I know

I know the taste of tears, after twenty seven years the salt of my pain too familiar. Most days I am happy, but there are some when my heart sighs and a hushed memory escapes and releases the genesis of my sorrow. For a time, because of others, I cloaked my heartache and restricted them to private pages. The last time we spoke, you made me promise to never hide what I was feeling, to always be honest, no matter how afraid I might be.  In honor of you, I share.

I know regret. Time wasted, the past that can never be changed. 1:11 a.m., the sweetest gift, an unexpected hello. Words hung in the air, left unspoken. A borrowed record, Billy Joel's She's Got a Way quietly played in the background, a promise when you returned I would hear the words I longed for. You wanted to hold me, look in my eyes; the first time they are said should always be special. You reminded me of the feeling, the kismet of the first time we gazed into each other's eyes. Until your reassurance, I was afraid of the depth of what I felt. We were young, we shared dreams, and we had forever. The fourth Monday in March 1987, my innocence ended, the future shattered. A helicopter crash on a riverbank in the Philippines is where you left this earth, left me.

I know one phone call can change the world, change my life. Your voice, shared laughter, a plan and a promise for the future made my heart sing. A few weeks later, your name and two words, Bobby's dead, dropped me to my knees. The pain swallowed me as my life rushed out.

I know how it feels to inhale but not be able to breathe. My first panic attack, the moment my denial ended and the reality you were never coming home dropped like a guillotine on my soul.  Fear flooded my body, suffocated my heart, the loneliness in the room spun me until I collapsed broken on my bed. It is a desolation I will never be able to describe.

I know the torment of a restless night.  The unanswered why that haunts me, denies me sleep. The solitude of the darkness magnifies the void you left. The emptiness next to me, a reminder of what might have been, should have been.

I know the sheaths of the seasons. In the fall the leaves gently cascade from the trees, dance where you rest, before they settle in the recesses between the grass and the bronze. Winter arrives, its storms blanket you in snow. The rains of spring wash away the coldness and give root to the soft green covers of summer. Your seasonal quilt is not the same as the one you wrapped around us in Pensacola. It does not matter, I will always lie next to you. It is the closest I can get until I hold you again in Heaven.

I know the sensation of forty one characters. My fingers run along your inscription while my heart retraces the memory of you. Remembrances of your touch awaken my soul. Pools of my heartache fall on your rank, embrace your name.

I know how fickle the weather can be on your birthday. The March sun can be warm or the winds can blow hard and cold. The ground can be covered in snow, soft and muddy from rain or covered in fresh grass. The climate will not stop me, I will always visit. The silence of the solemn garden broken as I sing Happy Birthday, make a wish, blow out your candle and then share a cupcake. This past year, the hardest of anniversaries; you have been gone longer than you were here.

I know what it is like to love another. I did as you would want, over time I let go. My heart was conflicted over the wonder and the guilt the first time I shared my bed. After, I cried in the shower, tears of admission, acceptance that your arms would never hold me again.

I know what it is to fear time. Seasons fade my memory. I can hear your voice in my heart, but some days I can no longer remember what it sounds like. I close my eyes and some nights you are vivid, wonderfully alive as we dance. Others, only fragments of you appear in my dreams. I am afraid age will steal the clarity, the wonder of you. Scared, memories will be eclipsed by the darkness of time.

I know the cost of freedom. My heart knows it all too well.

Writer's Block- Accepting What Was

Since the beginning of November I have been suffering from writer’s block and bouts of insomnia. Each night I would spend hours writing, only to discard the pages before heading to bed. My brain would agonize over the repeated failed attempts to start writing this particular chapter. 

My mind refusing to shut off, would sort through the interactions of the past year(s), grasping for anything that would allow me to do what I have been trying to do since I first began my book; merge what I thought I meant to one person, how I viewed him, to how it actually was and how it all led to my purgatory in January 1984.

The impossible tasks I gave myself, not only to abrogate the sin I have carried for so long, but record what I have refused to speak of or acknowledge. Somehow compose the wonderful, the ugly, the happy, and the transgression into sentences, paragraphs, and pages; a well written completed chapter.

Trying to define two characters, particularly one, was proving more difficult than I imagined. My problem, how do I keep him likable when he allowed the unthinkable to happen? Will my words be enough for the reader to understand both were good men, taught to live by the same code but only one was truly a man of honor? Perhaps the reason I can’t properly bring his character to life is because I have not fully absolved him for what happened? In order to forgive, I must acknowledge it, own it, am I ready to do that?  

One might ask, why is it so hard? Everything that was and wasn’t between Bobby and I was set in January 1984. Our fates with each other were sealed by the acts of others. It was what bound Bobby and I; my confession. It was the secret he took to his grave, the reason he swore no matter what he would always be here. It is why I always wondered, was it his sense of duty and obligation that kept him coming back, the knowledge he had or were we always meant to be together? Was it, as he said, something he always knew? The root, the complexities of it all, begin in this chapter. The one I am afraid to author.

When I first began my book, the stress of trying to portray everyone fairly, reliving every moment was too daunting, so I skipped the chapter and proceeded to the next. Now I must find the words that have eluded me and finish my book.  My frustration growing with every failed attempt.

Last night was the same, hours spent struggling to camouflage enough of the truth so certain people would not be seen as who/how they really were. After deleting seventeen or so pages I lay in bed staring at the wall, then the ceiling, next the door and finally reaching for the photo tucked behind my iPod on my nightstand. Praying his photo will ease my confusion. As I shifted from one position to the next, my brain shuffled through question after question until they seemed to swirl above my bed and haunt me.  Why was it so hard writing what was?

A hint of light was beginning to peek through the transom when I gave up the notion of sleep. Hoping my confusion and weariness would somehow filter out in a coherent form I turned on my computer. I was wrong. Frustration came quickly. Type a few letters then hit backspace, backspace, backspace. Join a few words, finish a sentence then highlight and delete; the maddening cycle was repeating. His character and mine, our relationship still not melding, the truth lost beneath the sugar coated illusion I was trying to create. One I had clung to for many years.

I closed word, pulled out a few pieces of his mail from when he was at the Academy and in flight school. I signed onto Facebook and Gmail to read the last couple years of correspondence. As the sun rose an epiphany occurred. I stared at his letters, remembering all that happened between us. The boldness of the truth screaming between the lines, his words were hollow. As empty as the love he gave me. I loved him but in 1983/84 I was never sure if he really loved me. Every I love you he wrote was followed by a but; real love never has a qualifier.  Why was I afraid to show the lopsidedness of our relationship? Thirty years later, was it my pride stopping me from conceding the truth?

He may have said he loved me countless times, written it a hundred more yet his actions proved otherwise. Reality, he was the only person who could have stopped what happened and he didn’t. As much as I want to cling to the idea I meant everything to him, he treated me well, I can’t. He may be a good man now but in 1984 he was a confused self-centered jackass and I was an immature fool who believed my love would change him. We were both young, naïve and stupid. I had no trouble portraying myself as such, why couldn't I do the same with him? 

Reading his letters I understood, I couldn’t connect with his character because I was writing how I wanted everyone to perceive him, our relationship, not how it actually was. My blindness, my stupidity, put in place the circumstances that gave a truly wonderful man guilt he did not deserve. Regret that should have been carried by him, Bobby borne willingly. Did he do so because they were friends or because Bobby and I would become lovers? The questions ricocheted in my mind while my writing was gridlocked.

The sun was halfway through the morning sky when I read a passage in my journal from 30 January 1984, “Why didn’t you look for me? Do you care? You turned your back on my tears. Did you ever love me? I will always love you but more than anything I wish I’d never met you.”

My journal from thirty years ago reminding me of the damage he had done, how badly he hurt me. Peace would only come with the truth. My twenty year old self demanding I show him how he truly was, not the illusion developed over the years. In 1984 I loved and hated him at the same time.  I finally comprehended It was okay to show the side I hated, the part of him that was conflicted. I was trying to characterize him, us as perfect, when none of us were. 

If we had been perfect, I would have never been damaged so deeply and Bobby wouldn't have had to put me back together. The difference I needed to show between the two. Bobby never said or wrote he loved me, but he proved it through perseverance. Something he never did. 

In 1987 I let the truth be buried with Bobby. One of the reasons I decided to write, to let everything finally be told.  I owe him that much. I owe him more, I owe him my life.

Now that I have accepted it all for what it was, the words are flowing once again.

Part 1 Permission to Grieve

The anniversary of Bobby’s death is less than twenty four hours away.  The restless nights have begun. The memories profuse, my dreams vivid and alive.  This year I decided to write on a subject some people find uncomfortable, grief.  For a few, the most aggravating, my sorrow over losing Bobby. 

Never wanting to burden anyone with my problems, before now, only a few people knew of my plight. The ability to write about the intense sorrow, making my way through what I have dubbed my ‘just shy of crazy days’, is only possible because I survived. After twenty three years, I finally allowed myself to drown in my loss and with the help of some amazing friends, was able to surface and once again breathe. 

Along the way some people recognized my pain for what it was; grief, delayed mourning. They patiently answered my questions, allowed me to cry without thought and helped me find closure.  Because of them I was able to let go and heal. 

Others whispered, questioned my tears and mocked my pain. A few friends even stopped talking to me. My silent tears, what I had written upset them. When asked why, they never answered.  Intentional or not, their words and actions added to my sorrow. They will never comprehend the hurt they inflicted during some of my darkest days.  It is because of their blindness and lack of compassion I decided to acknowledge and write about what I went through. 

Bearing my soul, stupidity or courageous, that is for the reader to decide. My prayer, that the emotional journey I traveled will help people recognize grief. Understand if not addressed properly at the time of a loved one’s sudden passing, can reoccur and continue years later. My hope, we will all learn to reach out when confronted with another’s pain instead of dismiss or mock what we cannot comprehend.  

Let me begin with part one.

What was true in my past is still true today; sharing what I feel is a rarity. Writing has allowed me to express what I fear to express verbally. Avoidance is a subject mastered. Only one person has ever broken through my emotional barricade. There was no denying the instant connection we shared. 

A year after his death, one sunny April afternoon I lie next to his grave, with my hand resting on his headstone, I confessed my love and said goodbye.  Believing that was enough to end my pain, I left Restland and tried to move forward with my life. Years later I learned accepting his death and letting him go would take longer than I ever realized. 

“To understand what was and accept what will never be is a journey wrought with tears.”

Unresolved Grief:  Denial of a loss. The pain is present, but the brain suppresses it, refusing to accept the death. Major factors, guilt over unresolved issues, words not spoken and the death is sudden.  Unresolved grief is compounded when no support system is in place; others consider the person’s loss insignificant and do not understand the magnitude of a person’s pain.  Unresolved Grief usually transforms and combines with Delayed Grief.

Delayed Grief:  When a person is not ready or prepared to deal with the loss of a loved one. Grief is avoided and/or stopped due to the unbearable intensity of feelings towards the person and the manner of loss.  It is postponed for many years rather than felt, experienced, understood and properly expressed at the time of the loss.  Ties and reminders to the person and loss are severed. Avoidance allows the person to hide their sorrow. Over time grief/pain may surface but is pushed back/denied with self-scolding until an unforeseen trigger happens.  When the grief is finally allowed to surface, the pain and sorrow is magnified from years of denial.

Permission to Grieve

21 November 2010

It was the twenty third night I spent curled in a chair next to my Father’s bed.  As I had done every night before I spent the long midnight hours reflecting, remembering, writing and watching over Dad. I looked at the clock it was a little past 2 a.m. It was time to stretch my legs and clear my brain. During my midnight strolls the whispers of the hospice house could be heard; sounds of muffled televisions, soft music and nurses quietly talking.  The usual hush was present but there was an ineffable silence as well.

Walking down the hall I found myself peering into each room as I passed.  Sadness filled me. Every patient slept alone; there was no one there to watch over them during the tenebrous hours.  The soft glow from their night light illuminated their faces as they slept.  Death awaited them yet their expressions were peaceful, welcoming.

At the end of the hall I stopped next to the last room and was still. Looking up, I searched desperately hoping to catch a glimpse of an Angel. I needed to know at least one was there waiting to take everyone home at their appointed hour. Praying for reassurance we are never truly alone. Physically and emotionally exhausted I headed back.

From the hall I could hear Frank Sinatra softly playing in Dad’s room.  Leaning against the door frame I continued to pray as I watched my father sleep.  Cancer had silenced him; he hadn’t spoken in over a day. No more words of comfort or reassurance would leave his lips. My solitude was broken as his nurse brushed by me and announced her arrival.  Snuggling into my blanket, hugging myself with its warmth, I settled back into the recliner.  

The nurse checked Dad’s tubes, administered his medications and began a conversation about her oldest daughter.  After years of dating the wrong men, her daughter had finally found love with a good man, a midshipman.  One of the day nurses had mentioned I was married to an Academy graduate. She was curious what life was like married to a man in the military. Smiling I informed her she had the wrong daughter; it was my sister who had married a Navy man. Life was good for them, they had been married for twenty eight years.  Her expression saddened when I told her I never married.

On the way out the room, she paused next to my chair, patted my hand and said, “As beautiful and loving as you are. I’m sure you had a bunch of midshipmen chasing you. I bet there is a man out there who regrets letting you go.” Then she concluded, “Such a shame you never fell in love and married.”  The fortress built long ago to protect me from similar sentiments began collapsing. To hide the tears that were forming I looked out the window.

Wanting comfort I reached for Dad’s hand.  Tired, sick, happy, angry, sleeping; no matter what state my father was in, he always squeezed my hand when he felt it inside his. There was no response; the warmth was leaving his fingers. The reality could no longer be denied, he was going to be leaving me soon.

The somber atmosphere from the hall entered the room. The strange absence, emptiness, encompassing me was present yet wasn’t.  The last of the Frank Sinatra songs played and my iPod turned dark and grew silent.  Rising from my chair I stopped when I witnessed the screen come back on and watched as my iPod shuffled. 

The opening flutes, with a gentle orchestra background gracefully danced from the speakers and diffused the room with its longing melody. I closed my eyes and held my heart as I listened to Elton John's combination of "Someone to Watch Over Me" and "Our Love is Here to Stay."  The Gershwin song I dreamed of dancing to at my wedding brought tears to my eyes. Others may think differently but in my heart I know who that dance has always belonged to. The arduous what ifs began to circulate in my heart. The nurses remark, the music, and the sensation I felt caused me to reflect on a conversation I had with my father when he was in the hospital. 

Dad had read my blog and needed to clear his conscious before he died. He told me of a handsome very excited, newly winged Naval Aviator that stopped by the house the beginning of June 1985.  When told I was not home, undaunted, he asked if he could leave a note.  Dad handed him a pad of paper, stood at the door and watched as he sat on our front porch writing. 

Dad had witnessed my countless tears over the previous two years. Believing this man would be like all the others in my past, hurt and leave me, he never gave me his letter. Instead, he tucked it away in his dresser.  Two years later, my nightly sobs tore at my father’s heart. His fears were confirmed when he unfolded the piece of paper and saw the signature. He realized my sorrow was over the man he had sent away. Afraid I would not forgive him if I learned of Bobby’s letter; he returned it to his dresser.   

Dad’s confession hung in my mind as a slide show of forgotten memories started to play on fast forward in my brain. The room spun and I could no longer breathe. Love, regret, passion, sorrow, panic, loneliness, a mixture of emotions overwhelmed me as my past rushed to the forefront of my mind.

Remembering was causing a claustrophobia of sorrow; it began to suffocate me. Insanity was but a moment away. Hoping to escape the memories, get away from the song that triggered my new affliction, I rushed out of the room. Walking to the kitchen I wiped my tears and prayed for a reprieve. 

Bracing myself, leaning over the sink, I repeated out loud, “Breathe Robinson, just breathe.”  Words were failing me, my brain was letting go and my heart was crumbling.  Hot tea would surely calm and comfort me. The cups and tea were above me, the microwave to my left.

The water flowed over the top of the cup and washed over my hand.  Staring at the scene, I was trapped in the moment. My disorientation compounded by the sound of a shock trauma helicopter flying overhead. The lonely rhythmic vibration of the blade chopping through the air, something I had heard often in my life, was now a haunting reminder of what should have been.  With each rotation, I could feel a piece of my heart vacate.

Reality was escaping me. Frozen, unable to regain control, in slow motion, I watched my cup drop and shatter at the bottom of the sink. My legs gave way as I fell to the floor in a crumpled mass of tears. The exclamation I cried shocked me, “Oh God, Bobby where are you?”   

The sound of shattering glass, my anguished cries brought my Dad’s nurse to my side. No words would form; I couldn't think, the pain so fresh it crippled me. She held me, urged me to let it all out.  Refusing to relinquish control, I fought the desperation trying to engulf me.

With mastery I had gained since Bobby’s death I quelched my tears and pulled free of her embrace.  She handed me a tissue and asked if I wanted to talk.  I shook my head, how could I? My father lie dying in the next room yet the tears I shed were for a man who had died twenty three years earlier. There was no reasoning away this betrayal against my father. How would anyone understand what I could not explain?

My tears were halted but my body was still trembling. The last thing I wanted was a witness to my meltdown. If she left, I could let whatever this was pass and pretend it never happened. My voice quivered, I thanked her for her concern, told her I would be fine but wanted to be alone. She refused. She insisted talking was necessary to heal. Expecting her to confirm my treachery and bolt in disgust, I confessed my cries were not for my father. Her reaction astonishing: she hugged me, had faith my father would understand and assured me I had committed no sin. Her reasoning; grief adheres to its own timetable. 

A few hours later, half asleep I was awakened by a knock on the door. Through the haze, I rubbed my eyes; a woman introduced herself as a grief counselor and invited me for coffee. Cordially I declined; afraid she would confirm the ‘whispers’ made by friends after I had written about Bobby, I was crazy. No was unacceptable to her. One cup of coffee and after I could decide whether or not to keep talking.

Relief and answers were sought over Folgers and deli sandwiches. Sharing a bagel, I acknowledged my defenses first weakened in May 2010. The actual beginning was Facebook  I had reconnected with lost friends. People I had purposely avoided in the past were now constant reminders of what could have, should have been. Through Facebook an invitation was sent and accepted.

Almost twenty years had passed since I had attended a Navy function.  My reintroduction to my old life was a retirement ceremony for one of Bobby’s lacrosse teammates. The empty chair next to me a stark reminder he was gone and how much I missed him. Looking at his old friends, in my mind I could hear myself tell him, "Bobby you should be here." I questioned God why he wasn't. The speeches were lost to the memory of a conversation Bobby and I shared; at least one of his boys would play for Navy and they would win the lacrosse championship that had eluded him in 1983. In the audience were several teenagers, none his. Bobby died before his dream of children could be realized. 

A few days later I began writing the series of blogs on Bobby. Believing if I let go of some of my memories, it would be enough to stop the tears that were beginning to surface after a long absence. With the conclusion of the series, after the last word was written, I thought Bobby was once again safely laid to rest in my heart. Dreams began to confuse me; not sure if I was remembering in my sleep or wishing.

The answers I knew could be found in my journals but I refused to seek them; terrified I would discover the dreams were real and not fiction. Not understanding how can you love someone yet lose so much of what happened? Bury so many beautiful memories?

The counselor's conclusions were reassuring; I was not crazy. To survive my brain hid what I was not prepared to handle in 1987. The mind has a way of protecting the heart. I needed to read my journals to find the truth. My peace could only come if I allowed myself to finish grieving. To complete it, I had to acknowledge who Bobby was to me and no longer hide what I felt.

Over the next few months whenever I felt overwhelmed we shared coffee. With her help I came to an important realization; in life and in death I have always been consistent with Bobby.  In life for a time I ran from him, convinced I was not good enough for him, afraid of the secret he kept, scared I had no control over my feelings and terrified of the intensity of it all. 

Since 23 March 1987 I had been running from Bobby, specifically his death; hiding from the overwhelming sorrow. Through the years I ran to protect myself from the immense guilt and regret that haunted me. To cope, I hid what I felt, denied my tears, buried memories. Slowly I cut off all ties to everyone and everything that reminded me of Bobby.      

Reality is often hard to acknowledge. To understand everything, my assignment, I had to take a very painful examination of whom I was and who Bobby was to me. Relinquish my sorrow and give myself permission to grieve. 

End of part one
next a look back 

A Christmas Memory - I'll Be Home for Christmas

When I was little, most Christmases our family would travel to Lebanon, Pennsylvania to spend the holiday with my Nana Kay. The day after we arrived, Mom, Dad and Debbie would head out to do last minute Christmas and grocery shopping. Since I was a ‘handful’ at the store, I was always left behind. I never thought of it as punishment, for me it was a treat, Nana Kay and I would spend the day baking the final round of Christmas cookies. It is where I discovered the magic of baking.

 I loved her kitchen and often wish I could step back into it; the old white stove with black grates, the square table that sat in the middle, my magnetic paper dolls often adorned the wide metal band that circled the table top, the silver chairs, the peeling sound they made when you got up from the white plastic vinyl cushions. On the right side of the kitchen was the 'dish' sink, it was so tall I had to stand on a stool to wash my hands.  I remember how the oven would warm up the kitchen, the heat would at times be so hot Nana Kay would open the back door, slide down the window on the screen door and let the cold winter air in to cool down the house. 

Next to the kitchen was the formal living room, a place where children were never allowed to sit or play. It was the room with the fancy furniture, end tables with huge doilies, an over-sized curio cabinet I was convinced I could live in and a long table covered with old family photographs that ran the wall of the staircase. I was banished to my room once for knocking down the pictures with my dangling feet as I slid down the banister. Other than the  enticing banister, the room always seemed old, uninviting except for Christmastime. After Thanksgiving the room was a mecca of wonderful. It came alive with feather trees, angels with glittering hair, greens with red bows adorning their drapes, candles that once lit cast dancing shadows on the wall. The trophy of the magnificent room, on the back wall, standing between two large green wing chairs graced with playful Santas and under a set of large shiny red Christmas bells that hung from the ceiling, was a beautiful old hi fi stereo. It was huge, it was wooden and it was awesome. I loved the sound of the brass hinges as I lifted the lid and set the arm to hold it open.  The speaker in the front looked like a black mesh flower, the legs were beautifully sculpted, the sides always polished to a shine.  It was beautiful when it sat silent and it transformed to magnificent when it came alive with music. The only time I was allowed to enter the room and play the stereo unsupervised was Christmas baking day. 

Before Nana Kay would light the oven, measure any ingredient, she would retrieve her Christmas albums from the cabinet and lay them next to Santa in the chair. My job, when an album finished playing, I would replace it with the next one in the pile. As the day wore on the stack in one chair would grow larger as the other stack diminished. Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra, Nat King Cole, The Andrew Sisters, Perry Como, Doris Day, the King Family, Elvis Presley, I had them all memorized and would joyfully sing along with each. 

Decca Records, Bing Crosby in a Santa Hat wearing a holly bow tie, with ‘Bing’ signed on the side. The album was White Christmas and I remember it so vividly, not for its title song but for another track, “I’ll Be Home For Christmas”. When the song ended Nana Kay would tell me to "run and play it again". I would stand on my tippy toes so I could see the album spinning below and safely grab the needle. I would scrunch my nose and squint my eyes as I carefully identified the correct blank track. Curling my lower lip, slightly biting it I would steady my hand so as not to drop the needle or let it bounce as I placed it back down at the beginning of the song. To make sure I had placed the needle in the proper spot, I would wait for the orchestra to begin before I would turn and skip back into the kitchen. When the Bing Crosby finished and the choir began to sing Nana Kay would take my hand and we would dance around the table. The flour from my apron seemed to mimic a light snowfall as it danced its way to the floor as she spun me. Our last Christmas together, we must have danced to the song a dozen times. What I remember most, I was always puzzled, no matter how many times the song played; Nana Kay never sang the lyrics correctly. Her words were only slightly off, but they were still obviously wrong. I never pointed out her mistake, I never asked why; I was nine, I didn't question, I sang along and enjoyed our dance together. 

It was several years after Nana Kay’s death, when I was in college that I re-discovered her old Christmas Albums while searching for a box of lost ornaments in the basement. I pulled the box from where it had been neatly hidden and placed it on the floor next to Dad’s work bench so I could easily retrieve it later. After the tree had been decorated and my parents and sister went off to bed, I decided to dust off the Old Christmas albums and see if they still played. I pulled the box out from the work shop and loaded up my stereo. 

The fire was dancing in the Franklin stove as I lie on the couch, waiting. I heard the record drop, with the sound of the arm moving across the stereo I began to hold my breath. At first there was only static, slowly the crackling from album’s age gave way to Bing Crosby’s beautiful baritone voice. I smiled as I listened to my old familiar Christmas ‘friend’. I was snuggled deep in my blanket when I heard the familiar orchestra and guitar intro for "I'll Be Home for Christmas." I rolled over on my back, closed my eyes, put my arms in the air, so my Nana Kay could spin me once again. As we 'danced' and I sang along I finally realized it wasn’t a mistake, Nana Kay purposely changed the lyrics. Her words were, in a way, a love letter to my Grandfather. He had died at the age of 36 shortly after returning home from World War II. Now I understood why she often looked to the ceiling as we danced, she was singing to heaven. I understood why she wanted me to “run and play it again” and again and again. Irving Berlin’s song from so long ago; was Nana Kay’s Christmas love song to her Marlin, my grandfather. 

The older I become, the more I can relate to the longing that was in her voice as she sang. Life has taught me when you lose someone you love, the years may pass, memories may fade, but the love never changes, the hurt never fades. 

Tonight after the Christmas Eve service, as everyone was bustling around me saying their Merry Christmases and good byes; I sat quietly in the pew and said a prayer. I prayed for all the men and women who died serving our country that will never be home for Christmas. I prayed for the family and friends they left behind, who if they are like me will be dreaming of a Christmas one more time with the person they love and miss. When I finished my prayer I quietly sang my Nana Kay’s version of I’ll Be Home For Christmas especially to my Grandpa (Lt. Col. Marlin R. Kopp) and Bobby (Lt. Robert T. Bianchi) and to my friends, Kevin (Cdr. Kevin A. Bianchi) and Pete (Cdr. Pete Oswald) who never made it back home.

So this Christmas, I thought I would share my Nana Kay’s story… and hopefully, who knows maybe next time you hear “I’ll Be Home Christmas” you will sing her lyrics, then quietly say a prayer for all servicemen and women who will only be home in the hearts and dreams of the loved ones they left behind. 

Below are her lyrics, (Please note, on the newer recorded versions of the song, there is an intro that was not on the older Bing Crosby rendition, so I added my own changed lyrics to match my Nana Kay’s. I hope you don’t mind) 


I’m dreaming tonight 
Of a man I love
Even more than I usually do
And although I know it was a long time ago
I promise you

You’ll be home for Christmas
You can count on me
We’ll have snow and mistletoe 
And presents under the tree 
Christmas Eve will find you
Where the love light gleams
You’ll be home for Christmas
Forever in my dreams

15 March 1984

Every night I lying in bed holding you close in my dreams
The song begins to play on my iPod, it’s melody, the drum, the bass, guitar, everything about it takes me back to what seems like so long ago, a lifetime ago, twenty eight years to be exact. I close my eyes escape in the memory.

My feet are propped up on his dashboard; his hand is resting on my knee. The wind is blowing through my hair as I stare out the window at the moon; it was bright, beautiful, almost full. The stars over the gulf seem to go on forever, millions to wish on, if only I had.

I am lost in the beauty of the night sky, for the first time since January I am feeling comfortable, unafraid around a man. Not thinking, I start to sing along with the Eagles. I feel his hand slide off my leg, out of the corner of my eye I see him reach for the dashboard. The volume of the chorus becomes softer. The realization hits me that I was singing out loud and he was listening. Mortified I stopped and immediately apologize. I explained to him it was a bad habit.

"Oh my God I can't believe I was singing!"

He chuckled at my quiet exclamation. I buried my face in my hands/knees out of embarrassment. I felt his hand rub my back, then push my hair back, trying to get me to relax, look up at him. I was praying he would simply turn the radio back up so we could both forget my singing, my embarrassment. Pretend like it never happened. I was surprised when instead he questioned me.

“Bad habit, no it’s a good one. Why do you sing so quietly? Why are you holding back?”

I can still hear his voice, the confusion as he was trying to understand why I was so embarrassed, almost ashamed that I was singing. When I didn't answer, I felt the car pull off the road and stop. With my head still buried in my hands I asked, "Why did we stop?"

"Just tell me why and I will drive."

When I finally looked up he was patiently staring at me. Our eyes met and he smiled. He raised his eyebrows, silently letting me know he was waiting for a response. I explained to him, when I was younger whenever I sang along with the radio or a record it drove my mom crazy. I was constantly scolded told to stop. My dad didn’t mind but to my mom my singing was annoying. Even my sister on a few occasions told me my constant singing with the radio bugged her. From then on I tried to tell myself not to sing with the radio. I confessed I didn’t realize I was singing, usually I only sing when I am driving alone ... then he interrupted.

“When you feel safe”

“I guess so” I answered, amazed at his correct choice of words.

His eyes lit up, his smile transformed into a huge grin, “I am an officer and a gentleman. You will always be safe with me!”

I shook my head. I couldn't believe how lame his line was, but I knew he was trying to get me to relax, laugh. I teased him, “That was really bad!”

He started laughing, said “No this would be bad!”

He put the car in gear, pulled back on the road.He reached down and turned up the radio. Cyndi Lauper’s 'Time after Time' was playing and he began to sing along loudly. He was a bit off key. I couldn't tell if he was singing off key on propose, to make me feel better or if that was normally how he sang. It didn't matter, he proudly and sweetly serenaded me.

If you're lost you can look and you will find me
Time after time

He reached over and poked me, then continued singing.

If you fall I will catch you--I'll be waiting
Time after time

He jabbed me harder, “You know the words, come on. Let it loose. I don’t sing solo”

He playfully pushed me. I finally joined in.

After my picture fades and darkness has
Turned to gray
Watching through windows you're wondering
If I'm OK
Secrets stolen from deep inside
The drum beats out of time
You said go slow
I fall behind
The second hand unwinds
Time after Time.

When the song ended, he turned the radio back down. Then he asked, “Promise me you will sing more, sing loudly and never hide your voice. “
I shyly smiled, confused as to why he would want me to make him such a promise. I answered hesitantly, “Okay I promise.”

He rubbed my leg, turned the volume back up. The rest of the ride to my condo we sang along with the radio, loud, unabashedly and many times off key.

It was heaven, just the two of us, singing, laughing, with the moonlight, the night wind and the stars above as our audience.

March 15, 1984 was a great night. One I will always remember and cherish!

Lessons From Memorial Hall

I was eighteen the first time I entered her halls. 1981 was the beginning of my growth. I was struggling between being a teenager and becoming an adult. I had recently graduated from high school, and was in my first semester of college. Many life lessons started that evening, lessons I had not begun to realize. Men who would have a profound effect on me, change who I was, walked the corridors of Bancroft Hall in October of 1981; I had not yet met them.

He was my first real boyfriend, a 3rd class midshipman in 7th company from outside of Buffalo, New York. I loved the way he spoke; the pronunciations of certain words, beer, car, park, etc. were almost an infatuation to me. For a silly 18-year-old girl, his accent, his uniform, everything about him seemed so mature. I loved having a boyfriend and I wanted to keep him around for a while so I worked hard trying to impress him, let him know I liked him.

From the time I first sat in the kitchen splitting green beans with my grandmother I was taught a way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.  My afternoon class was was canceled so I decided with my added free time I would make chocolate chip cookies and surprise my mid.  With my baking complete, I bagged the cookies and headed to the Academy.

I had never surprised anyone before, and wondered as I parked my car if this was such a brilliant idea. Brushing aside my anxiety, I headed across the yard. I climbed the imposing steps to the entrance of Bancroft Hall. I marveled at the massive size of the foyer, the towering dome, and arches that adorned the ceiling. In front of me stood numerous flags, beyond them lay another massive staircase leading to a larger door with some type of strange seal of armor above it. Turning in a small circle I was in awe at the visual magnificence that surrounded me.

A sign directed me to turn left for the visitor’s reception area. At the window I informed the midshipmen on duty the company and name of whom I wished to visit. He called his company and relayed the message he had a visitor. I was
directed down the hall to the visitor's lounge and told my boyfriend would be there shortly.

The lounge was crowded with midshipmen and their girlfriends. Leather couches were taken up by couples mesmerized with each other’s presence. Trying not to stare at the various scenes playing out in front of me, I stood awkwardly in the corner and waited. Within a few minutes my boyfriend entered the room. Noticing how uncomfortable I was he invited me for a walk. Happily I agreed.

We exited the lounge and headed toward the entrance. Instead of turning right to go out the doors, he paused, then told me to follow him. We headed up the staircase I had been confronted by earlier. Ascending the steps I ran my hand along the wide banister. The room that stood above us commanded my attention. The breadth and prominence of the entrance overpowered every other feature in the building. I couldn't explain why but it took my breath away with it's overpowering silence.

On the landing outside the entrance, my boyfriend laid the bag of cookies by the wall. He brushed and straightened his uniform. He checked his posture and seemed to grow an inch or two taller before me. My confused look at his uniform checks told him I had never been inside the hall. He asked if I knew the significance of the Memorial Hall, I shook my head.

He explained as a plebe he had to wait for the upper classmen to disclose all the hall represented. What it meant to the midshipmen and alumni of the Academy.  Every midshipman had to earn the right to enter her chambers.  To him Memorial Hall needed no further explanation. If one listened; her walls, her chambers spoke for themselves. In time they would disclose their meaning to all who sought it.

The large hall at the top of the stairs, located across from the entrance to Bancroft Hall is not just any room, she is like no other. Memorial Hall sits at the heart of Mother B; the nickname affectionately given Bancroft Hall by the midshipmen.
Memorial Hall is the quintessence of the Academy. Everything the Academy represents, the values it teaches are all embodied within her walls. She holds the lessons of the past that will lead midshipmen forward; teach them to become better men and women, outstanding leaders.

From the moment I stepped within her walls I was overwhelmed. The massive hall was quiet, peaceful. The sounds of my shoes hitting her floors echoed through her towering architecture. A solemn silence resonated through the air. The mammoth columns seem to be guarding the memories of the Academy’s shipmates. Her walls divulged the stories of the Navy’s heroes, their struggles, their battles, their victories, disclosed through powerful images and baroque memorials.

Walking along her walls my boyfriend pointed out the heroes that stood out to him, officers he had studied or would study. I stood in the middle of the main room, stared upward through the large skylight, looking to the Heavens where her gallant men were surely residing.  Valor and honor surrounded me.

Memorial Hall was beautiful, magnificent in her glory. An indescribable sadness came over me as I stood silent. I was new to the Annapolis; I had not yet developed ties to the Naval Academy, her midshipmen and graduates. I did not understand the strange sensation the hall gave me. I would not fully comprehend what I was feeling, the sacrifices that lay within her walls and alcoves until many years later.

I did not enter the walls of Memorial Hall again for twenty some odd years. In my forties, no longer a naïve teenager.  I had gotten off work early and headed to Annapolis Mall to do some Christmas shopping. The gifts would have to wait, the sign at the end of Route 2 for the Naval Academy beckoned me. Memorial Hall was summoning me.

 Awhile back I had read a feature  about the re-dedication ceremony of Memorial Hall. She had undergone years of renovation. The article noted that her walls now contained panels listing former midshipmen who had been killed while serving in the military. Her alcoves made more hallow by the more than 2500 lost shipmates chronicled upon them. The ghosts and memories of the young men that once lived within the walls of Mother B. were now enshrined for all to see.

I convinced the guard to allow me to park at Preble Hall. I sat for a moment staring at the Academy grounds that I once roamed. I smiled, remembering all the friends I had made; the laughter, love and friendship I found within the Academy’s gates. I walked by the Chapel, down the path to Stribling Walk. Beyond Tecumseh lay Bancroft Hall, the cannon along the walls sitting silent vigil, announcing to all who enter Tecumseh’s court they are entering the home of American’s past, present and future leaders and heroes.

I climbed the massive stairs of Bancroft. The only facet time seemed to change was me. I stood under the rotunda at the entrance staring at the steps that once again lay in front me; my passage way to Memorial Hall. As I had done many years before I placed my hand on the banister, feeling every inch of her marble under my fingertips. My eyes fixed above on the sweeping letters that spelled “Don’t Give Up the Ship”. The memorial was flanked on one side by an American Flag and on the other a Naval Academy Flag. As I neared the top of the staircase, the more powerful the image became.

Standing at her entrance, I wondered why I had come back. Part of me wanted to see the new memorials, most of me paralyzed with fear by the emotions I knew awaited me. Two midshipmen exited the hall, nodded, acknowledging me as they passed by. The hall was now empty, safe to enter. I no longer had to worry about strangers witnessing my reaction when I first looked upon the memorial for the class of 1983.

As I had done many years before I looked up through the beautiful skylight above, this time saying a prayer for strength. Immediately I was drawn to the right side of the hall. It was as if my heart knew exactly where he was, the place where his name had been inscribed for all eternity.

I entered the alcove, walked to the corner. Before me hung a large set of marble panels, four across and eight down. Every two panels designated for an Academy class, the bottom two his class. I read, Class of Nineteen Hundred Eighty-Three; underneath the wording was the class crest. The fourth name down from the top, Lt. Robert T. Bianchi, USN. I reached out to touch him.

Tears began to roll down my cheeks as I ran my fingers over his inscription. I was taken back to the morning my phone rang and heard the words that forever changed my life, “Bobby is dead.”   That day I lost my innocence.  

There is something utterly wrong at seeing the name of a man whose arms once held me, whose hands wiped away my tears. The man to whom I had entrusted my secrets and dreams, a man taken from me when he was twenty-six and I was not quite twenty-four. At one time our bodies were one, joined as we made love. I remember the warmth of his skin and the tenderness of his voice the last time he touched me.

Now the pain of unexplainable separation, the years of want and hurt, streamed from my heart as tears. A river of crushed dreams played through my mind as I looked out the window. Closing my eyes, I imagined Bobby walking through the halls of Mother B, playing lacrosse on the Academy fields. I saw him smiling at me, his eyes lighting up when he first saw me standing next to the gate at the turf field. In that instant I knew he was happy to see me.

I had been lost in the memories of Bobby when I heard footsteps enter the hall. Not wanting anyone to witness my heartache I rushed down the stairs and took refuge in the bathroom.  I sat in the stall wiping my tears and reprimanding myself.  Bobby had been gone almost twenty years; I had made a promise long ago, no more tears, only smiles when I remembered him.

My brain had made a promise my heart could not keep. No amount of scolding would stop my tears. For years I had avoided all reminders of Bobby. I had cut ties to everyone and anything that might cause me to remember how much was lost when he died. Yet here I was standing in the institution that made him a man, the Academy he loved so much.

The core of Lt. Robert T. Bianchi enveloped me. Time seemed to fly backwards.  Once again I was twenty three and lost. I had to make a decision.  I could fight what I was feeling or embrace his memory and all the emotions that accompanied it.  I washed the tears from my face and looked in the mirror.  My eyes reflected the sorrow still within me. I took a deep breath, headed out the door and back up the steps. More valiant men deserved my respects.

I realized I could never go back to the first time I stepped within Memorial Hall. I was no longer naïve and had long given up the notion that people we love will grow old with us. I reentered the hall and faced the reality of life’s cruelty. I was gazing upon the sacrifices of the few, for the many.

I started on the left side of the hall, began reading the names of men who had died long before I was born.  As I progressed through the panels, comprehending the ranks of the men listed, I became cognizant that the young die in the military. Survivors retire. I stopped to pay special tribute to the men who had been awarded the Medal of Honor. Once again I looked up through the massive skylight to Heaven, prayed for control as I reentered the alcove memorializing the most recent graduating classes.  I purposely skipped the first row, Bobby’s class and started with the second.

Class of Nineteen Hundred Eighty-Four, the bottom name, Cdr. Peter G. Oswald, USN. I smiled, remembering the first time I was introduced to Pete after a football game. When I asked him what position he played he answered, offensive line. His job was to protect Nap (McCallum) and to open holes for him to run through.  Pete was a force to be reckoned with on the field, and I discovered a sweet caring soul outside of the game.

I will always cherish the conversation Pete and I had at Fran O’Brian’s. He gently explained my two biggest character flaws: First, I put distance between me and the men who tried to love me. Second, I refused to see all that was beautiful within me. Until I changed I would never be happy. In 1984 I thought his remarks were callous, now I understood he was giving me much needed guidance. He cared enough to be honest.

Class of Nineteen Hundred Eighty-Five, the bottom name, Cdr. Kevin A. Bianchi, USN.  Bobby’s brother. Like Pete he had died a few years before. Kevin always greeted me with a huge smile and arms spread wide for a hug. Usually the long strong embrace was followed by playful teasing, gentle ribbing. His way of trying to get me to let go of my fears and re-connect with his brother. His constant question, "What's the deal?"

Kevin was genuine. No matter what someone had done, a mistake that they had made, hurt they had inflicted, I never heard Kevin utter a bad word about anyone. He practiced and understood the importance of forgiveness. He had incredible faith in the goodness of people.

Bobby and Kevin were cut from the same cloth, they were honest, had unbelievable character, undeniable faith and courage; they were born leaders. They were extraordinary men who changed everyone who met them.  I was blessed; I knew both Bobby and Kevin; even if it was for only a short amount of time.

I continued down the wall, until the stones were void of any class insignia, barren of any memories. Knowing one day these untouched stones would be transformed into memorials, inscribed with names of unknown boys and girls, children now playing in the backyards across this country, I said a prayer.  I asked God for the impossible; that these stones forever remain vacant. I asked that he be gentle on the souls already enshrined within Memorial Hall.

Before leaving I went back to memorial for the class of 1983. I rested my hand on Bobby's name. My palm centered on his middle initial, almost hoping to feel his heartbeat one more time. I leaned in, whispered how much I loved him and he was missed by many. I told Bobby it was his turn to shepherd the future leaders of the military. The world was crazy, the men and women studying at the Academy needed guidance. I turned my hand over and gently caressed his name. I wiped my tears and as I had done numerous times before at his grave, I kissed my fingers, then lovingly placed them on his name before leaving.

Fearful I would break down; I quickly descended the stairs, passed under the rotunda and stepped out the front door.  I walked across the yard then stopped and turned back toward Bancroft Hall. Suddenly I realized Mother B had spoken to me. I felt her soul; I understood what Memorial Hall is to me.

Memorial Hall is not simply a place of heroes; the men and women we read about in text books, she embodies more. She silently teaches the future leaders of the Naval Academy from the experiences of her fallen. She defines the fearless determination, the gallantry, character and courage of the officers that graduate from the halls of Bancroft.

She enshrines within her walls the legacy of the everyday officers who three-hundred-sixty-five days a year put their safety, well -being, future, and dreams on the line with no questions asked for our freedom. Her fallen shipmates did not seek to be heroic, they were simply doing what they had been taught at the Academy; to lead, to protect, to “Never Give Up the Ship”.  Families, friends and shipmates will forever grieve the officers whose names adorn the chambers within Memorial Hall. They will always hold dear the pride the fallen carried in their hearts serving our country.

Memorial Hall, she cradles our tears, embraces our loved ones memories, honors their valor, carries their courage, instills the Academy’s values on all who pass through her chambers.  She is a constant reminder the cost of freedom is immeasurable. Memorial Hall holds the past of the Academy as well as her future not yet realized. She is simply the heart and soul of every Officer that graduates from the United States Naval Academy.