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Flash Memoir # 44 What a glory-ious day, what a building block. . Twenty years ago today “Kat Mandu’s Holistic Advertising Agency” made its debut at the Borders Book Store in Kahului, Maui. It was so filled with friends, fun, music, and good vibes that I couldn’t sleep that night! In the last year or so, the book has reappeared in various ways (even making its way to Costa Rica!) and there’s been a call for Kat to come back (thank you Elyn, Janet, and Jana). She originally appeared in a serialized set of printed newsletters, but Kat Mandu is nothing if not hip and will reappear on social media in pithy, bite-sized “chapters" so keep an eye out for them! This will be a writing journey, so please let me know what you think! Your comments may holistically chart the future.😊

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Flash Memoir # 60

Is it too late to love who we were, where we have been, and from whence we came?

This is my final Flash-Memoir. For the time being and in this format, at least.

When this entry is complete, I will have recorded 60 life snapshots in four years. It all began with this intention in 2017:

January 1st. A good day to begin, again. My new blog of “Flash-Memoirs” is dedicated to my children, Chelsea and Dylan, to whom stories are as ever-present as air. The pieces will come in no particular order and with no master plan, only with the desire to share the slivers of stories within my grasp, and so extend them into the world and through time.

I have recorded myriad images, histories, and memories spanning my Irish roots, my nuclear and extended family, some of the places I have traveled, and of some of the places I am from. I sometimes tired of the effort and once remarked to Chelsea that I wasn’t sure it was worth it. What value were the “snapshots” really adding to anything?

“They create context,” she replied in her simple, insightful manner. Ah, yes, context. Without that, where would we be?

I was often writing about others, but was seeking a place for myself and I began to discern the arcing spiral of my life. From [photo collage] embarrassed (at my outdoor 6th birthday party) to mischievous (with two “plug” quarters), from devastated (post-divorce) to elevated (with a good friend in the woods). And so life goes …

In “Good Prose,” Tracy Kidder shares that Pacifique, a refugee from an African country beset by civil war, used writing to manage “involuntary memories …the gusts of memory that could come at any time.”

By writing about a memory Pacifique said, he was taking it into his hands and “could control it and make it beautiful.”

The 60 entries began as a gift to others and have also become a gift to myself. Not only for what’s been written but for the knowledge that no matter what life might bring, there will come a time when I can take it in hand and make it beautiful. https://www.instagram.com/p/CJel2QkpdYa/?igshid=dgfke4pv7rei

In Orson Scott Card’s book “Speaker for the Dead,” the “speaker” is authorized to investigate and eulogize everything about a subject, not just the good parts. I think of my Flash-Memoirs as mostly a “good parts” version of my life. Today, I want to dedicate this entry to my younger sister. I haven’t heard from her in well over a decade for she broke from the family at the time of my mother’s death. This circumstance could very well put her in the “not-so-good parts” of my life, but long ago I decided that if separation is what she needs then she has every right to claim that space, yet I rarely mention her in my writings. The photo above depicts a day that I try to hold foremost in my mind when I think of her. It was such a good day; we were relaxed, connected, joyful. Life, of course, was not always like that. Kim was adopted into a rambunctious, male-centered, rather dysfunctional—if loving—family of nine. And, it’s a bit hard for me to say, but many of my childhood memories are of her bullying me. Now I can see that she had to take her frustrations out on someone and I was the easiest target. At the time neither of us had the tools to deal with what life was handing us. Fast forward to today, and while I refuse to be bewildered by Kim’s rejection, I do find myself thinking that it would be nice if she sees this, that she knows that no matter how rocky the path might have become for her, it started with delight. On December 12, 1970, my mother wrote: “We were only to watch her for a couple of days but once she arrived we could not let her go. Jim has already signed papers to adopt her . . . We all decided to call her Kimberly Marie as she looks like a little Kim—full Korean and beautiful! We all love her and pray there will be no hitch in the adoption . . . send a prayer it will all work out—we'd feel like we were losing one of our own if we had to give her up.”

Do You Mind?? When I was little I heard the ol’ tale about each of us having an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other. Oh, if only life were so simple. It seems ever since humans began to relate there has been a need to influence another. Perhaps it began with: “Come with me on this hunt. No, of course it’s not going to be dangerous.” Over time, the ways to sway others to one’s cause has burgeoned from one-on-one persuasion to what we have now, a super computer explosion of analytics and algorithms all designed to hijack your attention, opinion, and, ultimately, actions. The documentary “The Social Dilemma” offers a good in-depth look at the phenomena. There’s a military term for this: psychological warfare. The stated goal is quite simple: "Capture their minds and their hearts and souls will follow." “A proven winner in combat and peacetime, PSYOP is one of the oldest weapons in the arsenal of man. [It is] simply learning everything about your target enemy . . . Once you know what motivates your target, you are ready to begin psychological operations.” Interestingly, if you replace “enemy” with “consumer,” this works perfectly for the advertising industry . . . or if you replace it with “audience” it works for writing or broadcasting. The battle for our minds has never seemed more obvious than today. One of the greatest defenses, I think, is tuning into our own voice which is why I advocate for writing practice so much. In the words of Natalie Goldberg: “It should be put forward in the Declaration of Independence, along with other inalienable rights: 'Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness─and writing.'” The other defense is a sensible optimism, perhaps best described by Helen Keller: “The struggle of life is one of our greatest blessings . . . It teaches us that although the world is full of suffering, it is also full of the overcoming of it. My optimism, then, does not rest on the absence of evil, but on a glad belief in the preponderance of good and a willing effort always to cooperate with the good, that it may prevail.”

When I was very young, my dad called me his little Cookle-a-Bonga. One year I decided there should be a Cookle-a-Bonga Day to celebrate so I counted halfway between his birthday and mine...and Ta-da, it was October 22. Happy Cookle-a-Bonga Day everyone!!

I am so delighted to write about my Aunt Marge. It seems perhaps an odd thing to say since her funeral is tomorrow and there’s a part of me that feels I should be experiencing grief instead of elation. But I think she would be glad. The world seems so full of desolation right now. She knew that full well but when I spoke to her over the summer, her spirit was not dampened by the pandemic nor even at the prospect of the end of life. She said to me: "I went out the other day with a stocking for my swollen ankle, my cane, and my mask—all I need now is a helmet." And she laughed out loud—literally laughing in the face of danger and of death. "I'm 84, that's a good age," she said. “And I'm fine," she added. "It's going to be fine." I felt an upwelling of thankfulness. “I am really grateful for your open-eyed courage,” I said. “It really helps to show me the way.” My primary contact with Aunt Marge really spanned only the past several years. I contacted her to research a piece on my mother because they had been college roommates. “She and I had a blast at Gonzaga together; got along so well! We were known as ‘Soak and Sponge,’” she said, “if that gives you a hint about our primary activities! “Unfortunately that followed both of us most of our lives: I was able to kick the habit, she was not, sadly.” Her stories enriched my treasure chest of memories about my mom. “She was loyal and funny and a daredevil, smart and passionate,” she said. The college fun passed only too quickly, for Marge fell in love with my uncle, the tall and handsome James Louis Rabdau. He had already joined the Army so my grandfather was the one to present Marge with the engagement ring at their home in Moscow, ID. (In the photo, you can see my mother’s photo on the mantle to the left.) I’m so grateful for my Aunt Marge. Though our lives only brushed one another’s, I feel blessed by her smile, her laughter, and the sound of her voice as she told me stories. I send heartfelt condolences to my cousins who have lost such a close companion and champion. Margery Mae Vollmer Rabdau . July 17, 1936-August 26, 2020 . May you Rest In Peace, Aunt Marge! 💟🙏 ✝️

The Kaleidoscope of August 2 Sixty-two years ago today, my CIA-employed parents were married in Germany and they wrote home that they were the luckiest people in the world to have found each other. I like to think of them that way, so happy and optimistic. Four years later on their wedding anniversary (1964) the first of two "incidents" took place in Vietnam that prompted the U.S. Congress to pass the Tonkin Gulf Resolution handing unlimited military power to President Johnson, escalating our involvement in Vietnam, and setting the stage for, at that time, America's longest war, and unprecedented social strife. Six years ago on this day, on the 50th anniversary of the Tonkin Gulf Incident, I visited the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall in Washington, D.C. It was a sojourn I felt I must make if I were going to write further about the impact that the Vietnam War had on my family; I had to pay tribute to the soldiers who had been sent to a foreign land under false pretenses and who had lost so much physically, psychologically, and emotionally. When I told a soldier what I was doing and asked for permission to use his photo, he thanked me. “They can’t forget,” he said. “They have to remember. There’re a lot of names on that wall.” “His buddy was three days from coming home,” his wife said. Tears stung my eyes, not just for the friend they so obviously missed but for all who were affected. Indeed, I feel as if the early joy of my parents relationship was forever eclipsed by the ever-present trauma they experienced at the end of their lives because of the Vietnam War. As a friend of theirs wrote in 1988, "I wonder why memories of that benighted country and that fumbled war remain so intense?" I soothe myself sometimes with the notion that our lives spiral ever upward, that history does not necessarily repeat, but that it does rhyme. On this August 2, 2020 I ponder the kaleidoscopic images of a wedding filled with joy, an incident imbued with deceit, and a conversation filled with gratitude, and I find myself hoping that we are all part of a poem that is not yet complete. And that, despite our troubles, we can find the beat of better days ahead.

Burned into Memory . “. . . people periodically do burn themselves up," my mother wrote in Sept 1974. "We are always to avoid any large crowd of people milling about, so riding seems to be the order of the day. Such a shame.” . Oddly, my mother was referring to the Buddhist practice of self-immolation and I could find no reported incidents in the 1970s. . The image she was certainly thinking of was that of Buddhist monk Thich Quang Duc who, on this day in 1963, had his body set aflame on a crowded Saigon street. . He was protesting the ongoing mistreatment of the country's large Buddhist population by Ngo Dinh Diem, the autocratic US-supported leader of South Vietnam. . Quang Duc left a respectful plea that the president "take a mind of compassion towards the people of the nation and implement religious equality to maintain the strength of the homeland eternally." . Diem responded with empty promises and defensive conspiracy theories. Soon five more monks self-immolated in protest. The U.S. distanced itself and Diem was assassinated by his own generals that November. . AP Photographer Malcolm Browne captured Quang Duc's sacrifice, winning a Pulitzer Prize and a striking a "match" to the question of Vietnam. . "No news picture in history, " said JFK, “has generated so much emotion around the world as that one.” . A similar upswelling of emotion followed the viral video of George Floyd's murder by police officer Derek Chauvin on May 25, 2020. From thousands of peaceful protests around the country, to riotous clashes with militarily armed police, and, in some cases, burning and looting, the response has resonated worldwide, sparking international rallies of tens of thousands of people in support of the American Black Lives Matter movement. . In retrospect, it is clear that Diem's failure to respond sincerely to Quang Duc's death contributed to his assassination. . It is likely to be some time before we can see clearly the result of our own burning questions about the issues at hand, but one thing is certain—while George Floyd did not choose his death as Quang Duc did, his image will go down in history marking this pivotal time.

The End, Again? . It hardly seems fair that the end of the world should come so often. . Five years ago today, my daughter Chelsea and I sat in Tan Son Nhut airport awaiting a flight to the small island of Phu Quoc in the Gulf of Thailand. . I was there working on a writing project, "Following in the Footsteps of my Father, 40 years After the Evacuation." I could not help but marvel at the gleaming beauty of the airport. Modern, clean, efficient, and awaiting a posh coffee shop, it was a far cry from the scene in 1975. . By April 27 of that year my father and his South Vietnamese employees had already flown the coop, which was fortunate because the bombing of the airport on April 28-29 ended all fixed-wing evacuation from the doomed city. As we sat in the airport, I marveled at my own exhaustion and how terribly minor it had to be compared to the fatigue that must have gripped those who faced the utter demise of a country. On April 30th, Saigon fell to the North Vietnamese communists and was no more. It was the end of the world, literally and figuratively, for those who lost their lives, their livelihoods, their homes, and their faith in a system that had betrayed them. Ultimately, my father and his people escaped and many of the nearly 1000 souls went on to live fulfilling and productive lives in the U.S. Ultimately, Chelsea and I had an amazing journey filled with joy. It's difficult for me to integrate my feelings of euphoria with the terror and loss of all that had gone before, but at the end of the day on April 30, 2015, I could not contain my gratitude and delight. I read Chelsea some of what I'd written. "This has been the best day," I said. I still don't understand how we can face the crises of such things as this COVID-19 pandemic which threatens so much of the world as we know it, and yet also find moments of exultation and redemption that are connecting us in unprecedented ways. It seems that there is no true end, no true beginning, that our moments and stories intertwine ceaselessly. The best we can do, then, is to grasp the moment we're in and bring all our attention to bear upon it. It will be gone in a flash.

Today is National Vietnam War Veterans Day. This post honors my uncle, Lt. Colonel James Louis Rabdau (1933 - 2013). . There are plenty of things about the COVID-19 pandemic that remind me of the Vietnam War: the daily body count, the bewildering array of facts and fictions, and the unprecedented isolation of people—in that time, it was our soldiers. . By contrast, the world is now aware of the concept of isolating, but one of the harshest aspects of the Vietnam War was that soldiers were "socially distanced" without an awareness of what that meant; they were we singly to fight at times, not in platoons as in prior wars. . My uncle was one of those soldiers. In a recap of the Battle of Loc Ninh (1966), he recalls arriving by chopper: . "I was dropped off in the middle of the runway—there I was by myself in a strange place." He was soon joined by the camp captains who were "both damn glad to see" him. And for good reason, he was a commanding presence, both in stature (at 6'4") and in expertise—he was the S-3 (ops) captain who was to write the battle plan for the upcoming fight to protect the very airfield they stood upon. . Let me pause to say that I didn't know my Uncle Jim well, but somehow I was aware that he grasped life with both hands. His wife of 57 years, Margery Vollmer Rabdau was both impressed and dismayed by his dedication to the Armed Forces. . "He just loved the Army," she said, with grudging pride. "I was upset that he wanted to go and he told me, 'I've been practicing to be a soldier for six years and I want to see if I am one.'" . Yes, my Uncle Jim was a rare breed; unlike many, he volunteered to go to Vietnam. And, by and large, according to his wife, was not "one of those who dwelled on not being appreciated," even though one of his very own siblings met him at the airport with the words: "You baby-killer. I disown you." . Despite such harsh condemnation, Uncle Jim persevered in his positive approach (see photo 3). In fact, he went on to fight for and win the battle to create an unprecedented international bike race, the Ore Ida Women's Cycling Challenge, which changed the face of bike racing the world over.

Celebrating the Leap . "So how Fitzpatrick?" my mother's cousin asked last month. He was inquiring as to how I came to carry the Fitzpatrick name when my maiden name was Welch. . I explained that when my marriage was ending in the early 2000s, I had given long thought to the matter of my name. I had to admit that I'd never identified with my given first name. Indeed, its utterance had always caused a queasy belly flutter. And my married surname was, of course, no longer fitting. . Divorce called for the courage to claim something true in me, and while I quavered at the audacious change, I knew I could not turn away from what felt absolutely right. . I had already begun researching family history at that time and I felt particularly drawn to the Fitzpatrick legacy. . And so I created a name-change postcard announcing my "leap." The postcard is pictured here but also written here: Born: Carla Welch Married: Carla Gandy Adventured: Carla "Kat" Gandy And now announcing: Kat Fitzpatrick . I wrote, "Reinventing oneself is a daunting task, and yet ultimately, an opportunity. After long consideration, I've chosen to identify with the legendary qualities of my forebears, the Fitzpatricks, who ventured from their home in Ireland to the wilds of Idaho. It is their pioneer spirit, their humor, their sense of community I seek to embody now, on this next leg of my journey." . Quotes: " . . . I was a lucky person. I was a Fitzpatrick on the ranch . . . " ~James Rabdau, my mother's father. He grew up playing and working on the Fitzpatrick Ranch. . It is terrifying to find and claim a new identity." ~Marilyn Nelson . "A woman must come of age by herself—she must find her own center alone."~Anne Morrow Lindbergh . Kat was a nickname that had sprung from my fictional character Kat Mandu. The name remains feeling true and absolutely correct today. It is also key that my mother gave her blessing before she died in 2004. . "I love the name Kat for you," she said. "It gives me a good little feeling inside." People will often ask what Kat is short for and I reply, "It's just Kat. My mother liked that name."

#flashmemoir #amwriting #creativenonfiction

It's amazing what history leads to. . Flash Memoir # 49 _ I received this photo some years ago and never dreamed I'd actually speak to the tiny young man who stood holding hands with my somber young mother. However, just the other day "Cousin Joel" and I chatted on the phone. . "There's a photo of me and your mom on the ranch," he said, and immediately I knew that this was the image he was referring to. He and I became acquainted on Facebook when he commented on prior Flash-memoirs about the Fitzpatricks. He wrote: . "I have a picture of the ship Great-grandfather Fitzpatrick came on with all the family listed on the manifest. Cost was $26 per person. They left from Cork, Ireland in June 1884 and landed in Battery Park in August. Kate was 24 years old, Grandma Rabdau was only 9. " . What I found remarkable was that speaking with him was like speaking with, well, a long-lost relative, and it was truly a comforting thing. . It's also remarkable to consider that just a little over 100 years later, I unwittingly crossed paths with my forebearers when I paddled past NYC's Battery Park during numerous "Liberty Challenge Outrigger Races." We were all afloat on the same river but what a different setting! . . Photos: 1. My mom, Nancy Rabdau Welch, and cousin Joel Rabdau on the Fitzpatrick Ranch, Bonner's Ferry, Idaho, circa 1938. .

A Real Resolve . I've made the same NY's resolution many times: I will not smoke. The resolve was not to give up smoking, mind you—I've never smoked—it was just *not* to smoke. . I know, I know, it's disrespectful to the nature of the season, if not downright snobbish. Still, there's something in me that balks at the "should-ing" nature of resolving to do something that conforms to society's expectations. . I can't help but think of the stories of my Great Aunt Kate, one of the seven Fitzpatrick siblings who left Ireland in the late 1800s and settled on a ranch in northern Idaho. Their parents soon followed and the clan stuck together to make a life in the new world. Kate, however, had her own way about her. . "You gotta know Kate," my grandfather once said. "She never paid attention to anything. She just took care of her chickens and her cows—milk cows—not the rest of the cows . . . she never paid attention to what was going on at the ranch . . . People thought she didn't give a damn." . But it seems she did: My grandfather described how she served as his protector on the rough-and-tumble ranch, how she offered her services as an unpaid midwife, her uncanny way with animals--of saving them or averting disasters. . "The old bull was pawing away," he said. "Everybody scared to death, and she'd walk up to him and switch him, 'Get out of the way, Old Bull!' She'd just tap him and he'd get out of the way, you know." . So did she really not give a damn or did she simply live on her own terms? When my grandfather was born, small and blue, the doctor pronounced that he wouldn't live and my Great Aunt Kate said, "Nope, he ain't gonna die." And then she proceeded to prove that doctor wrong the warmth of her body and 24/7 attention. Nobody asked her, nobody bossed her. She did as she pleased. . So, I think, in my desire to be a better person and to serve this world well, that maybe I don't need to be any greater than Kate. That is, simply be myself with no apologies. . I have a feeling that it will take a lot longer than "not smoking" but it may well be the only real resolution worth making.

#flashmemoir #newyearsresolution #beyourself

Happy Thanksgiving! 🦃😊🍁 . While "It's just a flesh wound," is a seemingly random holiday association, the line is one of my most striking Thanksgiving memories. In 1975, upon returning to the D. C. area after five years in Southeast Asia, my mother kicked the rest of the family out of the house so she could reacquaint herself with the rigmarole of making a turkey dinner from scratch. My father took the seven of us to see the new Monty Python movie, "The Holy Grail." Upon returning home I was impressed with the smell of turkey and stuffing but was really preoccupied with the way the Black Night had kept bandying about the notion of a fight to the death when his arms and legs had been hacked off. I think my 9-year-old mind may have been trying to reconcile that approach to injury with a scene from the movie, "Papillon, the greatest escape adventure movie ever filmed." We'd been treated to that movie in Saigon and there is a harrowing moment when one of the fleeing prisoners is skewered through the gut by a booby trap. *That* guy never rose up with a wise crack that it was simply a flesh wound. Well, in the spirit of thanks-giving, I have to say that I'm grateful for Monty Python humor which forever makes the world a place where laughter has the last laugh.

#thanksgiving #flashmemoir #montypython

Flash Memoir # 45--In the spring of 1987 I was in China on a study-abroad program where I taught English to a group of friendly and bright college students. One afternoon while having tea at their dorm, I noticed a stack of western periodicals: Time, Reader's Digest, People Magazine. "Uh-oh," I thought. "This way of life is not going to last long." You see, they were in school solely to be trained for a job and one job only. After graduation they would receive their assignment and that would be that--a literal life sentence. So I was not surprised when, just two years later, tens of thousands of college students protested at Tienanmen Square. That access to American magazines and knowledge of a better life, something beyond the limiting oppression and corruption of the ruling Communist Party had given them the courage to take a stand to create a better life for themselves. The Chinese dictators cracked down vehemently against the peaceful gathering on June 4, 1989. Thousands were killed. Despite the military action, students did not desist. In fact, on June 5, one young man—only known as Tank Man—took a solitary stance in front of a line of tanks. The photograph became a powerful symbol of both the bloody events of the protest and of non-violent resistance. In recent weeks, China has been in the spotlight for cracking down on free speech—this time not just in their country, but throughout the world. Their economic status has put some weight behind their threats and companies such as Google and Apple have kowtowed to their demands. We all know that money talks, but the fact is that truth has a more powerful voice. The college students I observed in 1987 had no economic means. "Tank Man" was not wielding a corporate sword. And yet, the truth of those moments remains, and should the long arc of justice prove true, the current attempts to limit individual rights and free speech will also lose traction. . Photo: The iconic "Tank Man," June 5, 1989.

Chelsea and 50 pounds of Determination “Where did the last bag go?” I exclaimed, afraid it had been stolen. My husband of the time had brought a truckload of fertilizer to our Maui Akai Street apartment for storage until he needed them for his landscaping business. “I took it in,” said five-year-old Chelsea. “You what??” It was a 50-lb bag, weighing quite nearly as much as she did. “I just wanted to help.” Upon seeing my dropped jaw, she quickly added, “I made Damien help, too.” This was just as impressive as a feat of solitary strength, for our preschool neighbor was notoriously wilely and uncontrollable. She was much more powerful than I’d imagined. I gazed at my daughter, scrutinizing her for any duplicity. Had she really moved that bag? What I saw in her imperturbable gaze was pure intention, unaffected will power, and a grounded determination. She wasn’t seeking praise; she had simply seen something that needed doing, that she wanted to do, and she had just done it. Photo in collage: A spritely Chelsea at age four. She didn’t grow much larger before manhandling the fertilizer bag 25 yards.

Flag Day Not long ago, I saw two school children diligently working on raising the American flag. In their earnest fumbling, it very nearly fell to the ground and it was all I could do not to lunge toward them and cry out, "Grab it!" I was startled by my reaction—apparently I am more passionate about the 'ol Stars & Stripes than I thought. Today is a good day to contemplate such things as it is "Flag Day," a commemoration of the Second Continental Congress's 1777 adoption of a standard American flag. (history.com) I remember my dad taking out our spindly little flag in Kihei and hanging it from the edge of the lanai. It would wave there in the Hawaiian heat for the day and then be returned to the cool, dark closet until another such holiday came along. I have never contemplated continuing the tradition—until now. Two things prompt me to do so. 1) Yesterday, the Miami Herald posted a video by Key West's John Hamrick, a man who repairs flagpoles for a living(flagpoleclimber.com). He posed the question—from hundreds of feet in the air—Why is it that, for the last two Flag Days, over half of the flagpoles were without a flag? 2) Not every flag has a nation. This photo shows a plaque presented to my father by a friend and employee from South Vietnam, given in appreciation of his assistance in fleeing the doomed country in 1975. Of the two flags depicted, only one still has a nation. I feel deeply for those South Vietnamese who lost their country nearly 45 years ago and can only imagine their grief upon witnessing that end. As Thanhha Lai puts it in her moving novel-in-verse "Inside Out & Back Again:" Last Respects | . . . a formal lowering of our / yellow flag / with three red stripes. / South Vietnam no longer exists. / One woman tries to throw / herself overboard, / screaming that without a country / she cannot live . . . . (www.thanhhalai.com) It made me realize that I take our flag for granted, perhaps—even—the comfort of a country.

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