Boreal B[l]og

A few years back, we drove over to LA for the wedding of my youngest niece.  The other two had had their weddings on the East Coast, but we aren’t close to our families, and we didn’t go.  LA was a day’s drive away, and we thought we ought to make at least one of the weddings and see the family.  We both felt it was a duty, so we did it.  Family visits, of course, have a down side, but that’s families, and that’s duty.  You pick your friends, not your family.

On the plus side, I could get to see Channel Islands National Park, which was on my “See all the National Parks” list.  We drove over on a Thursday, mistakenly believing that staying up in Ventura would make the travel easier.  It didn’t.  We entered freeways where speed went from 75 to zero in a half mile.

We had a great visit on Santa Cruz Island the next day.

On Santa Cruz Island. Hard to believe 10 million people are right across the water.

On a big plus side were some whales.

Anacapa Is. from Santa Cruz.

We thought we could easily make the rehearsal dinner that Friday night, but well, the boat bringing us back from Channel Islands was a little late, so we got to the hotel a little late, and check in was a disaster.  The first room had luggage present which wasn’t ours, and when we went back to the reception desk, a good walk in its own right, they looked at us with disbelief.  We did get a second room, except the room card didn’t work.  Back we went.  Bottom line was that we could get into the third room with about as many swipes of the card. We took it.  The hotel was deemed 10 stars; I wondered aloud whether “10” was binary notation.

Somewhere along the line, my observant wife noted both the clock and a Trader Joe’s next door, announcing to me that we weren’t going to the rehearsal dinner.  I had a brief moment of “we can’t do that,” followed by visions of driving in LA on a Friday night, which in my 45 years of driving in several countries, was in the top three for difficulty (Toronto and Cádiz, Spain are the other two). After the “we can’t do that,” came “wow, we could just relax and start the visit early tomorrow morning,” which is exactly what we did.

Saturday morning, we went to the bride’s house, offering our services for whatever she needed.  We weren’t part of the wedding party, but we had a car, which is a total necessity in LA.  My niece desperately needed a few things at a pharmacy and a store, and we got them with no problem.  She was grateful.  I thought that nice, given that what we got was easy to do.  For us, it was.  We then took my sister-in-law (SIL) out for coffee.  That got her out of the house, for which both she and my niece were appreciative, albeit for very different reasons.  We went to a coffee shop for about an hour and a half, and for the then 42 years I had known her, we had the best conversation I can ever remember.  I think the fact I was fairly relaxed, aside from being in LA, and my SIL really stressed had a lot to do with how well things went.

We went to the wedding early.  I hadn’t been looking forward to meeting my SIL’s estranged husband.  I didn’t like him on several levels, not the least was how he had treated her.  He had crossed Jerk Junction so many times that it no longer had a “Stop and Think” sign.  A short time after we arrived, a few older men showed up, and my wife and I went down to meet them.  Sometime after I shook hands with all, my wife commented, “That was xxxx, you know.”

I didn’t.  I don’t have prosopagnosia, or the inability to recognize faces, but I am not exactly good at placing faces on people, especially those whom I have not seen for 16 years.  I hadn’t a clue that I had just shaken hands with the estranged husband, which meant that I treated him like a stranger, which in many ways he was, politely, without giving away my dislike.  Wow, I couldn’t have scripted that better if I had tried.

The wedding went well, and at the dinner, I volunteered to sit between the parents of the bride, her near-ex’s voice booming out loud and clear, as he was the Master of Ceremonies.  It wasn’t a big deal, after all, sitting between the two of them.  I had to deal once with his trying to bring up Navy days, for we both served in very different ways, but I had no desire to talk either to him or about my time in the service 35 years earlier. I ignored him.  I made sure I turned towards my SIL, listening carefully to her and my wife, talking when I could, and somehow getting food into my mouth without looking at my plate, in order to avoid any further interaction with her then-husband.  When husband got up to make a toast, I shoveled food into my mouth.  The rest of the time, I kept the two of them away from each other, possibly avoiding a scene. When things were winding down, we left, got back to the hotel, and were on the road early the next morning, eastbound to the Colorado River and Arizona, LA in our rear view mirror.  Mac Davis in reverse, for those who go back to 1980 in their music.

We weren’t at all important in the wedding party.  Yet, I have fond memories of what I did that day.  We were the two most relaxed people present.  We had time to run errands, we had time to separate mother from niece, woman from husband, and we made good use of the time.  We did it quietly with no fanfare, no raising of voice, nothing at all.  We were there.

Maybe I was important.  For years, I gave my SIL and our nieces gifts during the holiday season.  The biggest gift I ever gave them, however, was that day in Los Angeles.  Maybe they remember it, maybe they don’t.   No matter.  I do.  Like most gifts, the giver gets a lot back in return.

My SIL still sends me e-mails.  I cringe when they come.  Family.

Early March 2003:  I remember speaking to my father about how many people alive that day would not be in the coming year, due to the impending invasion of Iraq.  I was against the war, because I believed Saddam Hussein had nothing to do with 9/11, there was no convincing evidence of weapons of mass destruction, starting wars was a lot easier than ending them, we would create terrorists by being there, and we would have an influx of refugees.

2015: my father is no longer alive, I still am, and every one of my concerns was correct.  Several thousand Americans and perhaps more than a million Iraqis died; the consensus recently was that the war was a mistake.  Really? Those who made the mistake are alive and rich; incredibly, some of them are still being considered for high level governmental jobs:  Mssrs. “the war will pay for itself” Wolfowitz and Bolton, the latter one of the nastiest men on earth.

With that background, I read American Sniper, by Chris Kyle.  I had some misgivings about whether I really should or wanted to read the book, but did so.  Not surprisingly, there were  things I didn’t like.  He and I were from two different worlds, generations and belief systems.  But we were both Americans, and we both served.  There were areas where I found myself nodding assent.  Mr. Kyle was a warrior, not a writer.  I am a writer, not a warrior. He was a warrior like Patton, for he loved being at war.  He loved it more than family, he and his wife both admitted it.  He had a chance to quit the military but stayed.

What Mr. Kyle wrote should be discussed every time we go to war.  He de-humanized the enemy, referring them as savages.  This is not wrong; it is how people bring themselves to kill other people.  We used “gook” in Vietnam.  He referred to killing simply as “got him.”  He was a superb warrior and sniper who lived for action, had incredible luck, much of which he made, whereas literally millions of others did not have the luck or live.

While Mr. Kyle said he had only one brief “flashback,” he was changed by the war.  I don’t know how he couldn’t have been. Diving for cover when a car backfires is not normal.  I don’t know how any individual can live through war and remain normal.  He and his fellow warriors fought in bars over minor issues and got drunk often.  It doesn’t make them bad; they were young men at war.  Being at war makes such behavior more likely in young men.

We glorify warriors; mankind always has.  When we need them, we want good ones, and Mr. Kyle was the best of the best.  He was humble in his story, lavished praise upon others, and had many narrow escapes.  One man next to him was shot in the eye and was permanently blind.  He lived, but not long.  Another died in Mr. Kyle’s arms. Every person “down” ended up either in a body bag or in the hospital.  This was an ugly war in an ugly place fought by an ugly enemy.  The smells of Iraq cannot be described.  I have smelled similar places.  The smell of blood, the sight of bad trauma I know, although not like what occurred in Iraq.  Mr. Kyle survived an IED and just missed another one; several hundred Americans did not; thousands survived mutilated and beyond repair.  Many are homeless today. Having video games extolling fighting and killing disturbs me deeply.  War is horrific.

Mr. Kyle was a patriot.  Sadly, he fought in a war started by old men who had never been warriors and who had no business starting this one.  He spoke out strongly against politicians giving rules of engagement, lawyers wanting to know if a “kill” should have been done.  Mr. Kyle wrote that once the military is in place, it should be allowed to do its job.  He was dead right.  That is why going to war must be carefully thought out, for the military’s doing what it should do is ugly, often based on misleading intelligence, and many will die unnecessarily. That is war.

The run-up to the Iraq war was a lot of flag-waving and jingoism.  It was “Mission Accomplished,” when 3 years later, the country was nearly a failed state and in 2015 may become one.  The war was illegal and marketed to the American public. The strategy was flawed by men who chained warriors like Mr. Kyle, so he could not be as effective as he could have been.  It made contractors like Blackwater rich for shoddy work, frank murder and showed an uncaring nation in our handling of Abu Ghraib, Guantanamo, Walter Reed, and care for veterans.

I laud the late Mr. Kyle for including comments by his wife, her experiences.  She built her own walls against pain, walls against a person whom she loved.  She did not enjoy war action, for she was raising children and wondering if she would be visited by two men, informing her that her husband was dead, which happened to thousands of others.  As bad as death is, having a husband come home who is blind, had his legs blown off, or his brain damaged in a way that can never be made whole again may be worse.  It is an ongoing hell, and those who go to war leave behind those who worry and deal with “boring,” tedious, necessary day-to-day life.  Warriors fight and have glory, thinking they are immortal, until something happens that ends it all….forever.  Their spouses must bring up children who don’t know a parent.  Some are widowed mothers at 19. That tragedy visited Tucson after Fallujah.

Mr. Kyle’s death at 38 was at the hands of someone he was trying to help, who turned on him at a range, shooting him six times, so sad and ironic.  Mr. Kyle no longer feels, but his wife does and has her own hell to go through, alone.

I’ve served in the military, but I’ve never been a warrior.  Nor have I been or ever will be a hero.  I’ve fired a rifle exactly ten times, 40 years ago.  I never have touched another firearm.  Not once. I don’t shoot bullets.  I write words, try to help people understand the world we live in, and give of myself to causes I believe in.  I won’t be famous, and when I die, few will grieve.  I have lived as an imperfect human being, done some good, seen more of the world than many, been blessed with skills others have not, and tried to speak out against injustice, evil, and wrongdoing.

Had we stayed out of Iraq, the late Chief Kyle would likely be alive today, as would perhaps a million others.  In 2003, few knew Mr. Kyle.  In 2015, most of the country knows of him.  I salute both his memory and his wife, for what she had to do.  I cry out against the injustice, the lies, the waste, my being labelled a traitor, and all the other things the Iraq war did to individuals and to us collectively.  It was wrong, and in 2003, I was in the 16% who said it was wrong.  I wasn’t prophetic.  I’ve read much about war, from the Romans, The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich, and every word Samuel Eliot Morison published.  I walked on Corregidor; I’ve seen Pearl Harbor, the Memorial Cemetery in Manila, gone ashore on Okinawa and Inchon, seen rusted hulks on Eniwetok.

In 1970, we seniors at Dartmouth were asked to answer a question:  “Is there a war that you would want to fight in?” I never forgot the words one of my classmates wrote, back when we were involved in another wrong conflict.

“I can’t imagine there ever being a war I would want to fight in.  I can imagine one I ought to fight in.”

A week ago, driving out of the Cascades near Santiam Junction, I stopped at a Forest Service Trailhead to use a restroom. Because the door was ajar, I started to open it.

“HEY!!!!”  I heard.

Had I been a better person, I would have apologized.  I think I did mutter “Sorry.”  But I took the coward’s way out.  The car was still running, I got into it and sped out of the parking lot to US 20 and hightailed it back out of the mountains.  I didn’t want the user to see me.

My wife laughed.  “Why didn’t he lock the door?”  “Or,” she continued, “why didn’t he just say ‘Occupied!!’”   Good question.  He should have been more embarrassed than I.

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I went out to the community college today, since it was my day to tutor.  It had been a good week with no further “HEY’S”. I  did a difficult but worthwhile exploratory hike in the Cascades, where I hadn’t been before but was going to lead a hike there in a month.

When I got to the college, the parking lot looked empty.  I had a sense something was wrong, and sure enough, the doors were locked.  I returned to the car, googled the college’s calendar, and found there was a conference that day, so no school.  I was annoyed.  This sort of stuff happened when I volunteered in Tucson schools, too.  They would have a holiday and nobody told me.  I showed up and wasted my time.  I didn’t get much of an apology, either. It was so bad, I had to check each Friday to see if there were any days the following week where I wouldn’t be needed.

Sometimes, “I’m sorry” isn’t enough. In 2003, I interviewed for a teaching position in quality improvement with the American College of Physician Executives.  After not hearing from them for a month, I sent an e-mail, a letter, and phoned them.  I received no reply.  That’s uncalled for.  Yes, people are busy, but this is a 30 second e-mail (“we will not be hiring you” takes about 24 seconds.  I timed it).  I left the organization, and as I expected, they would notice. Money counts.  I received a call to ask why I hadn’t renewed my membership.  I told them why.  Within a minute, the Executive Vice President was talking to me.  I didn’t mention the name of the man who should have notified me.  I didn’t want to cause trouble for him.  It was a classy move on my part. I got a call a day later from the individual at fault, who said, “I guess I should be sorry.”  YOU GUESS?  I wasn’t demanding a job; I only wanted to know what the results of the interview were (which I had long since guessed).  That is not an apology.  You don’t guess with apologies.  That makes the situation worse.  You make an apology CLEAR.

I’ve done a lot of wrong in my life, so I have gotten a lot better at apologies.  For those who haven’t apologized much, the first rule is do it with empathy.  Mean it.  You would be amazed at how much that helps.  That means you must convey a sense that you really are sorry, even if you aren’t. That is step one.  Guys, take note of this, when you deal with women.

Yes, step one.  For there are two more steps.  Good apologies must be done right.

Second, say what you believe the consequences of your action caused.  Yes.  I apologized to my wife for something once, and I apologized for the wrong thing.  Yeah, really. What I thought I had done badly was not the issue, it was something else.  Wow, that’s being clueless.  I plead guilty.  But at least by saying what I thought I did wrong, I discovered my real error.  That mattered.

The third and final step is to say what you will do in the future to ensure, as best as you can, that the mistake does not occur again.  My mother once refused a CT head scan, and we were told the scan was normal.  Yes.  Really.  Five months later, when we took her for a “repeat” scan, we learned that she had never had one.  My father and I went to the CEO of a hospital to ask how this could happen.  All we heard was how many printouts of data the CEO had to deal with daily.  Think we cared?

Witness a good apology:  A psychiatrist reamed me out over the phone about an opinion I had given about a patient he was seeing.  “You didn’t spend enough time with the patient.”  I was speechless, and in that time of “less”, he hung up.  That was skunk anger, which is not good coming from a psychiatrist.  Important rule in medicine: never believe what a patient tells you another doctor said.  Come to think of it, it’s a good rule in life, too.

Two days later, the psychiatrist called me, apologized for his behavior, which he said must have stunned me.  “I have since spoken to a several other people about you, and they told me what a good doctor you are.  I am sorry I treated you that way.  I hope you will forgive me.”

Forgive?  Hell, it made my day.

Here’s how apologies should not be done:  A man from Comcast was to look at the house when we wanted to install wi-fi.  He gave me a window of time when he would show up, and he didn’t come.  I had his number, calling it periodically for 3 hours, getting voice mail and no responses.  It wasted my whole afternoon.  About 4:30, I got a call with a cheery, “How are you doing?”  I think most of us might say that we weren’t doing particularly well at the moment, and I told him that.  “Oh, sorry about that.  We had a sudden meeting I couldn’t miss.”

I’ve been in management.  People have meetings.  Sometimes, they are “right now” meetings.   But when the guy who installs my phone can’t get a message, doesn’t call me until three hours later, it doesn’t give me confidence in the telephone service.  What should he have done?  “I’m really sorry, but I’m going to be at least three hours late.  I have an urgent meeting, I didn’t know about it, and I will work late if you will allow me to come over at 5 tonight.  I know it is important for you.  Again, I am sorry.”

That works.  Instead, the next day, when he finally arrived, he mentioned how overloaded he was, with work, but the fact he had driven back from Boulder to Eugene after the Oregon-Colorado football game.  Do you think I cared?  Most people aren’t interested in a service provider’s using their vacation as an excuse.  A lot of people don’t get to take vacations.

I’ll go back out to the school on Tuesday.  They forgot.  It’s an honest mistake.  They are entitled to that.  They will apologize.  If they don’t, I won’t call them out on it.

But I will be disappointed in them.