July 10, 1994, a little over seventeen years ago, a man disappeared into the depths of Lake Tahoe while diving with a friend.
On July 27, 2011 his body was finally recovered.
You can read the article here.
Now that you've read the article, let's talk.
First, how wonderful--okay, maybe not wonderful, but at least there will be closure for Donald Christopher Widecker's family. After nearly two decades they'll finally be able to lay their loved one to rest.
Second, Holy Hell! Do you know what kind of secrets a lake like Tahoe could hold? A wealth of stories are lurking just below its frigid surface. Bodies, Treasures, Lost Cities... Aliens? The possibilities are endless.
I stumble upon articles like this, and my creative juices start flowing.
Because this is still so new, and the family's wounds are freshly re-opened, I don't feel it would be respectful to use a brainstorming session on who, what, and why, in regards to Mr. Widecker, but suffice it to say, I don't believe Lake Tahoe has released all her secrets yet.
May the inquiry into Mr. Widecker's death be quick and as painless for the family as possible.
Lake Tahoe... you and I have to talk.
Soon.
Thoughts?
R.S.
Showing posts with label Class of 2011. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Class of 2011. Show all posts
Saturday, August 13, 2011
On the Mysterious Lake Tahoe
Labels:
1994,
2001,
Class of 2011,
death,
discovered,
diver's Body,
Lake Tahoe,
missing,
Mystery
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Life as a Military Spouse; A Privilege, Not a Right.
Life as a Military Spouse; A Privilege, Not a Right.
I've spent over half my adult life married to a United States Marine. Before that, I was what is commonly referred to as a Navy Brat. Having spent all of my life associated with the military in one form or another, including a stint of my own in the United States Army, I've seen many types of spouses. Some good, some bad, some just indifferent. There are several things I've learned after meeting these women, and being on both side of the military lifestyle.
I'd like to share them with you.
First and foremost, since in my experience, there seems to be some confusion as to what being in the military actually means. The definition of military is: anything relating to war-like matters. Yes, this means the sexy man you're dating or coveting from afar, has signed on to go to war.
In case you're confused about what going to war might entail--because you've been living in a cave or under a rock for the last decade or longer, depending on your age--just turn on your local news station, pick up a newspaper, or check your Yahoo! email. I guarantee there is at least one link on the home page related to the ongoing war in the Middle East, and the military rarely (if ever) accepts the feelings of a conscientious objector once the contract is signed.
On the off chance those little glimpses into the life of a Solider, Airman, Seaman, or Marine aren't enough for you; let me break it down so you'll understand what the war means to your life, and how it will affect you.
If you choose to marry someone in the military, understand they will deploy. This is not a possibility, it's a guarantee. Those few who don't ever see a deployment are the exception. Not the rule.
While they are deployed- for three, six, nine, or even eighteen months- you're going to be alone. Often in a place where you have no friends, family, or any semblance of a support system. You'll have to learn to do everything by yourself. You're going to have to be mother, father, handyman, gardener, taxman, and lawman. You'll be wearing so many hats, juggling so many jobs, you'll often fall into bed so exhausted you can't think straight.
Then the heartache comes.
You'll carry your phone around with you compulsively; showers will be the fastest known to man, and you'll be sad and withdrawn for days if you miss a chance to hear the often tinny, garbled voice of your husband as he calls from a finicky satellite phone. You'll find yourself lonely in a way you never experienced before, and loneliness is a vicious mistress; one you'll spend more time with than your actual husband.
During their deployment, anything that can go wrong will. For the first time in ten years, you'll come down with the worst stomach virus ever, your child will be rushed to the emergency room because of an unexplainable cough, the house you painstakingly clean daily will suddenly become infested with roaches, and that brand new car you purchased right before he left will breakdown for unknown and mysterious reasons.
Sounds fun, right?
I haven't even started yet.
Now, imagine being alone in a strange place, and essentially re-experiencing everything negative about high school.
That's what the military is like.
A bunch of boys and girls with the legal right--and access-- to weapons. Being old enough to fight for your country or get married, doesn't guarantee you're old enough to be a decent human being.
As a military wife you're dropped directly into the path of every single person intent on wreaking the most havoc on those in their path. It's like a real life version of the movie, Mean Girls; only with worse hair, makeup, and wardrobe--and in some cases-- a few more years in age; though at times you'll be hard pressed to find the maturity and wisdom you'd expect from someone who graduated a decade ago.
While your husband is in some random XXX-stan country, dodging bullets, keeping his head down, and praying to whatever deity he believes in, you'll be navigating your own minefield. Yours isn't deadly, but it's still treacherous, and can prove to be lethal to your husband's career.
That's right, being a military wive means everything you do is a direct representation of the person you married. You go out for a wild night of carousing with the girls, dance on a few tables, take a few body shots, and post a few scantily clad, raunchy photos of yourself on the internet. This can-- and often will-- come back to bite your husband in the ass.
You think since you didn't sign on the dotted line when he enlisted, military rules don't apply to you. You're wrong. With access to the many benefits that come with the 'dependent' status, there are rules and responsibilities.
A few of these, let's call them expectations, include: not wandering around public areas, such as the commissary and the exchange, in your pajamas; not becoming a barracks bunny-- hooking up with those Soldiers, Airmen, Seamen, and Marines who aren't deployed; showing appropriate decorum-- for those confused, this includes table dancing and taking body shots outside of the comfort of your own home-- at all functions, while on base, on any other government installation, or in public; showing up to Command functions appropriately attired, in this case, appropriate would not include something you'd wear to bed, or to round up business on the local street corner.
Yes, that means your wardrobe choices are going to have to fully cover you, or you'll be asked, and usually not nicely, to return to your home and attire yourself properly.
After all, this is the real world, and in the real world you can't get something--while dressed like Lady Gaga on crack-- for nothing.
Life as a military spouse can be a highly rewarding existence, but it isn't for everyone. There are several signs you should be aware of before making the commitment. If you realize this lifestyle isn't for you, that's okay, no one will hold it against you, and in many cases will even applaud your sense of self, and your maturity for not putting yourself in a situation where you'll be miserable, and therefore, make others around you miserable as well.
* If you can't handle living away from your family and childhood friends, don't become a military spouse. You'll only waste money traveling home every time your Soldier, Airman, Seaman, or Marine has to stand duty, go through training, or work a late night.
* If you find it hard to remain faithful to your significant other during long separations, don't become a military spouse. Nobody likes a home wrecker, or a barracks bunny, and you'll find yourself on the bad side of the military chain of command very quickly if you get caught.
* If you're unable to leave the drama from high school, in high school where it belongs, for God's sake don't become a military spouse. There is enough drama in the military already without adding more to it.
* If you are afraid to get dirty, unwilling to learn, or predisposed to believing that women are meant to be taken care of, you'll find yourself unhappy and miserable. Don't become a military spouse, find yourself a nice Prince to marry. There's little royalty found here.
* If your life isn't complete without constant attention and entertaining, you're doomed to disappointment if you marry a military member. Make yourself happy in the long run. Marry a banker.
* If you can't handle being alone for months at a time, whine about how unfair each deployment is, and constantly complain about how hard it is for you; don't become a military spouse. Every one of us have gone through it. Some multiple times. We understand it's difficult, but we aren't going to coddle you. Suck it up Buttercup or marry a school teacher.
* If you don't believe in the war, what our country is fighting for, or the taking of 'innocent' lives, you won't make it as a military spouse. Trust me on this, we're not a very understanding bunch when it comes to those beliefs. After all, if you're not willing to stand behind our troops; feel free to stand in front of them.
Labels:
air force,
army,
article,
Class of 2011,
deployment,
marines,
military,
navy,
personal opinion,
spouse,
wife,
Writing
Friday, June 17, 2011
Congratulations...
You've just made it through the longest twelve years of your life...
Last night, my eldest niece graduated from high school, and I had the privilege, and the joy of a numb ass, to sit through the two hour ceremony.
I'm extremely proud of her for surviving twelve years of boredom, catty drama, and in many instances educational mediocrity, for a chance to walk across a stage, have her name mispronounced, and receive-- not the delightful piece of parchment paper with her name on it, but a textured plastic cover her highly coveted piece of parchment paper will one day rest... after she stands in another line for X number of hours.
It's been...a while... since I made my own walk across a similar stage, wearing similar colors, and accepting my very own empty plastic diploma cover. Like with so many things, the passage of time has made a few things glaringly obvious, and 20/20 clear.
The state of California has taken the 'leave no child behind' idea and ran with it.
Now, I realize it's been a 'few' years since I graduated, and maybe I'm a little rusty on the definition of Valedictorian, so I took some time and looked it up.
Valedictorian: a student, usually the one ranking highest academically in a school graduating class, who delivers the valedictory at the commencement exercises.
While I was sitting on the metal bleachers, the same ones that were uncomfortable as a flat-assed teen and haven't gotten any more comfortable in the passing years, I was confused when the Principal of the school announced there was not one Valedictorian, but SIX.
Six?
Six.
Holy Crap!
Apparently, there were six students with the highest academic rating in the school. The thought running rampant through our group: There wasn't a single half a percentage point difference between any of them? Yeah, right.
Unfortunately, that was the only part of the definition they seem to have gotten wrong.
Each one of those six Valedictorians strode across the stage in their ill-fitting gowns, fighting to keep their caps on in the growing High Desert winds, and gave their speech.
It's hard to imagine as adults with responsibilities, families, jobs, advanced years, and jaded personalities, that we were ever that young and naive.
The first speech was impassioned with the growth and experiences of high school, promises of taking the world by storm, and the knowledge the Class of 2011 were the best and the brightest.
After the second one that lamented their heroes--Rugrats and SpongeBob SquarePants-- and other important experiences in high school-- lunchtime, dances, and rugby games-- I quit listening.
These were the highest ranked in academics?
No child left behind is right, though I'm not sure if this is what George W. Bush had in mind when it was proposed January 23, 2001.
Then again, maybe it was.
After the longest thirty minutes known to man, the last Valedictorian exited the stage, and the school choir did their thing--a performance of songs which seemed to have little to do with commencement.
Out of the two hours we sat on those benches, the wind blowing, and the sky darkening; it took thirty minutes for the actual graduation. Thirty minutes to call the names of the graduates, congratulate them, and hand them the only tangible evidence of their last twelve years.
I'm incredibly proud of my niece. She's an amazing girl with the ability to do whatever she wants to in life.
Congratulations, T-Dawg. Welcome to real life. There are no Valedictorians here...but there is still catty drama.
Maybe real life really isn't that different, but I really hope it is.
R.S.
I'm extremely proud of her for surviving twelve years of boredom, catty drama, and in many instances educational mediocrity, for a chance to walk across a stage, have her name mispronounced, and receive-- not the delightful piece of parchment paper with her name on it, but a textured plastic cover her highly coveted piece of parchment paper will one day rest... after she stands in another line for X number of hours.
It's been...a while... since I made my own walk across a similar stage, wearing similar colors, and accepting my very own empty plastic diploma cover. Like with so many things, the passage of time has made a few things glaringly obvious, and 20/20 clear.
The state of California has taken the 'leave no child behind' idea and ran with it.
Now, I realize it's been a 'few' years since I graduated, and maybe I'm a little rusty on the definition of Valedictorian, so I took some time and looked it up.
Valedictorian: a student, usually the one ranking highest academically in a school graduating class, who delivers the valedictory at the commencement exercises.
While I was sitting on the metal bleachers, the same ones that were uncomfortable as a flat-assed teen and haven't gotten any more comfortable in the passing years, I was confused when the Principal of the school announced there was not one Valedictorian, but SIX.
Six?
Six.
Holy Crap!
Apparently, there were six students with the highest academic rating in the school. The thought running rampant through our group: There wasn't a single half a percentage point difference between any of them? Yeah, right.
Unfortunately, that was the only part of the definition they seem to have gotten wrong.
Each one of those six Valedictorians strode across the stage in their ill-fitting gowns, fighting to keep their caps on in the growing High Desert winds, and gave their speech.
It's hard to imagine as adults with responsibilities, families, jobs, advanced years, and jaded personalities, that we were ever that young and naive.
The first speech was impassioned with the growth and experiences of high school, promises of taking the world by storm, and the knowledge the Class of 2011 were the best and the brightest.
After the second one that lamented their heroes--Rugrats and SpongeBob SquarePants-- and other important experiences in high school-- lunchtime, dances, and rugby games-- I quit listening.
These were the highest ranked in academics?
No child left behind is right, though I'm not sure if this is what George W. Bush had in mind when it was proposed January 23, 2001.
Then again, maybe it was.
After the longest thirty minutes known to man, the last Valedictorian exited the stage, and the school choir did their thing--a performance of songs which seemed to have little to do with commencement.
Out of the two hours we sat on those benches, the wind blowing, and the sky darkening; it took thirty minutes for the actual graduation. Thirty minutes to call the names of the graduates, congratulate them, and hand them the only tangible evidence of their last twelve years.
I'm incredibly proud of my niece. She's an amazing girl with the ability to do whatever she wants to in life.
Congratulations, T-Dawg. Welcome to real life. There are no Valedictorians here...but there is still catty drama.
Maybe real life really isn't that different, but I really hope it is.
R.S.
Labels:
California,
Class of 2011,
Commencement,
Congratulations,
Graduation,
High Desert,
Seniors
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