Habit
When I was 12 (or so - we'll just call it 12 for the sake of the story), I was spending the night at my friend Lisa's house. Her Dad was scary in a Red Foreman kind of way - he was old school, and I was too young to realize that most of the time he was messing with me (or I hope he was). Anyway, they had this 3 bedroom house in the suburbs with one bathroom on the second floor where all the bedrooms were, so Lisa and her parents shared. The floor was cold, but Mrs. Rutherford always put 2 towels down so you didn't have to step on the tiles if you wandered in there in the middle of the night. She was from Estonia. Seriously.
Moving on to the reason I bring this up. This morning, I shuffled myself out of bed to the bathroom, popped on the light, and stood in front of the mirror. I realized (with great happiness) that it gets light early enough to avoid turning the light on in the bathroom now (finally)! I turned to hit the light and get ready by the light of the window, but stopped before I got there. I stood there frozen for a minute and then turned back around and put in my contacts. I smiled in the mirror when I was done - I was thinking about Mr. Rutherford.
I was in the bathroom early one winter morning when I was 12 - putting in my contacts in the dark so as not to wake anyone. He came in and flipped on the light -- he looked at me curiously and asked why I was standing there with the light off. I mentioned I didn't want to wake anyone and he nodded at me. Then he told me about how he had to fake his eyesight to get into the Vietnam war (there was a lot of toothbrush gesticulation) and that he put his contacts on in the dark for two tours -- he'd never do it again. I don't remember my reaction at the time, but at 28, I can tell you that I look back on it with a sense of wonder.
I was 12 in 1989 - and in my memory I had just learned about what happened to vets when they came home from Vietnam. There were Vietnam vets and their evidence everywhere -- still in the papers, tv, books...and Mr. Rutherford. I didn't ask him about his time in the war - or, what I was probably wondering, what my 28 year old self thinks I should've asked: Why did you lie to go to Vietnam? Where does that sense of duty come from? What in you drove that?
I remember being afraid of the war - too me, even though it had been over most of my life, I felt like it was a fresh cut maybe because it was a deep one. I still felt that way when I would walk down to the mall and see the POW cart outside the Lincoln Memorial, and sit on the steps watching old Vietnam vets remember their friends. I would wonder if that's what it meant to be a patriot.
Maybe it's just cynicism and romanticism, but it seemed like it was a better question when I was 12 - it wasn't cheapened by being asked every 10 minutes on 20 different news channels. It was personal. It was about the choices you made everyday in your life. It was about being true to your beliefs, even if you knew a great many of your compatriots disagreed. It must be romanticism, because the next thing I wanted to type was: it was about doing what was best for your freedom, not for capitalism.
Either way, when I thought of Mr. Rutherford this morning I remembered a strong man, a quiet man - who stood in the bathroom and vowed to a 12 year old that he wouldn't ever put his contacts in in the dark again. Neither will I -- I've developed a habit I can't break, and I think on a certain level I should thank Mr. Rutherford every day, not only for his conviction (despite my adult self's disagreement) but also for making it a habit for me to remember that time in our history every time I get up.
Moving on to the reason I bring this up. This morning, I shuffled myself out of bed to the bathroom, popped on the light, and stood in front of the mirror. I realized (with great happiness) that it gets light early enough to avoid turning the light on in the bathroom now (finally)! I turned to hit the light and get ready by the light of the window, but stopped before I got there. I stood there frozen for a minute and then turned back around and put in my contacts. I smiled in the mirror when I was done - I was thinking about Mr. Rutherford.
I was in the bathroom early one winter morning when I was 12 - putting in my contacts in the dark so as not to wake anyone. He came in and flipped on the light -- he looked at me curiously and asked why I was standing there with the light off. I mentioned I didn't want to wake anyone and he nodded at me. Then he told me about how he had to fake his eyesight to get into the Vietnam war (there was a lot of toothbrush gesticulation) and that he put his contacts on in the dark for two tours -- he'd never do it again. I don't remember my reaction at the time, but at 28, I can tell you that I look back on it with a sense of wonder.
I was 12 in 1989 - and in my memory I had just learned about what happened to vets when they came home from Vietnam. There were Vietnam vets and their evidence everywhere -- still in the papers, tv, books...and Mr. Rutherford. I didn't ask him about his time in the war - or, what I was probably wondering, what my 28 year old self thinks I should've asked: Why did you lie to go to Vietnam? Where does that sense of duty come from? What in you drove that?
I remember being afraid of the war - too me, even though it had been over most of my life, I felt like it was a fresh cut maybe because it was a deep one. I still felt that way when I would walk down to the mall and see the POW cart outside the Lincoln Memorial, and sit on the steps watching old Vietnam vets remember their friends. I would wonder if that's what it meant to be a patriot.
Maybe it's just cynicism and romanticism, but it seemed like it was a better question when I was 12 - it wasn't cheapened by being asked every 10 minutes on 20 different news channels. It was personal. It was about the choices you made everyday in your life. It was about being true to your beliefs, even if you knew a great many of your compatriots disagreed. It must be romanticism, because the next thing I wanted to type was: it was about doing what was best for your freedom, not for capitalism.
Either way, when I thought of Mr. Rutherford this morning I remembered a strong man, a quiet man - who stood in the bathroom and vowed to a 12 year old that he wouldn't ever put his contacts in in the dark again. Neither will I -- I've developed a habit I can't break, and I think on a certain level I should thank Mr. Rutherford every day, not only for his conviction (despite my adult self's disagreement) but also for making it a habit for me to remember that time in our history every time I get up.
posted by Mom and Dad at 8:13 PM
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