Christmas Day in Iraq

From: Aaron Haney

Date: Dec 25, 2006 6:12 AM

Subject: a star in the east

25 December 2006

I got up this morning at 0600 to participate in the "Jingle Bell Run" 5K with one of my colleagues, Melissa Messina. We walked over to the gym only to find it had been postponed to tomorrow morning. I went ahead and just shot some basketball for about 30 minutes or so before heading back to my room. Right now it is 0750 and pretty much no one else is up. I'm debating whether to lay back down for an hour or so or open the presents my wife and family sent.

Last night I attended my first "Midnight Mass". I've been going to the Catholic service with CPT Hudson and COL Trakowski who are both Catholic and envited me along to their service when I first arrived in country. I subsequently got drafted into the choir and was part of the carol singing extravaganza just prior to the Mass last night at 11:30. Much of the week to week music sounds like something from John Michael Talbot whom my wife loves (his music that is). Whenever someone asks me about a particular song or what to do at a particular part of the service I just shrug my shoulders and say, "I don't know, I'm not Catholic." :^)

The attached picture was taken last night on Christmas Eve beside our building. The humvee looked so stark sitting in the glow of our front entrance light. I snapped a couple of shots before I got the idea to sit the camera on a bench and set the timer. After seeing the result on my computer the story of the "star in the east" came to mind, as if I were somehow participating in that awesome event here in the Middle East, not too far from Bethlehem. I hope everyone has a wonderful day today with family and friends.

Peace, Aaron

The Lady Bug

She has a pet lady bug she keeps in a small glass jar.

The bug’s name is written there in her scrawl “Fuze”

but it is pronounced “Fuzzy” in her 1^st grade parlance.

We looked up what they eat and found “aphids”, but 

we don’t have aphids so it said “raisins,” good enough.

Sometimes Fuze flies around and crawls on the table.

She never tries to flee and is easily handled without 

protest, no biting or stinging (can they even do that?).

I think Fuze is the most low maintenance pet we have

ever had, our week together thus far.  We miss our dog.

***

The Lonely Cannibals

We are a country based 

on rugged individualism

and a consumer-based

economy w/out restraint.

As Richard Weaver said 

ideas have consequences,

so we are lonely cannibals 

eating our limbs w/relish.

***

The Great Watermelon Caper of ‘86

A friend posted a video on Facebook of a semi-trailer truck lying on its side at the edge of a highway in Pennsylvania with boxes of vodka scattered from a hole in the roof of the trailer.

This took me back in time to a similar incident when I was in High School.  It was summer time and I was out with my Dad and one of his employees on a carpet laying job.  The house was on an isolated stretch of Hwy 50 just west of Mitchell, Indiana.  On the way back home from the job we saw a semi-trailer truck lying on its side and a good deal of straw dumped down the roadside embankment.

We stopped to check on the driver and found him walking around the rig and checking on things.  We chatted with him for a bit and he told us he’d already radioed in to let his boss know what happened.  In the straw were hundreds of watermelons and he invited us to take as many as we’d like.  He told us that insurance would cover the lost watermelons that were now all up and down this hillside.  We waded through the straw and secured a good dozen or so unbroken ones before leaving the scene.  On the way home I devised a secret plan to capitalize on this bit of insider knowledge.  

After dinner I went to a local craft store and bought a sheet of white poster board with some colorful markers as well as checked out how much watermelons were going for at the local supermarket (~4-5 dollars a piece).  I went to bed at my regular time, but set an alarm for some time after midnight.  When it went off I snuck out of the house with a flashlight and drove my sister’s car back to the scene of the accident.  

By the light of my flashlight I gathered up as many watermelons as I could fit in her car and a fair amount of straw.  Rolling back into Mitchell an hour or so later I pulled into a vacant lot that I’d scoped out earlier where two highways intersected on the edge of town.  The straw I’d gathered made a nice bed for the watermelons which I laid out in rows beside the car.  I wrote in large letters on my poster board “WATERMELONS $2!”, taped it to the side of my car, and then tried to go to sleep with a blanket I’d brought along.

Sometime around 6 or 7 in the morning  I was awakened by someone tapping on my window.  “You selling these watermelons?”  

I threw off my blanket and rubbed my eyes vigorously.  My first customer!  He asked if they were good and sweet and I assured him they were.  He bought several of them and after about an hour or two I’d sold them all and drove away with about 60 or 70 dollars hard cash in my pocket.  

Back home I realized the car was trashed and I must have made up some excuse as to why I was vacuuming out my sister’s car.  Later that day she looked upset and asked in an exasperated tone “Why does my car smell like watermelon?!”

The Room on West Oak

The room was nestled at the end of the hall on the second story of a one hundred year old house with high ceilings and cast iron radiators that rattled and pinged through cold winter nights.  It was smallish but the closet was largish and there was a tall window that overlooked the wide front porch roof.  The house itself sat on the venerable north side of West Oak Street.

It was the summer of ‘85 and I was between my sophomore and junior years of High School.  It was a new town for me yet only about five miles from my old town where I’d lived from first through tenth grade.  Much of that summer was spent in anticipation of moving and getting the house ready to move into.  The personality of the place had me utterly captivated.

And this room was mine.  I stood in the middle of it and summed up the possibilities.  First off I removed the door to the closet to make it seem more spacious.  I had a desk that was not going to fit in the room proper, so the closet became my office with barely enough room to get the chair in there along with my thin frame and no room to spare.

My parents gave me carte blanche and I ran with it.  I claimed an old oak chifforobe my Dad had bought at an estate sale in order to have a place for my clothes.  I chose the carpet and bedding to match, but what tied it all together was installing a beautiful wall-sized mural of a Fall forest path scene that further extended the perceived size of the room.

A large wooden entertainment system finished out the room’s furnishings which included my Dad’s old record-eight track player combo with speakers.  The rest of it was packed full with my Science Fiction and Fantasy books (along with a sizable number of Stephen King novels) all of which comprised my most valued of possessions: a personal library.

Interesting thing about that record player.  I didn’t really have any records of my own, though there were a few eight tracks of my Dad’s that I liked.  I acquired records* when the most beautiful girl at my new school turned around in her seat, batted her eyelashes, and asked if I wanted to help her out by buying some records for their senior fundraiser.

After we moved into this house and my room had been completely transformed by my ecstatic vision, my parents threw an Open House party.  My Dad had sunk a chunk of change into beautifying this grand old home, but at the end of the day I was told by more than one adult who’d had the tour that my room was their favorite part of the whole house.

It turned into a money pit and my Dad sold it when I was in college.  And since then, like a skipping record,  there are the dreams.  It is always a house that can only be described as a mansion.  The rooms are large and limitless with hidden wings and grand ballrooms, though it is rundown and needs work.  Invariably my joy becomes tempered by the thought “I can’t afford this”... and I wake up.

***

*Sting’s “Dream of the Blue Turtles” and Billy Joel’s “Greatest Hits Volume I & II”

The God of Mischief

In two hundred years scavengers will find 

what appears to be the fire-ravaged image 

of a plaid-suited boy with magnificent bangs 

that has miraculously been spared, though 

his smaller sister’s face will have been lost.  

It is a cruel world in which this image is found, 

“hope” - a frayed rope down to just a few strands.  

A cult will be formed to honor this reckless boy  

with his big ears, missing tooth, and freckled nose.

It will be dedicated to Mischief-in-Good-Doing

as its grounding philosophy and touchstone.  

I hope to attain to such a great distinction and

veneration even in this life before the future runs 

with whatever it is that I have been unable 
to achieve in my own misguided way, selah.

***

The Machine

It was considered the highest priority

and they budgeted accordingly,

a machine to smooth the bumps

and clean the air of pollutants.

It roamed the landscape with 

wide tracks flattening the earth,

sucking in the dirty air and 

spitting out clean(er) air.

‘Cept the exhaust pipe propped 

on top, out of sight, put out 

a bit too much and some did 

not want their land flattened.

Regardless, it was the highest priority

and the machine was made bigger

by the year until the hills began

to disappear and darkness spread.

Fuel was consumed at an alarming

rate as the befouling escalated,

but its justification as a solution to 

a problem remained unchallenged.

People felt somehow safer with the machine

prowling around (in other people’s 

plots preferably) making it easier to walk, 

if not for the choking, but always elsewhere.

***

Combat Zone Correspondence

Subj: Another journal entry

Date: 11/19/2006 3:34:01 PM Romance Standard Time

From: zek18376@yahoo.com

To: JHForest@cs.com

8 November 2006

I had an interesting interaction with my colleague Captain H this morning. When we greeted each other in the staff room I said, “well here we are, another day.” She replied with, “yes, just like every other day. It’s like we are in a prison here.” We discussed the fact we wear the same uniform everyday, stay in the same area, live in small windowless rooms, and cannot see our families, etc. I put a positive spin on it (in my mind) by likening it to a monastery instead. It was my attempt at “reframing” her negative assertion as we are fond of doing in the mental health profession. She thought it a novel idea, but not necessarily much of an improvement I’m sure.

Anymore I think a lot in metaphors, especially when it comes to psychiatry and spiritual matters. It seems to me that what we are doing here in our “Combat Stress Control” unit in Iraq somewhat mirrors what happens when a pilgrim visits a monastery. A war is raging all around us and soldiers seek us out or are sent to us as a physical and mental respite, to learn new ways of dealing with the stress of a combat environment, and to refocus on the “mission.” We offer them a program in which they can explore their inner workings experientially through various group therapy settings and one-on-one counseling, as well as receive educational information.

In my experience this is not unlike visiting a monastery. I am in a constant battle with the passions that distract and disorient me. This fight can narrow my vision, constrict my mind, and threaten to overwhelm me as a result. Visiting the monastery gets me away from the routine flow of life for a time to reassess and retool for the job of battling the passions. This is accomplished by being involved in the corporate (or group) activity of worship in the divine services, meeting one-on-one with a spiritual father or mother, and spending quiet thoughtful time in educating myself by reading spiritual materials. In this way I can get back to the “battle” and be more effective.

Both have “healing” at their heart, though the great irony/tragedy of the first is that some are being sent back out to kill or be killed. It is also problematic that in the first case the enemy is external (the other) while in the second case the enemy is internal (the self). Maybe this is why Jesus says our battle is “not against flesh & blood,” to repudiate those who would justify killing those created in his image. And what to do with “love your enemies” and “return evil with good?” Living with this kind of dichotomy in a war zone requires a lot of humility and reliance on the mercy of God. Pray for me a sinner.


***

Third Grade Problems & Solutions

Anya has a new drawing book that I found on the dining room table over the weekend.  It sucked me backwards down the corridor of time to the third grade.  My teacher was an irritable old lady and everyone dreaded getting her class.  This was felt all the more keenly by the fact that the other third grade teacher was so nice.  

She was constantly on me for moving too much or talking too much.  Her way of handling it was so heavy-handed that my Mom and the Principal had to get involved.  There was a meeting of some kind (my memory is clouded by the intervening decades) but I seem to recall the Principal asking me what it was I enjoyed doing in my free time.

I told him I liked to draw.  His answer to the quandary was to have my teacher let me go to the library and find some drawing books to work on when my work was done so that I was not just sitting there getting into “trouble.”  It required some bending on the teacher’s part who expected kids to sit quietly at their desks when they were done with their work and do nothing, like cute little robots in pause mode.  She protested that she would have to let other kids do that too.  The Principal came back with “We’re not talking about other kids.  We’re talking about Aaron.”  My Mom told me she could tell that really got the teacher’s goat and the discussion ended there.    

I learned later that that was her last year to teach and no one else had to sit under her constant scowl after me.  I took credit for being the person who helped her decide it was time to retire.

And here is Anya’s drawing book with pretty much the exact same animals and how to draw them.  For years I had a drawing of a dolphin and shark in the ocean mounted on a sheet of blue construction paper stored away from this time period, but it was lost at some point and forgotten, until now.

***

Disconnected

48 years on this planet 

and to still feel so... 

disconnected.

It is shameful, really.

Where is my gratitude?

Where is the great love

for the life given me?

Where have I poured 

myself out for others 

beyond need or pain?

That is the disconnect

it seems, to be wrapped

in my own skin, trapped

in a self that is untrue 

or at least in part con-

cocted out of a need to

be needed, and the more

I want, the less I’m wanted.


***

The Scarecrow

The wind tousled his hair 

over the tops of the corn,

perched on a long branch

planted deep in the ground,

bending without breaking.

He was a tall man, a straw man,

a fallacy of argument that was 

remarkably apt (to his great shame).

A scarecrow, friend of black birds,

confidant of disparaged creatures,

character too much like kindling,

the spark of love dwindling...

hung, undone, and unsung.

***

Hope for the World

We start out so small,

so vulnerable,

and if it is possible

to protect that

little one inside of us,

there is hope

for the world, indeed.

***

RESIST

Push back 

Your baser desires

Steeped in selfishness

And lack of empathy for others

Push forward

With kind words

Outwardly directed 

Wrapped in a grateful heart

RESIST all that is not life-giving 

RESIST all that is death-dealing

Know that your place in the world precludes no one.


***

Saying Goodbye to Greta

What can I say about our English Springer Spaniel, Greta?  She has been with us for 15 years and I can’t imagine a better companion.  She has beautiful soft fur and her forehead smells like grapes, I kid you not.  She has always played hard and rested easy.  We picked her from a litter of 9 puppies and she was the runt (the breeder’s name for her was “baby”).

She was our first baby, a full three years before we had our first human baby.  She loved to run and wore a dirt track in our back yard in Washington DC.  We’d take her to the park to socialize with other dogs, but she was not interested in other dogs.  Instead she would run a football field-sized loop around all the other dogs and their owners while we stood in the middle and watched her circle for the entire 30 to 45 minutes of time we were there.

She loved to snuggle and chill, but could be quickly coaxed into a more playful mode when we were in the mood for that kind of thing.  And she would never leave the yard without us.  I could let her out the front door and she would do her business and bee-bop around without wandering or running away.  When she was done and ready to come in she would stand at the door and wait patiently for us to reappear.

She was quick to train and eager to please.  For a time she would poop and pee on command.  We hired a teenager once to watch her at J’s parents home and he told the story that he let Greta out and she began running around the yard.  He told her “pee Greta” and she immediately stopped running and squatted to pee.  He was duly impressed!  And Greta loved visits to her grandparent’s house out in the country near Dayton, Ohio.  It was always the same place even though we moved her with us from DC, to Tennessee, and then to Ohio.  

These past few months and weeks have been hard.  She lost her hearing a few years ago and more recently has been losing her sight and also her mind.  She frequently wanders into corners and dead-ends in the house and does not know how to back out of them so that we have to rescue her.  B/c of pain (despite medication) and worsening coordination she must be carried off the porch into the yard and carried back in.  She falls frequently and in just the past day or two she has had less and less use of her back legs.

Tomorrow I will take her to the vet to be put to sleep.  We had her 15th birthday party on Saturday with a cake and candles.  Tonight Jennifer gave her her favorite human food, homemade chicken noodle soup.  She has been a precious member of this family and I can’t imagine we will ever find another dog as “perfect” as our beautiful girl.

Killing the Mouse

My daughter’s eyes were huge

pointing into our garage and 

claiming she saw a mouse.

We thought she’d seen one

scamper across the concrete

but there it was, sitting still,

eyes closed and not moving.

Something must be wrong as

it tolerated our movements 

getting closer and closer to it.

I put the mouse trap in front

of it and pushed it with a stick.

The mouse sniffed it a bit but

did not try and get the food.

Something was definitely wrong

with this mouse, but how were

we to get it out of the garage?

I’d seen its droppings in the 

past few days behind the freezer

like tiny bits of charcoal and ash.

My eyes swept around the garage

and fastened on my combat boots

sitting dusty and unused by the door.

I told the kids to move out of sight

while I put on the boot and tied it up.

The mouse’s back was to me as I

quietly clomped forward in my boot.

It did not seem to know I was there

even as I raised my foot over its

small furry form, lost in some reverie.

I hesitated, my son peeked around

the corner, “Go away,” I said as 

his curious smile receded out of sight.

I hesitated, hoping it would run away.

But when it did not I took a deep breath 

and brought down the boot hard.

I gave it a moment or two and it did 

not move or squirm beneath the sole.

No wonder.  Under my boot I found

intestines and little white bean-shapes 

that I am sure were its kidneys.

This was the second lethargic mouse

in our garage likely poisoned elsewhere.

But it didn’t make it any easier to know

that the mouse was surely on the way out.

Tomorrow I will have to force myself to 
take our dog of 15 years to the vet to be 
put to sleep.  She has suffered long enough.

***