My Story and Beyond

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INTERVIEW WITH BOOMERS ON BOOKS

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EXERCISE IN 2020

Gyms are closed. Spas and hairdressers are shut down. Disney is empty as are Legoland and other iconic playgrounds. The movie and stage theaters have closed their doors. As I was driving in a distant neighborhood yesterday, I ran across this scene. He is using tow ropes, the kind used on tugboats for pulling large boats. When he finished, I lifted the bulk of one, and it was heavy. His resourcefulness had enabled him to transform a hefty rope into an ingenious exercise tool.

I must say I enjoy witnessing the creativity I am seeing in our fellow man during this pandemic time. This individual, who is obviously dedicated to working out, picked up a sledgehammer, flashed “The Bone Breaker” words on the front of his shirt, and proceeded to strike the top of a side-lying tractor tire with swift, muscle-building movements. He held the tool high over his head and brought it down with a vengeance. I wondered whom he had in mind as he struck the hardened rubber.

When he completed his set, he pointed to the two mannequin figures standing in the entrance to his garage. “I use those for kickboxing.”  He walked toward them and placed himself behind the one on his right. He punched the upper portion of the form and quickly lifted and stretched his left leg and kicked the other one. He transferred to the shape on his left and repeated the action in the same sequence. This guy did not require a gym; he could take those costs out of his budget, I told myself as I walked back toward my car.  

As I drove away, he was sitting on the tire with his legs to the outside, doing sit-ups.

I continue to be amazed at the inventiveness and the positivity in the people I meet. This gentleman had his own gym set up in his front yard and garage. He told me his neighbors were out in the nearby cul-de-sac many mornings doing Crossfit. No, we Americans won’t lie down. We will find other ways to take care of ourselves when life presents obstacles to doing just that. –November 12, 2020

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A SENSE OF PANDEMIC TIME

Do you feel it? The heaviness in the air being lifted as the smog and the dinginess are taken away by gusts of wind, leaving no remnants behind. Do you hear it? The sounds of silence. The echoing voices and chatter of large crowds becoming dimmer. The birds trilling, calling, and singing louder than ever heard before. Do you see it? The empty streets, the lack of diesel exhaust hovering over the pavement. The empty schools, restaurants, retail stores. The peopleless bleachers, the riderless rides in the amusement parks, the empty seats in the movie and stage theaters. The illumination of the clouds in the skies. Can you smell it? The cleaner air, the clearer waters, and that missing stench of diesel exhaust. Can you touch it? Maybe the most significant of all: the loss of human touch, the limitation in hugs and handshakes. The inability to place a finger on your own face. Can you taste it? The pungent flavor of foods that have been washed more strictly, the pleasant flavors of the hot teas and coffees, the recommended hot liquids.

While our senses are detecting and processing the changes in our world, the farmers are hurting. What is typically sold to restaurants and other businesses that handle food has been sitting in the fields. Zucchini, lettuce, and squash are rotting in their beautifully manicured rows, proffering a stench unknown and unaccepted by the local grower. With the restaurants closed or doing minimal delivery orders, the agriculturalists have no place to send their produce. This places the greatest burden on those gardens producing for a chain of restaurants. Because of their loss of income, the farmers cannot afford to pay the harvest help to get the rotting crops out of the fields or transport it away. I simply cannot imagine. The pungent odor of putrefying fruit and vegetables would be most repulsive.

The dairy farmers are dumping milk. With restaurants, hotels, and schools closed, the demand for milk has been reduced significantly. A dairy in Arizona discarded one million gallons daily. This hurts my soul, as I am someone who cannot waste one single item, and I wasn’t even born during the Depression years. I must have earned that proclivity from my father who did live through the Depression and saved every empty milk jug, every piece of plastic or metal he ever had in his possession. He did repurpose most of those treasured items, but he left an awful lot behind for family members to clear away. But the milk. Oh, mon âme! It is distressing knowing there are young children out there who are not getting their daily portion of milk or, for that matter, a healthy, balanced meal. The schools are closed. The children are home, and some families don’t care about balanced nutrition. The closed restaurants aren’t buying the milk, and the cattle owners are simply letting the milk flow. Literally.

Bill Gates, who is worth approximately two hundred sixty billion at the time of this writing, has come to the rescue once again. He donated two hundred fifty million dollars to the world food organization. Publix is also trying to help and hopes to get some of the vegetation out of the fields and transport it to community food banks. Considering the number of people who have been laid off or furloughed, this would be an extreme help to those who cannot afford groceries.

TPC in Ponte Vedra Beach, Florida was cancelled after the first day, and the golf tournament was shut down. The Master’s Tournament in Augusta, Georgia was also cancelled. I recalled the many weeks of TPC when some of my siblings crowded into my small house. We played card games, Mexican Train, and imbibed. The partying lasted five days with two days spent on the golf course. We could have easily handled a cancellation if it had happened while they were here. We would have spent more time playing games.

March Madness did not even begin. All sports events were cancelled. NFL Draft picks were postponed. Major League Baseball did not get its season’s start. Hockey season was cancelled.

Canada and Australia have urged the Olympics Committee to postpone Olympics 2020.

Yes, our world has changed. But we can only hope we are moving in the right direction and that we have abandoned the path we were on, the one that was making the earth groan beneath the weight of our destruction. Do you recognize it? The earth is celebrating. –October 18, 2020

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THE PANDEMIC – AN OPPORTUNITY FOR A REBOOT ?

On the first day of self-quarantine, after traveling to Florida from Illinois where the virus had already gained notice, I looked out my front window and saw a family of four riding their bicycles. Five minutes later, a middle-school aged child strolled along while clasping a book at eyelevel, reading. After a short interval, a young elementary-school boy circled the cul-de-sac with both feet planted on a hoverboard. 

Rarely have I seen my neighbors outside of their vehicles on the streets in my neighborhood except for the occasional jogger or foot-traveler, and the view of outdoor activity was a welcome sight.

Last night I witnessed a scene of families socially connecting while keeping their physical distance. We can find the positives in this critical period in our lives even as we pray for the medical professionals; first responders; those citizens and families impacted by the virus; truck and delivery personnel; postal service folk; and our restaurant, grocery, and other essential needs’ employees. God bless America.

Since the beginning of the coronavirus entry into our great country, I have observed my neighbors and family members making changes in their lifestyles and interactions with each other, as I have noticed alterations in my own perceptions and perspectives. Hadn’t I been engaged in hectic activity filled with nonproductive, nonessential “busy work?” Hadn’t I pushed others away, blaming my industrious schedule, while declining invitations to social outings? With my boyfriend? With good friends?

Since Covid’s arrival, I have dropped the busyness of filling my time with unimportant tasks but, rather, I have engaged in Face Time, spending quality time in direct, eye-to-eye interaction with my boyfriend, daughters, and grandsons. More social calls have been placed and received on my cellphone in the last month than it has delivered in years. Following the start of the working-from-home and physical distancing, my eldest daughter looked directly into my eyes the first time I Facetimed, stopping what she was doing to speak, to look at me, to disallow any distraction to bend her focus. My heart silently somersaulted with joy. Previously when I called, she raced around her kitchen with purposeful, quick movements, trying to outwit the clock, all the while displaying a hectic and preoccupied facial expression. On this call and subsequent phone visits, she has peered into the phone screen and her eyes have met mine.

I have also reached out to distant family and friends. My boyfriend and my brother-in-law tell me they have heard from high school buddies they have not seen or spoken to in decades. It is as though the externally imposed freeze in our hectic lifestyles prompted the need for a reboot. A refresh of our interconnectedness and human ties. A restart in the circuitry for grasping the meaning of life. – July 28, 2020

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THE WORLD ON PAUSE

Yes, 2020 really happened

If someone told us five or ten years ago, the world would be completely shut down in 2020, we would not accept their prediction as truth. If they went on to describe the closure of churches, restaurants, salons, spas, retail stores, gyms, malls, shopping centers, movie theaters, museums, and amusement parks, we would say, “No way.” We grimace as they tell us adventure parks and iconic playgrounds would close, but when they tell us the Disney parks would not reopen until the beginning of 2021, we hold steadfast to our denial.

“High School Seniors will not have end of the year Senior pranks, graduation events or celebratory parties. High school baseball players will play their last game without that realization. They will be told after that game there will be no others. The tears that flow down the cheeks of those players will be heartbreaking to their parents and the coaches. The Senior athletes will move on to the next stage, whether it be college or the world of work but without the experience of Senior Night or the end of the season Sports Banquet. Senior Prom will slip quietly by the potential pairs of escorts and dates, remaining forever in the background shadows.”

Parade of High School Seniors

Seeing they have not convinced us, they continue with, “All schools will be closed throughout the world. Medical professionals and hospitals will only accept life-threatening illnesses and surgeries, with elective operations placed on the proverbial back burner. Dental offices, orthopedists, chiropractors, and plastic surgeons will only see emergencies. Spa masseuses and hairdressers forced to stop working. No teeth cleaning.  No routine bone replacements. No neck manipulations, no Botox or body modifications.

“The medical workers who are seeing patients will be our front-line soldiers, fighting the invisible enemy, stretching themselves beyond recognition and drowning in fatigue. They constantly rush from one coronavirus patient to another to intubate, hook up a ventilator, or hold a hand attached to the dear old soul who is passing on from this world, alone, without family or loved ones within reach—they are not allowed to visit. These combatants, along with essential personnel, including first responders, police, grocery store employees, truck drivers, janitorial, USPS, FedEx and others, will become the heroes in this new society.” In response, we only shake our heads in disbelief.  

With dogged persistence, they communicate the banning of entertainment events and the cancellation of Broadway shows, other live stage theater productions, Ted talks, concerts, conventions, conferences, festivals, and other venues with large audiences. Sports cease. All major and minor league sports events are cancelled as well as children’s sports and practices. No baseball. No swimming. No activities in the community parks. NFL draft is entirely virtual. We would have repeated a resounding “no” to each item, finding their statements unimaginable and unbelievable.

Necessary items in households in 2020

If they maintained what we perceive as their idiocy, telling us many businesses—small and large—will be forced to close their doors (some, for good) and all people in all countries coerced to stay home, with company employees working from home and only medical and essential employees working outside of their house, we would reply, “That’s impossible. That can’t happen.” They add, “With unemployment rates higher than ever, many lose their jobs, particularly in the entertainment, culinary, hospitality, travel, airline, and tourist industries. Home delivery and online ordering become the rage and online stores reap the benefit. The shoppers are at home and can only enter brick and mortar stores selling essential items.” We are stunned, unable to envision such a locked down world.

“With all the people sheltering at home,” they add, “California divorce lawyers see an increase in inquiries about divorce representation. Most making inquiries are 40 and 50-year-olds who, now having had a glimpse of their future retirement years, decide they no longer wish to be with this partner. Domestic violence and retail violence are up.”

As an added insult, they inform us toilet paper would immediately become a shortage, causing us to gasp and grab whatever item is within our reach and throw it at them.

But here we are. The world has paused. Skyscrapers in the big cities are vacant. Wedding venues are empty; plans of living happily ever after are postponed. Family celebrations and birthdays are put off. Funerals cannot take place. The national parks shelter only the animals; no humans can pass through their entrance gates. The Vatican is mourning the loss of its spiritual pilgrims. The absence of tourists renders the Eiffel Tower useless as a point of reference. The Irish pubs are without customers. The streets of London are as deserted as they were during the Blitz of World War II. The French Quarter in New Orleans is unoccupied except for the adrift inhabitants living rough on its streets. Theater stage shows are no longer playing, as Broadway lights have been extinguished along with the lighted numbers surrounding Wall Street’s New York Stock Exchange trading floor. Chicago’s Willis Tower is not admitting observers in search of panoramic views on its Skydeck. All completely shut down.

And the impact is felt everywhere on this great earth. However, the Venice canals are clear, the birds can be seen flying through previously smog-filled air over large cities, car exhaust is not noticeable on the streets or highways as those byways are virtually empty. And the residents are hanging out their windows and singing, playing instruments, and serenading their fellow countrymen. Those gestures will spark music artists to perform concerts, Broadway shows to stream, and celebrities to read children’s books–all online.

Churches hold online worship services, Sunday School teachings are held on Zoom, and Easter egg hunts occur within the small family group.  No Easter meal is prepared for extended family members. Grandma and Grandpa are not allowed. Opera singer, Andrea Bocelli, sings for the world on Easter day. At the same time, teddy bears and Easter eggs are put in houses’ front windows for children to participate in the drive-by hunt for them.

Online Facetime, Zoom, Google Meets, and other virtual means are allowing families and friends—some who have not reached out to each other in decades—to resume connections. Technology has saved them, and no one’s imagination is permitted to go to the dark place of lost cell communication or a dismantled grid. Without the freedom to use mobile phones, computers, iPads, or even Kindles—softback and hardback books are not essential products and fall behind priority items in online deliveries—the situation would be far less endurable. People become dependent on technology for all social interaction, and without the capability of virtual connecting, they would be totally, socially isolated. But what would they do if they did not have it? A pandemic in the 70’s or 80’s would have devastated social connections.

Technology is used for connecting with loved ones, but the human touch is missing.

Grandparents facetime with their grandchildren. No hugs. No kisses. Families put puzzles together, play board games, go for bike rides or walks, read books, eat meals, and pray, all while spending quality time with each other. Parents are teaching children and appreciating the teaching faculty as they put their students in detention. Assemblies of school graduates cannot occur but cars holding the graduates and their families drive by the podium placed in the middle of the Los Angeles speedway and each graduate reaches out and receives their diploma. The family car then takes a run around the track. Others entitled to diplomas are recognized in Zoom presentations and parades throughout residential areas across the nation. Guests unable to attend birthday parties have already paraded—well before then.

America becoming stronger. Coming together. Relaxing. Not feeling the hectic rush of life. It is as though we are all awaking from a long hibernation. Did we even notice we were asleep? Or frozen? I feel a movement that I cannot fully explain. As though we have all had the reset button pushed. We are on pause, waiting for the circular cycling of connectivity to finally stop … and we are connected. –July 21, 2020 

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LIVING IN THE MOMENT

(an excerpt from Married to Merlot)

When I returned from Sedona, I felt recharged. I called Lindsey when I arrived at the airport and told her I was going to drive to the house, pick her up, and head to Mickler’s Beach, a few miles from the house. I wanted to keep the peaceful, serene feeling I had attained when I was in Sedona, and I already felt some of it slipping away. It was ten p.m. by the time we walked across the boardwalk to the beach. We climbed up onto the lifeguard’s chair and sat side by side. The soft slush of the waves returned that peaceful feeling to me.

We talked quietly, but we felt the serenity and stopped talking after a while. We sat and breathed it all in. It was a beautiful, iridescent, full-moon night, and I thanked God for this special moment with my youngest daughter

I watched as the moon’s luminescent path saluted us; the path started at the lower rim of the moon and rolled out like a golden carpet toward us, where we sat high above the sands.

I finally spoke. “It has been such a short time since your dad’s death, and there is so much I will learn from this. I have already learned one thing, though, since he left me. I never lived in the moment before, and I am really trying to do that. I am doing that right now. How can you not be in the moment with this beauty in front of you?” I watched as the moon’s luminescent path saluted us; the path started at the lower rim of the moon and rolled out like a golden carpet toward us, where we sat high above the sands. I felt such peace, and I was grateful.

Lindsey turned to me in surprise. “What do you mean?” she asked. “Doesn’t everyone do that?”

Now it was my turn to be surprised, but I said nothing. Of course, this dear, young woman always lived in the moment. Wasn’t she the one that always woke up to a brand-new day? Wasn’t she always “happy-happy-joy-joy”? Of course! How could she not be? She was always living in the moment.

I had to read and search and research to discover that I needed to stop waiting, stop worrying, and start staying in the present moment. My youngest daughter had been in the moment all her life. I had never heard her complain about an event in the past. I had never heard her make judgmental statements about others or about herself. I had never heard her express worry. She had frequent, observable moments of joyfulness. She lived life fully, without resisting and without manipulating. She simply let it happen. She showed no fear, and she tended to think and act deliberately and with confidence.

She always seemed to have been in touch with another realm. Wasn’t she the one who sat upright in the bed one night when I was tucking her in and surprised me with a profound statement? She had looked directly at me and said, “I didn’t know you were going to be my mother.” She was only five years old, and the look in her eyes vanished as quickly as it had appeared. I knew what she meant at the time, and I hugged her to me.

All the searching I had done, and the best example of living in the moment and having inner peace was right under my nose the whole time. I could certainly learn from her wisdom. I had always resisted during my life. I resisted what my husband was doing. I resisted what my children were doing. I resisted and complained about my workload, both at my job and at my home. I was never satisfied. I had to be in control, and I had to make sure everyone else was doing the right thing. After all, I knew what was best for them. That is what I used to think. I finally knew better, but first I needed to mourn, let go, and prepare myself for the new me. Again. –January 22, 2021

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LIVING WITH AN ALCOHOLIC

I sit and watch the hours go by. Waiting and waiting — but for what? Waiting to leave this prison of thoughts? Or just waiting — a passing of the time?

I wrote those lines when I was twenty-one, and decades later I saw that I was still waiting. It seemed I had been waiting all my life. Waiting for my husband’s heavy drinking to reach the last stage of alcoholism, a stage in which the disease grips the drug user and does not let go. Waiting for my children to reach that next milestone in life—one that I believed would be easier or more fun or less stressful. Waiting for the future. I was never living in the present. I am sure there were fleeting moments of being present, but I was usually worried about something that had happened in the past or anxious about what would happen in the future. I was not always this way. Living with an alcoholic and playing a part in the illness can do this to you.

Photo by Carol Watson

I have learned so much since embarking on my unexpected journey. I learned the meaning behind “living in the moment.” I learned to rely on my higher being and my God to get me through the tragedy that found itself wielding its debacle on my family. I found an inner peace that, while it was not constant, it branded its serene, quiet stillness on my heart and enabled me to get through the days, one moment at a time.

My hope for writing Married to Merlot was that individuals who found themselves in similar situations or who found themselves wishing their lives away, thinking about the past or yearning for a better future, would read my story and be inspired to change their way of thinking and ultimately change their unsatisfying way of living. I wish I had found Al-Anon when I was going through the stress of living with an alcoholic. My husband’s problem became my problem. While I recognized that faulty thinking and knew his was a disease that required treatment for him to overcome the illness, I slowly let go of any factual knowledge. And I eventually replaced it with an emotional, bitter, angry reaction to behavior that I thought was within my husband’s control. What that did to my self-image was deplorable.

Alcoholism is a pervasive disease whose execrable tentacles reach out and touch all socio-economic levels and all professions in our society. Ours is a drinking culture, and many people do not realize the nasty progression of this insidious disease. The statistics vary, but some reports indicate one out of ten who drink will end up with their drinking leading to serious problems for them and for their families. This statistic is especially germane to the military personnel who returned from the Vietnam War but also to some of those returning from the Iraq and Afghanistan wars. Many of these individuals find they are unable to acclimate to society and to “life.” They have great difficulty adjusting to everyday life when they have been exposed to traumatic horrors in a land far from home.

I am currently a member of an Al-Anon forum on Facebook and what strikes me each time I read a post from someone suffering with a loved one who is addicted to alcohol, is the invariable need to ruminate and obsess about them. Al-Anon practices help the individual to separate emotionally and remove themselves from the addict’s path, but when a spouse is involved, how does that work? Where is the partner in the marriage? Where is the love and respect? Shaking my head, I know how alone these individuals must feel, as I felt alone and on my own during most of my thirty-three-year marriage. I am no longer alone, and the person I am with is a true partner. He and I share common values, goals, life qualities, and I enjoy my time with him. Quite different from my previous relationship.

Life is unpredictable. There are no guarantees. I have said that to my partner numerous times, and I have learned to accept life events without resisting or trying to manipulate them to my idea of what should be. Grasping a greater ability to stay in the moment, I have adopted a peaceful outlook on life and know I can handle what it will bring. Through my years of soul-searching, I eventually accepted the loss of my previous life and reinvented my new self, and I know you can too. You absolutely can adapt to whatever change occurs in life, and you can move forward, one small step at a time. And, anyway, aren’t we constantly adapting? Isn’t that a part of living? (This post includes excerpts from Married to Merlot.) –July 22, 2020                                   

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VFW Post 1322’s Vision 2025: a Morale Welfare Recreation center for veterans at home?

VFW POST 1322’s VISION 2025

If you have read Married to Merlot, you met the Sears Soldier who was disconnected and had no one to talk to after his four deployments to Iraq. His reticence was related to the belief he did not think anyone could possibly comprehend what he saw, felt, and experienced when he was unit commander in Iraq.

Fortunately, the men and women in Iraq and Afghanistan had a place where they could connect and be with each other, where they could feel the camaraderie. MWR. The Morale Welfare Recreation Center was the place where they could go, relax, and just be–with like-minded individuals. Most importantly, the center afforded them a setting in which they could share a mutual understanding and trust with peers who experienced some of the same horrors, contributing to a feeling of connectedness.

All larger bases had an MWR center, and service persons on outposts usually rotated back to the larger bases every ten days, and so they also had access to the centers and were provided time for decompressing. But what happened to all these men and women when they returned to the states? Many of them lost that connection.  Sears Soldier was one of them.

Not only did our service men and women lose connection with each other when they came home, but they did not feel any connection with people who had no comprehension of what they had just experienced. Their worldview had changed, and they felt lost and alone.

VFW Post 1322, the oldest post in Arkansas—located in Van Buren–hopes to reach that younger veteran segment with their Vision 2025 expansion.  VFWs across our nation have been filled with the World War II service members and a few Vietnam veterans, but the Afghanistan and Iraq warriors were not crossing the VFW thresholds.

By bringing these young service men and women into the VFW, where they can gather, be with like-minded individuals, and feel that camaraderie once again, Post 1322 can be contributing to a lessening of the emotional impact of war-time as well as helping to decrease the suicide rate in this population. Married to Merlot’s first profits will be donated to Vision 2025.  I had been looking for a project such as this, as I was seeing more and more isolation among some of our service members, and it seemed to be contributing to the lack of connection and the feeling a lot of them have of not belonging in this world.  Kudos to Post 1322 and their Vision 2025! — September 14, 2019

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THE AFTERMATH OF WAR

Writing this labor of love was born out of a need to resolve anything left undone after coming out of a marriage with a spouse who I am convinced had post-traumatic stress disorder. Depression and alcohol addiction were merely the symptoms. While his story is a part of it, it is really my narrative–my journey through codependency, awakening, and eventual healing and peace. We all have something. We all cope in different ways and have our own methods of healing. For me, taking pen in hand was “the write way” to heal.

However, it is not just my journey. Behind the story I tell is the aftermath of war and its impact on families. Wartime impacts not only the men and women fighting on the battlefield but also their loved ones: spouses, children, parents, and siblings. For some, the impact may not be felt until decades later. I would not have written my memoir if Vietnam had not happened in my husband’s life nor would my daughters and I have gone through this debacle.

I was married to a Vietnam Veteran.  My husband would not talk about his time as a medic in the Vietnam War. He had told me there was no sense in talking about it—no one could possibly understand. I think there are things so far outside of what a person can imagine, so far out of human awareness, that the person knows he cannot talk about that unimaginable thing. Knowing he can barely understand it himself, he realizes it is impossible for anyone else to comprehend.

“Could I have possibly grasped the picture of my husband as a young boy of twenty in a crowded hospital room in the middle of a jungle with moaning, crying, pleading soldiers begging for their lives to be saved … or to be ended?   Could I understand the young Mike’s torment from day to day when he faced the crowded infirmary, filled with bloodied, writhing, half-torn bodies and heard the cries and smelled the stench of burnt flesh, fresh blood, and rotting body tissue?  Not to mention the bodily fluids.  

“Could I have known that he handled a lot of patients whose bodies were covered with white phosphorus, which had left chemical burns that melted through their flesh and left horrible, seeping burns and large, gaping, bloodied flesh wounds?  That he attempted to get the phosphorus out by lowering those torn bodies down into a water trough only to then hear the screaming when the water touched those open wounds?  And that he had to keep the bodies submerged in the water even while the soldiers fought him?  Could I have imagined all that he saw, what decisions he had to make–who to save and whom to up the morphine on?   Could I imagine a young boy in such a situation, a boy who should have been sitting in a clean, sterile university classroom, trying to keep from falling asleep while the professor droned on about western civilization?

“How did he manage to keep his sanity after hearing the sounds, seeing the sights, and smelling the stench of the by-products of that awful war?”  (excerpt from Married to Merlot)

How did any of the Vietnam vets manage to live even remotely normal lives after their involvement in the war of attrition or the “body count” war?  We know many of them did not. Many of them died by their own hand. Another number are homeless on our streets. I think Oprah Winfrey said it first: Shame on us. — July 8, 2019

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MEET THE COVER ARTIST

Photo by Carman Watson

As the years progressed and my writing continued, I had a vision of the book cover, and I knew that only my artistic sister Carol Watson could ever create the picture I had floating in my head. I do not understand how it is that the cover illustrator gets so little recognition–no more than a phrase on the copyright page. Knowing my sister’s talent, I wanted her to paint the bottle of Merlot. I also wanted to insert her bio in the back matter of my memoir. Since she only did the cover art without illustrating the interior, that was not going to happen. However, nothing keeps me from presenting her bio now.

Carol Watson started oil painting in January 2005 (at the age of 57!) when she participated in a ten-week workshop given by a local artist. She was hooked, and after that enlightening experience, she started her new hobby with inspirational vigor and attended multiple workshops and classes.

In addition to reading and studying art literature, Carol visits art museums and galleries, and she continues to paint at every opportunity. Her works and paintings are displayed at Gallery 307 in Russellville, Arkansas. Her focus is devoted to studying and developing her potential in order to capture the lights and shadows that give color, beauty, and mystery to an oil painting. 

Carol and her husband, Norman, have two adult children who also reside in their hometown of Russellville.  While loving her time with her two grandsons, she also enjoys traveling, biking, walking, cooking and volunteering at the Manna House, a mission outreach of the First United Methodist Church. — June 10, 2019

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SELF-HELP THROUGH STORYTELLING

Who would have thought after thirty-four years of marriage that I would come to this chapter in my life? I certainly did not. After I married my college sweetheart, I assumed I would have the normal, fairy-tale marriage. But life has a way of changing the definition of normal. Or my normal had always been a dysfunctional existence.

I decided to write my account—along with his story—when I realized I needed a self-help book to get me through the challenges I was facing. In addition, my writing desire was spurred by the assumption my narrative would be beneficial to others.

More importantly, I wanted to describe the underbelly of marital life with an alcoholic while depicting the difficulties surrounding life with a spouse who has PTSD and depression after Vietnam war trauma (and early childhood loss). A final objective was to unmask the range of feelings related to the experience of betrayal, separation, divorce, a husband’s rising mental health issues, tragedy, loss, and grief.  

While I had previously read several personal development books, none had included reactions to divorce, challenges with PTSD victims and the aftermath of war, or the impact of rising mental health issues on the family.  Although I have always appreciated the concepts, theories, and practical applications within the pages of self-help books, stories speak to me more.  How many times have I sat in classrooms or conference sessions, bored and restless, until the teacher or speaker began to illustrate his point with a story? How that always perked me up!  

As a school psychologist and former mental health therapist, I was bound and determined not to become embittered or watch my emotional health decline because of grievous events that had already occurred and were still happening in my life.  I wanted to use my background and education and weave self-help concepts and tips into my storytelling. To relate to and help others. To show others they are not alone. To give them hope. To remind them they can get through this. — January 17, 2019

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WRITING IS CATHARTIC

I sat at my breakfast table and wrote for one solid hour immediately after my husband walked out of our home. After that, I periodically took notes in an effort to analyze my marriage, comprehend our separation (along with the pending divorce), and understand his addictive behavior. I was abruptly halted, however, ten months later when another tragic event occurred. Following that tragedy, my writing continued in full force for two years.

Most of my words were penned in an old, gray cabin at a table that had slowly detached much of the pale yellow coat clinging to its surface. The timeworn table, situated in the middle of a scantily furnished kitchen, faced a screened-in porch. The windows and the porch screen provided the lens through which my eyes could gaze upon the tranquil view of the Arkansas River Valley where it lay at the foot of the mountain and fanned out to the eastern horizon.

I sat for many hours at the kitchen table that dominated the main room of the rustic cabin that belonged to my husband’s family. The three-room cabin is perched on the top edge of his beloved Mount Nebo. I am convinced I could not have recovered and reached peace had I not let my thoughts and emotions run down my arm into the pen and onto the paper. — January 3, 2019