When my pregnancy was confirmed, we turned in the 57 Chevy, the car in that I’d learned to drive, had my first kiss and took us on our honeymoon. I shed tears as we abandoned it, left forsaken with memories, at the car dealership, eventually to be gobbled up by some car crusher. As we signed papers, I thought.

The steering wheel, shift lever, clutch, brake, gas pedals squished into a twisted metal pancake, my learning to drive and being kissed shipped with them to the smelter, then to Japan to come back as a Toyota.

We drove out of the car lot in a new, automatic shift, Ford station wagon with a rear cargo door, thereafter known as, the “white banana” but no car owned ever carried the same attachment as the 57 Chevy.  

We gave my Desoto to a younger brother, sans girls' night out and Alviso train memories. A Dodge Dart for hubby’s work commute replaced it. The station wagon became my domain, driven without the worry of car trouble, a new experience.

Nine months after our wedding, the baby arrived at the Kaiser Hospital delivery room in Santa Clara, a modern building since demolished, part of Silicon Valley’s constant change. While not cozy, like birthing rooms today, Kaiser’s delivery room was efficient and reassuring. Being there meant no expected complications. Difficult births were sent to a special operation room.

The delivery room was set up with three bays off a central core. The doctor, in the center, scooted his wheeled chair from one pending arrival to the other as we women, spread our pelvises and sang our chorus of heavy breathing, yelping and howling, to his conductor coaxing. Nurses scurried about doing most of the real work. Despite the doctor's assurances, the pain of giving birth is something only a woman understands. 

Screaming with a final push to eternity and the doctor’s exclamations of, “good, good,” I felt a final pain spasm then relief as half of me fell away. Soon I heard the joyful wail of the baby’s claim to the world. In a daze, I watched a nurse tie off and cut the umbilical cord to complete our separation, the baby a new induvial entity of its own. l. I felt a mother’s re-connection with the baby on my chest and cried, not in pain but relief. Soon, baby was whisked, away in a receiving blanket, for a detailed check out and I was wheeled to a two-bed maternity recovery room. As I glanced back, the delivery center nurses were preparing my bay for the next.

My “man” and the other women’s men were absent during the action. Back then they didn't witness the sprouting of what they sowed. Instead, they paced in the expectant fathers' smoke-filled waiting room, unsure what was about.

Hubby was summoned with the good news and was waiting for me in the room. Soon our creation passed as acceptable with ten toes and fingers and was retrieved from the maternity ward for our admiration and holding. After a few hours, the baby was whisked back to the maternity ward, hubby was excused and I was allowed a night's rest. Early the next morning, I was wheelchaired with baby to our “white banana” and he drove me home to face household chores plus attention demands of our new arrival.

In truth, Mom stayed a week helping.  I loved her for it and felt guilty thinking about how she had no one to help her when giving birth, other than the Mexican midwife and Dad standing by smoking cigarettes.

A year later it was back to Kaiser Hospital for a repeat performance. After more panting and screaming, it plopped out without complications, another ten fingers and toes success story. It was not in and out but I was out before the other two women.

During the second delivery, I reflected, Maybe I wasn’t naive in school. It only takes a man’s touch and bam, you’re pregnant.

With each, I thought of Mom with five births at home and no doctor or nurses.

I and hubby were at my parent’s house at midnight, on January 1, 1971, to celebrate the start of the 1970s. The exploding firecrackers announced a decade of startling changes, a decade which seemed disjointed looking back.

I faced it as a married girl with two babies, a boy, and a girl. We decided that was good enough and I got on the "Pill", circumventing the priest's admonishments. I wanted to avoid being a breeder like Mom.

Nine months later, in October 1971, instead of another baby, we bought a house, at the outrageous price of $31.900. It was a three-bedroom, two-bath home, west of El Camino Real, in Mountain View, close to but not in Palo Alto.  A fixer-upper, we financed our purchase by taking over payments with $5,000 down, all our savings. It was much nicer than any house either of us had ever lived in.

Owning our house meant a major economic, social and mental self- image move up. We were somebody's, among those who owned their home. Never again did we have to face a rent payment. Instead, we faced a higher twenty-five-year monthly mortgage but could change things without a landlord's approval. A feeling of awe swept me every time I drove into the driveway.

 Wow, my house, we own our house!

I started painting and updating the kitchen, bathrooms, bedrooms, carpet, well, everything.

Reminiscent of our subdivision's orchard past, an apricot tree survived in the front yard. Somehow it and a few others scattered among the neighborhood managed to avoid the bulldozers during development. Its annual golden fruit nuggets emphasized California's and the Valley's bounty. I made apricot jam.

I planted roses and kept a garden in the back yard where tomatoes overwhelmed me with their generosity after a little watering and hoeing. Life was good, the future bright. We settled in. Permanently, I assumed but like most, we never saw the end of the mortgage.

My husband was the decision-maker, handled the money, selected the house we bought and picked the cars we drove. He always drove when we went together. I accepted his control; glad he was unlike my father. In return, I was a stay at home, super mom and wife. I kept the house spotless, made three meals a day and tailored two suits for him which he wore with pride. Even with a husband, kids, a house and envy of friends, however, I still thought of myself as a girl, a girl who had to grow up but hadn't.

Swamped with baby feeding, bathing and diaper changing initially, I couldn’t get rid of the smell of urine and poo. The hamper was always full as I used cloth diapers to save money. I pitied and admired Mom and appreciated her more. At night, I went to bed thinking of wash and ironing undone, what to cook the next day and how dirty the house was despite constant cleaning.

In bed, I lay exhausted. Hubby sought my attention two to three times a week. When he did, I spread my legs, he hopped on, slipped it in and pumped up and down until he finished. He then rolled off to leave me to sleep on the wet spot. I experienced an orgasm about once a week but it was more like scratching an itch than sex.

His taking me pleased me. While tired, it was reassuring I was fulfilling another part of my role, the good wife. I stood naked before the mirror, reviewed myself, and concluded my full lips still revealed teeth too large, my nose was too flat, my face was too long, my eyes were too slanted, my skin was too dark and my long black hair had split ends and was too straight. 

On the positive side, after two kids, my body was no longer skinny, my breast nipples remained reddish, not dark brown, my tummy didn’t have stretch marks and I still looked attractive enough for hubby’s twice a week need.

While older and financially responsible, he was immature in marriage. He worked hard but clung to old unmarried friends.  They were more important than me and the kids, it seemed. To him, household duties were mowing the lawn and playing patty cake in the evening after work. He never changed "Number two” diapers and rarely “Number one’s”. 

On the weekend, with friends, he watched sports on TV. Our house was a hangout. I was expected to cook for the gang and keep the refrigerator stocked with beer as they watched the 49’s, Giants and Oakland A’s. He often left to see a baseball or football game with me stuck at home. Still, I was happily married, no, I loved being married.

He didn’t drive away to see other women like Dad and handed his paycheck to me to bank deposit which ensured our financial security.  His employment and faithfulness were in exchange for my cleaning, cooking and baby care, a good deal to me. For these, I overlooked his domestic immaturity.

During the day, when he was at work or away with his pals on the weekend, the house was all mine, my Camelot, the rambunctious kids my subjects, my King Arthur off slaying money dragons.

Not facing the monthly, "Rent Is Due" crisis, having Kaiser Health Care insurance and shopping with a checking account and credit cards were new perks worth more than what I did as a stay at home mom. I awoke each morning knowing I was safe from eviction, the pantry was stocked and the future secure, pleasures are not understood unless one has experienced their lack.

Growing up I typically had three pairs of shoes which I wore out before replacing, flats, tennis and formal. No longer limited to just three pairs I bought shoes to look good in and to match clothes. A shoe store trip and a pair of pumps could make my day.

I filled our bathroom cupboards with rolls of toilet paper, standard-sized bars of soap still in their wrapping, bottles of unopened shampoo and large fluffy towels without motel logos. I shopped with no food stamp stigma at Lucky supermarket without buying the cheapest selection. At the Stanford Mall in Palo Alto, I bought sheets, blankets, dishes, and furniture. For the first time, I had new, good stuff. Not only was there no constant scramble for money, we saved. We were rich. I was a happy wife in our Camelot and hummed.

What do the simple folk do?  We go shopping, that’s what we do.

A few miles across the Bay Shore freeway from our house, east of Mountain View was Moffett Field Naval Air Station with its obsolete blimp hanger, and huge jet aerodromes, the landmark for the area.  I was born a few miles to the southeast of it. It and the surrounding hills centered my location. Every time I saw it, I felt a sense of connection, of being in the right place, my place.

Mountain View's population, however, had increased ten-fold since I was born nearby in a pear orchard. It was still multiplying by annual double digits. A rapid metamorphous was occurring. Moffett Field, my landmark beacon, is now occupied by Google.

The constant bulldozing of fruit orchards to make Silicon Valley started in Mountain View with Shockley’s 1956 semiconductor company and its spinoff Fairchild Semiconductor. Its demise of the vacuum tube initially went unnoticed by most but by the 1960’s the pace of change leaped forward. In the 1970s, change accelerated to hyper-speed. Concrete tilt-up semiconductor plants sprung up almost overnight as if mushrooms and Cupertino and Fremont became new cities. Santa Clara, Sunnyvale, Mountain View, Menlo Park, Palo Alto, even San Jose exploded into high tech centers with seas of new residential subdivisions constantly under construction. While I was in the “right spot”, my place, an economic earthquake, the “big one,” not the overdue geological one, was shaking my sense of home, hearth, and stability.

Home prices escalated rapidly after our purchase. Mountain View when we purchased was mostly lower-middle to middle class white with a few Mexicans plus a fair number of Filipinos and military associated with the naval base. It was laid back but rapidly changed as home ownerships flipped. New arrivals came not just from the US but everywhere. What was important was, "having a good time" not who your parents were or what your background was, blessings for us.  While we made new friends and enjoyed backyard BBQs, neighbors tended to come and go breaking the continuity of the community.

With the kids a little older, we periodically drove to San Francisco on Saturdays, our atomic family day. Dad had often taken me with him to its Chinatown to buy Oriental specialty foods. Mom never went with the excuse she had house chores. I knew the shops to go to and the foods to buy for Dad. Hubby I and discovered brunch at the Yank Sing restaurant on Broadway, the first to introduce Dim Sim. We splurged on their delicacies as the food carts passed, always spent more than intended but it was our special day. We skipped the carts chicken feet but bought a bottle of their hot sauce for Dad.

Afterward, it was the zoo, a Golden Gate Park picnic, the Steinhart Aquarium, the Marina beach, simple family stuff but we avoided the hippy drug habitat of Haight Ashbury. We used the Broadway on-ramp entrance to the now gone Embarcadero Freeway when we left San Francisco for home.

Hubby on Broadway always sneaked glances at the blatant topless go-go girl signs, especially the large corner marquee of the Condor Club announcing Carol Doda’s twin 44's and her swing. As far as I know, he never saw her swing but his furtive glances confirmed men have a breast thing. My milk duds once thought too large, seemed not large enough.

Sunday was a molecular family day. We visited parents in Tropicana Village. I smuggled in bars of soap, bottles of shampoo and fluffy towels to Mom. We took all to breakfast at Uncle John’s Pancake House in Santa Clara with kids cooing on mom's lap or playing about in the cargo area of the station wagon before seat belt laws.

After breakfast, I dropped Hubby, Dad and my siblings at the parent’s homes. Mom and I then went to downtown Saint Joseph's Church for High Mass with incense. There I joined in with the priest and loft choir for the Gregorian chant, Introit, Alleluia, Kyrie Elision and Gloria in Excelsis Deo when sung which brought back my Notre Dame days.

In the afternoon, we had a BBQ in my parent’s backyard with in-laws invited. Lady luck ignored Dad more and he started losing his social knack, even became, at times, morose. His weekend escapades faded and he was usually there too. In contrast, Mom was never happier with grandchildren. My siblings treated me with respect as the older sister I was. My in-laws adopted me.

I learned my in-laws had puppet shadow tales of woe. My father in law fell from high up life's business ladder after he discovered my mother in law in an affair. One Sunday, after our BBQ and a few drinks, he told me privately in the backyard, I was the daughter he always wanted, the one lost by my mother in law's miscarriage. It was the first time he hugged me as a daughter. There were tears in his eyes as we went back into the house.

I learned my mother in law had a reason for tears too. She never wanted to marry my father in law and never loved him. She married him to please her parents and yearned for her true love, the one she had the affair with. She was thrown under the bus by him when their affair was discovered so he could save his marriage. She remained married to my father in law, Mr. Plan B, for security.

The supposed miscarriage was a love child abortion. I never told my husband these confessions, the beginning of lies of omission to him. Her confession and the girl I slapped at school reminded me what you assume is, may not be what is.

I wondered what was behind my parent's puppet shadows. Who were they? Were their stories as simple as I assumed?

I wondered now and then.

I'm not Japanese, Chinese or Pinay, I'm mixed up Asian. Why didn't hubby marry a blond college girl?

Santa Clara Valley had very few blacks. It never experienced the black versus white racial animosity of other areas.  There was racial prejudice, even historic racial segregation but for Asians and Mexicans. It’s hard to believe now but back then, there were relatively few Asians because they were excluded from immigration until 1962. There were no Koreans except an adopted orphan here and there and Vietnam’s location on a geography test would be a fail for college students.

Before 1962 California’s Asians were Japanese, Chinese and Filipinos, most of who were born in the USA or Hawaii. Hawaii was a tad foreign as it was not a state until 1959. California towns had their Chinatown, even if only a restaurant or two, as remnants of what once were segregated Chinese ghettos. The Chinese, while on the correct side during World War II, were still often referred to as Chinamen or the more racial denigration term, Chinks.  Among the general population, however, there just weren’t that many, except in San Francisco Chinatown. There were a few Chinese in public schools who drifted through unnoticed. Most still lived in a “Chinatown” and didn’t mix with others. Their exposure to whites was limited to serving chop-suey or perhaps a source of illegal firecrackers on the Fourth of July. Almost all were Cantonese and short.

The Japanese, more numerous, were scattered among the white population after their WW II internment which they never discussed. The Chinese worked hard; the Japanese worked even harder. They were obsessed with achievement. Their children took many of the academic honors in schools. They gained respect after their terrible treatment during the war due to heroics of the 442nd Regiment, the most decorated unit in the history of American warfare, their inconspicuous manners and hard work, often in self-employment as cleaners or landscapers.  Still, they were known as “Japs”.

Like the Japanese, the Filipinos were scattered among the white population. Their racial status was more ambiguous. Many were confused with Mexicans or possibly Portuguese. They lacked a common pejorative racial designation reflecting their uncertain status.

Mexicans were the largest racial minority. 

They consisted of two groups, those who spoke English and considered themselves white regardless of skin color and those who spoke Mexican, were dark complexed and did farm work. Those who considered themselves white often could trace their ancestry back to Spanish days, even to land grants, (stolen from them by the 49’ers once the gold ran out), which made them the true natives. A few, especially the poorer, were probably remnants of aboriginal Indians.

The farmworker Mexicans, unlike today, also were usually born in the US, typically Texas or Arizona and followed migrant fruit picking harvests as a family.

There was white is right, racial prejudice but it was not dogmatic. A lot of brown and white intermingling occurred and there were brown minorities in positions of wealth and power which none thought odd. Japanese never asked for assistance, the Chinese were often wealthy and some Hispanics had "old" money. While Portuguese often were referred to as "Portigies" they used the term themselves and were proud of it. The Italians, however, took offense at "Whop" and "Dago."  Mexicans, Italians, and Portuguese ranged from fair to dark complexion with no definite color line. Blue eyes were scattered in all of them.

If there was a major minority population group, it was Catholics. They represented a broad racial range of Irish, Italians, Portuguese, Mexicans, and Filipinos as well as many Germans and the few Polish. Each Sunday they all paraded to the communion rail together at Mass and thought nothing of it. They were all part of the “Mystical Body of Christ”, per Catholic dogma, with no Church stigma over intermarriage. While a minority they had a major influence. In Santa Clara, the bells of the Carmelite Monastery rang the Angelus every day and public schools served no meat lunches on Fridays in deference to Catholics Friday meat abstinence. Even in law, there was a Catholic influence. California's community property law reflected the heritage of Catholic Spain.

For my generation, born after WW II, race, even religion, were just not as big deals as they were for our parents and even for them their importance was waning. Hispanic and white marriages had become common enough not to turn heads. Portuguese and Italians, some darker than a light-skinned mulatto, mixed freely and intermarried with blond whites. There already were a few Asian/white marriages but almost always an Asian woman married to a white man. Hubby and I, therefore, meet a norm of sorts.

Racial taboos were crumbling. For mixed religious marriages, the big deal was the non-Catholic signing off to raise the children Catholic and separate gravesites in Catholic versus public cemeteries on death.

I never experienced overt prejudice growing up. I was proud to be me, Asian-Catholic. My marriage to a white non-Catholic gave me pause but seemed normal enough. Race was something new arrivals worried about more than locals.

Dad, however, as a Chinese with a Filipina wife, passed a greater racial crossover than I. Asians tended to be more race-conscious than whites. Chinese tended not to even marry other Chinese outside their ethnic group. Dad crossed an Asian racial divide with a Filipina wife. His dating white women crossed a greater lingering white racial-cultural taboo. His blithe comments about white devils didn’t mean he was concerned about my marrying one. He went out with white women and considered himself superior to others. 

Like Dad, I considered myself superior too. Dad’s supercilious attitude was more tenuous due to our financial situation but mine had a strong foundation based on school performance, work, savings, sewing, and cooking.  

I didn’t feel uneasy being Asian until the Vietnam War. The war brought young veterans home who often carried a stigma against Asians or “gooks” as they said. They resented the South Vietnamese, who they despised as weak and hated the Viet Cong and North Vietnamese who tried to kill them. Like Buster Crabbe, however, in the old serial, Flash Gordon, many were attracted to the seductive Asian stereotype of Princess Aura, Emperor Ming’s faux Asian daughter on the planet Mongo.

Many returning Vietnam veterans made uninvited advances towards me. They approached boldly to talk, even when I was pushing two kids in a stroller with a wedding ring obvious to see. I didn't perceive their advances as compliments.

I heard stories of dance floors in Asia filled with naked young Oriental girls, ordered by the number worn on a necklace or bracelet, the tag number their only attire. The war in Vietnam generated multitudes of desperate "boom-boom girls". To me, the bold approaches were calls for my number, each a demeaning insult. My embarrassment and smile to getaway seemed to encourage them as I assumed, they generalized me as another Oriental, cheap whore.

Asian men didn’t make unwanted advances but Asians, too, have degrading racial stereotypes with Filipino at the bottom of the Asian pecking rungs. They know at first glance I’m not Japanese or Chinese. The Chinese may or may not recognize my being part Chinese but they know I am not all Chinese. They lump me in the uncertain category of mixed or Filipino, knowing also I was born in the US or entered very young solely by my stride and stance. My uncertain Oriental racial status puts me a step below Filipinos who were the least racist. It was easiest for me to be friends with them. There were also a few Filipinas who married US military personnel when the husband was stationed there.

My Mountain View girlfriends were white or Filipino married women, mostly older. They weren’t prejudiced. The white ones often made comments such as I was sultry and exotic, innocently but to me, it was too close to Princess Aura or Asian "boom-boom” girl.

A common stereotype among them was I’m short in stature due to the local Asians' tendency of being short. If I stood next to them, they were often amazed I was as tall or taller than them. Their innocent perceived stereotypes resulted in my retaining some of the self-esteem damage of younger days. My assumed, inherent superiority, suffered insecurity even with marriage, children, homeownership and middle-class income. Only my white close friend from Notre Dame days, Julie, who knew the real me, put no appearance tag on me.

I too, however, was guilty of stereotyping, even Asians. With the Vietnam War, Vietnamese began migrating to the US which turned into a torrent as the war became lost. Many were former Vietnam government officials, desperate boat people or war brides. In my prejudice, they were responsible for my elder brother’s death, ex corrupt government officials, army deserters or “boom-boom girls.

Married, I’d joined a cooking group which rotated meals from member to member houses. The host prepared her version of a three-course gourmet meal which tended to be more of a gourmet wine fest for the women and a beer bust for the men. Always on the lookout for ethnic variations, a Vietnamese woman eventually was coaxed to join. She was a war bride with family, if any, left behind.

 As usual, the men and women segregated into two groups after dinner. With a second or perhaps third glass of wine, one woman, our Mexican menu connection, asked the Vietnamese woman.

“Nhung, what was the war like?”

“I not think about war. It best forgotten.”

Not taking the hint, another asked.

"Well, what’s the worst you had to deal with? We’ve seen so many terrible things on TV. Were you ever afraid?”

A stupid question but we all stopped and stared for her answer. Cornered, she surveyed the group and stutter replied in her heavy accented English.

“Worst?... A terrible thing…  You not want know.

“Well tell us, maybe we can help or understand.”

“You best not know.  It happen me. It happen you too.”

“It’s okay Nhung, you can tell us.”

“It, it, find out what. It find you do. What you can do to live.”

Her last sentence a bit choked. She looked away and walked to her husband in the garage saying no more. We stood silent a wave of empathy swept me.

It’s true. One of life’s hells is learning what you’ll do to survive. While my “rent is due” background was inconsequential compared to her war, I comprehended better than the others present. The mind’s location, where you learn what you are capable of when life threatened, is best not visited. It’s better to deny as possible what you can or will do. It’s the hell the Kapos of Auschwitz faced.

I discarded my Vietnamese stereotyping and have tried to accept each as an individual, but one slips back so readily to this weakness. K-Mart and Walmart shoppers, I try not to think I’m superior but I do. Overweight, a stereotype of those who lack self-control, who am I to say? I’ve tried to remove prejudice but it is so easy to assume haughty generalizations.

My confidence in being American, Asian American returned from an unexpected source just after the Vietnamese woman blurted out.

“What you can do to live.”

Mom and Dad were invited to a reunion of sorts for Vietnam veterans in my oldest brother's army Brigade held at Fort Ord in Monterrey, California. Mom didn’t want to go to a reunion but did want to talk to those who knew Rickie, to know more about how he was killed instead of the Army's brief summary. Dad refused to go so I took Mom.

As we drove to Monterrey, again passing the walnut trees of Monterey Road, I reminisced about Rickie, killed when only 19, the older brother who protected me when I was his little sister as we moved about. Unlike Dad, he was responsible, had a paper route, picked fruit in the summer and helped Mom with chores and money pinches. Still, I hardly knew him, the three- and half-year difference in age between us a vast time gap when young. At 23, with two kids, now the eldest, I was elevated to the family responsible one. He was demoted to a picture in uniform on my parent's living room table, a folded flag propped up on the fireplace mantel and in 1982, a name on a Washington D. C. wall.

Mom and I were apprehensive about how "gooks" would be received. We knew Rickie joked about telling his fellow soldiers he was GG (“Good Gook”) but understood it was a joke of self-defense from the racial sting.

When we entered the conference room, however, we were greeted with open arms and as a Gold Star Mother, Mom had a special seat of respect with other unfortunate Gold Star moms. Each veteran on entering was met with the words.

“Welcome home soldier!”           

This phrase was to offset the often unwelcomed; greeting they received after returning from their Vietnam service. They were a mix of white, Hispanic and black veterans. I was shocked how young the "men" appeared and thought how very young my brother was when sent to Vietnam to be killed. Later that night those who knew him got up and said a few kind words. No one talked politics, merits of the war or heroics just deference to our loss and their comradeship. While a few drank too much. Some cried a tear or two thinking of their past, those killed and maimed and the meaningless of it all. None were abusive to us, only supportive and respectful.

An officer, his lieutenant, came and spoke to Mom. He said Rickie honorably served his country, he was sorry he was killed in action defending it and we should be proud of his sacrifice. Rote words but to Mom, it helped her recover from the collapse she made when opening the front door and seeing the uniformed man who came to announce Rickie's death.

We were treated with dignity and respect by all. I was emotionally moved by the deference and kindness demonstrated to the "Gold Star Mothers" and me. We only learned there was an ambush, shooting, he was killed and his body medic-vacked to eventually show up for burial at Golden Gate National Cemetery in San Bruno, California.

There, my family dressed up in black, a first for me to see Mom so with a veil. My parents, siblings and I, the only ones observing the service, were seated on the cemetery lawn under a little open white tent before Rickie” closed wooden casket with an American flag draped on it. A priest rose, said a few words and blessed the casket with holy water.

Earlier, a small army bus had arrived with soldiers from Monterrey’s Fort Ord. They were Rickie’s honor guard, assigned the duty of performing the ceremony of a twenty-one-gun salute, playing taps, folding the casket flag and presenting it to Mom. They stepped off the bus, walked single file between the graves and stationed themselves on a small knoll. Seven formed a line for the gun salute, their M-16s at their sides in parade rest stature. A bugler and the command Sargent stood behind them.

At a signal from the priest, The Honor Guard came alive at the command, “Present Arms.” They moved to the ready position, turned to the side with rifles across chests and at the Sargent’s command, “Ready, aim-fire,” fired off three sets of blank rounds almost simultaneously for twenty-one reports.  The sharp barks of each seven volleys echoed through the rows on rows of white gravestones.  

After the twenty-one-gun salute, taps was played by the bugler behind them, accompanied to Mom’s and my sobbing.  At taps completion, the honor guard marched down near to the casket. Two stepped forward with white-gloved hands, gently lifted the flag from the coffin, shuffled sideways, brought the flag parallel to the ground, folded it briskly twice lengthwise, then folding it triangularly over itself, as it diminished in size.  Their finished product was a trifold American flag showing only white stars on a blue background, the end tightly tucked into the fold.

The command Sergeant held the flag before my sobbing Mom, leaned forward on bended knee, and quietly offered the standard words of condolence. 

“On behalf of the president of the United States and a grateful nation I wish to present you with this flag in appreciation for your son’s service."

She clutched the flag, pulled it to her black-clad bosom and sobbed uncontrollably to our discomfort, even the soldiers. A funeral ceremony is always sad, but taps and the presentation of the flag to my veiled Gold Star Mother was the saddest I’ve ever experienced. I didn’t understand the extent of Mom’s loss until much later.

I also learned later the twenty-one-gun salute by firing seven rifle volleys, three times started in the Civil War. One side would request permission to gather their dead off the battlefield with a seven-shot volley. The other side, if in agreement, responded with their seven-shot volley.  Once the dead were removed the third volley was to conclude the agreement and start the killing again. Even the triangular flag folding has tradition. It is folded thirteen times to acknowledge the original thirteen colonies.

The casket was lowered. Rickie was gone, officially gone, never to be seen, joked with, protected by, hugged again, gone. The service was standard, too routine. We drove home, drained, empty, missing something, no missing everything, in silence.

There were no big revelations at the reunion but having some who knew him and were with him when he was killed gave Mom a form of closure missing from the funeral service. Then when mom and I shed tears on the long drive home, as Dad drove, me wedge between them in the old Buick front seat, my tears were those of guilt for not appreciating Rickie enough. My older brother, he who protected me when young, eventually became a name engraved on a monument wall.

At the reunion, I learned I wasn’t just categorized as a "boom-boom" girl and if so, it was their problem, not mine. I was an American girl as American as apple pie.