This entry was posted on 9/8/2007 4:46 PM and is filed under uncategorized.
The old hippy smiled at me from behind a salt-and-pepper curly beard, and pointed at the table in front of him. Arranged neatly in handsome rows were smooth lovely stones of different colors and sizes, affixed with wire so they could be strewn onto a necklace. Masking tape stuck to the front of the table stated prices in simple numbers, for the prices were the most reasonable I had seen that day.
He said, "These have been blessed by peace."
Fingering the first one that had caught my eye, a flat turquoise that matched the sea soughing and sighing behind him, I said, "What do you mean, blessed by peace?"
He explained to me about how the Pope sometimes blesses things, or people; how Jewish rabbis and spiritual leaders of all kinds sometimes do the same. And these stones, polished to a soft gleam in the warm California sun, had been blessed by those who desired, above all else, that we might have peace.
My son was standing beside me, holding the "gay bag," as he called it--my bright blue swim bag stuffed with our Texas-flag beach towels and sunscreen. I did not know what he thought about peace-blessed rocks; he didn't make any comments as I studied the display, coming back repeatedly to the flat sea-colored stone.
When Dustin wandered over to the next table, I looked the man straight in the eye and said, "I have sent a son to war twice. Peace means a great deal to me."
And to my surprise and horror, tears pooled in the corners of my eyes and tracked slowly down the side of my face. I swiped at them as if that might somehow hide the fact that I was standing there on Venice Beach bawling in front of a stranger.
With eyes full of kindness, he asked if my son was safe.
"He's out of the Marine Corps now--as of yesterday," I answered, blinking to stop the tears, to no avail. "I came out here from Texas to surprise him and to celebrate his freedom."
The man said, "God bless him," and quoted several New Testament scriptures that had absolutely nothing to do with our discussion or much of anything else, to tell the truth, but that nonetheless comforted me.
I handed him the sea-colored stone and told him I would like it made into a necklace, which he did. Dustin joined me and we watched him, and I paid the man. As we walked away, he gave me that grin that our grown kids give to us when they know we are being sentimental and silly, and said, "Hey, Mom, that next booth has stones with positive energies. You buy one of those, you'll have peace AND positive energy!"
"Yeah, yeah, go ahead. Mock me," I laughed, and we walked on in companionable silence. Jesus--or someone who strongly resembled him--roller-bladed past us, white robes flowing. A street clown performed magic for children. We stopped for a while to watch some amazing acrobats in dreadlocks and sneakers do impossible feats of grace, strength, and balance all to the background of rap music and wisecracks.
Families with children and dogs packed the Labor Day boardwalk while massive curling waves thundered onto the shore with such power that the lifeguards wouldn't allow anyone in the water for a while.
Dustin's lovely girlfriend, Janna, and I had flown out to surprise him for this celebration the previous Friday and had spent the night with my daughter, Jessica, a new California transplant. After studying theater in London and doing off-off Broadway in New York for several years, she'd finally come out here to try and break into film work. Dustin had some good friends in Venice Beach who lived just a few blocks from the shore, and we'd had so much fun the whole weekend. Now Janna, bless her heart, had reluctantly returned to Texas because work loomed. Jessica WAS working because all actors wait tables in the early years and most all restaurants are open on holidays. The other young people, still nursing hangovers, had returned to the house.
That left the two of us, hanging out on the beach on a glorious day. Warm sunshine toasted our shoulders and a cool breeze lifted my ponytail off my neck while we ambled along drinking in life bursting at the seams.
Dustin wanted to show me a Jim Morrison mural--probably as old as he was--painted on the side of a building and we wandered around in search of it. I snapped photos with my cheap disposable Kodak, tried on cheap glam sunglasses, and savored each and every moment of that perfect day.
We were truly blessed by peace.
We chose not to discuss the war in any of its forms, even though we were both acutely aware that his unit--the most highly-decorated Marine Corps unit of the Battle of Fallujah--was deploying for a FOURTH time to Iraq that same week that we were playing in the ocean. He did tell me that they were probably going to be sent to Baghdad, and he was angry about that. Many, many Marines have died in the Anbar province--it remains the highest-casualty province in the whole country--and now that insurgents are working with the Americans instead of trying to blow them up, his unit doesn't get to be bored this deployment, either. Instead, it gets sent to another bloody battlefield.
So the war was, of course, on both our minds, but we pushed it away for this happy time.
I stayed another few days and we did touristy stuff like stroll Hollywood Blvd. and take pictures of George Clooney's handprints at Grauman's Chinese Theatre. I bought a vintage movie poster for Hitchcock's Rebecca, starring Joan Fontaine and Lawrence Olivier--one of my favorite movies based on one of my favorite books, by Daphne DuMaurier who, like Hitchcock, was a true master of suspense. Janna found a script for the movie The Princess Bride and we bought it for Jessica. Listened to her friends do some great bluesy rock at a club just down from the old Whiskey a Go-Go. Sat around drinking margaritas with the young people and laughed. Met one of my nephews one night and we wandered up and down the Santa Monica Pier, had a drink, caught up on gossip. Drove up and down the winding streets of Beverly Hills just to gawk at pretty houses. Silly stuff. Sweet stuff.
Dustin's plan is to take a road trip on the way home, see some sights he never had time for during his compressed Marine Corps leaves home, visit some Aggie buddies along the way. Jessi had a couple days off after I left, and he was going to spend some time hanging out with her. They both saw me off at the airport, and they both asked me to call them when I was safe in Texas.
You don't realize, when you're raising your kids, that you are bringing up your future best friends.
Usually I drive the 122 miles to the airport and leave the car in long-term parking, but my car was in the shop, so Kent picked me up when I got back, and we stopped at a deli for sandwiches. I was chattering like a magpie, telling him all about our fun adventures, when I got to the description of the perfect day with our son on the boardwalk by the beach.
I showed him the stone around my neck and told him about the old hippy, and said, "I never take one single moment with that boy for granted. Not one joyous moment. I never forget the other military moms who--"
And once again, tears sprang forward, only these poured down my face, and I struggled to get out that I never forgot the military moms whose boys and girls were in hell right now, and I never forgot the moms who would never, ever again have one perfect day by the beach with their beloved children.
I didn't mean to go all blubbery on him like that, but he understood, God bless him, and blinked back a tear or two himself. Once you have survived combat, as he has, you know never to take ANYTHING for granted again, and once you have sent a child to war, you never forget those who have done so as well.
You know that, if your child comes home safe, in one piece, and of relatively sound mind, and is able to go on and live a full and active life, that every day you have remaining to you both will be a day blessed with peace.
