I have stepped over dead Japanese soldiers in the jungles of
Peleliu. I have lived through the deaths of my parents, eight brothers and
sisters, a grandson, my oldest son, and my wife of 63 years. Plus many friends
and distant relations. I grieve for the loss of these people; I grieve for some
every day. I miss them and feel their absence. I hope that there is life after
death. My son in law was recently at his 94 year old Mother’s funeral. His four
year old grand daughter, my youngest great grandchild, wanted to go up to the
open casket. She stared for a while and then said “I will see you in heaven,
MeeMaw.” I pray that she will.
I am familiar with death. I feel my death will be soon. I
think about death a lot. I am ready to
die. Like Woody Allen, I just don’t want to be there when it happens.
Since my youth I believe that I have had a strong fatalist
belief, but I really do not believe in predestination. However, when I was overseas in the Army I
felt that when my time came I would be killed. I did not feel real fear even
when shrapnel was falling around me. One night on Okinawa I was on sentry duty.
Across the island several miles away an ammunition dump was exploding . Shards
of metal fell out of the sky for several hours. They made a terrifying sound as
they fell, you could imagine they were going to land on your head. I remember
feeling uneasy but I was not terrified.
At one time we were in tents, sleeping on cots. Each man had
dug a foxhole outside of the tent. When we occasionally came under an artillery
attack every one would run out and get in their foxhole. More often that not I
would roll over and continue sleeping in my comfortable cot instead of running
out and getting in a muddy foxhole. I do not know if that was bravery or stupidity.
I think it was my fatalist belief.
Today at 88 I evidently do not have such a strong fatalistic
belief. I take nine prescription drugs every day. They are for blood pressure,
anti seizure control, bladder health, gout and vascular health. I would like to
throw them all out, but I guess my fatalistic belief is not that strong. I really
would not want to throw out the one that allows me to urinate. I think that I
would like to keep on urinating until I die.
I do not intend to end my life by artificial means. I
am speaking of suicide. Two of my three brothers shot themselves. I have gone
to some trouble obtaining a license to carry a concealed weapon. For some time
I have carried a small pistol in my pocket. I have decided to stop this and to
not keep a firearm with me. I think that the risk of using a gun against myself
is greater than the need to carry self-protection. I do get depressed. I do not
want to risk imposing the trauma of suicide on my loved ones. I keep pushing
buttons that keep me interested.
Death is a interesting, even fascinating thing, but I think that I will wait
for my time to come.
Daddy, thank you for sharing so much of your true self with all of us. I love you.
ReplyDeleteI love you. This was in response to a writing assignment in a class I am taking. I see no harm in talking frankly.
DeleteI agree. I sure hope you get an A in class. You're doing great.
ReplyDeleteHello Mt. Monson:
ReplyDeleteI just discovered your blog today and I wanted to tell you how much I enjoy your prune picker stories especially about life in the 1930's through the 1950's. They are very similar to what I heard growing up. My father was born in 1924 in Oakland and lived among the orchards and chicken ranches of Los Altos until his parents lost their house in the Depression. He moved to Los Angeles where his father got a job and from there to San Francisco. After apartment life in San Francisco did not suit the family, they rented a cheap house in Sausalito, which was a Portuguese fishing village in those days. He graduated from high school in 1942 and was drafted out of college in the spring of 1943. He did his basic training at Camp Roberts, up the road from where you were stationed the following year. After basic training, he and a few others were given orders to get on a train to Los Angeles. From Los Angeles, he got on a sealed troop train at night. The next morning, they were allowed to open the shades and found themselves in New Mexico, on their way to New York to go to school. Most of the guys from his basic training unit went to the Pacific where many were killed.
He spent most of his adult life in Berkeley, where I grew up. Sadly, he passed away six years ago. Who knows, maybe you crossed paths somewhere along the line.
I want to thank you for writing your stories. Reading your stories is like listening to an uncle talk about those days. I wish my father could have written his stories before he passed, but yours serve to remind me of his.
I am glad that you enjoy my blogs. Your kind remarks make it worthwhile.
DeleteHi,
ReplyDeleteI came to your blog through your son Mike. Well done. If you were one of my writing students, I'd give you an A.
Mike LaTorra
Thank you very much, Mike.
ReplyDeleteAnd this writing teacher does give you an A....very thoughtful and thought provoking. Thanks so much Chuck for letting us inside your head and heart. Deanne Groves
ReplyDeleteThank you, Teacher. I will treasure the A.
Delete"I really would not want to throw out the one that allows me to urinate. I think that I would like to keep on urinating until I die."
ReplyDeleteThat made me laugh out loud. As I get older, I have come to realize that the ability to urinate does not get proper appreciation!
I have been unable several times. No good.
DeleteThis is one of my favorite things you've written because it's personal. I give you an A for being a great grandpa. Love you lots, Janelle
ReplyDeleteThank you Janelle. I love you and those nice people you live with.
DeleteDear Mr. Monson,
ReplyDeleteI hope you are around for a good deal longer. I've heard about your blog through your son, Mike, and it is fascinating. So many colorful recollections from a prune picker (and a profund one at that!) My grandfather went to Japan in WWII. I recorded a few hours of him recalling the days of the dustbowl in Arkansas, working in the fields, playing bluegrass with other locals. Hard times helped him appreciate all that he had. I plan to explore many more of your posts. Thank you for taking the time to write all of this down for us.
Travis
Thank you Travis for your kind remarks and interest.
DeleteThe a whole bunch of truth in your words Mr. Monson. I think maybe it's not fatalism you espouse but an abiding faith and need to see "what happens next." That is a most worthy credo. Thank you.
ReplyDeleteThank you AJ.
DeleteI'm very glad Mike pointed us this way, Mr. Monson. The greatest lessons we can learn are from someone who does not teach but rather just tells you the way they feel and have felt about the things they've encountered in life. You are one of those kind of men, Sir. Thank you for teaching me with your words. mike's a lucky fellah.
ReplyDeleteAJ
Thank you for your kind remarks. I am a lucky fellah.
DeleteIf only newspaper columnists wrote so compellingly. Count me as a faithful reader from now on.
DeleteThanks Sig. You are very encouraging.
Delete