A MEMORIAL DAY MEMORY

My father, Ed Fagalde, and his grandmother, Louise Fagalde. Dad served in the Pacific in the U.S. Army Air Corps during WWII. I wrote this poem after he told me the story of their arrival home at the end of the war.
MUSTERING OUT

When the war ended, we were ready to go home.
We heard about troop ships delayed, being prepared,
but anything that could float was fine with us.
We slept on the decks, didn’t have much food, but 
that was nothing new. I lost almost sixty pounds
in those years in Australia, Manila, New Guinea.
Not much chow. Dengue fever. I almost died.
No, we’d have jumped in and swam if we could.

I’ll never forget our first sight of the Golden Gate.
Everybody was out on deck, crying and cheering,
hundreds of people waving back at us.
Mustering out in San Francisco took forever.
Paperwork, medical exams, giving up our uniforms
for fear they carried diseases. They probably did.
They invited us to stay for a talk about the Army reserves.
Hell no, our CO told the guy. He turned to us:
“Do you want to get out of this man’s army?”
“Sir, yes sir!” we shouted back. 

I got a ride from a Mexican guy down to San Jose.
His family had come to pick him up.
We got to the ranch near midnight. I rang the bell,
got everybody out of bed, surprised my mom and dad.
We were all crying, couldn’t believe I’d made it home.
My brother was six feet tall with this big deep voice.
Yeah, it was something. I kept looking around.
It was all the same, but different, you know?
No, I’ll never forget that day. None of us will. 


--Sue Fagalde Lick
Previously published in Rattle Poetry Journal

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Photo Takes Me Back to Pacifica, CA

Sue in PacificaOn Fourth of July, when current life got to be too much, I tackled a box of photos and memorabilia saved from my father’s house. I couldn’t face it before, my father’s death too fresh, but now I marveled at the treasures inside: a Roi Tan cigar box full of pictures of me and my family in all our previous lives. Newspaper clippings. Letters. A man’s wedding ring I’m wearing on my index finger as I type this. Photo albums more than a hundred years old from my father’s mother, Clara Fagalde, who died when I was two. The tiny black and white photos show her teenage years, the boyfriend who preceded Grandpa, soldiers in WWI, people wearing masks during the 1919 influenza epidemic, old cars that were truly “horseless carriages,” Clara’s days as a young teacher in rural Oregon, and the clearest photos I have seen of her parents, Edward and Paulina Riffe. So much. So many people who have died, but somehow these pictures helped me to feel less alone, as if my family were still all around me.

I learned some things. Grandma Clara did speak German, as evidenced by her captions with the photos. I always wondered. If she had lived, would I know some German, too? Her mother, who was cute and round, must have been in her 40s when she died in a car accident. My great-grandpa Joe Fagalde was my age, 68, when he shot himself in 1939. His widow, my great-grandma Louise had to go to court to fight to stay in the house they shared, laws being what they were back then. That box held so many stories that I’m itching to explore.

I was fascinated by the pictures of myself. Be honest, you stare at photos of yourself, too. There I was, the adorable toddler, the earnest Girl Scout, the hippie wannabe, the dressed-up professional, the older lady . . . wait, how did that happen?

The photo above from 1981 sparked the poem that follows. My first husband and I had split. I was just moving into my apartment in Pacifica, California, where I had a new job as a reporter at the Pacifica Tribune. I had a different last name then, Barnard, and I can’t believe how skinny I was. I lived a block from the beach and used to go running there after work. I drove a yellow VW Rabbit that was in the shop more than it was on the road. I was just beginning to explore the life I might have had sooner if I hadn’t gotten married two weeks after I graduated from San Jose State. Back then, I was writing poetry and playing music, same as now. I look much different, but I’m the same on the inside.

Anyway, on with the poem.

PACIFICA 1981

She’s 28 going on 17,
sitting cross-legged on the floor
of her apartment, the furniture
still at her parents’ house.

Against the wall, a sleeping bag.
Marriage failed, she can’t wait
to claim her space, to lock the door,
to plug in her brand new Princess phone.

Green shag carpet reeks of cats
as she leans against the counter,
long hair and thick brown specs,
skinny jeans, T-shirt tucked.

On the counter, a box of Quaker Oats,
an avocado green tea kettle,
a vodka box of Campbell’s soups,
Log Cabin syrup and pancake mix.

Beside her, a Blue Chip stamp guitar,
La Valenciana, fingertip dents
on the first three frets. Nearby,
a battery tape deck, fresh cassettes.

Her life still fits in a pickup truck—
clothes, sewing machine, books,
typewriter in a baby blue case,
paper with that wood-pulp smell.

She stares out the window at the fog
shredding to reveal hints of blue,
scrabbles in her purse for a pen,
writes the date on a clean white page.