As I Stood Raking

That Saturday in November was crisp, and our back yard was already covered with leaves. The drought in our little Northeast corner of Tennessee had left the trees crunchy and dry instead of supple and bright. They were not their normal fantastic array of cheerful hues. The "fall" of the leaves, which normally takes a month, happened in just a couple of days. I was left standing at the back door looking across the yard and dreading the hard work before me.

My back yard is really not that large, but it is full of trees. Of course there is not one evergreen among them. They are all large, full and breathtaking. Under normal circumstances, I am quite a sap for Fall. It surpasses other seasons in colorful sights, incredible smells and natural wonders. A yard covered in an earth-tone patchwork quilt kindles many a-longing memories for me. That year, however, the yard only looked neglected and the circumstances were anything but normal. The leaves were dead before they even hit the ground.

I heaved a sigh, and before putting on my gloves I checked my pocket to be sure my cell phone was there. Yep, it was right where my neurotic fingers felt it just a minute ago. It was turned on and turned up as loudly as it would go. My phone was more than a luxury to me during that time. Both my husband and son were simultaneously deployed that year. One went to Iraq and one was off to Ft. Benning for training. I lived for the sweet sound of the unidentified caller's ring tone.

The first rule of home-front order is never allow your cell phone to go dead, and never set it down out of hearing range for even a nanosecond. The deployment gods take it as a challenge if you do. All military families know, either by personal experience or tribal knowledge, that the exact second a phone is unanswerable, a soldier half-way around the world, with whom you have not spoken in a month or more, will get a second to call. It's a curse, and a consistent one!

Grabbing my trusty rake with gardening gloves securely in place, I headed to the top of the slope in the yard. My thoughts drifted quite a bit as I started raking. It was easy to let them go because I really did not want to be there. I learned the benefit of daydreaming when I picked up cross-country running the year before. I drift between lucid thought and a daydream state when I am at a committed pace. Sometimes I can cover a mile before I realize I am running with my automatic pilot engaged.

Seasoned athletes call the dream state a "zone." It is a contrived altered state of consciousness that is used to stave off the driving desire to give up.

I continued raking with the the faithful assistance of my stubborn will. Unfortunately the debut of icy sweat on my neck was incongruous with my progress. I kept on moving and doing. If I didn't do it, who would? I was the only one there who was able. My little Emma held down the home front with me, but she was only four-years old at the time. She had to stay indoors with her granny. Emma was a beautiful joy as far as curly headed vandals go. Her presence outdoors while I worked could have caused a foliage debacle, and I was one set back away from being an emotional casualty of war.

My thoughts drifted back and forth between my husband and my son. I laughed at something Bryan said as we kissed good-bye. He whispered some scandalous proposition softly in my ear as we parted at the Officer's quarters that day back in July. Lamentably, I remembered the last hug I gave my son Mike as he prepared for the passage to the sandbox. Few take that passage without having their youth devoured. My mind drifted from child to child, bill to bill before settling on chore to chore. I was drifting, thinking, stewing and raking.

I was taken back by a sharp and sudden spasm. It was not in my back or my knee. It was in my heart, and with it lingered the acerbic taste of resentment liberally mixed with an equally wretched shot of guilt. The resentment was fleeting and small, but the guilt was it's usual ample proportion. Guilt is the savant slave driver of my conscience. It is always there, whether I deserve it or not. It is the only big thing, other than my hips, that I inherited from my mother.

I looked up sharply and awoke out of my halfhearted mind-drift,

"Here I am having a pity party for myself over having to rake these leaves." I scolded myself.

I felt guilty for thinking "I bet Bryan is having a day off today and resting. If Mike were here he would help me. Why do I have to do all of this stuff alone?" I was quite sure that raking leaves would have been a welcomed reprieve for both of them, but that offered no consolation in the moment.

Those of us left behind to tend the home front get tired too. For every picture distributed of soldiers fighting in war, there are family members lingering in shadows behind them. We are the other casualties of war, but seldom are we noticed or written about. I learned in a jiffy as an Army wife and mom that my soul came equipped with boot straps. It was essential knowledge for day to day survival.

I wished my soldiers were home every second they were gone, but for that one moment I wished they were home for the wrong reasons. I was not fantasizing about a hero's homecoming, nor was I longing to hug their necks. I was not daydreaming about feeling the warmth of their breath as evidence that my nightmares remained as tormenting threats instead of damning realities. Instead I was fantasizing about them raking while I rested, and consequently I tasted guilt.

It was not just raking leaves that had me blue. Matters of life were at times, overwhelming. I often held negative feelings captive. Airing grievances is a lot like rolling a boulder down hill. You may control the initial push, but a force bigger than yourself pulls it quickly out of your control. At that point in my reverie I was somewhere between a pity party and a fall-out fiesta. The lump building in my throat was an omen to where I was headed, and I could have, should have, stopped myself.

I began recalling my sorrows anyway.

There were days when my daughter was impossible. She has her papa's eyes, but worst of all she possesses his obstinate will. I had the weight of the entire household on my shoulders all day, everyday. Every decision; financial, medical, educational, social and disciplinary were solely mine to think through, decide and act on. I suffered gratuitous self-doubt when I made a bad decision, or simply a "less good" one. Sorrow mixed with peril is a regimen for acute agitation. The audio in my head was set to complaining, but the video in my mind's eye was playing a war movie where my son was kicking in doors looking for Al Qaeda, and my husband was training to go next. Peace was on strike for all of us.

It wasn't even all of the daily stuff, really. It was the fatigue too. I went to bed painfully late, and got up insanely early. I ran all day long. When the day was over I spent half of the night cleaning and preparing for the next day. My down time, when I had a sitter for the little one, was spent at appointments or running errands. Even when I was able to go to bed early, I couldn't sleep. My dreams were vivid. Dreams of my husband's touch were most welcome. Unfortunately fear overrides pleasure in the unconscious mind making potentially enchanting dreams a lucid hell.

"Who needs things like a day of luxury when I get the pleasure of doing yard work?" I quipped.

"Wait a minute!" I stopped myself.

"I am supposed have a good fantasy to escape this damned chore."

I could not free myself from the undercurrent of pity and guilt that had me ensnared. I noticed a soft chatter in the distance as supernatural adversaries warred over pity and guilt on my shoulder. I looked up and over the fences around me, and I saw it.

I saw them.

There were men doing yard work. There were wives outside with them preparing to plant their tulip bulbs after the first freeze. They were chatting, laughing, and helping each other. They were laughing right in front of me! My sadness and fatigue were vindicated, and my guilt was temporarily at ease.

"Back to raking, Claire!" I urged myself.

Finally, a couple of large piles had accumulated. My back was getting sore, and the pity stew I had been eating was getting caustic. I leaned on my rake for support. I must have leaned long and hard because the sounds around me melted into the distance and my gaze became fixed and clouded. It was at that time a man, who I met briefly when we moved in a few months ago, approached me.

"Hey! I am your neighbor from across the way there." His drawl was more southern than fried chicken and sweet tea. "We wanted to welcome you months ago, the wife and I, but we hadn't had the time." He paused for a moment as I was trying to remember what you are supposed to say when jounced from a pity party where you are the guest of honor.

"Y'all military, if I recall right?" he stated cagily.

He pointed toward a pretty house across the way and continued, "My wife will be here in a minute, but we noticed you have a lot of work to do here with your husband gone and all."

I opened my mouth and nothing came out. I can't say it was one of my finest moments. I mumbled something about the weather. I wasn't too happy that my introverted reflection time had been interrupted. Having company meant I would have to smile and act gracious. Act was the operative word.

The man went on to explain that he was out doing yard work, and his wife prompted him to come and offer me a hand with mine. I noticed his wife walking toward us along a makeshift pathway. She had a huge smile on her face, and a hand extended before she even made it to my yard. She was lovely in every sense of the word.

She had a warmth about her that made me forget that my hands were partially frozen in a grasp on my rake. Her husband disappeared for a moment, and she and I stood there chatting. On his return he brought three other men with him. They all brought rakes and one had leaf bags.

My new found friend who I had been chatting with chimed in, "Let's go sit on the deck, chat and we'll let these guys finish this work for you today."

"Yes, ma'am!" I dropped my rake and walked lightly to the deck. That was an order I could follow.

I could not believe it. She was so easy to talk with. Normally, I am quite a stoic, but with her I talked freely. As I shared the burdens and the loneliness I had travailed through in months gone by, she listened. I had never talked so candidly to anyone other than my husband. I purged the pity stew I had feasted on earlier.

I realized that the inner stoic had failed me completely and sold me out in front of another person. I vigorously confessed it all. I let her see Claire for who she was at that moment; she was tired, wore out, and sick of being strong. I knew it was just that kind of a day, and I knew I would get through it. That knowledge was no comfort at the time. I had no more room for pity. My new friend's shoulder and ear just helped me enter into the realm of brutal honesty.

What felt like a mere five minutes was obviously a lot longer. I looked up and gave the yard a once-over. The litter of leaves had been cleaned up, and 7 lawn bags stuffed with the evidence of the mess were lined up and waiting for disposal. I was ready to cry, out of relief and gratitude. I offered everyone drinks. They refused and insisted that they were fine.

Then, my new friend's husband walked toward the deck and said, "Thank your husband and son for their service to our Country."

I hear that a lot and I always pass the message along. I wondered if these people knew that they just thanked me for holding the fort down, and for working so hard to keep it all going smoothly while my soldiers were actively serving. They took a moment to offer a helping hand in a very tangible way; a small way that made a huge difference to a discouraged and tired neighbor. I smiled.

I stood and extended my arm to shake my new found friends' hands as they prepared to leave my yard, but I heard a loud roaring motor in the background that ripped my attention in another direction. It was loud and horribly intrusive. So loud and intrusive, in fact, that it shook my universe for just a moment. I looked at my extended, grateful hand, and there sitting in it was my trusty rake. I looked around me, and I stood in my backyard. My feet were standing in a pile of crunchy leaves. The loud roar that viciously ripped me from my delightful daydream was my neighbor's leaf blower.

Standing among those dry, crackly, dead leaves I found a momentary oasis. In my daydream, I made friends that I so desperately needed. I shared burdens I had bore in solitude, and that had worn me to a frazzle. I enjoyed a reprieve from my loneliness, my fears, and my fatigue. It was a welcomed rest, and just like any leave time it was gone before I was ready to redeploy to reality. It was time for me to get back inside to my duties awaiting me there. I began my trek to the backdoor.

My phone rang with the special ring-tone announcing it would be my day to receive the coveted call. I looked down and noticed the 999 number which meant it was a call from Iraq instead of Ft. Benning today. My neurotic fingers quickly grabbed the phone, smashed the talk button and I said "Hi! How are you honey?" His voice was small and had the tell-tale signs of severe stress.

"Hey, mom. You got a minute?" he asked with a shaky voice.
"I have a million minutes for you! What's up, son?" I asked him.
"Uh, I was hit by shrapnel today. I'm alright, but three of our guys are being airlifted to Balad. I don't know if they will all make it or not, mom." His voice grew more intense in emotion as he poured his story out over the phone lines.

Standing alone in my backyard, I placed the burden back where it seemed to belong; squarely on my shoulders. I forced my weakened knees to move forward, and I listened bitterly as the dry leaves crunched with each slow and painful step.