Memorial Day: No Flags a Flying

It is the holiday when we are to honor those who serve in our armed services. And this holiday should be all the more significant given our current situation. And yet, there are no flags flying anywhere in our neighborhood. Not a one. But I guess that's standard given how most holidays seem to come and go without much notice or recognition in this city. Oh, but then there are the Oscars, which is a holiday on to itself. I have spent many holidays here, and my complaint is how uncelebratory the occasions feel. Christmas here feels unlike Christmas. Yes, we can't ignore the gaudy decorations that line Wilshire Boulevard in Beverly Hills, which always feels a bit like Vegas to me. And there the minuscule fireworks on July 4th, which actually occur somewhere in Long Beach, so they can only be observed from a hilltop. Again, less than spectacular. I don't know if it is because the weather here is 70 something for months, and then turns ugly to the high 90's in July. But Memorial Day elsewhere is about the arrival of summer, of pools being opened for the summer season, and most years, a thunderstorm or two to dampen the best laid plans for that summer kick off barbecue. I can remember attending barbecues with my family each year, marking the start of summer when you fall in love with the lifeguard.

This year, I spent the entire weekend reliving my life pre husband and child. My husband and son went to see my in-laws back east, leaving me at home. Let me say that the first day was pure bliss. I went to Noahs bagels (it is the weekend now) with my paper in tow, which I read assiduously, so much so, that some strange man--non-Korean--approached me to strike up an unwanted conversation. I would normally have not been so rude, but I was in no mood to talk to anyone. The one blip to the day was when I was forced to get on a freeway, which I was nearly run off of by a small Latino woman, reaffirming my rule about no freeways. By day two, I'd had enough alone time and was feeling the emptiness of our house, each room in complete disarray.

It's funny, when I first had my son, all I dreamed about was being alone, to resume that solitude I loved. And a part of me romanticizes that period of my life when I was alone to think, to read, to write. But now, the appeal of that time alone seems insignificant. Yes, my son, who embodies boyhood in its fullest, is loud, rambunctious, and incredibly active. He tends to break things, which means our security deposit at our new apartment in New York is money never to be returned. And he is loquacious, something that rankles me when I'm trying to concentrate or just in need of some quiet. And in spite of all that, he now provides the structure to my days that makes sense. I found myself noticing how quiet the house was, how incredibly alone I felt. That's huge for a woman, who loves her solitude above all else.

I went to our neighborhood supermarket, and saw two nuns shopping in full habit. I had forgotten about the convent up the hill below the Hollywood sign. I believe these nuns are cloistered, and therefore don't get outside much. I have always had a thing for nuns, believing in high school that I had the calling, and found myself watching them as they unloaded their groceries on to the conveyor belt. I wondered about the choices we all make in life, and whether any of it is our doing, really. My mom, when I had frustrated her immensely, would tell me that she and my dad should have sent me to the convent as I had requested. I wonder how, if any, different my life would have turned out if I had gone. I'm sure, given my nature, I would have rebelled against the strictures of such a life. And so that I would have left, now a failed nun, to make a life, perhaps not much different than the one I'm currently living. Or I could have ended up Sister Something. It does give one pause, doesn't it? Me with a habit, filling up a shopping cart in some place like Boise, noticing another woman eying me with curiosity.