Gentle on My Mind

I've been trying to find a way to acknowledge the SEALs who died Friday in a Chinook crash in Afghanistan. I knew two of those men well enough to be shocked and grieved by seeing their names in the paper. I thought, after nearly a decade of survival, all of the Navy men and women I knew would be lucky enough to make it to the end of this and go on growing old like I get to do.

Those friendships have their story in other places, but it's been a long time (seven years), and I haven't wanted to say much about it since. However, these last few days have churned my memory, and while I tried to write about remembering, I wasn't satisfied with what you would have read here.

I will say that knowing each of the men who lived in the big house in Ocean Beach, and the additional men who came to visit and party and sleep there, shaped who I have become in my adult life.

I have been a more patient and forgiving teacher, particularly to boys, and most particularly to hyperactive boys. I'm better at letting go of inhibitions and admitting that no one cares if I embarrass myself in the name of a good time. I dance more at weddings and embrace the folly of pratfalls. I'm friendlier, more open, braver, and more adventurous. I probably curse more than I should and have far less patience for cowardice.

I have a special attachment to times spent eating in big groups with people I love.

I'm a better mother for having taken care of them in whatever little ways came up.

For all of the instances in which knowing them made me incredibly, at times unbearably, sad, I am, in fact, probably happier.

For what more could I have asked?

I realized the other day that a lot of what I remember was the music we listened to, in the car and at their houses. There is plenty that reminds me of them, but Johnny Cash's version of "Gentle on My Mind" fits best now. Have a listen.