This is the last Saturday of November 2018! We should do something to celebrate it! “What,” you ask? I don’t know — I was hoping you’d think of something, ’cause I’d just go with one ancient impromptu-ish plan or the other: Have tea in little ceramic bowls around the coffee table while sitting on the floor, perhaps in kimonos.  Or, were it a rainy day especially (though it IS cold enough to keep us inside), chew up marshmallows to the ceiling-sticking point and see whose stayed up there the longest. There were prizes. Marshmallows, I think. (Fortunately, it was a rented apartment, but I may have reverted to it here once or twice…)  Wow. It’s been too long…

It was at least less labor-intensive than what my friend Sylvia did. The cause was celebratory wine but the reason for it remains vague. She came out of their room one eve, her husband said, and had painted her chest in the form of, let’s say, two bulls-eyes. It was Sylvia, so he wasn’t shocked. (Syl re-established Cleopatra’s eye makeup, occasionally pretended to request assistance in a foreign language with strangers, and always wore her jet black hair in a towering beehive — until later in life, when she changed it to a super-permed angular bob a la some character in Gary Larson’s The Far Side. She’s probably added the harlequin eyeglasses by now.)

Guess who taught me to crochet? I know — that makes no sense! Syl would know what to do today.

Had a wondrous conversation with my two eldest last night in group text. About Nam, of all things. No doubt because of a recent Veterans Day (and JFK’s black day so closely on its heels) on which both these veterans had to work, as did I and another daughter. Son started it with an url to documentary/interview footage. It blew him away that the war in Vietnam was such a “sh*t-show” for us. My opinion is that all warring is that, no matter who, no matter when.

Daughter was astounded to learn that we treated the returnees so badly (“especially since they’d been drafted, were there against their will, and were so blindsided by lies”).  I got a chance to mention both Veterans For Peace and and that we still do treat them like lepers. Some live in the woods up this way, and I only know that because some other vets and friends of vets are building them little houses, which made the local news. I also got a chance to mention Senator Bob Smith’s relatively unsupported crusade, twice, to get some of our guys and/or some of their remains back (fruitlessly), and how we were asked to turn in our POW/MIA bracelets at the visiting Wall, if I remember clearly, which is where I noted that “Lt. JG Wayne Wolfkeil” was still listed in the book (as COL, and, in another record as Major) of the unfound/unreturned servicepeople decades later.

Daughter wondered if there was anything in her Midwest area she might do for Nam vets. There could well be, but if not, I told her I think they might say to help the new war-ravaged vets via something like Wounded We signed off, saying we’d remember the Nam vets in prayer, wherever they are. We will.

Well, it’s 9:10 a.m. on the last Saturday in November. It’s just me, daughter, and a Syl-like 2-year old. Hence, we’ll skip the tea in little bowls, and though I just threw away a million stale marshmallows, we’ll think of something. 🙂 Or the toddler will..

Hope you’re having a marvelous morn!