I've been a bit defensive about Child II. A lot of my friends both online and off are what I would consider intelligent, educated, broad-minded people whom I both like and respect. If they were jackasses it would all be rather easier (well, okay if they were jackasses they wouldn't be my friends either, but why be logical?) because I wouldn't care what they say or think. And actually, what's making me defensive is not necessarily anything that HAS been said (although there are a few of those), it's what MIGHT be said.
Because, as charming and wonderful as all those people are, a lot of them are also a bit judgmental. It comes from having firmly held opinions and thinking about things a lot usually but, like all judgments, it also comes just a little from making broad assumptions. And I'm tender to those judgments about Child II.
But I've done a lot of thinking about it all over the last few days and I realize that I'm also making assumptions, assumptions about what people I care about will say (and thus about what they think and feel), assumptions that make them out to be simpler, narrower and less thoughtful than I absolutely know they are. So this is about Child II and what she is doing and why I am deeply, profoundly proud and amazed by her. And yes, I did just give Child II a gender which breaks all my rules but this is personal and I think it's important.
Last year as her final few months as a high school student ticked away Child II came to me with a staggering announcement. She was going to take the ASVAB - the Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery - because she was thinking about joining the military. It was the first I'd heard of any such idea. She had certainly never talked about such a thing and was, among the three, the only Child to show no interest in anything military at all (quite the contrary). I tried to be as neutrally supportive as possible while sort of reeling a bit inside and, when asked, dropped her off at various offices and things so the test could be taken. She had arranged it all with an army recruiter who was friendly and casual to me right up until the moment when Child II was brought back from the exam and the results were read: she scored a 99, which is 100%. Including the automotive and sort of DIW type sections - this from a Child who does not drive and has not shown the least interest in learning to do so. Immediately the recruiter became terribly keen and helpful and Child II was whisked through the list of jobs available to her (all of them) and shown facts and figures on how much the Army would give her for enlisting (a lot) and just how long she would have to be in (too long... well, that was my opinion and I admit bias). I waited until we were alone in the car and gently suggested it might be worth talking to a few other services as well.
And we talked and talked, about why she was even looking into this, about what she really wanted, about what she should do now. Child II, it turned out, had been quietly thinking things over seriously. She wanted to do something with languages as she has a tremendous aptitude for them. She also knew, as I did, that she was far from ready for university and that going now would probably do more harm than good. She didn't just want to get a retail job somewhere and see how she felt a year or so on - she wanted to learn something, achieve something, and more importantly she wanted to do a meaningful, useful job. It was a little hard to argue with.
Fast forward a bit. I dragged Child II in to talk to the Air Force recruiter as well as all the other services and, after enduring weeks of high-pressure sales from the Army and comparing it with what she saw in the Air Force office she decided that was what she wanted to do. She was whisked off to take another test, the DLAB (Defence Language Aptitude Battery) which is a strange and quite difficult assessment and again she scored extremely high. She took physical exams, passed multiple drug screens and cheerfully and patiently answered the same 20 questions a gagillion times. She was finally given a career assignment (assuming she passed basic) and told when to report to the down-town whatsit place where they administer oaths and ship everyone off to training.
She would leave in July, leaving us a few months to get her graduated (just) and wait. I spent it usefully shoving her out the door to go running and leaping out at her in the hallway to ask if she had done any sit ups or push ups that day. I also spent most days assuring her that while I supported her absolutely in her goals she should also know that at any time, any time at all, if she felt she was uncertain or didn't want to go ahead with this thing she could do so. I watched her avoiding her daily runs (she never did get up to a full mile) and fretted over whether this was the right thing, whether she would regret it, whether she could even do it.
It turned out she reported for basic training the day I left to go on holiday. She had to spend the night at a hotel the night before (I think probably to avoid last-night parties and accompanying stupidity on the part of young recruits) so I dropped her off, gave her a quick hug and said good bye. The next morning we all showed up to see her take her oath - roomful of solemn, terrified infants and their proud/apprehensive/terrified relatives. We had to leave her there but promised to try to meet up again at the airport. We missed her by about 2 minutes.
They don't let recruits have much contact at first. She was allowed one very brief phone call to let us know she was there safely, and one pre-printed post card with the relevant gaps filled in with a scrawled blue ink to tell us what her address was. I began writing a daily letter, sending them off without any idea what was actually happening with her. Then, a couple of weeks in, the first phone call. And she was... different. Confident, happy, sure of herself. Where I expected a few tears and some need of moral support there was calmness and, very evidently, a new maturity.
It's eight and a half weeks in all. Lots of running and a fair amount of shouting, some carrying around of rifles (which have been filled with cement to avoid any creativity on the part of recruits who want to make them functional), a smattering of stuff on sexual harassment, money management and first aid. The Air Force, as any Marine will tell you, is pretty soft - or maybe it's just a different approach to produce a different type of military member for a different kind of job. Still, it's not easy, and Child II, in phone call after phone call, was clearly thriving.
So last Wednesday the car was packed up with an unreasonable amount of baggage and we drove for 12 hours to go and see Child II graduate. We met up with her, recognizable in her dress blues, but slimmer, fitter and, again, more mature. She surprised us all by happily and freely hugging us (apparently bunking with umpteen women does a little to remove any lingering personal space issues) and proudly showed us around 'her' base, talking non-stop from the moment we saw her to the last minute when we dropped her off on Saturday night.
On Monday morning she flew to Monterey, California to start the next adventure at DLI. Her scores were high enough to test her out of most of the languages so, to our surprise, she will be spending the next two years learning Korean.
I know her friends and mine will, some of them, be worried for Child II. I know some of them will be bothered by association with the military. But I hope they also know what an amazing person she is, and how important it is that our military is staffed with people like her, people who care deeply, people who are intelligent and gifted and strongly compassionate: people who want to do something good in the world.
I certainly do.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Friday, September 11, 2009
Holidays
I went on holiday in July.
A real one, a holiday just to be a holiday - with time off and no additional goals like, for example, moving across the country. A whole holiday intended simply to relax and recreate.
I can tick off one more item on my 'things to do in order to be a real grown-up' list. It's all very exciting.
I'm sort of going on another holiday next week but as it is a) to San Antonio, TX and b) really not intended as a holiday but as Celebration of the Achievements of Child 2 I don't think it counts. Of course, we will go to Sea World one day, but as I've already set aside ten minutes for standing near the orca enclosure and crossing my arms and disapproving of the enslavement and exploitation of our cetaceous brethren (or sistren, I'm not choosy) I think it will count as political activism rather than sheer unadulterated Good Times.
Where was I... oh yes! What I did on my summer vacation:
1) Slept in! Mostly. Well, okay, got up pretty early still BUT I could have slept in and that's the really important bit.
2) Admired green things. Claims were made that the area was suffering a drought. In fact, apologies were made - statements like, 'I'm so sorry things are so brown, we've just not had that much rain this year' while looking sadly over the verdant, velvet green lawn in front of us. Their darn brown was greener than our green.
3) Admired Historic Things. Mostly houses really as I quite like houses if they're nifty and have twiddly bits on them or are Architecturally Interesting. Or just mad - there was at least one that was simply, wonderfully mad. Still, it was quite good fun and many pictures were taken and not one, not one single one at all, was a brown adobe box. (nor were there any visible howling coyotes with bandanas on their necks OR chile ristras OR cut out silhouettes of cowboys leanng on walls. Not sure what passes for culture in this area really...)
4) Went to a Very Large Lake, which was so very VERY large that it had ginormous sailing boats on and really looked entirely like the ocean which was very soothing for someone who has had ocean withdrawal for a terribly long time. Well, it looked like the ocean until, standing at the end of the pier, I saw a flotilla of ducks on the water which was so entirely wrong that a) I mentally insisted they were cormorants until the reality based half of my brain shouted so loudly I had to abandon my delusions and b) I had to turn my back because of the horror of ducks on the ocean.
5) Ate ridiculous amounts of sushi although in a land-locked state. Sushi which arrived on a decorative boat thing because there was so much of it. Sushi which was ordered off a menu which included a Harry Potter roll (which we opted out of. There is such a thing as Too Much). Sushi which was, I admit, extremely good. Also warm saki which was also good.
6) Followed up by visiting a beer garden. Which did have a very loud band of... interesting value and very good beer indeed but was, possibly, not quite all that it could have been as it was raining. However, we managed, while sheltering on the band stand, to successfully research the names of all 9 muses which was educational. I can still name five.
7) Went jet skiing on yet another (much smaller lake). AND did not fall off although the driver braked while turning or maybe didn't brake while turning or maybe turned and then braked... anyway, the driver certainly made things exciting and while I might have squeaked I did not fall off. Also I saw several turtles and some very nice birds. Also I kayaked (and did not turn over).
There was some other stuff too making for a rather full week.
This holidaying lark is not for the weak.
A real one, a holiday just to be a holiday - with time off and no additional goals like, for example, moving across the country. A whole holiday intended simply to relax and recreate.
I can tick off one more item on my 'things to do in order to be a real grown-up' list. It's all very exciting.
I'm sort of going on another holiday next week but as it is a) to San Antonio, TX and b) really not intended as a holiday but as Celebration of the Achievements of Child 2 I don't think it counts. Of course, we will go to Sea World one day, but as I've already set aside ten minutes for standing near the orca enclosure and crossing my arms and disapproving of the enslavement and exploitation of our cetaceous brethren (or sistren, I'm not choosy) I think it will count as political activism rather than sheer unadulterated Good Times.
Where was I... oh yes! What I did on my summer vacation:
1) Slept in! Mostly. Well, okay, got up pretty early still BUT I could have slept in and that's the really important bit.
2) Admired green things. Claims were made that the area was suffering a drought. In fact, apologies were made - statements like, 'I'm so sorry things are so brown, we've just not had that much rain this year' while looking sadly over the verdant, velvet green lawn in front of us. Their darn brown was greener than our green.
3) Admired Historic Things. Mostly houses really as I quite like houses if they're nifty and have twiddly bits on them or are Architecturally Interesting. Or just mad - there was at least one that was simply, wonderfully mad. Still, it was quite good fun and many pictures were taken and not one, not one single one at all, was a brown adobe box. (nor were there any visible howling coyotes with bandanas on their necks OR chile ristras OR cut out silhouettes of cowboys leanng on walls. Not sure what passes for culture in this area really...)
4) Went to a Very Large Lake, which was so very VERY large that it had ginormous sailing boats on and really looked entirely like the ocean which was very soothing for someone who has had ocean withdrawal for a terribly long time. Well, it looked like the ocean until, standing at the end of the pier, I saw a flotilla of ducks on the water which was so entirely wrong that a) I mentally insisted they were cormorants until the reality based half of my brain shouted so loudly I had to abandon my delusions and b) I had to turn my back because of the horror of ducks on the ocean.
5) Ate ridiculous amounts of sushi although in a land-locked state. Sushi which arrived on a decorative boat thing because there was so much of it. Sushi which was ordered off a menu which included a Harry Potter roll (which we opted out of. There is such a thing as Too Much). Sushi which was, I admit, extremely good. Also warm saki which was also good.
6) Followed up by visiting a beer garden. Which did have a very loud band of... interesting value and very good beer indeed but was, possibly, not quite all that it could have been as it was raining. However, we managed, while sheltering on the band stand, to successfully research the names of all 9 muses which was educational. I can still name five.
7) Went jet skiing on yet another (much smaller lake). AND did not fall off although the driver braked while turning or maybe didn't brake while turning or maybe turned and then braked... anyway, the driver certainly made things exciting and while I might have squeaked I did not fall off. Also I saw several turtles and some very nice birds. Also I kayaked (and did not turn over).
There was some other stuff too making for a rather full week.
This holidaying lark is not for the weak.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Movied
There are certain truths about movies that I think are self evident but I will outline them here just because:
1) movies are made, primarily, to provide a venue for the display and appreciation of certain arts. These arts are (in no particular order) graphic, costume, set design, art direction, typographic (well, okay credits in general), lighting, editing and... well, I'm sure there's other stuff but these are the important things.
2) the single most important advancement in cinematic arts ever, bar none, is the bonus features dvd.
3) this important advancement is egregiously and criminally underused.
4) the best way to appreciate a movie is to watch the bonus features FIRST so when the movie is actually playing you can really watch for that particular bit of color grading or the costume with the exceptional fabric weave.
5) the worst possible way to watch a movie is in the actual cinema theatre. It is vile. It is horrid. It is, further, impossible to do point 4 what with there being no bonus features released to cinema (note to movie promoters - dudes! What a great idea!). To expand on this point we'll move on to:
a] People lose at least 20 IQ points when they walk into a darkened cinema. This drop in intelligence produces behavior such as: Use of cell phones during the movie; attempting to interact/advise characters on the screen; choosing to bring infants or extremely young children to movies that are i. loud ii. violent iii. dramatic iv. dependent in any way on the dialogue being actually audible or v. longer than 15 minutes.
b] Cinema theatres are not comfortable. The floors are sticky, the chairs oddly shaped (and often... warm... or... worse), the sound is too loud and the screen often at a terribly uncomfortable angle.
c] It is difficult if not impossible to walk away from a movie without irritating or disrupting other people.
All these are, I feel, wonderful and viable reasons why watching a dvd in the comfort of your own home is actually a superior means of truly appreciating a movie.
And my Children should rest assured that these reasons are why I did not go to Harry Potter The Most Recent One with them and NOT because I'm a great big ginormous chicken who can't bear to watch:
1) People being embarrassed
2) People being threatened or tormented
3) People being unfairly accused or suspected of something
4) Several other minor things which are totally understandable and logical and shared by all right minded individuals.
Besides, I'll bet the bonus features are going to be amazing. Just you wait.
1) movies are made, primarily, to provide a venue for the display and appreciation of certain arts. These arts are (in no particular order) graphic, costume, set design, art direction, typographic (well, okay credits in general), lighting, editing and... well, I'm sure there's other stuff but these are the important things.
2) the single most important advancement in cinematic arts ever, bar none, is the bonus features dvd.
3) this important advancement is egregiously and criminally underused.
4) the best way to appreciate a movie is to watch the bonus features FIRST so when the movie is actually playing you can really watch for that particular bit of color grading or the costume with the exceptional fabric weave.
5) the worst possible way to watch a movie is in the actual cinema theatre. It is vile. It is horrid. It is, further, impossible to do point 4 what with there being no bonus features released to cinema (note to movie promoters - dudes! What a great idea!). To expand on this point we'll move on to:
a] People lose at least 20 IQ points when they walk into a darkened cinema. This drop in intelligence produces behavior such as: Use of cell phones during the movie; attempting to interact/advise characters on the screen; choosing to bring infants or extremely young children to movies that are i. loud ii. violent iii. dramatic iv. dependent in any way on the dialogue being actually audible or v. longer than 15 minutes.
b] Cinema theatres are not comfortable. The floors are sticky, the chairs oddly shaped (and often... warm... or... worse), the sound is too loud and the screen often at a terribly uncomfortable angle.
c] It is difficult if not impossible to walk away from a movie without irritating or disrupting other people.
All these are, I feel, wonderful and viable reasons why watching a dvd in the comfort of your own home is actually a superior means of truly appreciating a movie.
And my Children should rest assured that these reasons are why I did not go to Harry Potter The Most Recent One with them and NOT because I'm a great big ginormous chicken who can't bear to watch:
1) People being embarrassed
2) People being threatened or tormented
3) People being unfairly accused or suspected of something
4) Several other minor things which are totally understandable and logical and shared by all right minded individuals.
Besides, I'll bet the bonus features are going to be amazing. Just you wait.
Wednesday, September 09, 2009
Falafel
So!
It's now past the Tuesday deadline and everyone who was going to bundle has bundled (you did bundle, didn't you? I mean, unless you have some horrible condition where going into a store with FIVE aisles of scrapbooking supplies and SIX aisles of Christmas gee-gaws [in AUGUST PEOPLE!! AUGUST! So wrong it's made me break out the square-brackets-within-the-parentheses {dang, where was I...oh yes}] makes you develop weeping purple hives or something /*phew thought I was going to be caught forever in a labyrinth of nested asides*/) so I can get back to that dusty old list of things I was going to blog about. Most of which I've forgotten what I was going to say...
... except the Falafel King who is, I can honestly say, unforgettable.
A month or so ago I noticed a bright yellow sign up outside what appeared to be a gas station, a sign saying something like "now open! Middle Eastern Restaurant!" The gas station seemed to still be fully functional and there were also signs suggesting an oil change might be in order and wouldn't now be a great time to consider buying a fleece blanket devoted to the promotion of the Denver Broncos?
Unfortunately at that moment I didn't have time to take a left and so sadly I did not stop for lunch.
Then.
I mean, come on - a middle eastern restaurant - plonked down inside a not-quite-7-11? Irresistible!
So a few weeks later I convinced a weak-minded friend to join me and we swung in the door to find: The display of rolled up horoscopes, the display of novelty lighters, the large sign promising meeeellleeeeons of dollars if you just buy the nice lotto ticket, the seventeen magazines about hot-rods, low-riders or customized bikes (all with EXACTLY the same woman in a bikini draped over them - and I'm darn sure she's going to burn something sensitive on that tail pipe if she's not careful), four aisles of lentils, dried chickpeas, spices and sugared almonds AND two small diner booths with tables. And flowers. And little menus. One booth was already occupied by two couples who seemed to be struggling not to giggle, but the other was free and immaculately clean so we considered sitting down but really didn't want to commit too much so we just walked up to the counter (next to the horoscopes) and cleared our throats to be heard over the arabic soap opera playing on the television.
Which is where we met the falafel king.
We would, we told him confidently, quite like the falafel sandwichy thing which had falafel wrapped up in flatbread and some sauce and pickles and nice stuff. He looked at us fondly. 'You eat here or you take it with you?' he asked and, 'oh, to go, please,' I said happily. 'You want those toasted?' 'Oh YES!' I said (because I couldn't quite hear him as the very lovely busty woman with the purple blouse had just burst into tears all over the chest of the tall man with the mustache and the green shirt with the sort of weird flowery vesty thing and it got a bit loud). He looked at us sadly and turned to his grill. We decided to browse through the lentil section for a bit.
Five minutes later he came up to us, clearly agitated.
'You see, you can't take them with you. If you take them with you, because they are toasted, they will become soggy, you see? They will no longer be crisp. And the heat, it will be gone, and the flat bread, it will NO LONGER BE CRISP. You must eat them here.'
We blinked at him. He leaned forward a bit.
'I make them, you see, I make them myself here, right here, I make them all, and the bread, when you toast it, you must eat it here, hot, while it is crisp and nice. IF YOU GO IT WILL NOT BE NICE!!'
We meekly sat down in the booth and accepted our crisp, hot falafel sandwiches. He smiled at us in satisfaction and then moved on to the other booth where he scolded them for wanting to take the remains of their hummus and pita with them.
I have to say, the falafel? It was superb.
And crisp.
It's now past the Tuesday deadline and everyone who was going to bundle has bundled (you did bundle, didn't you? I mean, unless you have some horrible condition where going into a store with FIVE aisles of scrapbooking supplies and SIX aisles of Christmas gee-gaws [in AUGUST PEOPLE!! AUGUST! So wrong it's made me break out the square-brackets-within-the-parentheses {dang, where was I...oh yes}] makes you develop weeping purple hives or something /*phew thought I was going to be caught forever in a labyrinth of nested asides*/) so I can get back to that dusty old list of things I was going to blog about. Most of which I've forgotten what I was going to say...
... except the Falafel King who is, I can honestly say, unforgettable.
A month or so ago I noticed a bright yellow sign up outside what appeared to be a gas station, a sign saying something like "now open! Middle Eastern Restaurant!" The gas station seemed to still be fully functional and there were also signs suggesting an oil change might be in order and wouldn't now be a great time to consider buying a fleece blanket devoted to the promotion of the Denver Broncos?
Unfortunately at that moment I didn't have time to take a left and so sadly I did not stop for lunch.
Then.
I mean, come on - a middle eastern restaurant - plonked down inside a not-quite-7-11? Irresistible!
So a few weeks later I convinced a weak-minded friend to join me and we swung in the door to find: The display of rolled up horoscopes, the display of novelty lighters, the large sign promising meeeellleeeeons of dollars if you just buy the nice lotto ticket, the seventeen magazines about hot-rods, low-riders or customized bikes (all with EXACTLY the same woman in a bikini draped over them - and I'm darn sure she's going to burn something sensitive on that tail pipe if she's not careful), four aisles of lentils, dried chickpeas, spices and sugared almonds AND two small diner booths with tables. And flowers. And little menus. One booth was already occupied by two couples who seemed to be struggling not to giggle, but the other was free and immaculately clean so we considered sitting down but really didn't want to commit too much so we just walked up to the counter (next to the horoscopes) and cleared our throats to be heard over the arabic soap opera playing on the television.
Which is where we met the falafel king.
We would, we told him confidently, quite like the falafel sandwichy thing which had falafel wrapped up in flatbread and some sauce and pickles and nice stuff. He looked at us fondly. 'You eat here or you take it with you?' he asked and, 'oh, to go, please,' I said happily. 'You want those toasted?' 'Oh YES!' I said (because I couldn't quite hear him as the very lovely busty woman with the purple blouse had just burst into tears all over the chest of the tall man with the mustache and the green shirt with the sort of weird flowery vesty thing and it got a bit loud). He looked at us sadly and turned to his grill. We decided to browse through the lentil section for a bit.
Five minutes later he came up to us, clearly agitated.
'You see, you can't take them with you. If you take them with you, because they are toasted, they will become soggy, you see? They will no longer be crisp. And the heat, it will be gone, and the flat bread, it will NO LONGER BE CRISP. You must eat them here.'
We blinked at him. He leaned forward a bit.
'I make them, you see, I make them myself here, right here, I make them all, and the bread, when you toast it, you must eat it here, hot, while it is crisp and nice. IF YOU GO IT WILL NOT BE NICE!!'
We meekly sat down in the booth and accepted our crisp, hot falafel sandwiches. He smiled at us in satisfaction and then moved on to the other booth where he scolded them for wanting to take the remains of their hummus and pita with them.
I have to say, the falafel? It was superb.
And crisp.
Wednesday, September 02, 2009
Bundles II
So I got some stuff on Monday, bundled everything up on Tuesday and was going to mail them today, Wednesday, until life intervened which means, sadly, I'll be bouncing off the deadline by shipping them tomorrow. But! They're all ready to go which makes me happy. Here's what I put in my two bundles:
Both have:
5 yards of fabric (a nice restrained green check as Art mentioned that less vibrant patterns were best and that green is a favorite color)
1 pair scissors
1 bundle elastic
2 spools of thread
1 set of pins
1 wheel of needles
1 seam ripper
1 thimble
1 measuring tape
1 small box of safety pins, buttons and snaps
Then one bundle has:
1 bag of sequins (mixed)
1 bag of beads (mixed)
1 card beading needles
[in the belief that kids love shiny, sparkly things and even if they can't or won't be used for sewing they can be treasure!]
The other has:
1 embroidery hoop (plastic so as hopefully not to break)
2 spools grosgrain ribbon
assorted embroidery threads
[in the belief that most little girls love hair ribbons and that embroidery thread colors make everyone happy]
They're all bundled and tied per instruction and will go off in a flat rate box (or two) tomorrow. Don't forget to check IBOL for instructions and leave a comment there (on any post at all) to get the address for shipping if you haven't yet.
Both have:
5 yards of fabric (a nice restrained green check as Art mentioned that less vibrant patterns were best and that green is a favorite color)
1 pair scissors
1 bundle elastic
2 spools of thread
1 set of pins
1 wheel of needles
1 seam ripper
1 thimble
1 measuring tape
1 small box of safety pins, buttons and snaps
Then one bundle has:
1 bag of sequins (mixed)
1 bag of beads (mixed)
1 card beading needles
[in the belief that kids love shiny, sparkly things and even if they can't or won't be used for sewing they can be treasure!]
The other has:
1 embroidery hoop (plastic so as hopefully not to break)
2 spools grosgrain ribbon
assorted embroidery threads
[in the belief that most little girls love hair ribbons and that embroidery thread colors make everyone happy]
They're all bundled and tied per instruction and will go off in a flat rate box (or two) tomorrow. Don't forget to check IBOL for instructions and leave a comment there (on any post at all) to get the address for shipping if you haven't yet.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Iraq Bundles of Love
Anyone out there a sewer or knitter? I'm a little late to this party but there's an amazing soldier in Iraq who is organizing a donation project to provide supplies to Iraq - bundles of fabric, thread, other notions, yarn - whatever. I KNOW if you sew you have fabric lying around and this is an amazing way to pass it along to someone who needs it.
One point: he's leaving Iraq pretty soon so you need to jump on this right away. Please make sure your box is postmarked by September 7th (that's a week from Monday so probably aim for Friday as the last day to ship it). Also, he's trying to get this done for Ramadan and the 7th is the last day to get things over there before Ramadan ends. I understand he's trying to set up a way to keep the project going even after he heads home but for now try to get things over there as soon as possible. He has nice detailed instructions for making up a bundle here on his blog: INSTRUCTIONS and a post on what to include right here: WHAT TO SEND. Finally, just leave him a comment on any post anywhere on his blog and he'll send you the address to ship to - you'll be shipping at reduced rates thanks to the APO address (he doesn't want the address on the internet since it is a time-sensitive program so I'll let him get it to you).
International folks: Check out his post here on an option for shipping.
I love this whole idea - giving the sort of stuff that no one thinks about but that can make such an enormous difference. Oh, and if you want to tuck anything else in, like small stuffed animals or something I'm pretty sure that would be okay too. I think probably no food, and (he insists) nothing for him.
One point: he's leaving Iraq pretty soon so you need to jump on this right away. Please make sure your box is postmarked by September 7th (that's a week from Monday so probably aim for Friday as the last day to ship it). Also, he's trying to get this done for Ramadan and the 7th is the last day to get things over there before Ramadan ends. I understand he's trying to set up a way to keep the project going even after he heads home but for now try to get things over there as soon as possible. He has nice detailed instructions for making up a bundle here on his blog: INSTRUCTIONS and a post on what to include right here: WHAT TO SEND. Finally, just leave him a comment on any post anywhere on his blog and he'll send you the address to ship to - you'll be shipping at reduced rates thanks to the APO address (he doesn't want the address on the internet since it is a time-sensitive program so I'll let him get it to you).
International folks: Check out his post here on an option for shipping.
I love this whole idea - giving the sort of stuff that no one thinks about but that can make such an enormous difference. Oh, and if you want to tuck anything else in, like small stuffed animals or something I'm pretty sure that would be okay too. I think probably no food, and (he insists) nothing for him.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Flitted
Child 1 whizzed through for one last weekend. It had been gone just long enough to make us all go, 'oh yes, THAT'S what it's like having another body around the house' a bit but not so long that having it back felt strange. Of course it was only here for the blink of an eye - a few meals here and there, a visit to its Grandparents, a single load of laundry and off again.
I dropped it at the airport for one of those modern goodbyes. It seems ridiculous to do the hugging and last wording part at home but at the airport it's all exhaust fumes and patrolling security guards and impatient cars so it was given a kiss and half a hug and sent on its way. I didn't even have time to watch it go through the doors; it was gone in no time anyway without even a backwards glance.
So now Child 3 and I can actually settle into The Way Things Are Now. For the past three weeks there were still belongings scattered and drawers half full. Child 3 was half moved from one room and into another waiting on that final visit.
We know it will be back of course. The internship is only until January, and although it's going to find a place of its own it will also be around for dinner now and then. But there is a door-shut sort of feeling at the moment, a lovely feeling that Child 1 has happily ended the small, play-house world of being a kid.
It's very nice of it not to have left us all behind there.
I dropped it at the airport for one of those modern goodbyes. It seems ridiculous to do the hugging and last wording part at home but at the airport it's all exhaust fumes and patrolling security guards and impatient cars so it was given a kiss and half a hug and sent on its way. I didn't even have time to watch it go through the doors; it was gone in no time anyway without even a backwards glance.
So now Child 3 and I can actually settle into The Way Things Are Now. For the past three weeks there were still belongings scattered and drawers half full. Child 3 was half moved from one room and into another waiting on that final visit.
We know it will be back of course. The internship is only until January, and although it's going to find a place of its own it will also be around for dinner now and then. But there is a door-shut sort of feeling at the moment, a lovely feeling that Child 1 has happily ended the small, play-house world of being a kid.
It's very nice of it not to have left us all behind there.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Child 2
Ah... Child 2.
Does Senioritis translate? The strange illness that besets students towards the end of their studies - lack of motivation, general malaise, marked antipathy to the school/teachers/administration/school system/evil parents who have put them in this situation? Maybe it's an Americanism but I'm going to bet that the disease is universal.
Child 2 had it last year.
Had it bad.
Had it so bad its fingernails itched with it, it's skin crawled at the very thought of studying.
Which, what with the kinda, sorta need to... I don't know... TURN THINGS IN... produced a bit of angst. In fact, the last semester of Child 2's high school career was, erm, tense.
I would be the lowest sort of hypocrite if I didn't say at once that I behaved eggzackly the same way my senior year, flitting through classes, ignoring little things like attendance and assignments and the simple need to PASS in order to graduate. There was, however, one rather startling difference.
Child 2, apparently for a number of months, had been giving serious thought and consideration to What Happens Next. I was more of the 'neener-neener, I can't hear you' school of thought and blithely ignored little things like college admissions or employment.
Not Child.
University, it reasoned, was something it was not yet ready for. Employment with only a high-school diploma and a set of skills heavy on the rhetorical side but light on the practical, was going to be an issue. Child knew it was facing a year or two of minimum wage jobs that were, however necessary, likely to be menial and unfufilling.
But, and here's the bit that really amazes me, Child didn't stop there, the obvious stopping place which would have resulted in three weeks of sulking and then a scramble to land a fry cook spot at the Greasy Pit down the road. It wanted to do something to earn its way into university, to actually learn some reasonable skills and get some valuable experience AND it wanted a job that would, in its own words, be something important, something meaningful.
Does anyone see where this is going? Because I didn't. It's obvious now, but at the time, and knowing Child 2? Nope, totally blindsided me.
It went to talk to the military recruiters.
Which meant it had to take the basic entrance exam, the one everyone has to take, the one that neatly sorts people into job categories. Now, this isn't the most difficult test in the world, but it does include two sections that Child is, sadly, not terribly qualified to take: automotivey stuff and practical engineery type stuff. The rest is easy peasy maths and reading comp and things. And Child? The Child who wasn't, apparently, up to the difficult task of writing up a two paragraph response to a short story?
Child got a perfect score. Didn't miss a thing - not even the bits that asked about throttles and spark plugs and widgets and things. I have no idea how it pulled it off.
So the recruiters's eyes got all misty and shiny and I forcibly pulled Child into each and every office (talk to them ALL and see who has the best offer) and it was agreed that basically the military would be delighted to have Child doing any job - any job at all that it wanted.
What it wanted was to learn a language and go through the rather rigorous school in Monterey. Which meant another exam, far more difficult, and another extremely impressive result, and while I'm sort of flapping my hands aimlessly and bleating, 'but you don't HAVE to do anything if you don't want to...' Child is calmly and steadily qualifying itself to do exactly what it wants.
Which is why, exactly one week before Child 1 left for its road trip, we all went downtown to the same building where I said goodbye to Kirk over 20 years before and Child, a little pale but confident and determined, stood in a little room and took an oath. And then it flew away.
By choice, right now in Texas, it's facing some of the things it has struggled with terribly in the last year: it will be doing new things under pressure, strangers will be scrutenizing its every move, it will have no privacy, no quiet time, no escape. Before it left I pushed it to run every day, to do push ups and sit ups and anything else I could think of that might arm it just a little bit for what is to come, both of us worrying far more about all the things it couldn't prepare itself for.
It's called twice now, sounding miles and miles away. The run is doing okay, it says, the push ups and sit ups coming easily now. It boasted a bit about being toned and in shape, joked that the only muscles out of use would be for smiling. The words tumbled out though, about how it had been made dorm chief and was responsible for a gaggle of other recruits, about how it worried about them, fussed over them, folded their socks and gave them pep talks. It spoke about how it had learned that if you hate failure you have to figure out how to do things right. It sounded confident, older... different.
It's strange to have this Child, this Child who put off growing up for so very long, suddenly running so far ahead of me. It's strange to know that there are things now, and will always be, that I can't share anymore, that I will have to be an outsider to.
It's strange, but it's wonderful too.
Does Senioritis translate? The strange illness that besets students towards the end of their studies - lack of motivation, general malaise, marked antipathy to the school/teachers/administration/school system/evil parents who have put them in this situation? Maybe it's an Americanism but I'm going to bet that the disease is universal.
Child 2 had it last year.
Had it bad.
Had it so bad its fingernails itched with it, it's skin crawled at the very thought of studying.
Which, what with the kinda, sorta need to... I don't know... TURN THINGS IN... produced a bit of angst. In fact, the last semester of Child 2's high school career was, erm, tense.
I would be the lowest sort of hypocrite if I didn't say at once that I behaved eggzackly the same way my senior year, flitting through classes, ignoring little things like attendance and assignments and the simple need to PASS in order to graduate. There was, however, one rather startling difference.
Child 2, apparently for a number of months, had been giving serious thought and consideration to What Happens Next. I was more of the 'neener-neener, I can't hear you' school of thought and blithely ignored little things like college admissions or employment.
Not Child.
University, it reasoned, was something it was not yet ready for. Employment with only a high-school diploma and a set of skills heavy on the rhetorical side but light on the practical, was going to be an issue. Child knew it was facing a year or two of minimum wage jobs that were, however necessary, likely to be menial and unfufilling.
But, and here's the bit that really amazes me, Child didn't stop there, the obvious stopping place which would have resulted in three weeks of sulking and then a scramble to land a fry cook spot at the Greasy Pit down the road. It wanted to do something to earn its way into university, to actually learn some reasonable skills and get some valuable experience AND it wanted a job that would, in its own words, be something important, something meaningful.
Does anyone see where this is going? Because I didn't. It's obvious now, but at the time, and knowing Child 2? Nope, totally blindsided me.
It went to talk to the military recruiters.
Which meant it had to take the basic entrance exam, the one everyone has to take, the one that neatly sorts people into job categories. Now, this isn't the most difficult test in the world, but it does include two sections that Child is, sadly, not terribly qualified to take: automotivey stuff and practical engineery type stuff. The rest is easy peasy maths and reading comp and things. And Child? The Child who wasn't, apparently, up to the difficult task of writing up a two paragraph response to a short story?
Child got a perfect score. Didn't miss a thing - not even the bits that asked about throttles and spark plugs and widgets and things. I have no idea how it pulled it off.
So the recruiters's eyes got all misty and shiny and I forcibly pulled Child into each and every office (talk to them ALL and see who has the best offer) and it was agreed that basically the military would be delighted to have Child doing any job - any job at all that it wanted.
What it wanted was to learn a language and go through the rather rigorous school in Monterey. Which meant another exam, far more difficult, and another extremely impressive result, and while I'm sort of flapping my hands aimlessly and bleating, 'but you don't HAVE to do anything if you don't want to...' Child is calmly and steadily qualifying itself to do exactly what it wants.
Which is why, exactly one week before Child 1 left for its road trip, we all went downtown to the same building where I said goodbye to Kirk over 20 years before and Child, a little pale but confident and determined, stood in a little room and took an oath. And then it flew away.
By choice, right now in Texas, it's facing some of the things it has struggled with terribly in the last year: it will be doing new things under pressure, strangers will be scrutenizing its every move, it will have no privacy, no quiet time, no escape. Before it left I pushed it to run every day, to do push ups and sit ups and anything else I could think of that might arm it just a little bit for what is to come, both of us worrying far more about all the things it couldn't prepare itself for.
It's called twice now, sounding miles and miles away. The run is doing okay, it says, the push ups and sit ups coming easily now. It boasted a bit about being toned and in shape, joked that the only muscles out of use would be for smiling. The words tumbled out though, about how it had been made dorm chief and was responsible for a gaggle of other recruits, about how it worried about them, fussed over them, folded their socks and gave them pep talks. It spoke about how it had learned that if you hate failure you have to figure out how to do things right. It sounded confident, older... different.
It's strange to have this Child, this Child who put off growing up for so very long, suddenly running so far ahead of me. It's strange to know that there are things now, and will always be, that I can't share anymore, that I will have to be an outsider to.
It's strange, but it's wonderful too.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Child 1
[Yes, the order imposed by the list in the previous post is not only going to be violated, it's going to be thrown on the floor and stomped on]
Some time during the last academic year I noticed, as I wandered blithely through the University campus, colorful posters enticing innocent young to attend a meeting. Normally I'm extremely dubious about these as they are usually of the, "come and see just how much money we're going to charge you to have what we're pleased to call a 'life experience!'" This one, though, had that magic word, "employment" on it. So I stole one of the posters and shoved it under Child 1's bleary eyes (for my mother: I stole one of thousands, there were at least five more in eye sight. Also it was replaced by the end of the day by some poster minion. Technically it's still theft but my blackened soul doesn't even twinge a little bit).
Child 1 brightened a bit at the thought of gainful employment that meant a) missing school and b) spending months in a state that actually boasts a real genuine beach*. It managed to get itself to the informational meeting AND fill out the online application and then we both assumed that it wouldn't hear for months and months if ever and that was that. You know, one of those things that would be very nice if it happened but is so terribly unlikely you don't want to dwell on it**.
Only it was contacted within a couple of weeks, and asked to have a telephone interview. And then it was, to our great surprise, offered a job - a job at the better of the two facilities. We sort of stood around all gobsmacked for a while until one of us (me) realized the other of us (Child) had better do a few things about insuring its scholarship wasn't roughly pulled out from under it, lining up plane tickets, figuring out logistics and the like.
Of course, the actual start date was months and months away. So far away that it was, once again, in the realm of the mythical.
Right up until about last month when I realized my baybee, my first-born, my own Child what I reared myself by hand, was LEAVING. As in going away for months and months and, here's the tricky bit, kinda sorta not coming back. Because we both agreed that this was a good moment to sort of make that first, desperate, wing-flapping leap out of the nest, and that when it finished its internship it would be finding a house/apartment and living on its own.
So Child, a few weeks ago, made its last sugary coffee beverage, stuffed half its bedroom into two suitcases and flung itself into a friend's car for a month-long road trip before facing the grim world of full employment and self-sufficiency.
It will be back for three days*** and then it boards a plane and realio-trulio heads out on its own.
It didn't even have the common decency to sniffle as it went out the door.
*Our town does claim a "beach" but as it is a) man made, b) less than 100 yards long [well, any one bit of it] and c) freshwater and full of stocked, farm-reared fish I refuse to even consider it. However, I do think it's funny that one may purchase postcards showing a tan young person surfing a ginormous wave with, "greetings from [local] beach!" in large, unconvincing lettering across the front.
**mythical events such as, say, a labor department actually doing what it is supposed to do...
*** During which time it is meant to take a hike with a friend, complete the "cleaning" it supposedly did of its room (into which its sibling moved the very evening it departed), visit all of its dear friends and relations and re-pack its belongings for the flight out.
NB - this internship may just require that Child 1 greet all and sundry with a sunny smile and the injunction to, "Have a Magical Day!" If this were Child 2 we're all agreed that there would be blood and mayhem within three days. However, Child 1 will not only willingly do this, it will MEAN IT.
Some time during the last academic year I noticed, as I wandered blithely through the University campus, colorful posters enticing innocent young to attend a meeting. Normally I'm extremely dubious about these as they are usually of the, "come and see just how much money we're going to charge you to have what we're pleased to call a 'life experience!'" This one, though, had that magic word, "employment" on it. So I stole one of the posters and shoved it under Child 1's bleary eyes (for my mother: I stole one of thousands, there were at least five more in eye sight. Also it was replaced by the end of the day by some poster minion. Technically it's still theft but my blackened soul doesn't even twinge a little bit).
Child 1 brightened a bit at the thought of gainful employment that meant a) missing school and b) spending months in a state that actually boasts a real genuine beach*. It managed to get itself to the informational meeting AND fill out the online application and then we both assumed that it wouldn't hear for months and months if ever and that was that. You know, one of those things that would be very nice if it happened but is so terribly unlikely you don't want to dwell on it**.
Only it was contacted within a couple of weeks, and asked to have a telephone interview. And then it was, to our great surprise, offered a job - a job at the better of the two facilities. We sort of stood around all gobsmacked for a while until one of us (me) realized the other of us (Child) had better do a few things about insuring its scholarship wasn't roughly pulled out from under it, lining up plane tickets, figuring out logistics and the like.
Of course, the actual start date was months and months away. So far away that it was, once again, in the realm of the mythical.
Right up until about last month when I realized my baybee, my first-born, my own Child what I reared myself by hand, was LEAVING. As in going away for months and months and, here's the tricky bit, kinda sorta not coming back. Because we both agreed that this was a good moment to sort of make that first, desperate, wing-flapping leap out of the nest, and that when it finished its internship it would be finding a house/apartment and living on its own.
So Child, a few weeks ago, made its last sugary coffee beverage, stuffed half its bedroom into two suitcases and flung itself into a friend's car for a month-long road trip before facing the grim world of full employment and self-sufficiency.
It will be back for three days*** and then it boards a plane and realio-trulio heads out on its own.
It didn't even have the common decency to sniffle as it went out the door.
*Our town does claim a "beach" but as it is a) man made, b) less than 100 yards long [well, any one bit of it] and c) freshwater and full of stocked, farm-reared fish I refuse to even consider it. However, I do think it's funny that one may purchase postcards showing a tan young person surfing a ginormous wave with, "greetings from [local] beach!" in large, unconvincing lettering across the front.
**mythical events such as, say, a labor department actually doing what it is supposed to do...
*** During which time it is meant to take a hike with a friend, complete the "cleaning" it supposedly did of its room (into which its sibling moved the very evening it departed), visit all of its dear friends and relations and re-pack its belongings for the flight out.
NB - this internship may just require that Child 1 greet all and sundry with a sunny smile and the injunction to, "Have a Magical Day!" If this were Child 2 we're all agreed that there would be blood and mayhem within three days. However, Child 1 will not only willingly do this, it will MEAN IT.
Wednesday, August 05, 2009
Back
Sorry! I'll respond to comments and emails in a bit but I wanted to break the silence before it got so thick I couldn't manage it.
Things I would have posted about if I didn't need to write that last post but now I can post about once I start posting again (which I have. Started I mean):
See, life has gone on rather a lot, it's just that this darn claim and the labor department and the legal implications and all of that gafuffle has rather drowned it out - at least bloggily speaking.
However, I'm back now, and primed with excellent blog fodder (see above).
I know you're all delighted.
Things I would have posted about if I didn't need to write that last post but now I can post about once I start posting again (which I have. Started I mean):
- Child 2!
- Child 1! (slightly less exclamation marky than Child 2, but still pretty markish)
- Holidays, the taking thereof
- Child 3, the interesting logic thereof
- The Falafel King (no, really)
- How Movies in Theatres Are Evil and (related) How My Darling Children Mock Me
- (added) Totally Genuine Text Exchange, or: Why My Family Gets Odd Looks in Public
See, life has gone on rather a lot, it's just that this darn claim and the labor department and the legal implications and all of that gafuffle has rather drowned it out - at least bloggily speaking.
However, I'm back now, and primed with excellent blog fodder (see above).
I know you're all delighted.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Fallout
Two weeks.
I know.
But I've been a bit... taken aback at how difficult it has been to write all this.
And apparently two weeks is what it takes to face up to the last post.
Not that it's a big one, it's just really the point of the whole thing.
The point is, about a year ago I heard from an expert, a lawyer who knows how to deal with Labor department claims and he thought he could help me.
A year ago we once again got everything together, this time with some amazing expertise that managed to get things moving and, a year ago we talked tentatively about not hoping that something would come of it.
Because hoping is the last thing we wanted to do.
Still, it was hard not to hope when the claim sluggishly moved ahead, when it cleared the vital hurdle of the local authority (the hurdle that the lawyer felt was the really important one). It was hard not to hope, at least a little.
Only everything stalled again, and the national people insisted we resubmit all the paperwork that had already been handed in. And then they asked for a copy of the original file I had faxed in so many years ago - more and more hoops that had to be cleared, hoops the lawyers hadn't ever seen asked for before, and copies of letters in legalese that I couldn't begin to understand.
But that's not why I started this. It's not why I have put together a timeline and a press kit and everything else I can think of. It's not why, after all this time, I'm going to try to get some media attention on this thing.
It's because I found out that I'm not the only one - that this ridiculous run-around, this refusal by the government to fulfill their own obligations and follow their own laws, is happening with all sorts of other people - people who might not be lucky enough to have an expert legal team helping out; people who might not have even the small voice I have.
And I have to do it for them.
I know.
But I've been a bit... taken aback at how difficult it has been to write all this.
And apparently two weeks is what it takes to face up to the last post.
Not that it's a big one, it's just really the point of the whole thing.
The point is, about a year ago I heard from an expert, a lawyer who knows how to deal with Labor department claims and he thought he could help me.
A year ago we once again got everything together, this time with some amazing expertise that managed to get things moving and, a year ago we talked tentatively about not hoping that something would come of it.
Because hoping is the last thing we wanted to do.
Still, it was hard not to hope when the claim sluggishly moved ahead, when it cleared the vital hurdle of the local authority (the hurdle that the lawyer felt was the really important one). It was hard not to hope, at least a little.
Only everything stalled again, and the national people insisted we resubmit all the paperwork that had already been handed in. And then they asked for a copy of the original file I had faxed in so many years ago - more and more hoops that had to be cleared, hoops the lawyers hadn't ever seen asked for before, and copies of letters in legalese that I couldn't begin to understand.
But that's not why I started this. It's not why I have put together a timeline and a press kit and everything else I can think of. It's not why, after all this time, I'm going to try to get some media attention on this thing.
It's because I found out that I'm not the only one - that this ridiculous run-around, this refusal by the government to fulfill their own obligations and follow their own laws, is happening with all sorts of other people - people who might not be lucky enough to have an expert legal team helping out; people who might not have even the small voice I have.
And I have to do it for them.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Reality
So.
If you've managed to plow through things as they possibly should be, and taken a glimpse of things as they were, let's finish the job, shall we? Again, sorry for the length, but I think this is important.
Kirk went missing on October 9th, 2003. I've said that so many times in so many ways its acquired a strange life of its own. For a very long time it was defiance, and denial as I tried to shield Kirk and the children from what was happening; eventually there was a battered sort of resignation while I tried to find a way to tell the story without... well... disturbing anyone. But that's where it starts.
Kirk was the breadwinner of the family. He used to laugh and say that he would win the bread if I would win the gold. It was a private joke we had although I used to feel a bit guilty that I played around with things, taking private contracts as they appealed to me so I could stay home with the kids and do what sounded fun or caught my interest. I could have done a lot more; I had the skills to do it, but there were soccer games to go to and lunches to pack and Kirk was, at least in California, earning a pretty good living.
When he joined Ultra Services he asked for a salary that would equal what he brought home from his civilian job. We knew that if things went well there could be bonuses far above that, but for his base salary he didn't ask for anything more than what he was already making. It was important somehow, to both of us, maybe because of the brush that all contractors seem to be painted with.
When he went missing his immediate boss, his friend C, did his best and managed to get his salary paid to me for two months. That two months helped support my family for the next two years (the only work I found -six months after Kirk disappeared- was part time).
It was in March when my sister, a lawyer, told me about a strange little law she had discovered. It sounded a long shot to me - Kirk had not yet signed a contract with the company although he had clearly acted on their behalf (with military contracts signed and paid); worse, the company had not carried the required insurance since apparently they hadn't known of the requirement, but, about six month after Kirk vanished, I filed a claim with the labor department, and tried not to hope that something would come of it.
It's hard to describe how debilitating it is: money. I hate it. I was raised to hate it really, which makes it even more difficult. There aren't words, aren't even cliches which I've explored extensively in the last several years, to talk about what happened. But worse, in the 3 a.m.'s, the horrible weakest moments when I didn't even have logic and reason to help cover up the fear, the bleak knowledge of raising three children alone. So there was a dreadful tug of war between wanting to believe that the claim would come through and a depressive belief that nothing positive would ever happen again. And, ridiculously, I had the ingrained idea that even hoping for a settlement was somehow putting a price tag on Kirk's life.
Of course I never even had the chance to get to that point. It was months and months before I got the letter in the mail, the one telling me that as Kirk was missing, and as the investigation was on-going, the Labor Department could sadly not rule one way or the other. By that time it wasn't even a disappointment.
Months and months and months later there was a meeting with the CID and a 'final' answer (sorry, the quotation marks aren't intended to be ironic, honestly). Within a week or so I sent a copy of the certificate I was given: Presumption of Death of A Citizen Abroad to the Labor Department. At least, I thought, I'd know one way or another.
And nothing happened.
Really nothing, not a letter, not an acknowledgment that the claim now had changed: nothing.
And I thought that was it. Because I was raised to think that it was wrong to press things when it came to money.
But Susie Dow wrote an article. And someone who makes it his business to see that the government does what its own laws says it should do took an interest, and... well, it seemed that things were going to actually progress.
Hands up: who can guess what happens next?
Sorry, no prize for the winner.
If you've managed to plow through things as they possibly should be, and taken a glimpse of things as they were, let's finish the job, shall we? Again, sorry for the length, but I think this is important.
Kirk went missing on October 9th, 2003. I've said that so many times in so many ways its acquired a strange life of its own. For a very long time it was defiance, and denial as I tried to shield Kirk and the children from what was happening; eventually there was a battered sort of resignation while I tried to find a way to tell the story without... well... disturbing anyone. But that's where it starts.
Kirk was the breadwinner of the family. He used to laugh and say that he would win the bread if I would win the gold. It was a private joke we had although I used to feel a bit guilty that I played around with things, taking private contracts as they appealed to me so I could stay home with the kids and do what sounded fun or caught my interest. I could have done a lot more; I had the skills to do it, but there were soccer games to go to and lunches to pack and Kirk was, at least in California, earning a pretty good living.
When he joined Ultra Services he asked for a salary that would equal what he brought home from his civilian job. We knew that if things went well there could be bonuses far above that, but for his base salary he didn't ask for anything more than what he was already making. It was important somehow, to both of us, maybe because of the brush that all contractors seem to be painted with.
When he went missing his immediate boss, his friend C, did his best and managed to get his salary paid to me for two months. That two months helped support my family for the next two years (the only work I found -six months after Kirk disappeared- was part time).
It was in March when my sister, a lawyer, told me about a strange little law she had discovered. It sounded a long shot to me - Kirk had not yet signed a contract with the company although he had clearly acted on their behalf (with military contracts signed and paid); worse, the company had not carried the required insurance since apparently they hadn't known of the requirement, but, about six month after Kirk vanished, I filed a claim with the labor department, and tried not to hope that something would come of it.
It's hard to describe how debilitating it is: money. I hate it. I was raised to hate it really, which makes it even more difficult. There aren't words, aren't even cliches which I've explored extensively in the last several years, to talk about what happened. But worse, in the 3 a.m.'s, the horrible weakest moments when I didn't even have logic and reason to help cover up the fear, the bleak knowledge of raising three children alone. So there was a dreadful tug of war between wanting to believe that the claim would come through and a depressive belief that nothing positive would ever happen again. And, ridiculously, I had the ingrained idea that even hoping for a settlement was somehow putting a price tag on Kirk's life.
Of course I never even had the chance to get to that point. It was months and months before I got the letter in the mail, the one telling me that as Kirk was missing, and as the investigation was on-going, the Labor Department could sadly not rule one way or the other. By that time it wasn't even a disappointment.
Months and months and months later there was a meeting with the CID and a 'final' answer (sorry, the quotation marks aren't intended to be ironic, honestly). Within a week or so I sent a copy of the certificate I was given: Presumption of Death of A Citizen Abroad to the Labor Department. At least, I thought, I'd know one way or another.
And nothing happened.
Really nothing, not a letter, not an acknowledgment that the claim now had changed: nothing.
And I thought that was it. Because I was raised to think that it was wrong to press things when it came to money.
But Susie Dow wrote an article. And someone who makes it his business to see that the government does what its own laws says it should do took an interest, and... well, it seemed that things were going to actually progress.
Hands up: who can guess what happens next?
Sorry, no prize for the winner.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Re-charted
So, to adjust the chart a bit for the real world:
In fact I'm not entirely sure there was a call for bids either. I have a feeling the company sort of showed up, talked to a few people and, being Johnny on the Spot, got the deal.
But I definitely know that no one asked about whether the company was carrying insurance. I know this because Kirk's boss, when I told him about the Act, had never heard of the requirement - had no idea at all that legally Ultra Services HAD to carry insurance and, legally, the military could not deal with them if they did not do so.
Now, I'm willing to grant that it was still a fairly chaotic situation in Iraq (although there had been contractors there for quite some time). But Ultra Services was the sister company of another one which had been contracting for a couple of years in Afghanistan - years. And yet no one, apparently, knew anything about this little niggling problem.
How is that possible? How can a company - and, I have to believe, multiple other small companies - deal for an extended period of time with the military and not once, apparently, be told about basic, fundamental rules for being a military contractor? I honestly, truly want to know. Did the military guys who were given the power to sign these contracts simply not know about it? Was there no training involved? No oversight - in not one military conflict but two? Or did the company really know about it but somehow manage to avoid the requirement?
Anyway, that's the first, egregious place of failure. The second is in what happened after Kirk went missing. However, to keep things short(ish), we'll save that for tomorrow.
In fact I'm not entirely sure there was a call for bids either. I have a feeling the company sort of showed up, talked to a few people and, being Johnny on the Spot, got the deal.
But I definitely know that no one asked about whether the company was carrying insurance. I know this because Kirk's boss, when I told him about the Act, had never heard of the requirement - had no idea at all that legally Ultra Services HAD to carry insurance and, legally, the military could not deal with them if they did not do so.
Now, I'm willing to grant that it was still a fairly chaotic situation in Iraq (although there had been contractors there for quite some time). But Ultra Services was the sister company of another one which had been contracting for a couple of years in Afghanistan - years. And yet no one, apparently, knew anything about this little niggling problem.
How is that possible? How can a company - and, I have to believe, multiple other small companies - deal for an extended period of time with the military and not once, apparently, be told about basic, fundamental rules for being a military contractor? I honestly, truly want to know. Did the military guys who were given the power to sign these contracts simply not know about it? Was there no training involved? No oversight - in not one military conflict but two? Or did the company really know about it but somehow manage to avoid the requirement?
Anyway, that's the first, egregious place of failure. The second is in what happened after Kirk went missing. However, to keep things short(ish), we'll save that for tomorrow.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Charted
Right, sorry about the lag there. So to recap, here's a little visual of the ideal claim process:
Next up?
The real world (okay, the world as I know it).
Next up?
The real world (okay, the world as I know it).
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Ideal
Right.
So I've been trying to work out how to write this and not be totally and terminally boring. I was going to do a nice flow chart complete with little colored boxes and arrows and everything. But for now we'll just talk through it.
So, here, highly simplified, is what is supposed to happen:
War (okay, war isn't supposed to happen, but that's where it all starts so...)
Which produces needs - things that the military either can't do or really shouldn't do as it is outside their core purpose.
Which leads some bright button to call for contract bids.
At which point the responsible person ensures that the bidding contractors are competent to do the job and, here's the clever bit, have insurance. Because, per that tricksy little Defense Base Act, IT'S THE LAW.
Once the contracting company has been thoroughly vetted the contract is given and individuals hired and, here's another clever bit (in an ideal world) THEY ARE GIVEN INFORMATION ABOUT THE INSURANCE AND THEIR RIGHTS.
So. Unfortunately this is where disaster happens and our poor contractor is injured, killed or, just possibly, missing.
As soon as this is reported either the contractor or the family is contacted (as is the insurance company) and some kind soul is assigned to walk them through the unfortunately complicated process of filing a claim.
Like telling them what form to use, who to talk to, how to provide supporting documents - all that stuff.
They might even, you know, ideally, keep track of the progress of the claim as it swims through the murky waters of government agencies - even protecting it from the voracious insurance sharks.
If I were really dreaming I'd even like to think there would be a timeline involved so that the claim would be acted on in less than, say, six years.
You know,
Ideally.
So I've been trying to work out how to write this and not be totally and terminally boring. I was going to do a nice flow chart complete with little colored boxes and arrows and everything. But for now we'll just talk through it.
So, here, highly simplified, is what is supposed to happen:
War (okay, war isn't supposed to happen, but that's where it all starts so...)
Which produces needs - things that the military either can't do or really shouldn't do as it is outside their core purpose.
Which leads some bright button to call for contract bids.
At which point the responsible person ensures that the bidding contractors are competent to do the job and, here's the clever bit, have insurance. Because, per that tricksy little Defense Base Act, IT'S THE LAW.
Once the contracting company has been thoroughly vetted the contract is given and individuals hired and, here's another clever bit (in an ideal world) THEY ARE GIVEN INFORMATION ABOUT THE INSURANCE AND THEIR RIGHTS.
So. Unfortunately this is where disaster happens and our poor contractor is injured, killed or, just possibly, missing.
As soon as this is reported either the contractor or the family is contacted (as is the insurance company) and some kind soul is assigned to walk them through the unfortunately complicated process of filing a claim.
Like telling them what form to use, who to talk to, how to provide supporting documents - all that stuff.
They might even, you know, ideally, keep track of the progress of the claim as it swims through the murky waters of government agencies - even protecting it from the voracious insurance sharks.
If I were really dreaming I'd even like to think there would be a timeline involved so that the claim would be acted on in less than, say, six years.
You know,
Ideally.
Friday, June 05, 2009
Reluctant
I didn't want to write this post.
Or the ones that will come after really.
For a few months I really thought I would write something quite different, something pretty simple and short and that would be the end of it.
But it's not, and I can't.
And I'm afraid the next few posts are going to be Not Much Fun. It's not going to be horrible or tragic or deeply awful or anything, just complicated and quite possibly dull as all get out. But it's the sort of thing it's hard to be flippant about and, quite honestly, I'm more than a little fed up.
So, you've had fair warning, and if you want to skip the next several posts then by all means feel free.
I am going to be breaking it up though, that's why the several upcoming posts, because to be quite honest I can't imagine anyone wanting to digest the whole thing in one go.
So, some of you might have seen an article here or there lately about AIG (in particular), a company that provides insurance for contractors in Iraq. There was a 20/20 special on it as well - all about how AIG was probably being a little to sharp in their business practices and how they were making it unbelievably difficult for contractors and their families to actually be paid. If you haven't seen the articles and you want to know a bit more you can check here for a collection of links put together by Susie Dow.
There's a mention in the articles about this little act that was passed back in 1941, back when the world was torn to pieces and, apparently, someone realized that eventually they were going to need folks who could put it back together again. It's called the Defense Base Act; an obscure piece of legislation, but American law all the same.
It's all pretty simple really, just a bit of writing that says it would be a really good idea to insure civilians before putting them to work in a war zone. And a note pointing out that as the country is hiring these folks, the country which has passed this particular act, the country should then take responsibility for seeing that things are done properly when someone is injured or killed - or when they go missing.
I mean really, how hard can that be?
Or the ones that will come after really.
For a few months I really thought I would write something quite different, something pretty simple and short and that would be the end of it.
But it's not, and I can't.
And I'm afraid the next few posts are going to be Not Much Fun. It's not going to be horrible or tragic or deeply awful or anything, just complicated and quite possibly dull as all get out. But it's the sort of thing it's hard to be flippant about and, quite honestly, I'm more than a little fed up.
So, you've had fair warning, and if you want to skip the next several posts then by all means feel free.
I am going to be breaking it up though, that's why the several upcoming posts, because to be quite honest I can't imagine anyone wanting to digest the whole thing in one go.
So, some of you might have seen an article here or there lately about AIG (in particular), a company that provides insurance for contractors in Iraq. There was a 20/20 special on it as well - all about how AIG was probably being a little to sharp in their business practices and how they were making it unbelievably difficult for contractors and their families to actually be paid. If you haven't seen the articles and you want to know a bit more you can check here for a collection of links put together by Susie Dow.
There's a mention in the articles about this little act that was passed back in 1941, back when the world was torn to pieces and, apparently, someone realized that eventually they were going to need folks who could put it back together again. It's called the Defense Base Act; an obscure piece of legislation, but American law all the same.
It's all pretty simple really, just a bit of writing that says it would be a really good idea to insure civilians before putting them to work in a war zone. And a note pointing out that as the country is hiring these folks, the country which has passed this particular act, the country should then take responsibility for seeing that things are done properly when someone is injured or killed - or when they go missing.
I mean really, how hard can that be?
Friday, May 29, 2009
Pun
I spent Memorial day weekend watching masochists. Someone noticed that there were two towns about fifty miles apart with a rather large mountain between them - a rather large mountain that, at the topish bit, was nearly 11,000 feet higher than the ocean. And that someone also noticed that a very clever person had built a) a road and b) a train-track between the towns and said to itself, gosh! Wouldn't it be absolutely great fun to ride a road bike from one town to the other and at the same time try to do it faster than the train can? Apparently around 2500 people agree with this. I, however, drove and thus beat the whole lot of them AND the train. Still, it was a very lovely drive and there were many opportunities at either end to purchase t-shirts and wooden train whistles.
When I finished watching the masochists I discovered that Child 3 and a friend had constructed a potato gun. This is apparently a perfectly natural thing to do because when they went to the Ginormous DIY Store to purchase various bits of plastic plumbing items (and the sparker thing off a gas grill) the employee helping them out said, 'oh! You're building a potato gun! Well, here's what you really want to get...'
They then spent a happy day launching not only potatoes but an entire green-grocers worth of fruit and veg all over the semi-abandoned mall down the street. By the way, if you have plans of creating your own potato gun, Child 3 recommends you try shooting Spam. Apparently it doesn't splatter - it bounces.
A few days later we had completely run out of potatoes, lemons, limes, Spam and anything else that would, with some effort, fit down a 1 1/2" PVC pipe. Child 3 and friend began roaming the house with speculative looks in their eyes which, naturally, I found deeply disturbing. After a bit of conversation it emerged that really what they wanted was something that would fly satisfactorily and hopefully do something amusing when it landed - preferably wet and amusing. Desperate to protect the living-room nick-knacks I suggested one of Child 3's socks.
There was a brief but passionate discussion about whether or not this would constitute both a chemical and biological weapon but it was agreed that soaking the socks first would be a good idea as otherwise the socks might ignite in the barrel.
At which point I had a flash of brilliance.
'Know what it would be if they did catch fire?'
Wary pause on part of family.
'A Molotov SOCKtail!'
Yup, and then I repeated it for the lucky few who had managed to miss it the first time.
And now there's a damp, grey sock in the hedge in my front yard.
When I finished watching the masochists I discovered that Child 3 and a friend had constructed a potato gun. This is apparently a perfectly natural thing to do because when they went to the Ginormous DIY Store to purchase various bits of plastic plumbing items (and the sparker thing off a gas grill) the employee helping them out said, 'oh! You're building a potato gun! Well, here's what you really want to get...'
They then spent a happy day launching not only potatoes but an entire green-grocers worth of fruit and veg all over the semi-abandoned mall down the street. By the way, if you have plans of creating your own potato gun, Child 3 recommends you try shooting Spam. Apparently it doesn't splatter - it bounces.
A few days later we had completely run out of potatoes, lemons, limes, Spam and anything else that would, with some effort, fit down a 1 1/2" PVC pipe. Child 3 and friend began roaming the house with speculative looks in their eyes which, naturally, I found deeply disturbing. After a bit of conversation it emerged that really what they wanted was something that would fly satisfactorily and hopefully do something amusing when it landed - preferably wet and amusing. Desperate to protect the living-room nick-knacks I suggested one of Child 3's socks.
There was a brief but passionate discussion about whether or not this would constitute both a chemical and biological weapon but it was agreed that soaking the socks first would be a good idea as otherwise the socks might ignite in the barrel.
At which point I had a flash of brilliance.
'Know what it would be if they did catch fire?'
Wary pause on part of family.
'A Molotov SOCKtail!'
Yup, and then I repeated it for the lucky few who had managed to miss it the first time.
And now there's a damp, grey sock in the hedge in my front yard.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Finally
It's finals week which means:
Little lost lambs are once more roaming the halls, trapping themselves down the very last corridor (mine) and bleating anxiously until rescued. My favorites are the ones who end up at my office and say hopefully, "Dean so-and-so? I just need this form signing..." Um... no.
Three little freshmen were sobbing bitterly at the bus stop when I ran by this morning simply because life had been cruel enough to curse them with a 7:30 AM exam in basic algebra. I might have suppressed my giggles slightly more successfully if two of them had not had "princess" and "slut" printed in sparkly script across their rather large bottoms.
The fac totum at the front desk is channeling her inner dragon to convince several hundred optimists that NO they cannot turn in their grubby collection of papers anonymously at the front desk and YES their instructor was telling the truth about the need for personal interaction at the end of the semester. Also, stop rolling your eyes at me young man and wait outside your prof's door just like everyone else.
The convocation program which was begun a week and a half ago and meant to be emailed to the printer last Friday will now not be completed until tomorrow afternoon. Again. Just like last year. Next year I'm sending it out as is, with notes all over saying "WHO is presenting the damn awards??" and "WHY DOES NO ONE KNOW IF WE'RE HAVING A SPEAKER??"
One delightful faculty member has already asked three times if we can cancel finals this week. I voted yes.
Another four have opined that a single, mild case of swine flu would be a really, really good thing for the campus in general. I've suggested speculative coughing in the main admin building couldn't hurt anything.
Those who successfully defended dissertations over the last two weeks have now lost their gloss of well earned smug self-congratulation and are sadly facing up to the stacks and stacks of Expository Writing assignments that somehow came home to roost in the mean time. Their peers are faking sympathy. Their mentors are ordering enough pizza to last out a siege. It will not be enough.
Child 1 has taken one final already, whizzing through it in record time and having its instructor grade it in front of the entire (still final taking) class. He only found one error.
Child 1 was not lynched.
Finals week does produce a few minor miracles still.
Little lost lambs are once more roaming the halls, trapping themselves down the very last corridor (mine) and bleating anxiously until rescued. My favorites are the ones who end up at my office and say hopefully, "Dean so-and-so? I just need this form signing..." Um... no.
Three little freshmen were sobbing bitterly at the bus stop when I ran by this morning simply because life had been cruel enough to curse them with a 7:30 AM exam in basic algebra. I might have suppressed my giggles slightly more successfully if two of them had not had "princess" and "slut" printed in sparkly script across their rather large bottoms.
The fac totum at the front desk is channeling her inner dragon to convince several hundred optimists that NO they cannot turn in their grubby collection of papers anonymously at the front desk and YES their instructor was telling the truth about the need for personal interaction at the end of the semester. Also, stop rolling your eyes at me young man and wait outside your prof's door just like everyone else.
The convocation program which was begun a week and a half ago and meant to be emailed to the printer last Friday will now not be completed until tomorrow afternoon. Again. Just like last year. Next year I'm sending it out as is, with notes all over saying "WHO is presenting the damn awards??" and "WHY DOES NO ONE KNOW IF WE'RE HAVING A SPEAKER??"
One delightful faculty member has already asked three times if we can cancel finals this week. I voted yes.
Another four have opined that a single, mild case of swine flu would be a really, really good thing for the campus in general. I've suggested speculative coughing in the main admin building couldn't hurt anything.
Those who successfully defended dissertations over the last two weeks have now lost their gloss of well earned smug self-congratulation and are sadly facing up to the stacks and stacks of Expository Writing assignments that somehow came home to roost in the mean time. Their peers are faking sympathy. Their mentors are ordering enough pizza to last out a siege. It will not be enough.
Child 1 has taken one final already, whizzing through it in record time and having its instructor grade it in front of the entire (still final taking) class. He only found one error.
Child 1 was not lynched.
Finals week does produce a few minor miracles still.
Friday, May 08, 2009
Sprung
It was Spring, at least I think it was - just a week ago or something. And then something went snap (or maybe Sproing!) and it's summer and the mercury is creeping past 90 already.
I can't tell what happened because I'm pretty sure April lasted at least eight weeks, possibly ten or so, but I'm not sure how we suddenly ended up in May already.
Without any warning at all (okay, except for the flashing lights. Also the sirens. And the loud honking noises) it's suddenly semester end and finals are looming for those so afflicted (of the faculty variety as well as students. Haunted young things are lurking in the halls clutching grubby print outs of essays and practicing the particular voice-hiccup that will express just how heartfelt is their sorrow over missing seven lectures and a mid-term. One by one PhD candidates have come in, white faced and shaking, to stare down a sympathetic (yet no less terrifying) set of faculty and explain just why they thought the world needed one more in-depth look at Romantic Poetry. Instructors of various ilk have the weary set to their shoulders seen only in those who must read 60 earnest 10 page papers stating the totally obvious as though it were entirely fresh and new.
One more week, and summer is officially here.
I can't tell what happened because I'm pretty sure April lasted at least eight weeks, possibly ten or so, but I'm not sure how we suddenly ended up in May already.
Without any warning at all (okay, except for the flashing lights. Also the sirens. And the loud honking noises) it's suddenly semester end and finals are looming for those so afflicted (of the faculty variety as well as students. Haunted young things are lurking in the halls clutching grubby print outs of essays and practicing the particular voice-hiccup that will express just how heartfelt is their sorrow over missing seven lectures and a mid-term. One by one PhD candidates have come in, white faced and shaking, to stare down a sympathetic (yet no less terrifying) set of faculty and explain just why they thought the world needed one more in-depth look at Romantic Poetry. Instructors of various ilk have the weary set to their shoulders seen only in those who must read 60 earnest 10 page papers stating the totally obvious as though it were entirely fresh and new.
One more week, and summer is officially here.
Friday, May 01, 2009
Unecessary
1 man-made duck pond, verdantly green with algae
3 dozen ducks
47-eleven goldfish of varying sizes
X-thousand undergraduates in assorted states of un-dress and/or washedness
2 handfuls toddlers with grubby handfuls of breadcrumbs
1 school outing (aged approx 6) half-heartedly chasing down an escapee who had slipped the hand-holding-chain
Why on earth did someone feel it was essential to post a sign saying, "Warning! Do not drink pond water!"
3 dozen ducks
47-eleven goldfish of varying sizes
X-thousand undergraduates in assorted states of un-dress and/or washedness
2 handfuls toddlers with grubby handfuls of breadcrumbs
1 school outing (aged approx 6) half-heartedly chasing down an escapee who had slipped the hand-holding-chain
Why on earth did someone feel it was essential to post a sign saying, "Warning! Do not drink pond water!"
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