It’s been almost an entire year, almost to the hour as I write this, since Galadriel passed away.

Six months ago, I tried to write about how I felt at that point, and utterly failed.

But in many ways, that posting wasn’t an utter failure, because everything that I wrote in it was true.

I still look for her.. In fact, this very morning, before the fogginess had lifted from my brain, I was wondering where she was when I woke up.

I still mourn her.

A few days ago, I downloaded the video for I will follow you into the Dark by Death Cab for Cutie. I could only watch about thirty seconds of the video, featuring a pair of rabbits who grow old and then pass away together, before I broke down.

One year later, I still cry.

As the six month anniversary of her passing came upon me, I told myself that I would sit before this keyboard and write of how I felt — about what it’s like to have a friend of thirteen years ripped away without much of a warning.

But I can’t — I can’t decide if it’s because I lack the courage to write what I feel in my heart or if it’s because I still can’t put it into words.

Last night, I was sitting on the couch watching some television when I caught a faint movement out of the corner of my eye. It was a white object about the height of her ears would be if she was waltzing through the living room to join me on the couch.

But, of course, it wasn’t.

It was just a piece of paper being blown across the room from the fan.

There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t wonder where she is — even in bed sometimes, my mind tells me there’s a shuffling at the foot of the bed, and I’ll think it’s her cleaning.

And then I’ll remember that she’s gone.

I still mourn her.

I suppose that I always will.

Earlier this morning, around 2:10am, my beloved thirteen year old cat Galadriel passed away.

Galadriel in Taunton, MA 2004

She had become ill this past weekend and spent a few days with the wonderful staff of the University of Minnesota Veterinary Medical Center where she received fantastic care. I was able to bring her home two days ago and spend some good quality time with her… I’m glad that she was able to come home as her passing was somewhat unexpected.

Miss G came into my life as a six week old kitten when I was just a junior in college at Indiana University. A co-worker of mine at Target in Columbus, Indiana, where I was working at the time, had a cat who had just birthed a litter of kittens – and one of them was Galadriel. Ever since she was a little runt kitten that could almost fit in the palm of my hand, she’s been with me.

We’ve lived together in Indiana, Maryland, Ohio, Massachusetts, and now Minnesota. Thirteen years, five states, four apartments, and two houses – she’s been the only pet that I’ve ever had as an adult.

She was named for the Tolkien character Galadriel, a female elf who lived in the woods of Lothlórien. I had named her long before the Lord of the Rings movies made her character as well known.

In the movie, Galadriel was played by Cate Blanchett who created a hauntingly beautiful vision of Galadriel.

To me, that’s what she was. Beautiful.

She is going to be incredibly missed.

Friday night I took a spill down the stairs after tripping over my own damn feet. Having caught my big toe on the way down and bending it in a way that it wasn’t meant to be, I was startled to find when I landed that my toe didn’t feel so hot.

Being the stubborn male that I am, I thought I had merely sprained it. So some ice here and there, foot up in the air for a day on the coffee table. After all, I was getting around pretty well…

Worked from home yesterday (a highly productive day, mind you, more so than most) and then made the trek into work today for a full day.

Big mistake.

More foot pain and a larger bruise by mid-day.

By 1:00pm I’d had enough – went home and off we trekked to the ER.

Quick service, only an hour, X-Rays and all…

Spiral fracture of the “great toe”.

Great toe.. because big isn’t good enough.

In Texas for the sidekick’s sister’s wedding on Saturday. First vacation in quite awhile that wasn’t related to packing, unpacking, preparing the house for sale, or moving in. And yay for that.

Back in January, I accepted a promotion to a position in Minneapolis with the understanding that I would be commuting there until the fall when the sidekick was finished with Graduate School.

And so seven months later, we’re almost to the end point.

On Wednesday, the movers come to pack. Thursday, they load the truck. Friday, I set out with Galadriel for Woodbury, Minnesota with an overnight stop in Toledo, Ohio. Fun.

A few weeks ago, I wrote a post called “Oh WTF.. you deserve what you get..”, now that some time has passed I can tell the story.

My father is probably the most honorable man that I have ever known. One of the middle children of his parents, he grew up in a small town in Indiana with two older half brothers, an older brother, a younger brother, and a younger sister. To say that this family was a bit dysfunctional is an understatement. Although overtime all have reconciled, my father was the only one of his full siblings to lead a straight and narrow life. An Eagle Scout, he was never arrested, never served time in jail, no drugs, and doesn’t abuse alcohol. His siblings are a different story, but that’s for another time.

My father joined the Navy during Vietnam shortly after high school – during that time he lost friends, his father died from a heart attack at a young age, and became a man. After getting out of the Navy, he married my mother, began working on the railroad, and shortly thereafter had me.. then my brother, and life was good.

The railroad is a heavily unionized work environment. My father, as a member of the Brotherhood of Locomotive Engineers, went out on strike a few times while I was growing up. And that was the nature of the labor environment at his place of employment.

Men of honor are often natural leaders – and thus it is that over time my father became President of the local park board, the founding scoutmaster of my Boy Scout Troop, and eventually Local Chairman (the same as Local President in most unions) of Division 100 of the Brotherhood of Locomotive Engineers, a position he held for well over a decade. As time went on, he began to run for and win election to higher office within the union – eventually serving on several committees at a regional (or general committee) level.

It’s important to note here that the BLE is the oldest labor union in the United States – they are well into their second century and predate every other labor organization in the United States – even the Teamsters. The BLE merged with the Teamsters a few years back but remain a semi-autonomous group under the Teamsters umbrella…..

In 1997, with my brother out of high school and on his own, and me established in Baltimore in my first major move away from home after college – my father ran for Vice General Chairman & Secretary Treasurer and won. This office represents the entire Midwest and my father would be responsible for the finances for all of the offices and men in that area – a huge responsibility.

The responsibility was even greater at the time because the union was rocked by scandal. While I won’t go too far into the details here, suffice to say that there was a large sum of money missing, and after a federal and a union investigation, the International President asked the officeholders in the General Committee office to resign. They did, and we all thought that was the last we had seen of them.

A few weeks ago, my father ran for re-election for the third time. This last term would have taken him past his retirement date, and his intent was to serve out of term and retire.

His tenure through two terms has been nothing short of a great success. The union has significant cash resources – rebuilt after the scandal. Their bookkeeping and records have been immaculate and without error – and more important my father represented the interests of his men in fulfillment of the measure of trust that men place in those that represent and lead them.

And then, at the election, the man that had been at the helm during the scandal ran for the top job in the office and won. And then his crony won the number two slot. And then the election for my father’s job deadlocked twice.

The next morning he lost.

And so my parents, after nine years in Florida, are headed back to our family home in Indiana – my father to return to running an engine until his retirement in a few years. And thus our lives go on.

After the other two were elected, we all acknowledge now that it is best that he lost – because a person of my father’s integrity simply can’t work with those who long ago lost the trust of the men that they represent. But it still stings for him to go out this way.

I think about the times that I’ve seen my father upset to the point of tears. At my uncle’s funeral.. at the funerals of my mother’s parents and that’s it.. until this election.

So at this point they turn their backs on this whole union experience – and let the corrupt idiots have their way. But if I was a member represented by that office, I’d be watching the money.

Yeah, i gotta be cryptic here, because it’s not over yet.

But why in the world would you elect a corrupt f’ing thief like that to represent your men. Unbelievable.

More to come after tomorrow’s drama is over. Argh.

It was ten years ago next week that I was first promoted into a position where I was a leader of others.

Sure, I had been in positions of responsibility before. As a young man, my peers selected me as Patrol Leader in my Boy Scout Troop. Later, I was selected as the Senior Patrol Leader. It was a difficult and humbling experience to be responsible for other people. It was certainly not easy.

I earned my spending money as a teenager by umpiring softball games each night at the city park – and then, after turning eighteen, by refereeing basketball and volleyball games as well. Hell hath no fury like that directed at a referee in an Indiana High School Basketball game. But I digress.

Ten years ago next week I was promoted to lead a small team of men and women in Columbus, Indiana. And that was the beginning of quite an adventure. A year and a half later, I found myself without a team in Baltimore, Maryland as an investigator. And then, not even a year later, thrown to the wolves in New Jersey leading a much larger team that spanned several store locations. Then a year in Cleveland.

And then in 1999, we packed up and moved to Boston. And we’ve been here ever since.

When I arrived in Boston in January 1999, I was one of only a handful of employees of my company north of New York City. We were the vanguard that established the base, hired the people, trained the teams, and then started up a huge operation. Now there are thousands of us – and we’re still growing.

There have been tough spots along the way – stupid mistakes that I made, silly things I did, and dumb acts I committed that got me in hot water. But it was all for a good cause – and we’ve had a blast doing it. But now it’s time to move on.

Eight years in the same position and six years in one place is a long time – I stayed here for personal reasons, but also because it was fun. As a history buff, it’s tough to pull away from the place where our forefathers first marched against the British.. to walk the trail where Paul Revere road.. to stand at the bridge where the minutemen first confronted the British under arms.. to walk the deck of the USS Constitution.. to stare with respect at the grave of Sam Adams, and John Hancock, and many others….

On Thursday, I was promoted to a new position at our headquarters in Minneapolis. In less than two weeks, I head up into the great white north to take on an entirely new challenge: staffer. I’m going to be a project manager of sorts working on a couple initiatives. I’ll be commuting back and forth for a few months and then relocating permanently.

For ten years, I’ve led teams. Now I’m just going to be a part of one. That’s going to be a major change. No more office, now I’ll be in a cubicle. Gone is the casual dress code, back into suit and tie… things are certainly going to be different….

I expect the work to be difficult, highly challenging, creative, and have a major impact on what we’re doing. And that excites me. There are few feelings quite like taking a vision, breaking it down, and building that into something that we can execute – and that’s going to be alot of what I do in my new role. And I’m really looking forward to it.

But I will always miss my team. There’s never been a challenge in my life quite like leading a group of talented individuals. But I am so much the better for having worked with them. I’ll always be proud to have been a part of their team.

My brother Steve and I having a chilled adult beverage at Rock Bottom Brewery in Boston. Scotch Ale for me, the Lumpy Dog for Steve:

Galadriel checking out what she thought was her present – the Filene’s Box that Steve’s gift came in:

A candid photo of my father Butch at the table this morning:

Here’s a picture from my recently completed vacation to Florida. This is at Ormond Beach, just north of Daytona Beach. And yes, I’m really that burned. The airshow really whooped my tail.

Me on the left in the Boston cap, my mother Nancy in the middle, my father Butch on the right.

Yes, that’s really his name

My parents have two cats – Sadie and Katie – who are around a year old. The dog in the house is Bishop, whom my mother and I picked up at the Vermillion County Humane Society in the fall of 1992. She’s now twelve years old and has two rebuilt knees that she managed to snap in the backyard across the years. She doesn’t get around as well as she used to, but she’s still Bishop

Here’s Katie hanging out in the kitchen:

Bishop spending some time with me down on the floor. A bit grayer than I remember, but still the same old dog:

Despite my best efforts, Sadie refused to pose for any noteworthy photographs.

My last full day in Florida took us south of Jacksonville down to St. Augustine, where I have spent many days over the years. My parents and I toured the recently renovated Castillo de San Marcos National Monument and some of the surrounding areas. A few pictures:

There will be more posted shortly in the online pictures section – check the menu up above for the link.

Over the years, I’ve given many gifts to my father that have ended up in his office. One of my recent gifts to him was a Navy Jack and a link to Lex’s posting about seeing the colors raised on the USS Stennis one morning. Here’s what I found in his office yesterday:

If you look to the left and below the Navy Jack – you’ll see a picture of the Navy Jack being raised on a navy vessel – next to that was this posting from Lex:

It was Lex’s blog post that inspired this gift to him earlier this year.

My father also has some pictures of his recruit class, his discharge from the Navy, his certificate from crossing the equator, and a picture of the USS Duluth (the ship he served on during Vietnam) hanging in his office. Here’s a pic of him sitting at his desk:

My father, for the curious, is the Junior Vice General Chairman and General Secretary Treasurer of the CSX Western Lines for the Brotherhood of Locomotive Engineers.

This blog has always been a glimpse into my life and world – and I want to continue blogging about my life openly.

There are things happening right now that I can’t write about – not because they’re secret squirrel stuff, but because it just wouldn’t be appropriate to write about them publically – perhaps later when the chips have fallen where they may – but for now, I write this post as a placeholder to remind myself of how I felt the night the Red Sox won (and not just because of the Sox), the excitement and nervousness in my gut, and the intense focus within me for the months ahead.

Yes, this is cryptic, but one day I’ll get to point back to this entry with more detail and you’ll understand.

Here’s how cool my parents are…

I was out to dinner last night at Champps in Minneapolis with a couple of my headquarters partners – enjoying a fine chilled beverage, some wings, and a patty melt when my father called my cell phone. Now, my parents rarely ever call my cell phone and we usually don’t talk when I’m out of town. So, I answered, fearing some sort of family emergency.

My father tells me that he has a gift for me. See, a few days ago, I mentioned to them that I had read General Franks’s book American Soldier – so my father, having noticed that General Franks was going to be in Jacksonville, Florida for a book signing – went and stood in line to get an autographed copy of the book for me.

He even got to chat with the General for a few minutes. A jealous son, I am.

Dad was #390 in line for the book – and he snagged one for himself.

How cool is that?

I was a minor celebrity around Target’s headquarters today as I told this story…. I can’t wait to see it….

In conversation with my parents today, who have now read my post about the World War II Memorial, revealed additional details of which I was unaware.

In the Second World War, my grandfather and his two brothers served in the military.

My grandfather, James Strawser, who died long before I was born, served in the Army in a construction unit in Europe.

His brother, Roy Strawser, whom I don’t believe I ever met, served in the Navy and was a survivor of Pearl Harbor.

His brother, Glenn Strawser, whom I knew well growing up in Covington, joined the Marines and fought in the Pacific. Glenn died when I was a teenager. I remember some fishing trips with him at Sugar Mill Lake in rural Fountain County, Indiana.

Their sister, AnnaRose, married Guy Smith, who served in the Army in Europe. Guy passed away when I was a teenager as well.

Guy’s brother Jim Smith, who was my next door neighbor growing up, served in the Army in Europe and wound up married to a German woman, Lottie Smith. Jim retired from the Army as a Master Sergeant. He is in a hospital today, facing a terminal illness.

My parents have added all of their information to the World War II Memorial Registry, because, as my father said, “I felt it was the right thing to do.. they deserve their due”

Indeed… while I knew of my grandfather’s service and that of my neighbor Jim Smith, I knew nothing of these other relatives.

And this is just one sampling of my own small family in my own small corner of Indiana.

For the last week, I’ve been mulling over how to best write about Memorial Day in the context of the dedication of the National World War II Memorial in Washington, DC.

I grew up in Covington, Indiana, a very small town in west central Indiana. Military service runs strong in my family and in my hometown. I am the son of a Navy Vietnam Veteran and the grandson of two veterans of World War II. Many of my family members, neighbors, and community leaders served in World War II, Korea, Vietnam, and other conflicts. Many cousins and classmates of mine served – and still serve – in the Army, Air Force, Marines, Navy, Coast Guard, the Reserves, and the National Guard.

I remember Carmen Abernathy, who taught music at Covington Elementary School for many decades, talking to my classes about her husband, who served in World War II as a pilot in the Army Air Corps, flying B-17s. We learned the music, the culture, the stories, and many of the events of the Second World War. And stories such as those told by Mrs. Abernathy brought those events to life for us.

Marine Corps General David Shoup, who earned the Medal of Honor for leading his Marine regiment in an assault on Tarawa during the Second World War, grew up in my hometown. He later served as the 22nd Commandant of the Marine Corps. I remember the day that he died in 1983 – we held a moment of silence in my elementary school. General Shoup was buried at Arlington National Cemetary. Later, the bridge over the Wabash River in Covington was named for General Shoup.

The war – even though it occurred nearly thirty years before my birth – has always been a part of the fabric of my life. Its impact on my hometown – and on the people who lives there – was huge.

My father, a Vietnam Veteran, was active in the Veterans of Foreign Wars (VFW) and the American Legion. He twice serves as Commander of American Legion Post 291 – housed in an old historic log cabin in Covington’s city park. As a Boy Scout in Troop 291 – sponsored by the same American Legion post, I would stop and read the plaques and study the pictures mounted on the wall.

Post 291 was named the Fulton – Banta American Legion Post. I remember an old black and white photograph of Ensign John William Banta – for whom the post was co-named. Ensign Banta was Covington’s first casualty in World War II. Fulton, whose background escapes me at the time of this writing, was Covington’s first casualty in World War I.

Something about the way that I was brought up – the combination of small town Indiana and the military service history of my family and neighbors – has always instilled in me a deep respect for the sacrifice of those of served – and those who gave their all. It may come from a deep understanding of freedom – an underlying theme that I heard growing up. From the 4th of July Fireworks, to planting flags as a young Boy Scout on the graves of hundreds of veterans in Fountain County, Indiana, that message was reinforced in my head over and over… and I also learned from the veterans and others who had lived through the Second World War that freedom came with a price. I knew that from the honored pictures of Fulton and Ensign Banta in the American Legion Post.

This weekend, we finally gave them their due with the dedication of the National World War II Memorial in Washington, DC.

It is difficult today to realize the situation as it existed throughout the world from 1939 – 1945 – the entire world was truly at war. In Saturday’s Washington Post, Pulitzer Prize Winner Rick Atkinson wrote:

From the German invasion of Poland in 1939 until the Japanese surrender in Tokyo Bay in 1945, the war lasted 2,193 days and claimed an average of 27,600 lives every day, or 1,150 an hour, or 19 a minute, or one death every three seconds. In the time it takes to read this paragraph aloud, 10 people perished in World War II — an estimated total of 60 million.

It was truly a war of good versus evil. Once we were attacked by Japan, we dumped the Great Depression and partisan politics on the floor and went to war. Millions volunteered – others were drafted. Even women volunteered, as one Army Women’s Service volunteer told her granddaughter, “You have to understand how it was for everyone at the time. There was a war.”

Many from Covington volunteered and served. Ensign Banta did and was killed in action. Marvin Bodine fought at Leyte Gulf and lost an eye. Steven Abernathy served as a Browning Machine Gunner in France and Germany and was awarded the Bronze Star. His grandson writes “a stronger patriot never walked the earth.” Robert Grady served as a B-17 pilot with the 2nd Bomb Group – 15th Air Force and received the Purple Heart. Charles Macy served as a Seaman 1/C and was killed in action. And there were more that served as well – this is just a sampling.

What happened when they went to war? Again, Rick Atkinson sums up the American war effort in his Washington Post article:

The American war can be summarized in a paragraph: After the Japanese sneak attack on Pearl Harbor on Dec. 7, 1941, the United States — in alliance with London, Moscow and others — resolved to first crush Germany, the strongest of the Axis partners, and to then defeat Japan. A brutal but successful seven-month campaign to occupy North Africa — and thus regain control of the Mediterranean Sea — was followed in mid-1943 by invasions of Sicily and the Italian mainland. Island-hopping thrusts in the Central and Southwest Pacific brought U.S. air power within range of Japan, with devastating results. The invasion of France on June 6, 1944, and southern France two months later, squeezed Germany between the Anglo-Americans from the West and the Russian juggernaut from the East. Adolf Hitler’s suicide, on April 30, 1945, was followed eight days later by Germany’s unconditional surrender. Japan followed suit after a new American weapon, dubbed the atomic bomb, obliterated Hiroshima and Nagasaki in August.

And when the war ended in 1945, more than 291,000 of them had given their lives to defend freedom around the world. My hometown lost many – as did others around the world. My current home, Taunton, Massachusetts, had nearly a thousand serving in World War II – and an untold number of dead.

These men and women set out to keep the world free. And they succeeded. And when it was over, they came home and led even more fascinating lives. And it’s a shame that it has taken us so long to build a monument worthy of their service – and sacrifice.

How does one build a monument to this generation – to this seminal event in the history of the world? Again Atkinson writes in the Washington Post:

To be an enduring success, this memorial must “respond to a very simple question that a 15-year-old high school student who comes to Washington asks the teacher 100, 200 years from now,” Friedrich St. Florian, an Austrian-born architect who won the memorial design competition, said in an interview several years ago. “So what was World War II about? How was it different from the Mexican war, or the Spanish war, or World War I?”

Part of that answer can be found in the assessment of the British historian Martin Gilbert: “Although the Second World War is now far distant, its shadows are long, its echoes loud. How else could it be with an event, lasting for nearly six years, in which courage and cruelty, hope and horror, violence and virtue, massacre and survival, were so closely intertwined?”

I hope that hundreds of years from now young Americans come to Washington, DC – take the time to gaze upon this monument – and remember what it means. And what this war meant to the world. I believe that the monument will connect them to this past.

Atkinson ends his Washington Post article with this thought along the same lines:

The memorial dedicated this weekend is part of that mnemonic migration, a tribute not only to those who served, or the 291,000 U.S. battle deaths, or the 670,000 U.S. wounded, or the tens of millions who labored in factories and fields and dockyards. It is an effort to convey, to generations hence, that the war was a struggle both about territory and, as the historian Gerhard L. Weinberg has written, “about who would live and control the resources of the globe, and which peoples would vanish entirely because they were believed inferior or undesirable by the victors.”

The monument contains a field of stars commemorating those that gave their lives during the war – that section is marked with this simple saying:

HERE WE MARK THE PRICE OF FREEDOM

And nearby is another:

HERE IN THE PRESENCE OF WASHINGTON AND LINCOLN,
ONE THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FATHER AND THE OTHER THE
NINETEENTH CENTURY PRESERVER OF OUR NATION, WE HONOR
THOSE TWENTIETH CENTURY AMERICANS WHO TOOK UP THE STRUGGLE
DURING THE SECOND WORLD WAR AND MADE THE SACRIFICES TO
PERPETUATE THE GIFT OUR FOREFATHERS ENTRUSTED TO US:
A NATION CONCEIVED IN LIBERTY AND JUSTICE.

The generation that fought this war – that sacrificed so much – is waning quickly. The average veteran from that age is now 79 years old. Once again, Atkinson writes in the Washington Post:

Inexorably, the day is approaching when not a single human alive has a personal recollection of the war, which then will slide fully into mythology, history and collective memory. Although 16.4 million Americans served during the war, fewer than 5 million remain alive; the youngest survivors now are in their late seventies, and they are passing at the rate of 1,100 a day.

I will likely live to see the last of the World War II veterans pass this world.

And we will be much the lesser when they are gone.

I was involved with Scouting from a very early age. I was, at first, a Cub Scout, then a Webelos, and finally a Boy Scout.

The weekend before Memorial Day, in my first year as a Boy Scout, my troop and I spent the entire weekend placing flags on the graves of all of the veterans in two of the townships in Fountain County, Indiana – mostly around my hometown of Covington, Indiana. There were hundreds of them – including my paternal grandfather, James “Jay” Strawser, who served in the Second World War.

It was this experience, and many others like it growing up, that have instilled in me, a deep recognition of the sacrifice that our veterans have made.

This picture in today’s Boston Globe reminded me of those many days spent in the late spring sun, planting flags and remembering those that came before us:

Two weeks ago, while making my normal morning commute into Boston on MA Route 24 in a bit of rain, I managed to rear end a Ford F-150 Truck. The resulting crash, while at a very low speed, caused around $3000 in damage to my 1999 Toyota Prius and the Honda Civic Hybrid. Yup, you got it. Hybrid.

Gas prices here in Massachusetts are at $2.20 / gallon right now. A quick review of the financials on the Civic showed that I’d get a $1500 tax credit for buying the car and would save around $2100 annually on gas. that’s a pretty easy sell for me – even if the car was more expensive than I’ve been paying for cars over the last ten years.

The Prius was nowhere to be found – turns out that there’s only three for sale in the state right now – none close to me and not a one in the color or option combination that I’d be interested in.

My local Honda dealer in Raynham, Massachusetts, Silko Honda, called me a few hours after my initial inquiry via Honda’s Website and we made arrangements for me to meet with a salesperson. Once there, I don’t mess around. I hit my questions, went on a test drive, and bought the car.

I brought her home on Sunday:

So far I’ve driven 31 miles around town and averaged 44.6 miles per gallon. Not a bad start to my new life as a Honda Civic Hybrid owner.