I wish we had time to go to Boston this year. But with Baby coming, making time to travel to Carbondale for dissertation defenses this winter, etc., it just ain’t in the cards anytime soon. Which means that, next time we go to Boston, we’ll take Baby with us. And we can show our son/daughter this little beach that Mommy and Daddy always wished they walked on more than they did. Where we went to school. And, of course, Walden Pond. Maybe some Halloween fun in Salem.

Who’d have thought three years ago we’d be expecting Baby right now?

I don’t know if I’ve ever blogged about it. But until a year ago (and maybe more recently technically since I was so wishy-washy), I was absolutely against us having any children. Any. Ever.

Man, people aren’t shitting you when they tell you how quickly things change.

My father and I look much more alike when I’m not bearded. He looked exactly like me in his 20s. I keep trying to convince him to grow a beard, but no luck. I think 30 years in the military have him liking to be clean-shaven.  But now you see where I get my extreme hairiness from.

(Photo Friday: Young and Old, coincidentally.)

I helped to give a new Eagle Scout the Pledge. Enjoyed kids performing skits and songs. It was awesome.

Afterward, what happens every Memorial Day happened: old flags were retired by fire. Last year, an older guy told the boys never to “stand” anyone to burn the flag, no matter how anyone feels about our country or about freedom of expression, etc. I don’t feel particularly motivated to do any flag burning of my own, but I found that little bit particularly distasteful. Being a “college boy”, I’m not exactly going to tell someone who was actually in a war how to feel about flag burning.  This year, a gent who is a veteran of the Air Force (Hi, Mr. Y!) gave a nice speech before the flags were retired.  He talked to the boys about what the flag stands for, including the right to burn it.  I thought that was the perfect way to sum up the meaning of the stars and stripes, seriously.  We’re free enough to reject it all, and I’ve known plenty of people who have felt that way.

I thought of my Uncle Harry, who’s no longer with us on Saturday night.  I looked up to toast him in my mind and saw a solitary star in the clearing of trees.  Felt a little odd.  He would have enjoyed that fire and the company.  His wife passed three months after he did, which just seemed to complete the situation to me.  It seemed right.  I’d still like to share some grilled corn with them again at a cook-out.

When we think of who has died in a war in this country — whether you think it was pointless, for freedom, for the rich, etc. — I remember that my father was in a war.  Vietnam.  Actually, as they say, “in the shit.”  I’ve always found it bizzare to imagine such a gentle pussycat in such a situation.  It’s hard to reconcile.  I can’t imagine my father actually hurting anyone, and I’d bet he can’t either.  When there’s the temptation to spread the blame for our clusterfuck “conflicts” that take lives, including Americans, to the men and women who actually have to do the taking and get their lives taken, I always remember my Dad.  Getting spit on and called a Baby Killer when he came home to meet his cousin and best friend with only one of his legs.  When nothing about my Dad or probably most of the other people he served with could be less true.

(Photo by Mrs. P, of my brothers and I on Mothers’ Day.)