The Women of Iran

 

They amaze us with their grit and courage in the face of guns, truncheons, and tear gas, swooping on the basij and shaming them as the brutes beat an older woman or a child or a young man being dragged away. They make us smile with their green head and wrist bands, V signs, posters, and knowing grins. They break our hearts as they pray, call out to one another from their roof tops, and with their children scream in fear at night as the thugs invade their homes.

They make us yell, “You Go Girl!” when they kick a hoodlum cop in the butt, but also when they shield another cop from angry blows of the exhausted, anguished, frustrated protesters. These Women Warriors are bright, educated, gorgeous, so incredibly beautiful they take one’s breath away.

And there is Neda Agha-Soltan whose family called her “a beam of light.” She went out that morning to protest; instead, we all watched her bleed into the street and take her last breath, and our hearts broke as we screamed with those trying to stop the blood pumping from her wounded heart and trying to make her breathe again. Shock, horror, anger, and disbelief: she was too young, she was too vital, she was too lovely.

She now lies alone in a cold grave while the video of her public death plays over and over and over on TV screens across the world; it seems so obscene because we know she should be finishing her philosophy degree and planning her wedding. Instead, she is the voice and the icon of not only the Iranian Revolution but also of the Women of Iran.

Neda has become the individual every cause, every movement must have to make it real to the rest of us. She is the man in China, standing defiantly in front of the tank, with his bags rocking beside him, refusing to let it pass; she is Anne Frank in Holland who wanted to be a writer and who personalized the Holocaust for generations in her Diary; she is Joan of Arc in France, who led an army and was martyred for her cause as well. However, Neda–who didn’t get a say in her destiny– if asked might she want to be a martyr probably would have said, “no, please, I’d rather go home today.” And it’s so achingly sad. As the media remind us on the hour, she is an icon now, an image mourned the world over.

But more importantly, she is a warm, vibrant young woman, daughter, student, fiancée, friend who lost everything to a vicious regime that would turn violently on its own people rather than give up their arrogant, iron-fisted hold on power, which they are in fact powerless to keep now. As we watch her die over and over and miss her so much, our anger rises, our hearts break and the tears will not stop. While we celebrate our new Women Warriors, we and they grieve for Neda Neda Neda–our sister our daughter our beloved angel who now belongs to all the light.

Keeper: A Story of Rescue

I saw what you did that morning a few months ago, right before the holiday weekend–guess you were going out of town and thought you would do the deed as one last “preparation” to free yourself for your weekend. You were driving a late-model red Honda: I saw you stop, saw the door open, saw the dog put out. And I saw you drive off.  She watched you, too–sitting there stunned and motionless. Then she started running after you, and that’s when I jerked the car over and started running after her.  Though I was late to work, I couldn’t leave the desperate Sheltie you had abandoned.   

 As a rescuer, I always have leashes, collars, treats, and bottled water in my car, because of course there are many people just like you. Gradually, I won her trust and got her into my car. After I had her safe with me, I was able to examine her: though she was thin and had fleas, someone in her family had  clipped hair around the hot spots on her back, and had placed a red collar around her neck, though her tags were left behind or discarded so she could not be traced. As I discovered during the two weeks I kept her, someone had  taught her to play ball and shake hands; she had learned a little basic obedience, and she was housetrained–a lady through and through.

She was very grateful to me, giving me lots of kisses; but I saw the faraway look in her eyes, watched her pace, sometimes spinning the sheltie spin in her agitation and confusion. She missed whoever had taken care of her; so, hoping I had been wrong about what I saw that morning–perhaps she had been stolen or was the victim of domestic dispute–I tried from the first day to find her owner.  I put up signs; I called vets, shelters, rescue agencies, sheltie clubs; posted her on the Internet web sites; had her scanned for a microchip. 

You must have seen the signs.  

What did you think would happen to her when you dumped her? What chance did you think she had where you abandoned her? There was no shelter, no water, no food–only the hot Texas sun and speeding cars. If you didn’t want her any longer, why didn’t you try to find her a home?  Failing that, why didn’t you do a little research to find a rescue group?  Why didn’t you drive her to a shelter?  Why didn’t you at least give her a chance to be adopted, rather than dump her where she could have been hit by a car or shot by another heartless person, or where she might have died of thirst, hunger, or illness?    She didn’t deserve that. No one does.

But Keeper was lucky: there are individuals and rescue groups who daily pull dogs and cats from roadways and try to help them so they don’t die in front of a speeding car or from hunger and thirst. I named your dog “Keeper” because she is a keeper, not a throw-away. She stayed with me until I was able to place her in one of our foster homes and eventually an adoptive home. She  blessed her delighted new home with a full and grateful heart. Fortunately for rescued dogs and cats, there are many more people like Keeper’s angels than there are like you.

Oh, and here’s the coda to the story you began writing for her those many months ago.  After we got her cleaned up, vaccinated, treated for the Heartworm disease you let her contract; after she put on weight, and her damaged coat grew out, she is beautiful–gorgeous in fact.  Her new mom saw the intelligence and possibilities in Keeper: here is a Sheltie who clearly wants to work, which you probably never knew because you know nothing about dogs, especially herding dogs. She is in agility classes, which she loves, has earned her Canine Good Citizen award, and is now training to become a therapy dog.  Her new mom plans to take her to hospitals and nursing homes to cuddle with and entertain young and old who might need a little comfort.  Because Keeper understands just what that is all about, and despite your cruelty to her, like most dogs who suffer at the hands of cruel masters, her heart is large, and she still loves people

You, however, must live with your cold heart and the effects on you all your life from what you did to this little dog who trusted you. You may never give her another thought; you also may never understand what’s hit you down the road in your own life.

But, here’s a hint: Karma, too, is a cold-hearted bitch.

Rescue 101: In Praise of the Older Dog

  
Robin

“Blessed is the person who has earned the love of an old dog.”
- Sydney Jeannne Seward

In 1999, the winner of Westminster Best in Show, beating out over 2500 other gorgeous champions, including a beautiful blue merle Sheltie, was a tiny, four-pound Papillion who captured everyone’s hearts, including the judges’.  Filled with energy and showmanship, little Kirby danced away with everything, riding around Madison Square Garden with grace and joy in the Best of Show Winner’s Cup. This top show dog in America was 8 years old. Kirby lived another 8 years, crossing over February 2007 at age 16.

In 2009, there was a particularly strong display of outstanding dogs in all the breeds.  When it was over, Stump, a terrific Sussex Spaniel, won Best in Show.  He had come out of retirement to take it all and accepted the honor with happiness and dignity: Stump is 10 years old, the oldest winner in the history of the Westminster.

 

  
Daisy with her comical Shelby

Members of  our rescue program, who adopt as well as foster, have learned to love and even prefer senior dogs. Beth adopted Roscoe at age 12 after his family abandoned him on a foggy night to the local animal shelter because they “wanted to travel after the kids left home.”  He became one of our program’s ambassadors for rescue and lived to almost 16.  Linda adopted Robin also at age 12, and he, too, lived to 16.  Robin had also been abandoned and came into the program thin, flea infested, and coated in mud. He was one of the most gorgeous and beloved Shelties in our program’s 11-year history.  Applesauce found himself tossed into a shelter at age 10 as collateral damage after a divorce. We flew him to Chicago and his new mom, Ro, also a rescuer who had fallen in love with him on our web site.  He lived another 6 years and became famous in rescue circle nationwide. All of these seniors were sweet, adorable dogs who delighted us every day with their grace and good humor. 

 
Roscoe lounging (with Sassy in foreground)

We have also adopted seniors who did not live as long as we wanted them to: Wayne and Sue lost their precious 12 year old Magic after only a year.  He had been found wandering the streets and was the tiniest Sheltie at 8 pounds we had in our program. His little feet rarely touched the ground as everyone wanted to cuddle him. I lost 10 year old Shelby also after only a year, but I smile every time I think about the joy she brought our family.  No rescuer in our program would trade even only a year with our adorable little guys for anything.

   
Magic the Adorable with his Mom

We love puppies and younger adult dogs; however, raising and training puppies and young dogs is a lot of work, and not every owner has the time or energy for that job. Older rescued dogs bring with them maturity, intelligence, mannerly behavior, dignity, and, yes, great fun. Many of these seniors are just comical; and even when we lose them, the memories of their antics make us smile. All of our older Shelties were abandoned rescues; all but the terminally ill became healthy, happy, and absolutely gorgeous in our care, and all gave back far more than any of us could have imagined when we first rescued and adopted them.  

People ask us all the time why older dogs end up in shelters.  Sometimes Seniors find themselves in rescue because their humans can no longer take care of them or go to a nursing home or even die. But often these guys, and so many more like them, are abandoned, dumped, cast aside for only one reason: they got old. When this happens, it is a complete failure in responsibility and compassion and empathy on the part of the people these wonderful dogs trusted all their lives. These should be their golden years, enjoying long naps, good food, warm mornings sunning their tired bones on the patio or deck, evening walks and cuddles in the protective love of their grateful families.

Instead, too often their loyalty and companionship are repaid with a cage in an animal shelter, on the list to be euthanized as ‘unadoptable’–because they grew ‘too old.’ Or sometimes the dogs are abandoned because the kids those very dogs were originally purchased for as companions grew up and left  home. They leave their old sidekicks behind along with their childhoods, and to parents who now want to live their own lives and don’t see the dog as part of their plans any longer. And, even more reprehensible, sometimes these senior dogs are cast aside simply because the family wants another puppy, and the current dog is now expendable in their eyes. In a society that over-values youthfulness and neglects older citizens, it is not surprising that some owners take the same attitude toward older dogs and cats; but it is not right, nor is it fair. 

So, in rescue work, the preponderance of animals needing help are older. Like all living beings that survive babyhood and youthful indiscretions, they grew older.  Sometimes they get a touch of arthritis, suffer a bit of vision or hearing loss; they slow down as we all do. But their love doesn’t slow down; nor does their loyalty abate with age. Older dogs are endearing companions who have years left in them to give love and service to their attentive humans; in fact, adoption into a loving home often re-energizes these dogs who amaze their owners with how young at heart and active they really are. Like Kirby and Spunk, they, too, are top dogs.

 
And Applesauce

My First Visit to the Wall

 

Michael’s Name on the Wall

My first visit to the Wall was in the spring of 1984. At that time I was teaching high school English, raising my son, and struggling pretty much alone. My principal sent me to DC with a group of students on a Close-Up trip. These very well-organized sojourns allow the teachers some time to themselves, and I knew my day would be spent at The Wall–sans high school kids. I didn’t want to be with anyone that day.
 

I took the Metro down to the Mall and slowly, slowly wound my way toward that monolith, what one of my friends in a poem calls ‘wet, black wings.’ As its long, black V appeared and grew larger, my heart was pounding, my feet so heavy I had to force them in front of one another. Everything in my body and being was cringing and pulling back. I was–simply–scared to death. Terrified. And it kept getting closer. When I finally arrived, and it loomed before me, I didn’t know what to do: just stood there, not wanting to look at it, looking anywhere else, eyes filled with tears.
  

At that time, the vigil was in effect year ’round, and a Vet walked up to me, asked if he could help. I was numb and brusque and unsure. Undaunted, he led me to the book of names, asked me who I wanted to find, showed me Michael’s name in the book, what the numbers meant, how to find him. Then he volunteered to go down into that waiting memorial with me. I refused–I wanted to be alone. Still undaunted, he said he’d just follow behind, make sure I could find the name if I needed him. I moved down, down, down that sidewalk, the wings of the V pulling me in, the names increasing, my reflection unnerving me, and the tears flowing. As I arrived at the apex and panel 18W, I again just stood there–in complete shock I realize now.
 

The Vet appeared at my side again, gently guided my eyes up to the 2nd line and over to the right. Michael A. McAninch. He was there. It was true. He wasn’t coming home. He had been memorialized and immortalized along with all these names around him. My fiancé, my Michael. I collapsed. Just shot down to the ground. But my fall was broken by the Vet who had known I must not be alone. He caught me and held me while I sobbed my grief, wracked with pain, shaking uncontrollably in the arms of this kind stranger.  

After I quieted a bit, he said, “See all these names around Michael’s? They are his brothers, and they are with him; he is not alone.” And he calmly stayed by my side, talking with me, listening to me, nodding, being quiet when he needed to be.  It was the first time anyone had ever talked with me about Michael and the War. Fifteen years, and someone finally cared. His name was Terry.

I have been to The Wall three times since that first painful trip. I like the statues and understand why they have been added to the site. But it is The Wall that I come for. I don’t see it as a black gash or a tombstone, though I understand those feelings as well. It is, of course, a chevron in memoriam–polished granite in which we see ourselves mirrored in the names of the Fallen.  It is OURS, and it is THEIRS. We insisted on it; we paid for it both in tributes and in blood; and we experience it in our own ways, some of us choosing not to–and that is a response to it also.
 

For me, it is a memorial to our loved ones, a reminder of the cost, and a site for pilgrimage and gathering and sharing. And it is where a Vet named Terry gave a damn when almost everyone else had ignored our Vietnam Veterans and their families–refusing to let us talk; treating us and them as if the whole thing was an embarrassment–a disgrace.  So for all those years, I had been silent and isolated in my agony until that day when this veteran, Terry, volunteered to help a grieving lady through her first experience of the Wall–still serving his country and his brothers.

Memorial Day

Those soldiers who gave their lives for their country would want us to enjoy Memorial Day weekend: they fought for that right to shop sales, barbecue in our backyards and parks, enjoy the beaches.  But, Memorial Weekend is not just the “beginning of summer” as it has unfortunately become in the media and advertising.  This is no more clearly indicated than in the oxymoronic greeting, “Happy Memorial Day!” all over the media and even in local communities.  People wishing others a “Happy Memorial Day” do not mean to further wound people who have in fact lost their loved ones in war–but they do.  That greeting indicates unconsciousness about what Memorial Day actually commemorates.                                                       

My beautiful fiancé gave his life for his country in Vietnam, August 28, 1969.  He loved people, who returned his love many fold.  He played the guitar, wrote poetry, and sketched.  He even sent a sketch home–a sailboat he was longing to sail again.  He was a philosophy major who wanted to come home to finish his degree and go on to graduate school, becoming a college teacher. Michael was a Marine, whose letters were filled with love for his family and longing to come home to Houston.  But his letters were also filled with admiration for the beauty of Vietnam and its people.  He had hoped  to be promoted to Sergeant, to be pulled from the front lines after his last misson, and to be trained as an interpreter, working with the Vietnamese people. 

Instead, during a major operation in”Death Valley,” Chu Lai Province, several regiments came under fierce mortar attack.  As the squad leader, he motioned his men to protective positions, then ran across the battlefield to cover his  wounded Marines with his own body and return fire on the enemy as the helicopter came in to rescue them.  Even as he saved many of their lives, he gave his own when a mortar took him even as the last of his comrades was being lifted to safety.  Among his many medals, he was awarded the Bronze Star with Combat V for valor.  His death changed my life forever, and I have never stopped loving him. 

I maintain a web site for Michael at http://www.lettershome.net/ so that what he meant to his family and friends and what the world has lost in this gentle, sweet man will not be forgotten.  Michael was honored at the 2000 Memorial Day Concert in Washington DC; an exhibit in a local library to honor veterans, and in two books featuring letters written from combat sites.  His story and letters are also used by history teachers and students in their assignments around the country.  Though we lost him 40 years ago, and he missed another of his birthdays in May, he is never forgotten, and he is teaching as he wanted to.  He is there in heaven, gently comforting the newly fallen heroes as they join him in those Halls of Honor–and waiting for me to finally join him after the years of anguish without him.

So–no–please do not wish me and other family members, “Happy Memorial Day.”  Take a few minutes out of the holiday to think of us, bless the memories of those who gave their lives for you, and say a prayer in their memories.  That is what would really make us happy on this day.

The Greatest Generation on The Home Front

 

Having endured World War I, which my grandfather served in, and the Great Depression, the Hunt family was struggling to make ends meet and was now facing another world war.  In 1942, my mother, Mary Louise, then 18 years old, enrolled in training at St. Francis Hospital in Monroe, Louisiana.  My grandmother worked and saved to pay for my mother’s first year of tuition.  But Mary, knowing how strapped the family funds were, joined the Army Cadet Corps of Nurses.  The Army would pay for the rest of her training, in return for which, she would then be obligated to serve, very possibly overseas, which she knew. 

However, she developed epilepsy while in training. The nuns told her she would never make it through school and should drop out: but Mary told them, “you may eventually kick me out, but I will never quit.”  Her roommate and best friend, Scotty, coached her every night for clinicals and exams and helped her get through the seizures every morning before classes.  My mother indeed proved the nuns wrong and graduated, though she would never serve with the Cadet Corps because of her illness.  We heard about the beloved Scotty all our lives: this friendship lasted 63 years, and these two veteran nurses remained in regular contact even after they, too, needed nursing care.   

Through those decades, Mary faced additional trials, but still she would never quit.

After the War, she married my father, Robert, a career military officer who served in WWII and the Berlin Airlift.  She was the good wife, following her husband to Air Force bases around the country.  When he served in the Korean Conflict, she worked at St. Joseph’s Hospital in Houston and took care of her two young daughters, while also experiencing the quiet anguish of all stateside wives during war time.  After his safe return, she continued at his side as he advanced in rank and finished his career after twenty years of service to his country.

Following his retirement and second career with the Texas Employment Commission for another decade, helping returning Vietnam veterans find jobs, mother continued her medical career in northeast Houston: she was one of the founding nurses in the new hospital complex serving that area.  

However, in 1974, on a foggy morning freeway trip to work, she was hit from the rear by a loaded lumber truck and suffered a broken neck.  She was in traction for weeks and had resultant traumatic arthritis the rest of her life.  Still, she continued her nursing career, taking care of her patients for another decade. Since she was in pain herself, she had particular empathy with and compassion for her patients.  She was also a good-humored colleague to her fellow nurses, for Mary always had a healthy wryness born of experience, and she was always in her element with other nurses.  When she finally retired, it was because she had contracted TB from one of her patients: even with the medication, the damage resulted in weakened lungs that further taxed her strength. Tragically, though our father had also retired again, the dreams for their idyllic years together were shattered by our father’s untimely death from cancer. 

Though she missed him every day, Mary enjoyed seeing her friends and family, taking care of her pets, going to movies which she loved all her life, reading her mystery novels (we joked the local book store had a special “Mary Key” on the cash register), celebrating the births of her great-grandchildren, and remaining in her own home.  Eventually, though, a lifetime of illness took its inevitable toll: she suffered from rheumatoid arthritis of the spine, the debilitating effects of the medication for her epilepsy, and osteoporosis.  She had double hip replacements, knee replacement, and pins in her broken ankles.  She struggled valiantly through the years, eventually ending up on a walker, then a wheelchair, until, finally, she could no longer get out of bed or stand on her own. Mary spent the last three years of her life in a nursing home, needing 24-hour care—with daily breathing treatments for her lungs and painful physical therapy for the ravages of arthritis and blood clots. Yet through her pain, she participated in her own patient care, teaching other nurses and aides from her own 60 years of nursing experience.

Throughout her illness, she remained cheerful–bantering with the nurses, watching movies on her DVD player, delighting in the Friday visits from her little dog, Bree, enjoying other activities when she was strong enough.  She was still proving the nuns were wrong about her all along.  Congestive heart failure and a major stroke finally claimed Mary, and she died quietly in January 2008—having lived a rich and varied life for 83 years despite hardships and physical pain most of her life. 

Women like Mary Louise are also part of the magnificent story: she was the young nurse in training during war time who would not quit; the wife and mother who served her country by supporting her husband in harm’s way and taking care of their children alone; the veteran nurse who cared for thousands of patients for decades; the grandmother and great-grandmother who continued to guide her family; the woman who eventually needed assistance herself but who remained cheerful, involved in her own care, and happy to advise young nurses.  

Home Front heroes like Mary–who continued to serve, teach, and inspire for over six decades–remind us why The Greatest Generation survived the Depression and went on to save the world: they had grit, courage, humor, and grace.

And they never gave up.