Memorial Day

Friday afternoon found Liam and I in the local cemetery with other Cub Scouts, Girl Scouts, parents, and VFW members. From the back of his truck, a veteran handed us two bundles of flags to be placed to the left of the stone of any veteran's grave we found as we walked through the cemetery. They didn't give us any other direction. I had directions as a kid when I walked into a cemetery: no running and no walking on the graves. That last one threw me. I was immobilized from afar not knowing for sure where the graves were -- how long, how wide, how close they were to the stones.

Liam started skipping toward a group of white stones, and I pulled him back, explaining that he needed to show respect and walk along the graves. At which point, three scouts came running all-out toward us. I dished out one of my mainstream parenting lines, "Different people have different rules."

Many of the veterans graves were clumped together with simple white stones. Government supplied, perhaps. Etched in each stone was a cross, the soldier's name, rank, military branch, war or wars in which they served, followed by date of birth and death.

We came to the first one that had the Korean war listed, and I pointed it out to Liam.  It led to a short history lesson.  "Did the U.S. come to kill people in Korea?!"   No. The North invaded and attacked the South.  "South is where I was born, right?"  Yes. Soldiers from the U.S. went to help protect the people in the South.  "So, Harold saved my life?"  Lump.  Quite possibly.

We continued on with Liam favoring the veterans who had served in Korea.  I tucked in behind planting flags on graves he skipped.  I came to a soldier with three wars etched into his stone: WWII, Korea, Vietnam.  I called Liam over.  "Whoa, now he was a big warrior!  I'll do his flag!"

Within in a half hour, we had put out 20 flags and were ready to do more, but they had all been handed-out from the back of the truck. "So we can go home now?" Yes. Liam walk-skipped-danced along to the car.

I watched his happy 8-year-old legs bounce along without a word... absolutely certain that Harold and the other warriors would be OK with the skipping and the dancing.

(I loved this Memorial Day story from writer Beth Ann: Freedom Rocks -- about a young painter in Iowa  using his artistic talents to honor American Veterans.) 

Failure to Thrive on Social Media

My attempts at maintaining a presence on social media – Facebook, Twitter, and Pinterest – ebb and flow.  I’m not yet sure how I am supposed to keep up with the 815 people I am “Following” on Twitter.  I only have a sprinkling of people following me on Pinterest, and I seldom go on that site as I’m focusing on Twitter, then Facebook, then Twitter, then Facebook. Last week I decided to put a little money toward building my Facebook “Likes” for Linda Malcolm.  I boosted individual posts: I paid Facebook to let my writing go farther than immediate people who like me.

For one particular post, I shared “The Red-Toed Crab.”  It was a very late night, and I couldn’t sleep.  So thought I would get some work done.  I chose which countries to promote the post.  Normally, I choose the United States and England, for I have readers in both countries.  I remembered I had another reader in Brazil, so for a change, I also selected that country.

Here’s what I posted:

“I'm five years out from the breast cancer diagnosis. MRI's and mammograms are clean. The uncertainty before each result phone call still ebbs and flows. But now, three years beyond the writing of the Red-Toed Crab, the crab is intact.” With a link to The Red-Toed Crab and this picture:

I’m naïve.  Perhaps I thought my words would be translated to Portuguese when that post flew the wires to Brazil.  In the end, approximately 19,000 people in Brazil saw the post; over 250 “liked” the picture.  Six comments were left in Portuguese.  After clicking "translate," I found that five Brazilian women love my sandals and one Brazilian man loves my red toes.

Honest to Pete, my writing self would’ve fit so much better into the 1900’s hard copy style.  Last week, Linda Malcolm failed to thrive on social media.

Today, I find hard copy mighty alluring.

Riding the Strands of Fireworks

A single fuse is lit. A gust of gun powder soars into the sky as one and pops into a sprinkling of sparkling, bright fireworks. It’s not a vision of the 4th of July. It’s the explosion of everyone’s spring activities. Post spring break. Well choreographed are the questions. “Where are you supposed to be tonight?” “Who should you send these pictures to?” “Is this a practice or a game?” “What day does your flight leave?” “Where is your uniform?” “Which baseball shoes are mine?” “Do you have a white shirt and black pants for me?” “What time do you need to be there?” “What you do you want to do for Mother’s Day?” “How many more days are left of school?” And it’s me asking that last question. 21.

Families who have kids in elementary school are riding on the same combustive fuselage.

After a few crazy splintered mornings, I try to get up early enough to have a cup of coffee alone. I play some calm music in the morning. Or, I sit down at the piano for 10 minutes, letting my right hand lead the melody while my left hand struggles for the harmonious chord. I need 6 beats to a measure for a song in 4/4 time – finding the chord always take me a couple extra beats.

Will and Liam have their own morning routines, usually looking something like this. Although Liam can’t play Minecraft every morning, he can read about it.

On this particular morning, Will put down his Ranger’s Apprentice series and read my “story spinner” – what Liam so aptly named my spiral-bound manuscript… gulp… of the Staying Strong stories I wrote some five years ago.  The breast cancer year.

As we leave for school, the rocks call Will and Liam’s names.  And I do not, do not, do not want to herd them into the van.  I want to let them sit there and read, and read, and read.

Yes, we are ready for summer.  When mornings can start with the bean bags being dragged to the fort by the boys.  With a book tucked under each of their arms.