Sidetracked by War Concerns

War is a  society crushing, individual mind altering activity not today dealt with.  Or too casually so by most of us. The news I read daily is filled with political posturing and position maueuvering. Regarding war -- the war in Iraq, the war in Afghanistan is a spectator sport. Some spectators demand complete withdrawal of troops as soon as logistically possible.  Others assert such withdrawal asks for and will surely bring delayed and deadly efforts from forces hostile to the Western world.

Reading about it, talking about it, if there is nothing worth watching on Television is the extent of involvement of most of us. How many people do you know who have served in Iraq or Afghanistan? Who of us has a son, a daughter, a spouse or a sibling in these wars? Who of us has been asked to share in the sacrifice? Have we seen an increase in taxes to pay for the war? Have we seen shortages of materials as in World War II when tires, shoes, sugar and a myriad of products were rationed?

We share nothing but occassional rhetoric.  Not like our parents, grandparents and great grandparents in previous wars. Not like colonial Americans in the war making us the USA.  Not like the war which nearly spun the north and south USA into separate countries. People, ordinary people of these conflicts felt war. Those of us old enough remember the flags which hung in windows, proudly announcing to the world that this house had a son in the war. Those of us old enough remember rationing, and scavenging stray metal for re-use in the war effrort.

My ladies-- Julia of 1st century Rome, Tanaquil  of 7th century BC Rome, and Cartimandua of 1st century Roman Britain.  My Occassional tea party friends-- they all knew war.  They knew the loss of a child, a husband, a brother in battle.  If I was to come to terms with my quandary I needed them.

They appeared as always -- Julia with her long hair dangling over her shoulder, black with its shock of white over her left eye. She had lost loved ones to war. Tanquil with a profile found on any ancient Greek vase or in any Etruscan tomb painting.  Her son was a casualty of war. Cartimandua whose braids bound both her hair and her spirit, torn by many battle casualties.  They were there!

Then they were not.  In their places were two strangers. One I surmised to be Greek.  And I learned without waiting or asking it was Ismene, a proud Spartan woman from, the 5th century. The other in colonial American dress identified herself as Marybelle, 1770 America. Before I summoned the wherewithall to cope with this kink in the order of events I had tried to summon, Ismene, expression haughty, voice harsh said, "The toll war takes-- is what you want to know? Otherwise why summon us?"

"I did not summon you. I summoned my group."

Ismene held her head high, exaggerating what we've come to think of as the classic Greek pose. Her laughter was piercing. "My impression -- our impression,' she pointed to Marybelle. "was you wanted to understand about war."

Marybelle, so matronly in her high bodiced long dress, interjected, "As was mine.  If not that then what? What can we do for you?"

I hesitated too long.  Ismene with impatience of manner and voice said, "Let us hit the high spots and we'll be on our way. You surely have matters to attend to, as do I. I have estate matters to attend to.  Both my husband and my two sons are at war just now. We're at odds with Athens, you may or may not know. My lands in Sparta need my constant attention. My accountant is due at any time. Your question I believe was how do we deal with war, and what do we feel about war."

I shuddered thinking of her husband and sons in battle. "How awful. What could be worse than losing a husband or one's children in war?"

"Oh many things are worse.  We Spartan women carry on overseeing our lands and proudly, and I might add happily, send our men off to war with our urging that they fight bravely and boldly and return to us victorious with shields held high. And if not victorious then on their shields."

Marybelle, whose gray hair, lined face and dull eyes, spoke of the hardship and pain. "You forget your own history, I fear. In the beginning we understood the sacrifices and willingly -- if not cheerfully-- accepted our share of the war. We gave our husbands, fathers, sons, and at times our very homes, to the cause. I grant there were the occassional shirkers. There has always been shirkers.  And there always will be. Your quandery is I fear more serious than that. I sense things are not today what they once were. I sense you know only shirkers."

I struggled to keep Ancient Sparta and Colonial America out of my thoughts. Were they made of sturdier stuff than I, than we who sloughed off war to those who had no choice, those who could not otherwise find employment, those who dispendable.

Then Ismene and Marybelle were no longer there. I was totaly alone with haunting doubts and fears. What had we become?  Where were Julia, Tanaquil and Cartimandua when I needed them? Had they heard? Had they decided I was no longer worthy?  I must think, evalaute before I again summon them.