Jackson's Actions

All human actions have one or more of these seven causes: chance, nature, compulsion, habit, reason, passion, and desire. --Aristotle (384 BC - 322 BC) <

Wow, life is moving along rapidly now. I just read this morning somewhere

(excerpt)

When you are asked "Why do you do, or not do, so and so?" you are invariably aware that your real reason will not go into words, even when you have no wish to conceal it; consequently you rationalise your conduct, more or less dishonestly. I don't know whether everyone would admit this, and it is a fact that some people seem unaware of being influenced by their inner life, or even of having an inner life. I notice that many people never laugh when they are alone, and I suppose that if a man does not laugh when he is alone his inner life must be relatively barren.

George Orwell, New Words

Well, I most certainly DO laugh when I am alone, but what's more, Mr. Orwell is correct when he says that language is simply inadequate for communicating the true inner life. My own inner life is doing some kind of mosh pit maniacal detonational dance right now.

I just got off the phone with Lt. Robert Jackson, (the nicest man you'd ever want to talk to) who was the navigator of the B-17 on which my father was killed. He is the only survivor of a crew of ten that was blown out of the sky in 1942.

This is my original blog post, in case you haven't been bombarded with the info before:
The Big Bitch

Bob (Uncle Bob, he likes to call himself) is 89 years old and remembers it all. We talked about my father!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
My Dad was a little guy, about 135 pounds, who took his job very seriously,he said. He joined up early in the war, and died early in the war. Bob, being tactful and judicious, reflected on the fact that he knew there might have been some family problems there--with my dad--which of course there were! So, I was glad that he felt he could be that honest with me. They all spent close time together, these crews, and it was unbelievable to be talking to this man.

What's more.. in 2006, there was a huge reunion of the relatives of this plane's crew in France (where I'm headed next month). I found out there's an actual big memorial on the PLACE where The Big Bitch crashed, and my dad's name is on a wall in a tiny village somewhere in Normandy. I have to go and find it while I'm there. I think he said the village was St. Roget, but I can't find it on any map. I have another person to call tomorrow who was instrumental in organizing this reunion, and she may be able to tell me more. Her husband's cousin was the bombadier on the Big Bitch. So, they didn't know I existed and I missed that trip. I'm heartbroken. It would have been wonderful, wonderful to share it with the families (like me) that cared. I'm just heartbroken to have missed it.

BUT, I'm going on May 5th, by myself, and judging by emotional state right now, I think I'd better find a keeper in France. 65 years is a long, long time to suppress emotions. One would think they would wither and die with time...but they are like some Gahan Wilson cartoon, oozing out the windows and doors, puffing and expanding and becoming this torrent of moving and explosive FEELINGS, loosed and raging and
utterly out of control!

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