share my zip code were actually born in Ireland (that I know of anyway).  I guarantee you that will not stop a single one of us from celebrating St. Patrick's Day with great gusto.  We are connected to our past.  We like it that way because it makes us feel grounded and gives us an understanding about ourselves.

My mother, a member of the Daughters of the American Revolution, was extremely proud of her heritage.  So I think she would understand what I'm trying to say here.  Therefore, on some days, I just cannot imagine why she kept me away from mine.  Please don't get me wrong - my parents gave me a good life.  They raised me without a hint ever that I was anything less than truly a member of their family.  Now granted, they were humans and therefore had some failings as parents...I could write volumes on that, trust me.  But, they were genuine in their love, I know that.  Yet, I do have lesser moments where I get really angry that Mother, at least when Kelsey started to get sick, never told me the truth.  She was a nurse after all.  Surely she knew I was repeating family histories that were completely erroneous.  Would it have made a difference?  I don't know.  But could it make a difference to Marissa now?  Possibly, and more than anything else that's why I can't let this go.

Why has all of this been stirred up, you wonder?  Well, I am undertaking a project to convert all of Greg's family slides to .jpeg files.  There are thousands of them.  Greg's father loved taking photos and, for a man with his own social anxiety issues, he had a real eye for human emotion.  There are some real gems.  I've had a lot of fun sharing them with his sister and his cousins.  When I'm done, I'll start in on my parent's slides.  But, I have been struck more than once how fortunate they are that they understand how they are truly connected to one another, and how blessed they are to have one another in their lives.  I hope they realize it, treasure it and don't take it for granted.

Of course, it stands to follow that I have also been struck more than once how I have none of that.  That sounds like self-pity and perhaps it is.  It is a mourning of a sort, that much I will definitely concede.  Yet, it is what is is for now.  So, until I can dig up the keys to unlock the pages to my own past, I'll continue in all likelihood to feed the squirrels and the birds and have way too many pets.  I had promised Greg I would stop putting food out back to try and force the rats to go elsewhere (since I was horrified at the idea of trying to poison or trap them), but I snuck some out there yesterday and was able to watch the most beautiful bird - I have no idea what it was - come visit the feeder.  So, what the heck, the little rat family is just trying to forge out a living after all, just like the rest of us.  I realize that it is a bit like life:  you take the ugly along with the occasional glimpse of real joy and beauty and accept that you can't truly have one without the other.

What Real Beauty Looks Like

I am sure it was pure coincidence, but was anyone else struck by the fact that the largest display of Hollywood beauty and glam came on the eve of National Eating Disorder Awareness Week?

As you all know, I love movies.  When I was in junior high school and had to fill in some survey for one of the teachers at the beginning of the school year so she could get to know us, I answered the question about what I wanted to do when I grew up as "film critic".  I've probably mentioned that before.  It's occurred to me since that my 14-year old self knew me better than any other iteration of me since.  Of course, had I pursued that, it would mean that I would have to actually sit through movies with "Resident Evil" in the title or "Silent Hill" or anything that claims Nicholas Sparks as the source material.   However, if you think about some of the things I've actually done for a living, that would probably be a more productive use of my time.  But, as it stands, I go to the movies for personal pleasure only and enjoy them like some people enjoy fine wine.  At their least they entertain, at their finest they inspire and maybe even educate.  And as such, Oscar night is a big deal for me because it's the ultimate celebration of the medium I love so much.  Yet, now, after everything we have been through as a family, Oscar night takes on a different tone.  I can never just look at all those women in their finest gowns and jewels and be dazzled.  For me, the red carpet is a whole lot of complicated these days.  As a matter of fact, I skip the whole red carpet parade and just concentrate on the awards themselves and sometimes even that is hard.   I didn't make it past Angelina Jolie's presentation last year.  I was so distressed that I erased the rest of the show.  That was a tough one all the way around because Rooney Mara was in the audience, and she reminds me so much of Kelsey, particularly when she is sporting short, severe bangs.  She is lovely and NFL royalty, but she is disturbingly thin with a piercing gaze that just unnerves me because I've seen it on another's face too.  I will never look at her with any level of comfort I'm afraid.  Then of course, there is always the threat of a Suzi Amis sighting, which I find highly troubling on several levels (for one:  she's known as quite the fashionista around Hollywood - don't any of those designers think enough of her personally to do something or say something...?!)  This year, however, things seemed better.  Relatively.  There still was a dazzling parade of women with dresses designed to show off flat tummies and lots of bare arm, and lots of evidence of women fighting off aging with collagen, silicone and lots and lots of Botox.  There is still ample evidence that body image is game one in the City of Angels.  There are some exceptions:  women with full figures who are thriving in a body conscious world like Adele, Melissa McCarthy, Queen Latifah and Octavia Spencer, but the fact that I can list them by name in a single sentence will probably tell you something.  When I look at Catherine Zeta-Jones and think, "Well, I don't stack up well against that!" then I'm in danger of losing perspective.  I can only imagine what girls like Kelsey must have thought watching all of those hard bodies walk the red carpet.  I wondered about that a lot when I saw Jennifer Lawrence, who truly is a vision and only 22.  But I watch because this was a phenomenal year for film, and I wanted to see that being celebrated, but there is a lot to process after seeing so much glitz and glamour on parade, as you can see since I'm writing about it days later.  And, as I sat and considered all of it while I was watching a female police officer on Boston's Finest last night (and yes, that is because it has a Wahlberg connection and yes, I do get the hypocrisy...), it occurred to me that I'm wrong - we're a lot of us wrong - about what real beauty is.

Here maybe is a better depiction of what real beauty looks like (just to name a very few):

Eleanor Roosevelt:  First Lady, author, activist

Barbara Jordan:  Civil Rights leader and politician

Jane Goodall: primatologist, ethologist, anthropologist, and UN Messenger of Peace

Rosa Parks:  Civil Rights activist

Mother Teresa:  need I say more?

Who do you find beautiful?

I Had a Daughter Once

In the Shadows
artist:  Kelsey N Veldman

One of the things that has kept me from giving up this blog in favor of a little extra reading time every week (or whatever I chose to do with the time - folding laundry could probably use some additional attention) is that I'm afraid.  And like really terrified actually.  Afraid that people will forget Kelsey.  Maybe I'm even a little worried that I will forget her because I don't even use the blog to feature her these days.  It's all about me, some might say.  The reality is that grief is about you, not the one you've lost.  That may shock you, but think about it as I make the case...

I'll never forget when a high school psychology teacher hipped us to the fact that we don't cry for the other person; we cry because we are sad.  There was a murmur in the room, I can still recall it - people protested, but he insisted.  And his logic was irrefutable.  It's a very selfish feeling:  sadness.  If you are crying over the loss of someone, the other person no longer feels hurt, sick or sad.  As a matter of fact, if you're spiritual, you probably believe that they are in a better place.  So, you are crying because you miss them.  I think most of the kids in the class who were a little shocked at the statement were thinking of times that they had cried over something sad they had seen on the news or had happened to someone else and they felt badly for them.  Surely, we all said to ourselves, then we are crying for others, and I think we felt that, in a small way, it proved our goodness that we could be so moved by someone else's plight.  (Little did any of us know that collectively we would all have so many opportunities for that in our lifetime.)  But, no, he still insisted that it was for our own purposes that we cried.  We were the ones who felt badly, and it was in reaction to our own emotions that we shed tears.  There is no denying this.  He was right.

But he stopped short of letting us off the hook for this by explaining that feeling sad is not a bad thing.  That selfish display of emotion means one thing very plainly:  we feel.  And feeling something is a good thing.  Generally.  I would imagine people who were/are monstrous also feel things, but their feelings are just off kilter from the rest of us somehow.  But, putting them aside for these purposes, you have to have a depth of feeling about something to then take it to the next level, whatever that might be.  It's like the key in the ignition.  If you are numb to the things around you, you'll be stuck.  The engine will be frozen. (This will all tie together, I promise.)

I think I see evidence of my theory at work every day in how people spur themselves to action after losing a loved one.  I belong to a group of mothers whose children have suffered or are suffering from eating disorders that was started by a woman who lost her daughter to the disease a decade ago (I may have mentioned this before).  She is also active in a number of other eating disorder-related activities.  That is just one example of course.  Some people have made a huge national or worldwide impact like Candy Lightner who founded MADD (Mothers Against Drunk Drivers) in 1980 after her daughter was killed by a drunk driver.  Others stay within the confines of their community, like a local mom who works diligently on anti-drug efforts in Pittsburgh after her son died of a heroin overdose.  But you see those kinds of efforts over and over in honor of their children, and I realize that, at the core, they are probably doing it for much the same reason I can't quite let myself let go of this:  so people don't forget who their children were and so their life and death mean something.  It is selfish.  But that is okay, because it has spurred them to act in ways that helps others far beyond themselves.  If only every selfish act we do has such selfless results.

I don't think this little blog rises to that level at all, and the other thing I spend a lot of time pondering these days is the fine line between trying to keep the memory of someone alive and exploiting it.  I've crossed that line in my own estimation a time or two I think - but that's almost its own topic.  But, to bring it all back to the beginning - as we look toward Eating Disorder Awareness Week next week, I need you to remember I had a daughter once.  She was beautiful, but she could be ugly in spirit when she wanted to be.  She had an amazing talent that her disease abused and refused to allow to blossom to its full potential.  She loved passionately, she hated that way too.  She could be funny, but that humor could bite as well.  In short, she was a human being, with assets and flaws.  What she could have potentially become we will never know, but what she is that I know for sure is my first born daughter whom I held in my arms at the moment of her birth.  I need you not to forget her.  I need it.

 

Love Story

Love Story, Paramount Pictures, 1970

February is pretty crowded for being the shortest month of the year:  Black History Month, the Super Bowl, Eating Disorder Awareness Month, the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show (well, that's a big deal to some of us anyway) and, of course, Valentine's Day.  The latter is coming up and those of us who are long over the thrill of a manufactured holiday cannot seem to get away from it.  The normal beer and shaving cream ads during the hockey games are replaced by jewelry ads, perfume ads and promotions for some movie based on a Nicholas Sparks book.  I can without a doubt guarantee you that no one watching hockey would willingly go to a movie like that, but lots of people watching hockey have significant others who would, so, since I watch a lot of hockey, I've been subjected to it several times recently.  Oh well, no matter, Valentine's Day is almost here and then it will all be over.  But, that got me thinking about romantic movies over time and how they don't all necessarily have to be so nauseating.  Take Out of Africa, for instance.  Or Casablanca.  One movie I hadn't thought about in eons is Love Story, but apparently it hasn't faded into complete oblivion because a couple used the theme music for their free dance recently during the US National Figure Skating Championships.  I do not hold it in the same category as Out of Africa, but it came out when I was a little girl and it was a massive sensation.  All my babysitters were so completely over the moon about it - they all wanted to have someone like Ryan O'Neal fall in love with them and they all wanted to be Ali McGraw.  And the theme song was everywhere.  You just couldn't get away from it - even if you were just a girl, more interested in loving puppies than people.  And the tag line - oh my! - it was on everyone's lips:  Love Means Never Having to Say You're Sorry.  It was so prevalent that it has been voted No. 13 on AFI's 100 Most Quoted Movie Lines.  The movie may have taken melodrama to a whole other schmaltzy level, but in terms of a business venture, it was genius.  I watch ads for romantic movies now and wonder if producers are forever hoping to replicate what that movie and a few rare successors have achieved.  But, marketing genius or not, I have to say it's one of the dumbest movie lines of all time.  I'm with John Lennon who once said, "Love means having to say you're sorry every five minutes."  Maybe every five minutes is a little overstated, but I agree with the concept:  love, really, deep, long lasting love is all about being able to accept that you will do and say dumb things to your loved one on occasion and you have to be able to atone for it. 

It occurred to me yesterday that I have been with the same partner for over three decades now.  We have beat all odds so far to be able to say that, and I am not sure I really know how we did it.  As a matter of fact, if I stop and think about all those days when we struggled to come together over how to treat Kelsey and Marissa's disease, those horrible dark days after we lost Kelsey, and all the normally hard days when we were strained over money, who got to do what or go where, and even whose football team is better (mine), I am actually extremely amazed that here we still are together.  But we prevail, so I think it gives me credibility to say that love cannot be boiled down into a simple tag line.  But, if it could be, it certainly wouldn't be that one.   Love is Messy; Wear Wading Boots might be a better one.

I don't think, despite our longevity, that we are in a good position to be giving any young couples advice, but, if pressed, I think it would have to be:  accept that you are two separate, unique individuals and there will be days you do not see eye-to-eye, and there will be days when that is the least of your problems, but try and approach everyday and every decision with both of you in mind (not something we have always done, by the way).  When you do mess up - because you will - be sincere in your acknowledgment of it and learn from it so you do not keep making the same mistake.  When your partner messes up, remember all the times the tables were turned and treat your partner like you would want them to treat you.  And, maybe most important of all, do not make your love interest take you to a sappy movie on Thursday instead of staying home to watch some hockey!

Happy Valentine's Day, yinzers!

Live Like a Tourist

Super Bowl Sunday.  The Worst Case Scenario Super Bowl for Steelers fans.  There is no winning with this one:  do you want the 49'ers to win and tie our beloved team for the most Lombardis in the trophy case, or do you want to protect that entitlement at the expense of seeing the hated rival Ravens hoist one?  Either way, at the end of the night there is something to be unhappy about.  Yet, here I am getting ready for the Big Game with a Big Meal and will spend the hours before kick-off watching the Pens-Capitals, just like I did two years ago.  Two years ago.  Has it really been that long since I moved here?  Sometimes I still feel like such a newbie, but sure enough, Cheyenne and I have indeed called Pittsburgh home for 24 full months.  What a crazy time it has been, too.  And after all this time there are some things that I'm so comfortable with that it seems like I've been here forever and yet, at other times, I'm reminded that I still have a lot to learn about my not-so-new home.  And for every experience I've had, there are others I still want to have or places I haven't gotten to yet.  But, if I sit here comfortably on my Steelers couch, watching Sunday afternoon Penguins hockey, I have to confess that I've seen and done more in two rapidly passing years than I did probably in a decade in Austin.  Now, granted, there were reasons outside of my control for why I couldn't get out more to Keep Austin Weird.  But, in general, I think moving to a new city spurs people to get out and explore more; it's a natural side effect to relocation.  As I contemplated my first two years here this morning, watching out the window at the snow falling just like it did the first day I lived here, I thought to myself that everyone should have the opportunity to move at least once in their life to shake them out of their routine and get them out in world.  Too bad it is so expensive.

To be fair, Austin is an awesome city with lots to do.  But, one becomes absorbed in the regularity of life:  working, paying the bills, getting the kids to and from school.  Going for groceries seems like the big trip out.  If you throw in an illness or two, and an already tightly contained world folds in on itself.  Moving to a new place carries some of those same obligations and time constraints with you of course, but it also forces the family to get out there a bit if only to find the services they took for granted before.

However, I have to acknowledge that it was being a caretaker and a working mother that made my world so small.  I don't resent that sacrifice, but I have to realize that, for me, it was liberating after - in some ways - being shut in for so many years.  The big days for so long were the trips to the doctors - sometimes three in a day.  What I suddenly can think about is using that time to go to the zoo or the dog park, or maybe the trendy Strip District to look for cheap Steelers and Penguins stuff.  That's not just because I live in a new and vibrant place, but because my days as a caregiver are behind me.  I've discussed before allowing oneself to be reintroduced to life if our time as caregivers ends.  To allow ourselves to be released from the guilt and/or grief and take some joy from life.  So, today as I was thinking about all of this, I realized that every city has things to commend it - of course, or else no one would live there!  And I'm willing to bet most of us don't realize all the wonders each city holds within it.  So, maybe it's not so much that everyone should move to find wondrous new things as it is that everyone should live at least some of the time like they are a tourist.

Father Knows Best

(Warning:  There is a graphic photo at the end of this post.  Seriously.  There really is.)

Like a lot of Americans, I've been listening intently to the debate over gun controls taking place over the last few weeks.  This is not a new debate, of course.  There have always been the pro-gun faction against those of us who simply cannot fathom why exactly anyone needs an Uzi, at least why anyone who plans on staying within the confines of the law needs one anyway.  Yet, I think the gun lobby was and is pretty strong and very organized, and most people were not motivated enough - probably myself included - to speak up too loudly or often against them.  After Newtown everything changed.  Sad that it took something as incomprehensibly horrific to wake us up, but here we all are.  Throughout the give and take between both sides of the hotly contested issue, I've tried to listen to it through the filter of what I think my father would believe.  I will never know for certain if I have it right, he passed away 21 years ago this coming Thursday, but I've thought long and hard on it, and I think I do.  I think I can honestly say I've respectfully considered his life and his experiences, and thought back honestly and objectively on what he tried to teach me and the values he worked to instill in me, and I therefore feel confident I know what he would say and where he would stand on the issue.

First, let me tell you a little bit about my dad.  If you've read this since the beginning, you know some of this already.  My father spent 21 years in what began as the Army Air Corps and became what we now know as the Air Force.  He was a bomber pilot in World War II and Korea, a test pilot after that, and did his part in service to the Cold War of the 50's and early 60's by finishing up his service in the Strategic Air Command.  I had a complicated relationship with my father, but one thing was always true:  I was always proud of his military service.  I never fully understood or appreciated the emotional toll it took on him, but I think I can say honestly I always knew how important his sacrifice was to the way of life we enjoy now.

My father was also a hunter.  An avid one.  We lived in Montana for that reason - that and the lack of traffic, but I think that was by far the lesser consideration.  He hunted deer, duck, elk, bear when he could get the license (although he never bagged one), grouse and so on.  Pretty much everything but coyotes, which were open season in the 70's.  I don't know if that was for my benefit or not, but the one time he came upon a coyote hunter when I was with him, they exchanged harsh words and he seemed to consider them bottom feeders.  And I did go with him occasionally.  Not all the time of course.  It's a long day, up way before dawn in the freezing cold to drive to a remote location, tramp around for hours in the snow and wind, only to have to drive back with whatever game you've gotten and deal with it at least so it's not just laying lashed to your truck until you can either butcher it or take it to one.  Plus, that's not really why he went, I know that now.  It's like me watching hockey.  It's a way to get outside your own head for a few hours. Can't really do that with a whiny, deer-loving girl tagging along.  And love them I did, even back then.  I wailed and cajoled my dad not to hunt Bambi, all the while eating, without complaint, deer steak, deer jerky, deer heart (particularly good, I'm ashamed to say), and deer burgers.  Elk, I'm also ashamed to say, is equally good.  Duck - well, there's nothing else like it.  You love it or you hate it.  I love it.  My protests amused my father I think, probably both due to the irony of my eating what I was crying over, but also because he saw it as an opportunity to educate me to the reasons why deer hunting was necessary (it was to thin the over-populated herds, in case you wondered).  He taught me to shoot a rifle, although I never did when hunting.  I don't hunt now and don't eat venison of any kind, although I admit to occasionally longing for a helping of deer heart or wishing I could chew on a piece of jerky, but I grew up so immersed in that culture that I get it.  The fact that there were multiple guns in the house was just a way of life.  None of them were assault rifles or had high capacity ammunition clips, however.  He would have thought it both unnecessary and unsporting.

I realize that the Second Amendment is not for and about hunters, however.   Not really.  I realize it was framed by a group of men who had just won their freedom from England by armed insurrection and were framing a constitution to protect that right in the event it was ever needed again in the future, as well as having individuals able to participate in law enforcement or to rebel invasion if needed (what I guess you could call the "Red Dawn" argument).  Some of the people on the far right, the people afraid of Black Helicopters coming for them in the night, have been quick to point this out.  And I've thought about my father in light of that as well.  He fought to defend the United States, our way of life and our Constitution.  All of it.  Yet, he served the Government, the very entity the far, far right feel they need to have the right to defend themselves against in case it runs amok.  I think my father would tell you that our own government, flawed though it may be, is no threat to the safety and well-being of its citizens.  I know, without a doubt, that he believed people have the right to bear arms for personal protection, but again, he owned a pistol, not an assault rifle.

My father was all about responsible gun ownership.  Gun safety was paramount for him.  He was all too aware the horrible things that guns do to other people.  Even though he spent his service as a pilot, he was not oblivious to the horror and human cost of ground war.  The military style guns he was familiar with in war time had no place in our home in peace time.

I think, therefore, I can comfortably say that my father would support measures to prohibit assault weapons.  I believe sincerely he would support background checks for all purchasers.  He would support registering his guns.  I think he would be in favor of all these things because he believed in being a responsible gun owner because he knew they were not toys and what they are capable of.  But I also believe it because I think the thing he fought most fervently for is the right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, and there are 26 souls who lost that right in Newtown.  And I think he would be appalled by that.