where at least i know i'm free

"LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA!" we hollered out as we reached the chorus of the tune John Jacob Jingleheimerschmidt. It was about a fifteen minute walk from the bus stop to the cemetery and we were filling the moments with silliness. With every step along what appeared to be a not oft used footpath, the air grew more muggy. We had arrived in Luxembourg that morning and by eleven were walking from the bus on the southeast side of the city.
We came to the top of the hill and saw the golden eagles before anything else, forming the sides of a beautiful blue iron gate. They were high in the air, forcing the head to tilt upwards toward the heavens. We crossed through the entrance, flanked by the gilded sentinels. Without realizing, our giggles came to an abrupt halt and were replaced with a hallowed reverence. We had made our way to the U.S. Military Cemetery.

The Czech took his time at the visitor's center by the gate, trying to read as much as he could. I pressed on, knowing tears would fast be approaching and needing a few moments to let them fall. Directly before me stood what I thought to be a monument of grand size, with words on the side offering gratitude for the men and woman buried there, the brave souls who perished after the Allied invasion of Europe in 1944. I have always been interested in World War II, but since being with the Czech I have learned a vast deal more than ever before. I sat on a bench and thought about these men before going to walk amongst them. Many of them had died at Bastogne, months of mortar fire in the woods of eastern Belgium during the winter of 1944-1945. They could not warm themselves with campfires, supplies were limited, and the fighting endless. It was cold and they were freezing. But they stayed in their foxholes and saw it all through.

The Czech met up with me and we kept walking, past the monument that was actually a chapel and into the fields of crosses. We stepped onto the perfectly manicured grass and my tears flowed freely. We read the names somberly, curious about who these boys were and where they were form. California, New Jersey, Wisconsin. Two boys from Ohio and Michigan were buried next to each other. On and on it went. The Czech pensively examined his surroundings, soaking everything in, gratitude emanating from his stance.
The leaflet told us that twenty-two sets of brothers were buried side by side through the cemetery as well as several sets of friends. The crosses were so simple, as were the stars of David. I've walked through many cemeteries and have seen the most beautiful tombstones, eloquently carved with figures and images to depict the soul whose body lay below. These boys deserved such monuments, I thought. Each of them. But there they were in Luxembourg, on the other side of the world. Some of them were not even named.
I have been to several memorials honoring American soldiers and have even been to Arlington National Cemetery, but have never been so humbled. Nor so proud to be an American. There were a handful of other visitors meandering on their own course throughout the grounds. One set was a middle-aged daughter touring with her veteran father. He seemed so proud to be back around his comrades and she delighted beyond measure with all that her father represented.
My tears ebbed with the cessation of the rain, leaving an indelible mark of humility and the utmost thanks. I thought a great deal about my loved ones who have very recently passed away. Mental wishes for my two grandmothers to hug these boys were sent to the heavens. My time to hug them will come, too, but I wanted them hugged then and there.
We packed away the umbrella and made our way to the veranda surrounding the chapel. On our way we saluted the bloody bastards of Bastogne in the only way we knew how; we had a drink of Coke in their honor. As we left, we noticed the soft chime of church bells coming from the tiny on-site chapel. It took us a few verses before we realized what we were listening to. It was The Star Spangled Banner.
The walk back to the bus and the trip into the city center went far more quickly than our initial journey. Our hearts were full, but our spirits light. We walked and kept singing, enjoying the sunlight and warmth of a summer day in Europe, such a day the men buried two miles away would never know.

life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness

My heart and mind are full as I ponder events of recent days. I have so much to be grateful for though by the world’s standards, I have very little.

The discovery of my immense gratitude began over the weekend as I lay curled up beside one of my favorite people in the world. He studied for an exam as I read The Bookseller of Kabul, a piece of literature which investigates the sphere of one fairly atypical Afghan family. As the Student held my hand, I contemplated what the consequences of our current actions would be if we lived in Kabul. For me, the results would be catastrophic. For being with a man outside of my immediate family I would be severely beaten, let alone the fact that we were cuddling and holding hands. For these actions I would be labeled as promiscuous and tainted and my family would never be able to find me a husband.

In Afghanistan, I would no longer have any options.

The more I read, the more frustrated and heart broken I became for my female counterparts in the Middle East. The Student would listen to my lamentations and sympathize where he could. In his eyes I could see gratitude for me as a person, for my respect and love of others. For my intellect, opinions, education, wit, and conversation. To him, I am a companion, not just a baby maker.

In the days that followed, I prepared a lesson for a church activity on the founding of the United States of America, my home, in honor of the Fourth of July. Notions of independence and freedom, ideas which had already been running rampant in my mind, took new forms. I discussed with my friends how our country came to be. How a group of traitors of varying opinions came together to compose some of the most profound words the world has ever known. “We hold these truths to be self evident, that all men are created equal...” After great debate, these representatives of thirteen colonies came together and voted that enough was enough. The United States of America would be and were independent of the tyrannical ties of Great Britain.

Because of this group of traitors, I had the opportunity to spend a Saturday afternoon reading curled up beside the Student. I am able to vote, have an opinion, be a mother, run for office, run a marathon. I can wear the shoes of my choosing, do a jig in a park, listen to music, pray whenever I want. I can study, I can go out in public alone.

I am indeed grateful beyond measure for all of the opportunities available to me. Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness are mine for the taking if I but reach out my hand to them.

because I love you

Over the past month, the topic of mammography has been frequenting the headlines and political agendas of the media at large. This is coming at the same time as Health Reform is coming under heated debate. I am not here to give my opinion on the bill up for vote, rather, I would like to share a few thoughts on breast cancer prevention.

This has never been an easy topic for me, but grew increasingly more burdensome nearly eight years ago when my own mother was diagnosed. Since then I have been overly sensitive to the topic. A recent study resulted in new guidelines for mammography in the United States. The base age was pushed back to the age of 50 from 40 where annual screenings would be replaced with biannual ones.

My initial reaction to this news was nothing short of outrage. The radio report I heard explained that the reasoning behind this was that annual screenings were too much of an inconvenience for the patient. Discomfort, undue worry, things like that. Knowing my mother's experience, several explicatives came to mind about these cop-out reasons. Women, in my mind, need to be screened. Period. Screw the discomfort and "undue" worry. My mum would not be here without them.

Thanks to my good friend The Nurse, I have been given additional information, including the report in full, which I am in the process of reading. Because of this research, I now know the following. These guidelines are for the average case, meaning that the rate of screening for most women will really not change. Women with higher risks, such as myself, will still have access to annual screenings beginning at an earlier age. Mammograms are not being eradicated, but in a sense, being made available to more women by changing the standards.

Here's what I see to be the problem. Not enough women get checked. Lack of insurance, fear of the boob-vice, far reaching communities; any number of these things prevent a vast percentage of American women from getting screenings.

Here is my plea. Sisters, girls, cousins, aunts,daughters, grandmothers, mothers, friends, women-get checked. Find out what your risk level is. Speak to your physician about the matter. Know what options are available to you. There are too many options out there to not take advantage of them. While the nature of health care is changing, access to mammograms is still available. There are ways to beat this vicious disease, as these reports are proving. Use them. And if you can't get to a doctor for some reason, use the old-fashioned method and feel your boobies.

With all my heart,

the boob-loving engquist

horcrux

I keep trying to siphon off the remaining bits of my soul to the State of Ohio, but it just keeps not working. It's like the bureaucrats know that I'm from Michigan without even seeing my license and refuse to let me in. It began a few weeks ago when I went to the BMV* to get things going and I was rather impolitely told that I was in the wrong office. Brilliant, I thought, I'll just go to the other office today and get it taken care of. Wrong. The office is closed on Mondays. It was Monday at the time. I thought only museums and LDS temples were cool enough to be closed on Mondays, what possible reasoning does the ODOT BMV have for being closed?

So after taking care of any number of other things, I sucked up my pride this morning and convinced myself that today was the day I would lose part of my identity and become a resident of Ohio. Driving through the mysterious and previously unknown streets of Columbus, I finally happened upon the ODOT compound. I presented myself to the pseudo-charming bureaucrat behind the reception desk and she asked to see my license. My license was in my wallet. Which was in my backpack. Which was in the trunk of liten bil. So I walked with a smile on my face, because really, I was rather happy to finally get this ordeal over with, out to my car and back. Somehow in the span of five minutes the computer system at ODOT had gone down and I was unable to sell off my soul. Again. The process will have to be attempted again next week.

I'm beginning to seriously consider just paying the jacked up tuition rates and just deal with it later because I really don't think Ohio wants to claim me, just as I'm still not entirely keen on claiming it.

*ODOT refers to it as the Bureau of Motorized Vehicles rather than Department. This I found odd, which is saying something since in Michigan it's neither. In stead, we refer to it as the Secretary of State, equally stupid, if not more so, but still...