Home! Come home!

 

maneuvers along Israeli border

Helicopters fly

Gray and Green

Against a gray sky

Whoom-puh, Whoompuh

Blades cut through air

Shake leaves

Rattle glass

People watch from below.

Fly at night

Fly in day

Going where?  When?

Today, tomorrow.

Young men, young women

Sons and daughters all

Fly across

Desert ground, look down.

Whoom-puh, Whoompuh

Beating of their hearts

And

Beating of blades:

Same sound.

This was originally published September 12, 2012

Camp Pendleton is just 20-30 miles from us.  When we lived even closer, we could hear war maneuvers. Helicopters, munitions, half-tracks on the beach---something was about to happen.  Here, huge batches of Cipro were being stored in warehouses, ready for possibility of poisonous weapons being fired.

So, why is this being posted now?

Our men and women are coming home! After 20 years, they are coming home.

Who Is in Charge?

I am.

Who's in charge here? I have heard that question in so many voices, situations. 

Sometimes I am in charge, good or bad. I gladly ceded that responsibility now that I am retired. For twenty years and six-hundred students, I was in charge. 

Parents, we were/are in charge. For feeding, clothing, and all sorts responsibilities for our children, we were/are in charge.

Paying bills, having the oil changed, finding lost items, etc.--we adults: we're in  charge.

Given all that, some of the most amazing I'm in charge here people are children. They have no power, no reason to believe that they are in charge. 


Even though you and I know that a child should not be in charge in critical areas,  they are in the sweetest and most amazing ways.

(The longest video is the last one. The others are less than a minute )

A three-year old taking charge here, maybe

Expressing himself to one he loves

Helping mommy 

Who in charge here?  Both.

There are many elements in all lives when exasperation leads to a  real question:  Who is in charge of me?

He is.

Rambling Boy...

Of the people I miss the most

Are ones enshrined

In my heart.

Why they cannot be here,

Why they cannot stay here,

Only God knows.

This is for all the Rambling Boys.

This is for their sweethearts.

Most especially, the parents--

 their mothers 

who think of them

every single day.