A belated “Happy Fourth of July,” everyone. I suppose it’s time to roll out my annual joke: My family is so dysfunctional that on the Fourth of July we celebrate Codependence Day.
Of course, this year, patriotic emotions ran higher than normal. I’ve been thinking a lot about the two Americas, and I don’t mean North and South.
The first America is an almost mythical place that we keep in our hearts. It’s where jazz came from. It’s where Babe Ruth played ball. The second America is the real-life version that we follow in the news every day — the global superpower.
Nothing the U.S. government could ever do would interfere with our feelings about the first America. That’s the one with Mom and apple pie. So why am I going to take this occasion to disobey my mother? Simple: I’ve had it.
I’ve asked her repeatedly if I could write a column about her, but she won’t budge. She doesn’t want the recognition. Why? It’s a “Greatest Generation” thing.
If I were to write a column about her — hypothetically, that is — I would go on and on about how she comforted thousands of wounded soldiers as a Red Cross recreation worker during World War II.
There’s probably a soldier from Portland, who was consoled by my mom in a hospital ward on the East Coast or in France during the war. She didn’t nurse their physical wounds, but she helped them pull their emotions back together after they suffered some horrific injuries.
Can you imagine the advantage that gave me? How about those times when you’re frightened as a child? In my case, into the room would walk an American heroine who knew exactly when to be loving and when to tell you to shape up.
My mom was a dispenser of courage.
I remember talking to her about Bob Dole one time. She said, “I knew a lot of guys who were hurt a lot worse and handled it a lot better.” That’s a fairly shocking statement — the guy did become a senator. But you know, he does have an emotionally wounded quality to him.
I’m convinced that if he had gotten to talk with my mother during the first few days after being wounded, he would have been completely different. She imparted strength the way a doctor hands out medicine.
Not that she came through it emotionally unscathed. Hardly.
She still can’t handle Memorial Day parades or anything that brings back the images. She’s haunted by specific individuals, such as the young man with his chin shot off who was psychologically devastated, wondering if any woman would ever find him attractive again. As she concluded her talk, she told him to “keep his chin up.” That innocent mistake still makes her wince in pain.
A couple of years ago, she told me for the first time what it was like to meet planeload after planeload of freshly wounded GIs coming back from D-Day. More than half a century had passed, and she was ready to talk about it. That same week, she had a big tree that was threatening the house chopped down. My siblings and I figured that it was all connected.
The two Americas also are connected. They both combine legend and harsh reality. They both have Moms and apple pie.
Just don’t tell my mother where you read it.
Bill McDonald is a Portland writer and musician.