In loving memory of the most interesting man in the world

It has too often been the case that I've found myself saying, "I wish I had taken more time to get to know him."

Henrique Wauters was a survivor in the greatest sense. Born to a Jewish family in Brazil in 1920, he returned to Europe where he was forced to flee from Nazi persecution. "Henry" evaded the Germans, but his family did not. The chase took him through Belgium, Holland and eventually France- where he fought as a part of the French resistance. He was eventually captured and imprisoned in a German camp until freed by the Allies.

Henry spoke English, French, Spanish and Portuguese. He lived throughout Europe, Brazil and the United States. He was married once before he married my tia Irma and had five children with his first wife. I state these things coarsely because these are the facts I remember learning as a child. I will not embellish my recollection, I would rather honor the truths that I recall.

I knew him as tio "Rick", and it wasn't until his eighty-ninth birthday party that I realized it was only my immediate family that called him by this name. My aunt Irma and other aunts and uncles called him "Henry". In retrospect, it is fitting that he answered to more than one name. His experiences were almost too many for one lifetime and it is appropriate that he be given the space of two names to tell his story.

As we entered the party last Saturday, I saw his six-foot-three frame sunken into the couch.

His head turned as his failing eyes searched for the sound of an opening door.

"Oh, Irma, someone's here", he said. I greeted him with a squeeze of his hand and wished him a happy birthday. The house no longer smelled like rich pipe tobacco, but I wished for the fragrance that as a child, I associated with him.

Tio Rick loved to talk. Of his many tales, jokes and observations, two sentences said before a farewell five years ago, saved my life. "Don't be a hero, you know? Do your job, look out for the guy next to you, and come home", he said in his deep and ambiguously French accent. Although I was rigid with anxiety about fighting in Iraq, my uncle's hands on my shoulders and the steadiness in his eyes granted me reprieve from the anticipation of war. It was more than a "chin up", from an uncle, it felt more like a wise grandfather imbuing me with familiar wisdom.

After greeting the other members of my family, I rushed to sit by him on the couch, and thanked him for his advice. His reply was as sincere and pragmatic as his words five years earlier.

"It was what we did in France, you know? I always wondered what good a medal of honor was if they gave it out posthumously. The people who love you would rather have you home than have your medals, you know?"

These comments carried Henry's mind off to his days in the resistance. As his voice grew excited with the tales of his youth, his sons left me to him, perhaps because they had heard the stories more times than I had- or maybe because like myself, they were saddened to think that there might only be a few more tellings of Rick's adventures.

We ate dinner, and gave tio Rick his presents. He thought my gift of cologne was fine and said, "Oh, Josh likes the nicer things, eh?" I was happy to see the old man smile and laugh that honest, booming laugh from the depths of his belly. "Thank God it's not another bottle of cognac", said my aunt Irma.

The afternoon passed and we began to leave for the hour-long trip south to Houston. I stopped and unsure of how to say good-bye, thanked him again for all the kind words, for filling my imagination with his valiant accounts of World War II Europe, and promised that we would visit more frequently. Unable to fare us well with his usual hearty handshake or his towering, encompassing hugs, he simply squeezed my hand, said he appreciated that we came and said a simple good-bye, as if we would see each other soon for another chat.

With tio Rick, conversations were always lively and long and good-byes were always short. Why waste time on the farewell when you can spend that energy on the good part? Yesterday, tio Rick passed away quietly, with his wife at his side. He asked that there be no service, and that things be kept as simple as possible.

To honor him, I've written what I know about him. I've written of his life and briefly mention his passing because that is what he wanted. A long life, and a short good-bye.

The world is filled with those that hope the world will build monuments in honor of their lives.

Henrique Wauters simply lived a monumental life, and asked for nothing else.

Your quarter life crisis solution

I've been writing four to eight hours a day lately and all the while I haven't been able to get this song out of my head,

"Stop, hey, what's that sound, everybody look what's going down..."
- Buffalo Springfield

It's a pretty familiar song that you may have heard on movie trailers, Coke commercials, and Vietnam era documentaries. The song has a slow, earthy sound like a soft breeze teasing wind chimes. It gives the listener a feeling as if "Change" were a palpable sensation.

As if the political and economic climate weren't enough reason to disturb our equilibrium, recent conversations with some fellow twenty-somethings have helped me understand that not only this moment in time, but this moment in life makes it hard for folks to feel secure in their paths.

It was during this time in life when Kafka wrote "Metamorphosis", and when Freud furthered psychodynamics. In short, it is during this time in life when we all try to make sense of the world around us, or make sense of ourselves.

Can you think of a better time? Many of us have completed our education and have had a taste of the fruits of our labor. We now begin to judge whether the path we've chosen was the right one and it seems to be a natural instinct to want to prioritize. Maybe because we have a sense of our own mortality and want to make sure that we live worthwhile lives. Maybe it's our genetics and socialization preparing us to stabilize ourselves enough to have kids and usher in the next round of wandering minds. Regardless of whether it is a "push" or "pull" impetus, it kinda sucks.

I've taken to calling this time a second adolescence- and you know what, we should embrace it...

Even if you've found yourself having a conversation that sounded like this:

Reality Bites

Now, more than ever, takes guts. For a while I felt as if I were limited by my degree, or my GPA, or prior work experience. And that sensation was largely oppressive. But the truth of the matter is, despite any external or internal limitations, we can all choose to follow our hearts and create our own success and security.

The first time I tried to commit to writing, my first writing mentor, Mr. Moody, criticized my work as not being "concrete" enough- not having sufficient support to validate my premises. Good advice at the time, and good writing advice in general.

But, Reader, if you want numbers and statistics today, find a good baseball blog. We're talking quarter-century existential fever today, and the only cure for quarter-century existential fever is more existentialism:

Chickens, mountain warfare and Shamal

Happy Earth Day people. There are plenty of trees that need huggin'. Those John Denver CDs won't play themselves, so let's get started.

I haven't celebrated Earth Day in, oh, seventeen years or so, but today I thought I would write out the three most memorable experiences I've had with Mother Nature. Enjoy.

Singin' songs about Texas

When I was young, I lived in East Texas for a short time, close to a town called San Augustine. We lived on one hundred acres of open pastures, stocked ponds and long, corrugated metal barns that housed chickens, and then pigs. The farm was carved out of tens of thousands of ancient, pine-covered acres: the East Texas thicket. The gulf winds would cut through the trees and howl like a locomotive finding new track in the evening.

In the mornings, free range hens would lay eggs, and it was always fun to find them deposited carefully in an old wheelbarrow or on top of a tattered burlap sack. Suffice it to say, seeing all that natural beauty as a kid made me aware of the world around me.

Girly men

Once my family moved back to Houston, it was harder to maintain my reverence for nature. It wasn't until I completed a Mountain Warfare Training Package in Bridgeport, California, that I regained my sense of awe.

We formed up at the base of the mountain nicknamed "94-94", called that for its elevation. As we started our ascent, slipping on the the shifting talus field, the sun erupted through the towering evergreens.We followed a path up hills and over crags and settled at a stream where we staged our gear. Our first challenge was learning how to cross a rapid stream.

The snow-melt fed stream was thirty yards wide, six feet deep and forty degrees cold. We stripped down to our "PT" (physical training) shorts, and linking our arms around each other's shoulders to form a circle, entered the gurgling, foaming torrent.

Eight inches of moving water can move a car. Six feet of icy water can make thirty half-naked Marines squeal like piglets. We were told that if we moved through the water, rotating as a group, we would be able to fight the current and get across safely. What they failed to mention were the affects of sudden cold on the human body. We began to turn the squad.

Once the water passes your ankles, it's only a matter of time before your feet go numb. No pain, no problem- keep turning Marines. Once the water passes your knees, your muscles start to stiffen, but your central nervous system starts sending messages like a giggling teenage girl clutching a Sidekick. The water reached my area of primary concern and achieved the effect President Bush had hoped for with the Shock and Awe campaign. Paralyzing terror.

Even though we made it across, we were never under the illusion that we were all of a sudden grizzled mountain men. We weren't traversing a mountain path, the mountain would decide whether or not to let us pass.

Round three

My third most memorable "nature" moment was watching an incoming sand storm when I was in Iraq. It started as a warm and heavy mid-afternoon. The sky darkened into a reddish brown blur, like some child smeared Texas clay on the horizon. We saw rapid flashes of lightning and grew anxious. The thunder sounded too much like mortar fire. We were standing at the back hatch of the chow hall, watching the shamal roll in from Syria.

Sergeant Oba took five steps outside.

"How long until it gets here, sergeant?" I said from the doorway.

"Fifteen, twenty minutes, maybe?"

Sgt. Oba stood, staring at the rolling cloud, his five-foot-three inch Hawaiian frame clutching to existence in front of the growing plume.

Staff Sergeant Klontz, a giant Kentuckian yelled over my shoulder, "Alright knuckleheads, stop gawkin' at that cloud like you want to take her britches off and lets finish up in here."

Oba turned around, his thumbs still hooked in his pockets, took one step and fell face first into the sand. I saw him fall out of the corner of my eye and spinning, ran out to meet him.

Four feet out of the door, a piece of hail, the size of a lemon, smashed into my chest so hard that I thought I had been shot. Oba crawled to me as I reached down to grab him by the back of his shirt. As we struggled back to the building, the cloud flickered with lightening; each bright moment spraying us with more hail.

We made it through the door in a daze, laughing at how ridiculous it all was. Oba and I looked at each other- I'm sure he saw the horror in my face that I saw in his. We were dripping in thick, red rain and for a moment, we both thought it was blood.

The storm raged through the night, dumping countless gallons of falling mud on our camp. The temperature dropped to near freezing and all we could do was shield our faces and perpetually re-stake our tents as the winds harassed us. Everyone made it out fine, but it took a few days to know for sure that we weren't on Mars.

Not exactly the same, but a cool video of a sandstorm

Happy Earth Day, after all

Those stories aren't necessarily the most endearing encounters with our Earth, but they left me with a sense of awe and a respect for nature. Even if we forgo the Earth Day festivities, we can all take a moment to appreciate the space around us. Yes, I really listen to John Denver.

Happy Easter, Happy Passover

Easter: when all you sickos stuff your faces with marshmallow Peeps and us sophisticated types sneak Cadbury Eggs and judge you. Of course, I joke. Happy Easter and Happy Passover!

I loved Easter when I was a kid. We used to go to my aunt and uncle's house in Porter. The kids would go on an egg hunt and the adults would look forward to the four hour dinner event. The grandparents, aunts and uncles would all bring their own specialties: chiles rellenos, tamales, tortas, ham, stuffing and whatever else we incorporated into our Mexican-American palate that year.

I could never figure out why the adults would always get the kids Easter outfits because we were going to spend all day hunting eggs, chasing lizards and stuffing our faces with chocolate and Mexican food.

In fact, one year my mother and my older sisters bought me a little Lacoste shirt and pants set. They doted over me and cooed at how cute I was (let's face it, I'm irresistible to this day). Thirty minutes later, I ditched the shirt, found a pair of scissors and cut off the Lacoste alligator because I wanted to play with it. Maybe you guys should have held me back a grade.

These days my aunts and uncles all have grand kids of their own and we don't make it out to Porter anymore. I actually missed Mass today and instead of a home-cooked family dinner, I think we're going to the Cheesecake factory tonight. We don't celebrate Easter the same way, but it's still a great day for family to come together- any way we can.

Christmas in Springtime

Easter is a "movable" holiday. It doesn't have a fixed date on the calendar. One year, when I was six or seven, I was visiting my sister and brother-in-law in New York. That year, Easter fell on my birthday.

It was my first solo plane ride, and my first trip to New York. We climbed to the top of the Statue of Liberty. We watched fathers and sons play with remote-controlled boats in a Central Park pond. I finally got to see how tall a brontasaurus was at the Museum of Natural History and most importantly of all, we visited FAO Schwartz.

You remember the scene in Big where Tom Hanks and Robert Loggia danced to "Heart and Soul" on that roll out piano? That's the place.

Legos. Mountains of colorful, stackable geometric bliss. The store had a "Lego Land" with endless blocks that visiting children could play with. I walked into a Lego castle and pushed around a Lego truck. I threw hand fulls of blocks in the air, just to listen to their clatter. I didn't share because no one would make me and most importantly, I didn't have to pick anything up when I was done.

It was glorious.

As I was building the most awesome Lego robot New York had ever seen, a glimmer of red shot out from a display, in between passing customers. I couldn't make it out at first, but the color reminded me of something. My robot needed a respite from his conquest of Lego Land, so I got up and investigated.

It was a red, remote-controlled boat, like the ones those kids had in Central Park. My Lego robot didn't have a working water cannon that you could fire from your remote control pad. Stupid robot.

I stood in front of the display and told my sister and brother-in-law that I had found what I wanted for my birthday. They looked at it and somberly told me that it was too expensive but not to worry because I never knew what the Easter bunny might bring. Did he know I was in New York?

I left the store, hiding my disappointment and we went back to their Manhattan apartment for the night.

The next morning, my sister gently woke me up as my brother-in-law walked in the front door in his running clothes. I got up, washed my face and sat down at the table, waiting for breakfast.

"Josh, will you get the paper? It's probably at the front door. I guess Steve forgot to get it when he walked in", my sister said.

I walked to the door, stretched up to unlatch the chain and stepped outside. Instead of the Times, there was a bright green Easter basket, like the ones you find at the grocery store. And next to the basket, was a shiny red boat, with a card and a bow.

"Happy birthday, Josh", the card said. "It was hard to find you all the way up here in New York. Have a very special birthday!", signed- The Easter Bunny.

My heart jolted the sleep from my body and I smiled. I stood there for a second, thinking- that rabbit can't be this good. And if he was that good, then why hadn't he hooked me up like this before!?!

In that New York moment, I grew up, just a little. I realized how much my family loved me and that all those Christmas mornings and Easter Sundays my parents and siblings must have gone out of their way to make magic happen.

That was the last year for the fantastic trinity: the rabbit, the jolly fat man, and the tooth fairy. Well, at least for me.

Even though I don't get together with my extended family as much as I used to, and even though I'm so far removed from Easter baskets and little red boats, Easter is a very special holiday.

Now, though, I look forward to having kids, so I can create the same magic for them that my family did for me.

I wish you all a happy Easter season. Enjoy this time with loved ones, celebrate the spring and make some memories with the ones you love.

Truly Gone and Back Again

This month marked the fourth anniversary of my return from Iraq. I don't talk about it much, but as the years pass, I find myself able to process my experiences a little more each day.

The first hurdle that I faced in re-entering my life was the anger I felt. I couldn't help but ask in vain why I had gone through what I had. I needed to feel that the sacrifices I made and the greater ones I witnessed served a purpose.

My four years at home have allowed me some convalescence but I read a story in the Houston Chronicle that revived the rage I thought time had relieved me of.

The picture at the top of this post is of Marcus Luttrell, a former Navy SEAL and author of Lone Survivor: The Eyewitness Account of Operation Redwing and the Lost Heroes of SEAL Team 10.

Luttrell served in Afghanistan as part of Operation Redwing, a mission designed to capture Ahmad Shah, a member of the Taliban and leader of the insurgent "Mountain Tigers." Luttrell was the only member of his SEAL team, the lead component of Operation Redwing.

Luttrell talks about not sleeping well because of his need to remain alert throughout the night. When the sun goes down, Lutrell's hyper-vigilance takes over and he performes the same security checks that his training taught him.

Petty Officer Luttrell returned home in 2006 and received a bouncing yellow Lab that he named "Dasy"- an acronym for the names of his fallen SEALs. The dog was given with the hopes of easing the transition home and helping Luttrell to cope with the loss of his comrades.

On April 1st, the hyper-vigilance that fed Luttrell's insomnia forced him to witness another tragedy. A shot broke the stillness that Luttrell failed to trust. He moved without forcing a thought, sweeping the house and checking on his mother. Slipping outside, Marcus found Dasy, now four years old, dead from a gunshot wound. The thirty-three year old, recently released from his latest surgery, stalked through his property with a pistol.

He spotted Dasy's killers twenty-five yards away. They were four young men in a parked sedan. Luttrell circled the car unseen, raised his pistol and trained in on one of them and... never pulled the trigger.

Instead, he jumped in his four-door truck and chased the men through three counties at speeds reaching a hundred miles per hour. While at the wheel, Marcus called 911 and urged the operator to dispatch police. Eventually, the men were caught and two of them now face charges of animal cruelty. *

The sadness of Lutrell's losses, home and abroad, are staggering. What is truly remarkable about this story however is Luttrell's restraint. I cannot imagine a jury in Texas that would not have sided with Luttrell had he pulled the trigger. But he didn't. And now that the killer's have been apprehended and investigated, Luttrell has moved away.

Luttrell said in his interview with the Chronicle that the attack on Dasy pushed him to a place where he doesn’t want to be.

“I was trying to talk myself out of being who I am,” he said. “Talking to myself about not doing the one thing I am good at.” *

For many veterans, the journey back is just that, a journey with no destination. The wounds are dressed with loose sutures and home is a place infrequently occasioned because inevitably, minds wander back to the sand.

I hope that Marcus finds the strength to start the journey home again.



* from Survivor of war loses dog to random violence, Houston Chronicle April 9, 2006.

The Moviegoer

I'm reading "The Moviegoer" by Walker Percy. I had never heard of the book, nor of Percy. I was at the U of H bookstore looking at the materials for some classes I was considering taking when I saw the book, obviously misplaced under "Chinese Studies". I don't know what drew me to it, but here we are.

I'm not nearly done reading the book, but from what I've read, it is about Binx Bolling, an almost- thirty -year -old stock broker from New Orleans. Binx finds it easiest to relate to the world by drawing analogies between what he experiences in real life, and what he sees in movies.

The protagonist is a veteran, a Catholic, and a fraternity man adrift in life. I think I've exceeded the limit of calling things serendipitous, but it seems insufficient to call my finding this book "fortunate".

Here's my favorite passage, so far:

"I no longer pretend to understand the world." She is shaking her head yet still smiling her sweet menacing smile. "The world I knew has come crashing down around my ears. The things we hold dear are reviled and spat upon." She nods towards Prytania Street. "It's an interesting age you will live in- though I can't say I'm sorry to miss it. But it should be quite a sight, the going under of the evening land. Thats us all right. It is very late."

For her too the fabric is dissolving, but for her even the dissolving makes sense. She understands the chaos to come. It seems so plain when I see it through her eyes. My duty in life is simple. I go to medical school. I live a long useful life serving my fellowman. What's wrong with this? All I have to do is remember it.

"- you have too good a mind to throw away. I don't quite know what we're doing on this significant cinder spinning away in a dark corner of the universe. That is a secret which the high gods have not confided in me. Yet one thing I believe, and I believe it with every fiber of my being; a man must live by his lights and do what little he can and do it as best he can. In this world goodness is destined to be defeated. That is the victory. To do anything less is to be less than a man."

Seneca Says Hold On

Last week, I celebrated one of the best birthday weeks I can remember. Tuesday, I met up with an old friend who is in his medical residency in Ohio. We talked about his engagement, old times and the changes we face in our late twenties. We also talked about his stalled bollywood project. That is an inspiring tale on its own but, for another time.

Wednesday, I went to the Taste of Texas with some friends and family. I did my best impression of myself at seventeen when I tried to eat a thirty-two ounce steak.

It took me the next two lunches to knock that one out.

Thursday, Dana took me to the Grove at Discovery Green. We ordered some dishes we had only seen on Top Chef. The duck confit and skate wing with preserved lemons were awesome. I can feel better now when I berate the Top Chef contestants with a bowl of Easy Mac on my lap.

Friday was the most fun. I was apprehensive to meet up with some friends at Beaver's Icehouse because I haven't really seen anyone since I left South Texas. I thought my friends would be disappointed and that I was going to take some sharp criticism. As usual, I didn't give them enough credit.

It seems my friends and I are navigating through the same mid-twenties wilderness. Many of us are finding that our careers were not enough like the way we envisioned them. Some of us aren't as willing to make some of the sacrifices we thought we could make. Like our happiness.

These times don't make it easier to see beyond money. Every morning I watch a news anchor reporting on the hottest jobs or the most stable job markets. Yesterday I wondered if I was well enough enumerated to be a software engineer (no way in hell) and this morning I was convinced that I needed to go to court reporting school. When I was eight, I wanted to be Indiana Jones. Can you wear an Indy hat in court. No, no you can't.

I don't think anyone at this age should feel bad if they haven't found what they've wanted to do with their lives. The adage is true, if you can't find what you like, then find what you don't like. The important thing here is to keep moving and to no be paralyzed if you can't see the horizon.

"The greatest loss of time is delay and expectation, which depend upon the future. We let go the present, which we have in our power, and look forward to that which depends upon chance, and so relinquish a certainty for an uncertainty."
-Seneca

Some career resources:

10 Winners in the Recession - USA Today

Best Small Businesses to Start in 2009

Re Re Re-Introduction

I turn 27 this month. This is less intimidating than 25 for some reason. I think it is because I've had enough time to stare down 30, and 30 and I have come to accept each other, begrudgingly.

I left law school last month because I didn't like the way that I saw myself after law school. Me during law school wasn't a model of contentment, either.

There is a little regret, mostly because I left something unfinished. I'm studying for the GRE and looking at some Marketing/ Communication oriented degrees and I feel like I'm looking in the right area.

It's just like looking in the pantry, you know you're looking on the right shelf but you cant find what you want. I bet it's right in front of me like so much granola.

Dana!!!! Where's the....... rest of my life? You see it anywhere?

You know, my fantasy has always been to make movies. I don't know if I have the stones to go that far out on a limb. Plus, the rumor on the street is that a steady pay check is a nice thing to keep close. What kind of movies would I make, I wonder? Comedy? Tragedy? Tromedy? Cragedy? I'd wreck in France, I know it.

This is such a weird time in my life. I have so many things that I've wanted for so long and I find myself taking a huge step back. I'm moved by what I hope is foresight. I think I have the good sense to make corrections now so I don't have to make larger corrections in the future.

This feels familiar, though. I tend to go to blogging or journaling when the treads get bare. It feels natural but it comes too infrequently. Maybe it's for the best. If I wrote any more than I do I'd be a committed writer and who the hell wants that? Bleh.

What I do know is that I'm thankful for a generous and patient family. I'm glad I have a forgiving, tough and beautiful girlfriend. I have friends who inspire me and youth on my side.

Well, I have family a great girl and friends anyway.

Now, gotta run- I have to do some laundry and study for the GRE.

Don't forget your umbrella.