Today, I am grateful for each and every patriot who has died in service to our great country.
"Perform, then, this one act of remembrance before this Day passes - Remember there is an army of defense and advance that never dies and never surrenders, but is increasingly recruited from the eternal sources of the American spirit and from the generations of American youth." ~W.J. Cameron
As George and I watched the televised Memorial Day concert in Washington last night, he said, "Watching this makes me feel bad." I asked why, and he said, "I don't feel like I did enough."
"I don't feel like I did enough." Think about the kind of person who feels this way about his twenty years of service. And realize that George is not alone. Millions have felt--and feel--just as he does.
Makes you proud to be an American, doesn't it?
You did enough, honey. And so has every single person who was "recruited from the eternal sources of the American spirit." The men and women in uniform--from the American Revolution to the war in Afghanistan--signed up to serve, signed away their own personal freedom to choose what they do, where they live, and how they live to serve their country. Those whom we particularly honor today also signed away their lives. They gave more than enough, and their graves are watered by our grateful tears.
The True Meaning of Memorial Day
Showing posts with label military life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label military life. Show all posts
Monday, May 30, 2011
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Mandatory Fun and the Little Black Velvet Dress: A Social Experiment
Last weekend, tragically, George broke his favorite wine glass, the one commemorating the U.S. Air Force’s 50th anniversary. His sadness reminded me of the night he acquired that wine glass, which reminded me about the little black velvet dress I wore the night he acquired that wine glass, which reminded me how, when I wore the little black velvet dress on the night he acquired that wine glass, men noticeably talked to my boobs instead of to me.
George had to attend a dining out for the 50th anniversary and of course he wanted me to tag along. Military parties come in two varieties: fun and "mandatory fun." Dining outs, or military formal banquets, are usually fun occasions, at least when flying squadrons get together to party with rituals, toasts, and lots and lots of alcohol. This dining out, however, was “mandatory fun.” Few of George’s friends were going, and not one of mine.
Oh, joy. Get dressed up and go to the Officers’ Club; eat cold, bad food; converse with strangers; and wait until given permission to go pee after some boring speech about blah, blah, blah.
I’m sorry if this doesn’t convey my deep and sincere respect for the awesome work of the Air Force over its first half century.
For once in my life, I didn’t have a formal dress to wear, having donated the old ones I’d worn for years to Goodwill some months earlier. At first, I didn’t expect to have trouble finding a suitable dress for a reasonable price, but after much fruitless shopping, I realized a reasonably-priced, attractive dress that fit me did not exist in Boise, Idaho, in 1997. The only acceptable dress I could find was almost $400.
Um, no. Just no. I didn’t pay that much for my wedding dress.
So I dug through my closet and found a little black velvet slip dress that George bought at Victoria’s Secret a few years before. I’d never had the guts to wear it out in public because the v-neck plunged rather alarmingly, but it was at least a semi-formal cocktail dress with a pretty—if short—swirly skirt. It seemed the best option at the time.
In 1997, I was in pretty good shape. The dress was a size 4, my boobs were perky but not terribly large (I wore a barely B cup size), and other than my cankles, I rather liked my body.
Still, I wasn’t in the habit of wearing plunge necklines and showing that much leg. I even had to buy a new bra for the dress as my old, strapless bra peeked unattractively out the top of the dress’s neckline. I tried on at least twenty different bras at five or six different stores before finding a skimpy black push-up that wouldn’t show.
Standing alone in the dressing room, I didn’t mind the décolletage. After all, I was saving big bucks by wearing this little black dress.
This very little black dress.
The night of the dining out, George saw the results of my frugality. He was not amused. He asked if I could put on a sweater. I said no. He asked if I had a scarf. I said no.
On the hour-long drive to the base, he kept glancing nervously at my boobs. I decided this was the perfect social experiment: what, indeed, is the effect of cleavage on social interactions with both a spouse and strangers at a formal event?
The answer, which did not surprise me and I’m sure will not surprise you, is complete and total distraction. Even my smallish boobs were enough to distract pretty much every man I encountered. None of them could maintain an interesting line of thought for conversation, and when they could form words at all, they spoke those words to my boobs, which, to my knowledge, completely lack ears.
As you might imagine, I had a blast with my little social experiment because the circumstances were completely safe and secure, and it was particularly entertaining to watch George squirm. He didn’t leave my side the entire night and tried repeatedly to tie his napkin around my neck. Also, he didn’t flinch when, later that year, I purchased a $120 evening dress on sale at Macy’s that had a modest neckline and did not require a skimpy push-up bra. Never again has any man, other than my properly wedded husband, addressed my boobs in conversation.
On the whole, I rather prefer it that way.
Here's a picture from the Christmas party later that year, for which I bought the dress with the modest neckline. As you can see, this party was definitely fun, and not at all of the mandatory type. Also, note how I look boobless. George really liked this dress.
George had to attend a dining out for the 50th anniversary and of course he wanted me to tag along. Military parties come in two varieties: fun and "mandatory fun." Dining outs, or military formal banquets, are usually fun occasions, at least when flying squadrons get together to party with rituals, toasts, and lots and lots of alcohol. This dining out, however, was “mandatory fun.” Few of George’s friends were going, and not one of mine.
Oh, joy. Get dressed up and go to the Officers’ Club; eat cold, bad food; converse with strangers; and wait until given permission to go pee after some boring speech about blah, blah, blah.
I’m sorry if this doesn’t convey my deep and sincere respect for the awesome work of the Air Force over its first half century.
For once in my life, I didn’t have a formal dress to wear, having donated the old ones I’d worn for years to Goodwill some months earlier. At first, I didn’t expect to have trouble finding a suitable dress for a reasonable price, but after much fruitless shopping, I realized a reasonably-priced, attractive dress that fit me did not exist in Boise, Idaho, in 1997. The only acceptable dress I could find was almost $400.
Um, no. Just no. I didn’t pay that much for my wedding dress.
So I dug through my closet and found a little black velvet slip dress that George bought at Victoria’s Secret a few years before. I’d never had the guts to wear it out in public because the v-neck plunged rather alarmingly, but it was at least a semi-formal cocktail dress with a pretty—if short—swirly skirt. It seemed the best option at the time.
In 1997, I was in pretty good shape. The dress was a size 4, my boobs were perky but not terribly large (I wore a barely B cup size), and other than my cankles, I rather liked my body.
Still, I wasn’t in the habit of wearing plunge necklines and showing that much leg. I even had to buy a new bra for the dress as my old, strapless bra peeked unattractively out the top of the dress’s neckline. I tried on at least twenty different bras at five or six different stores before finding a skimpy black push-up that wouldn’t show.
Standing alone in the dressing room, I didn’t mind the décolletage. After all, I was saving big bucks by wearing this little black dress.
This very little black dress.
The night of the dining out, George saw the results of my frugality. He was not amused. He asked if I could put on a sweater. I said no. He asked if I had a scarf. I said no.
On the hour-long drive to the base, he kept glancing nervously at my boobs. I decided this was the perfect social experiment: what, indeed, is the effect of cleavage on social interactions with both a spouse and strangers at a formal event?
The answer, which did not surprise me and I’m sure will not surprise you, is complete and total distraction. Even my smallish boobs were enough to distract pretty much every man I encountered. None of them could maintain an interesting line of thought for conversation, and when they could form words at all, they spoke those words to my boobs, which, to my knowledge, completely lack ears.
As you might imagine, I had a blast with my little social experiment because the circumstances were completely safe and secure, and it was particularly entertaining to watch George squirm. He didn’t leave my side the entire night and tried repeatedly to tie his napkin around my neck. Also, he didn’t flinch when, later that year, I purchased a $120 evening dress on sale at Macy’s that had a modest neckline and did not require a skimpy push-up bra. Never again has any man, other than my properly wedded husband, addressed my boobs in conversation.
On the whole, I rather prefer it that way.
Here's a picture from the Christmas party later that year, for which I bought the dress with the modest neckline. As you can see, this party was definitely fun, and not at all of the mandatory type. Also, note how I look boobless. George really liked this dress.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Things on Thursday: Two for One
The patch:
The dog:
Update on Daisy: Her right knee has started dislocating as well. Yesterday was a pretty good day, but she's still occasionally limping or favoring one leg. I'm worried that we will have to have both her knees surgically repaired. In the meantime, we're keeping her activity as restrained as we can, and in moments like this one, it's quite easy. Don't pictures of sleeping animals make you yearn for your pillow?
The dog:
Update on Daisy: Her right knee has started dislocating as well. Yesterday was a pretty good day, but she's still occasionally limping or favoring one leg. I'm worried that we will have to have both her knees surgically repaired. In the meantime, we're keeping her activity as restrained as we can, and in moments like this one, it's quite easy. Don't pictures of sleeping animals make you yearn for your pillow?
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
What's in a Name?
Shakespeare may have asked this question in dulcet blank verse, but military aviators have taken the idea of a rose by any other name to extreme levels of humor—or cruelty, depending on how you look at it.
Perhaps you saw the movie Top Gun, which showcased call signs like Maverick, Ice Man, and Goose, which are Hollywood names that tell audiences a lot about the characters. Real-life call signs, however, are much more colorful and often have quite interesting stories behind them.
The first thing you should know about military call signs is that people generally do not pick their own. They are assigned a name by their squadron mates. If an aviator is so self-conscious as to protest a name, he or she will be branded that name for all eternity. When George first arrived at the 34th Bomb Squadron, or Thunderbirds, a bunch of drunken comrades wanted to change his call sign. He used the only weapon of self-defense he had: “YES! I love Noodle! Oh wow, you can call me Toe Jam anytime!” His friend John, call-sign Beemer, tried to blow George’s strategy by yelling loudly and repeatedly, “He’s using reverse psychology, people!” But everyone was too drunk to listen.
As a fledgling Thunderbird, George was finally assigned Chick. It didn’t stick because everyone already knew George as Spot. I’m convinced he kept the call sign Spot because of the term Spot Drunk, a George-inspired phrase that entered the B-1 community lexicon following a particularly amusing night in which George was kicked out of the McConnell Officers Club.
But that’s another story entirely.
On rare occasions, someone can buy his or her way out of a call sign. Our friend Levi had his name changed to Sonar because he pinged so easily. Obviously, such a name is unflattering, so eventually he petitioned to have it changed back to Levi, which is a simple play on his last name, and had to pay $200 toward a four-tap kegger for the Squadron bar for the privilege.
His wife was not amused.
George received the call sign Spot during his first B-1 assignment at McConnell AFB, and the reason was quite uninteresting. He has an albino patch on the back of his noggin. As Spot was the least offensive call sign suggested for him, he ran with it, quickly having name tags made up and introducing himself to people as Spot.
Spot falls into the most basic of call sign categories, those drawn from a person’s physical characteristics. In fact, one young aviator bore such a striking resemblance to George (not at all unfortunate) that his call sign became Spot’s B*tch (highly unfortunate).
Another example in this category was Turnip. Turnip was prematurely balding, and the top of his head looked, well, like a turnip. Fortunately for me and several other wives, Turnip was quite short, so when the squadron hosted a flight-suit party, at which spouses were invited to wear flight suits with masking tape over the rank, many of us short wives borrowed flight suits from him. Lest anyone doubt the dedication of military aviators for call signs, please note that the officers ordered name tags for their spouses just for the occasion. My call sign was On the Spot.
This picture makes me deeply nostalgic for my dark brown locks.
Some call signs play on a person’s real name. A friend whose last name is Daley, for instance, became Planet. My favorite in the play-on-name category, however, was Freddie Kruegger. I thought his real name was Freddie for years because that’s what his wife called him. When she was annoyed with him, she called him Frederick. I addressed their Christmas cards to Captain and Mrs. Freddie Kruegger. In fact, his real name was Howard. Or Harold. Something with an H. I can’t remember. George says Ronald. Whatever. He’ll always be Freddie to me.
If a name offered any opportunity for vulgarity, it was seized upon with alacrity. A man whose last name was Wood became Morning, and Morehead became Cravin’.
Please tell me I don’t have to explain these.
Other call signs are merely insulting, such as Wedge, who was the simplest of tools; Splinter, who was small yet annoying; PITA, who was a pain in the ass; and Glitter, who primped like a woman. One silly aviator showed up at the Thunderbirds whining that he was so good in the plane he shouldn’t have to go through Mission Qualifying Training, after which it was decided that he couldn’t even be a Chick…he was an Egg. That, at least, was better than Sperm.
By far, the best call signs are awarded to memorialize something a person did. I particularly like Harpo, who appeared on Oprah as one of America’s most eligible bachelors (you can just imagine the ribbing he took for that). He is now the Commandant of Cadets at the Air Force Academy and a bachelor no more. He and his lovely wife throw the best parties ever.
But like Spot Drunk, that’s another essay entirely.
Beemer, whom I mentioned above, throttled up his B-1s engines so hard on the taxiway that he blew out the windshield of a Very Important Person’s BMW. Hurlin’ once vomited, of course, on a Colonel’s wife in the Officers Club. Poacher was so-called because of the rumor—which he would neither confirm nor deny—that he strafed camels in Desert Storm.
I do not condone the strafing of camels, mind you. But the fact he will neither confirm nor deny the rumor shows admirable presence of mind in relation to preserving a call sign that is rather innocuous. Poacher is certainly better than, say, Camel Spit.
On the Spot certainly worked as my call sign for a party, but I'd like a call sign to call my own. George found one that he feels is more appropriate. Tuesday, he clicked into a website that lists call signs and the stories behind them. George’s favorite was Tulsa: Total and Utter Lack of Situational Awareness. I immediately took this one personally because he’s accused me any number of times over the years as lacking situational awareness (rarely without good cause, mind you).
Or perhaps my nickname at Troy State University might do. I was known as the Mussolini of the English Department when I taught at the Ft. Benning campus. George was stationed at Ft. Benning as an Air Liaison Officer for the Army Rangers and some of the enlisted Rangers were TSU students. One day, a couple of Rangers walked into George's office and told him they were angry at me.
"Why?" he asked.
"Because, sir, she isn't teaching English 102 next term and we need to take it."
"But I thought you called her the Mussolini of the English Department," George protested.
"Yes, sir. We do. But we consider that a compliment."
Being named after a Fascist dictator seems a tad harsh, though, so I won't order any name tags with Mussolini on them. No, I have the perfect call sign for myself. If I were to order name tags, they would say Bookworm B*itch, or BB for short. That’s what some young punk yelled at me from a moving vehicle as George and I entered the Barnes and Noble in Wichita years ago. It’s edgy and descriptive and frankly true.
I embrace BB.
I own it.
And no matter what, BB is better than Tulsa.
Put your self-deprecating thinking caps on and tell us what your call sign would be!
Perhaps you saw the movie Top Gun, which showcased call signs like Maverick, Ice Man, and Goose, which are Hollywood names that tell audiences a lot about the characters. Real-life call signs, however, are much more colorful and often have quite interesting stories behind them.
The first thing you should know about military call signs is that people generally do not pick their own. They are assigned a name by their squadron mates. If an aviator is so self-conscious as to protest a name, he or she will be branded that name for all eternity. When George first arrived at the 34th Bomb Squadron, or Thunderbirds, a bunch of drunken comrades wanted to change his call sign. He used the only weapon of self-defense he had: “YES! I love Noodle! Oh wow, you can call me Toe Jam anytime!” His friend John, call-sign Beemer, tried to blow George’s strategy by yelling loudly and repeatedly, “He’s using reverse psychology, people!” But everyone was too drunk to listen.
As a fledgling Thunderbird, George was finally assigned Chick. It didn’t stick because everyone already knew George as Spot. I’m convinced he kept the call sign Spot because of the term Spot Drunk, a George-inspired phrase that entered the B-1 community lexicon following a particularly amusing night in which George was kicked out of the McConnell Officers Club.
But that’s another story entirely.
On rare occasions, someone can buy his or her way out of a call sign. Our friend Levi had his name changed to Sonar because he pinged so easily. Obviously, such a name is unflattering, so eventually he petitioned to have it changed back to Levi, which is a simple play on his last name, and had to pay $200 toward a four-tap kegger for the Squadron bar for the privilege.
His wife was not amused.
George received the call sign Spot during his first B-1 assignment at McConnell AFB, and the reason was quite uninteresting. He has an albino patch on the back of his noggin. As Spot was the least offensive call sign suggested for him, he ran with it, quickly having name tags made up and introducing himself to people as Spot.
Spot falls into the most basic of call sign categories, those drawn from a person’s physical characteristics. In fact, one young aviator bore such a striking resemblance to George (not at all unfortunate) that his call sign became Spot’s B*tch (highly unfortunate).
Another example in this category was Turnip. Turnip was prematurely balding, and the top of his head looked, well, like a turnip. Fortunately for me and several other wives, Turnip was quite short, so when the squadron hosted a flight-suit party, at which spouses were invited to wear flight suits with masking tape over the rank, many of us short wives borrowed flight suits from him. Lest anyone doubt the dedication of military aviators for call signs, please note that the officers ordered name tags for their spouses just for the occasion. My call sign was On the Spot.
This picture makes me deeply nostalgic for my dark brown locks.
Some call signs play on a person’s real name. A friend whose last name is Daley, for instance, became Planet. My favorite in the play-on-name category, however, was Freddie Kruegger. I thought his real name was Freddie for years because that’s what his wife called him. When she was annoyed with him, she called him Frederick. I addressed their Christmas cards to Captain and Mrs. Freddie Kruegger. In fact, his real name was Howard. Or Harold. Something with an H. I can’t remember. George says Ronald. Whatever. He’ll always be Freddie to me.
If a name offered any opportunity for vulgarity, it was seized upon with alacrity. A man whose last name was Wood became Morning, and Morehead became Cravin’.
Please tell me I don’t have to explain these.
Other call signs are merely insulting, such as Wedge, who was the simplest of tools; Splinter, who was small yet annoying; PITA, who was a pain in the ass; and Glitter, who primped like a woman. One silly aviator showed up at the Thunderbirds whining that he was so good in the plane he shouldn’t have to go through Mission Qualifying Training, after which it was decided that he couldn’t even be a Chick…he was an Egg. That, at least, was better than Sperm.
By far, the best call signs are awarded to memorialize something a person did. I particularly like Harpo, who appeared on Oprah as one of America’s most eligible bachelors (you can just imagine the ribbing he took for that). He is now the Commandant of Cadets at the Air Force Academy and a bachelor no more. He and his lovely wife throw the best parties ever.
But like Spot Drunk, that’s another essay entirely.
Beemer, whom I mentioned above, throttled up his B-1s engines so hard on the taxiway that he blew out the windshield of a Very Important Person’s BMW. Hurlin’ once vomited, of course, on a Colonel’s wife in the Officers Club. Poacher was so-called because of the rumor—which he would neither confirm nor deny—that he strafed camels in Desert Storm.
I do not condone the strafing of camels, mind you. But the fact he will neither confirm nor deny the rumor shows admirable presence of mind in relation to preserving a call sign that is rather innocuous. Poacher is certainly better than, say, Camel Spit.
On the Spot certainly worked as my call sign for a party, but I'd like a call sign to call my own. George found one that he feels is more appropriate. Tuesday, he clicked into a website that lists call signs and the stories behind them. George’s favorite was Tulsa: Total and Utter Lack of Situational Awareness. I immediately took this one personally because he’s accused me any number of times over the years as lacking situational awareness (rarely without good cause, mind you).
Or perhaps my nickname at Troy State University might do. I was known as the Mussolini of the English Department when I taught at the Ft. Benning campus. George was stationed at Ft. Benning as an Air Liaison Officer for the Army Rangers and some of the enlisted Rangers were TSU students. One day, a couple of Rangers walked into George's office and told him they were angry at me.
"Why?" he asked.
"Because, sir, she isn't teaching English 102 next term and we need to take it."
"But I thought you called her the Mussolini of the English Department," George protested.
"Yes, sir. We do. But we consider that a compliment."
Being named after a Fascist dictator seems a tad harsh, though, so I won't order any name tags with Mussolini on them. No, I have the perfect call sign for myself. If I were to order name tags, they would say Bookworm B*itch, or BB for short. That’s what some young punk yelled at me from a moving vehicle as George and I entered the Barnes and Noble in Wichita years ago. It’s edgy and descriptive and frankly true.
I embrace BB.
I own it.
And no matter what, BB is better than Tulsa.
Put your self-deprecating thinking caps on and tell us what your call sign would be!
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
How Do We Get to a Happy Place?
I’ve shared my happy-place birth story before, but it bears repeating here given my recent thoughts on happy places.
When George and I took childbirth class, our teacher was a German woman with a very deep, heavily accented voice. At one point, she ordered us to "exp-herience da relax-A-tion." Her voice was so not relaxing that George and I started to giggle. She suggested we find our happy place and meditate on it during labor. My happy place was a North Carolina beach, with steady, peaceful waves lapping the sand and pelicans flying and a Scot in full Highland dress playing his bagpipes to the rising sun.
I actually experienced this very scene on an early morning beach walk years before, and it was so incredibly peaceful. Well, and sort of weird with the kilted Highlander, but then, the best blessings in life often are a little weird.
Ahhhh, relaxation.
Fast forward to labor. It hurt so much that I could not find my happy place. Every time I closed my eyes to conjure that Scot by the waves, the only image my brain could pull up was of the Pacific coast, specifically some cliffs we'd visited near San Francisco in 1988. In my mind I went back to that overcast and gloomy day, with waves crashing violently against the cliffs and, oddly enough, a German voice-over shouting "Exp-herience da relax-A-tion!"
This was not my East Coast happy place at all. I could not get to my happy place because my giant watermelon-size uterus was teaching me a whole new definition of pain. I begged for the epidural man, who quickly came and took all the hyperventilating pain away. I loved him and would have married him if I weren't already having someone else's baby. God bless the epidural man.
And that is how I flunked natural childbirth. Whatever.
Still, the idea of a happy place intrigues me. What exactly is a happy place? Is it a literal place or can it be something more metaphorical? Do we need a happy place to be, well, happy?
Real places are important formative influences in our lives, and I’ve lived in a lot of different places. Since age five, I’ve lived in Tifton, Georgia; Charlotte, North Carolina; Durham, North Carolina; Sacramento, California; Oscoda, Michigan; Abilene, Texas; Wichita, Kansas; Columbus, Georgia; Boise, Idaho; Rapid City, South Dakota; and Springboro, Ohio.
That’s eleven towns in nine states over thirty-nine years. Not all of these were happy places for me. Oscoda and Abilene stand out as the duds on the list. Oscoda was cold, tiny, isolated, and unfriendly. The nearest mall, pathetic as it was, lay over an hour away in Alpena. The Dairy Queen and movie theater closed for the winter, and the Read-More Bookstore leaned heavily on westerns, romance, and used paperbacks. As an added bonus of misery, we lived in military base housing that would have been condemned by HUD as unsuitable for homeless people.
Then there was the whole Southern-girl-stuck-in-the-Great-White-North thing. Once, in two-degree weather, I shoveled two feet of snow off our driveway and sidewalk, as per military regulations. At that same moment, George was in Key West sailing on warm, blue water and getting sunburned because his B-52 broke down there and he was stuck for two weeks waiting on a replacement part.
Life is not fair. Not fair at all.
Abilene had its own special set of icky characteristic. Primarily, it smelled like cow poop due to the huge feed lots in the area. I didn’t have a car for the six months we were there and so spent an unhealthy amount of time in our appallingly nasty apartment. I couldn’t walk on the carpet in white socks, and the sofa George rented for our six-month stay was patched with duct tape.
On the upside, however, Abilene had a decent mall and some of the best beef and Mexican restaurants in the country. The movie theaters were open year-round, and it had a Hastings bookstore (not a Barnes and Noble, but after the Read-More, I wasn’t inclined to be picky). Most importantly, Abilene was warm, so I had a chance to thaw out after almost three years in Oscoda. In fact, in comparison to Oscoda, Abilene was paradise.
That’s when I decided icky was very, very relative.
Of all the places we lived, Boise was our favorite. Nestled in the foothills of the Rockies, Boise was beautiful in a sage brush and cactus sort of way. We hiked and skied in the hills, and partied downtown. Boise is a largish city, the state capitol, with major medical centers, a university, plenty of movie theaters (including an indy theater that served beer and wine), and lots of fabulous shopping.
But what made Boise my happy place were the people. As always, we had the military, which often made making friends easy, and many of the folks who were stationed there were people we’d known for years. But Boise had the best civilian setting of my whole time as a military spouse.
My friends Liz and Deena and Cheryl and Randy and almost everyone I worked with at Micron made me happy to be alive. My job wasn’t all that exciting (proofreading computer memory chip specifications for weeks on end is boring), but I loved the people. I worked hard cultivating relationships, too. Every week, I asked people out to lunch, organized a monthly birthday lunch for our department, took in baked goods and left them out for anyone who wanted them.
Shared food and celebration are excellent ways to build friendships.
By living in so many different places, I learned that happy places are not really about place. Oscoda was a pit, but I lived there during a tough time in my life. I was coming out of a serious depression and not sure who I was or even wanted to be, but I knew that I was not a good little officer’s wife. We didn’t have children, so most of the other military wives had little to say to me. Those few who did become my friends (hi, Carrie and Sharon!) were people who also didn’t comfortably fit the tidy mold of officer's wife. Putting a young woman in the midst of self-discovery and recovery in a small town with extremely limited resources wasn’t healthy. Or happy.
Over the years, however, I learned that almost any place can be wonderful depending on what can give to it. One of my favorite songs is You Get What You Give by The New Radicals.* (I first remember hearing it in the animated movie Surf’s Up, but it’s a 1990s song. I’m really slow….) The line that stands out every time I hear it is the line that gives the song its title:
“Can’t forget we only get what we give.”
I didn’t have much to give to Oscoda. I was too raw and confused. Boise, however, came at a time when I could give and did give a lot to life. Now, our time in Ohio is similarly fruitful for me. I’m giving a lot, and getting even more in return.
I’m in my happy place. Again. Who knows where I’ll be five, ten, twenty years from now. But if I keep my head on straight and my heart open and giving, I bet it’ll be yet another happy place.
Now it’s your turn. What’s your happy place…real or imaginary? Are you there? How do you deal with longing for a happy place when you can’t go there? Is there a figurative epidural man to help you through that longing?
*You can hear the song on YouTube HERE.
When George and I took childbirth class, our teacher was a German woman with a very deep, heavily accented voice. At one point, she ordered us to "exp-herience da relax-A-tion." Her voice was so not relaxing that George and I started to giggle. She suggested we find our happy place and meditate on it during labor. My happy place was a North Carolina beach, with steady, peaceful waves lapping the sand and pelicans flying and a Scot in full Highland dress playing his bagpipes to the rising sun.
I actually experienced this very scene on an early morning beach walk years before, and it was so incredibly peaceful. Well, and sort of weird with the kilted Highlander, but then, the best blessings in life often are a little weird.
Ahhhh, relaxation.
Fast forward to labor. It hurt so much that I could not find my happy place. Every time I closed my eyes to conjure that Scot by the waves, the only image my brain could pull up was of the Pacific coast, specifically some cliffs we'd visited near San Francisco in 1988. In my mind I went back to that overcast and gloomy day, with waves crashing violently against the cliffs and, oddly enough, a German voice-over shouting "Exp-herience da relax-A-tion!"
This was not my East Coast happy place at all. I could not get to my happy place because my giant watermelon-size uterus was teaching me a whole new definition of pain. I begged for the epidural man, who quickly came and took all the hyperventilating pain away. I loved him and would have married him if I weren't already having someone else's baby. God bless the epidural man.
And that is how I flunked natural childbirth. Whatever.
Still, the idea of a happy place intrigues me. What exactly is a happy place? Is it a literal place or can it be something more metaphorical? Do we need a happy place to be, well, happy?
Real places are important formative influences in our lives, and I’ve lived in a lot of different places. Since age five, I’ve lived in Tifton, Georgia; Charlotte, North Carolina; Durham, North Carolina; Sacramento, California; Oscoda, Michigan; Abilene, Texas; Wichita, Kansas; Columbus, Georgia; Boise, Idaho; Rapid City, South Dakota; and Springboro, Ohio.
That’s eleven towns in nine states over thirty-nine years. Not all of these were happy places for me. Oscoda and Abilene stand out as the duds on the list. Oscoda was cold, tiny, isolated, and unfriendly. The nearest mall, pathetic as it was, lay over an hour away in Alpena. The Dairy Queen and movie theater closed for the winter, and the Read-More Bookstore leaned heavily on westerns, romance, and used paperbacks. As an added bonus of misery, we lived in military base housing that would have been condemned by HUD as unsuitable for homeless people.
Then there was the whole Southern-girl-stuck-in-the-Great-White-North thing. Once, in two-degree weather, I shoveled two feet of snow off our driveway and sidewalk, as per military regulations. At that same moment, George was in Key West sailing on warm, blue water and getting sunburned because his B-52 broke down there and he was stuck for two weeks waiting on a replacement part.
Life is not fair. Not fair at all.
Abilene had its own special set of icky characteristic. Primarily, it smelled like cow poop due to the huge feed lots in the area. I didn’t have a car for the six months we were there and so spent an unhealthy amount of time in our appallingly nasty apartment. I couldn’t walk on the carpet in white socks, and the sofa George rented for our six-month stay was patched with duct tape.
On the upside, however, Abilene had a decent mall and some of the best beef and Mexican restaurants in the country. The movie theaters were open year-round, and it had a Hastings bookstore (not a Barnes and Noble, but after the Read-More, I wasn’t inclined to be picky). Most importantly, Abilene was warm, so I had a chance to thaw out after almost three years in Oscoda. In fact, in comparison to Oscoda, Abilene was paradise.
That’s when I decided icky was very, very relative.
Of all the places we lived, Boise was our favorite. Nestled in the foothills of the Rockies, Boise was beautiful in a sage brush and cactus sort of way. We hiked and skied in the hills, and partied downtown. Boise is a largish city, the state capitol, with major medical centers, a university, plenty of movie theaters (including an indy theater that served beer and wine), and lots of fabulous shopping.
But what made Boise my happy place were the people. As always, we had the military, which often made making friends easy, and many of the folks who were stationed there were people we’d known for years. But Boise had the best civilian setting of my whole time as a military spouse.
My friends Liz and Deena and Cheryl and Randy and almost everyone I worked with at Micron made me happy to be alive. My job wasn’t all that exciting (proofreading computer memory chip specifications for weeks on end is boring), but I loved the people. I worked hard cultivating relationships, too. Every week, I asked people out to lunch, organized a monthly birthday lunch for our department, took in baked goods and left them out for anyone who wanted them.
Shared food and celebration are excellent ways to build friendships.
By living in so many different places, I learned that happy places are not really about place. Oscoda was a pit, but I lived there during a tough time in my life. I was coming out of a serious depression and not sure who I was or even wanted to be, but I knew that I was not a good little officer’s wife. We didn’t have children, so most of the other military wives had little to say to me. Those few who did become my friends (hi, Carrie and Sharon!) were people who also didn’t comfortably fit the tidy mold of officer's wife. Putting a young woman in the midst of self-discovery and recovery in a small town with extremely limited resources wasn’t healthy. Or happy.
Over the years, however, I learned that almost any place can be wonderful depending on what can give to it. One of my favorite songs is You Get What You Give by The New Radicals.* (I first remember hearing it in the animated movie Surf’s Up, but it’s a 1990s song. I’m really slow….) The line that stands out every time I hear it is the line that gives the song its title:
“Can’t forget we only get what we give.”
I didn’t have much to give to Oscoda. I was too raw and confused. Boise, however, came at a time when I could give and did give a lot to life. Now, our time in Ohio is similarly fruitful for me. I’m giving a lot, and getting even more in return.
I’m in my happy place. Again. Who knows where I’ll be five, ten, twenty years from now. But if I keep my head on straight and my heart open and giving, I bet it’ll be yet another happy place.
Now it’s your turn. What’s your happy place…real or imaginary? Are you there? How do you deal with longing for a happy place when you can’t go there? Is there a figurative epidural man to help you through that longing?
*You can hear the song on YouTube HERE.
Monday, February 14, 2011
What Happens To You When You Work for the Military Industrial Complex
Take a look at this picture of our dining room table, which isn't a dining room table anymore. It's been taken over by technology. And George.
Me: This is sad.
George: Yeah. I've been thinking I need to think about cleaning it up.
Me: You need to think about thinking about cleaning it up?
George: Sure. First, we need to do a Desk Cleaning Analysis. Define the requirements for cleaning. Do we have to get everything off or just some stuff? Also, how many hours will it take to clean? Next, we need to do a Feasibility Study. Is it even possible to clean the table, especially during tax season? Then we should draft a Request for Cleaning Proposals, see if we get any bids. Award the contract. Then get whoever wins to come in and clean. It's going to take some planning to get all this done.
Welcome to my world.
Me: This is sad.
George: Yeah. I've been thinking I need to think about cleaning it up.
Me: You need to think about thinking about cleaning it up?
George: Sure. First, we need to do a Desk Cleaning Analysis. Define the requirements for cleaning. Do we have to get everything off or just some stuff? Also, how many hours will it take to clean? Next, we need to do a Feasibility Study. Is it even possible to clean the table, especially during tax season? Then we should draft a Request for Cleaning Proposals, see if we get any bids. Award the contract. Then get whoever wins to come in and clean. It's going to take some planning to get all this done.
Welcome to my world.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Veterans Day
"Freedom is never free." --Unknown
To all those who have served and are serving the cause of freedom, thank you. You sacrifice freedoms so others may have theirs. You give up control of where you live, what you do, how long you stay in one place. You are a slave to bureaucracy, red tape, and politics and still persevere. You leave your family for weeks or months or even years at a time, you miss anniversaries and birthdays and your children's first steps, not because you want to but because you must. You do a job many free people would never do because you know it needs to be done. You see things many people never want to see because you have the courage to look evil in the eye and act against it. You risk your health and wholeness and even your life because you know freedom is never free.
Thank you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.
To all those who have served and are serving the cause of freedom, thank you. You sacrifice freedoms so others may have theirs. You give up control of where you live, what you do, how long you stay in one place. You are a slave to bureaucracy, red tape, and politics and still persevere. You leave your family for weeks or months or even years at a time, you miss anniversaries and birthdays and your children's first steps, not because you want to but because you must. You do a job many free people would never do because you know it needs to be done. You see things many people never want to see because you have the courage to look evil in the eye and act against it. You risk your health and wholeness and even your life because you know freedom is never free.
Thank you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Things on Thursday: A Love Letter
Looking back through old family scrapbooks can be quite illuminating. You can uncover amazing treasures that give you a glimpse--just a glimpse--into the past.
My grandmother, Ann Willis, received a two-page letter dated October 12, 1943, when my mother was just over a year old, and signed by someone named Johnson.
The letter passed the Army censors. Johnson was a friend of Ann's husband, my grandfather, D.L. Willis.
Here's a photo of the letter, the second page of which is permanently glued into the scrapbook (woe is me!).
Here's a transcript of the letter:
Dear Anne,
I am writing you in order to release my mind of a thought that has been in my heart for some time.
It hurts me to write this, but the time has come when I can hardly stand it any longer. I am asking you while I am in a serious mood, something that has caused me many nights of restless sleep. It may be discouraging to you, but also interest you to know the pleasures of life depends on your ability to give me a truthful answer. Honey, I hate to say this but my heart has taken advantage of my thoughts and I am forced to beg you to give an answer that will send me to the well known seventh heaven or to the eternal depths of hell. In fact, my interest in this world and in the future depends on you.
Little did I know that such would ever cross my path in regards to you, and I know you will be kind enough to give me the answer that will make me very happy or miserable.
Promise me that you will consider the issue with an open mind and not let former loves or courtships influence you. Honey, from the bottom of your heart, I want to know the truth. Do you think Lil' Abner will ever marry Daisy Mae?
Johnson
P.S. I saw D.L. the other day and he looked fine. He gave me your message about snatching both my hairs out. Too late, Annie, the rigors of war have beat you to both of them. How's that baby. I miss her slobbering on my blouse. Bye now, J
When George first perused this scrapbook, he read this letter with huge eyes and shocked expression...right up to the line about Lil' Abner. He said that, as he was reading it, he couldn't believe Grandma had put the letter in a scrapbook for all to see. Those of us who knew Grandma well expected some sort of punch-line, though. Nor are we surprised that she was threatening to pull out Johnson's remaining hair. Papa always teased her that she had yanked out all his hair, too.
I asked my Mom if she knew anything about Johnson. She said no. She believes there is a photo of him somewhere, but she's not sure. If there is, it's likely not labelled. Johnson is probably one of the nameless faces in the many war-era photos that my Grandmother put in albums. The Greatest Generation is becoming the Lost Generation. But this letter gives us a glimpse into that time. And that makes it a precious thing to hold.
My grandmother, Ann Willis, received a two-page letter dated October 12, 1943, when my mother was just over a year old, and signed by someone named Johnson.
The letter passed the Army censors. Johnson was a friend of Ann's husband, my grandfather, D.L. Willis.
Here's a photo of the letter, the second page of which is permanently glued into the scrapbook (woe is me!).
Here's a transcript of the letter:
Dear Anne,
I am writing you in order to release my mind of a thought that has been in my heart for some time.
It hurts me to write this, but the time has come when I can hardly stand it any longer. I am asking you while I am in a serious mood, something that has caused me many nights of restless sleep. It may be discouraging to you, but also interest you to know the pleasures of life depends on your ability to give me a truthful answer. Honey, I hate to say this but my heart has taken advantage of my thoughts and I am forced to beg you to give an answer that will send me to the well known seventh heaven or to the eternal depths of hell. In fact, my interest in this world and in the future depends on you.
Little did I know that such would ever cross my path in regards to you, and I know you will be kind enough to give me the answer that will make me very happy or miserable.
Promise me that you will consider the issue with an open mind and not let former loves or courtships influence you. Honey, from the bottom of your heart, I want to know the truth. Do you think Lil' Abner will ever marry Daisy Mae?
Johnson
P.S. I saw D.L. the other day and he looked fine. He gave me your message about snatching both my hairs out. Too late, Annie, the rigors of war have beat you to both of them. How's that baby. I miss her slobbering on my blouse. Bye now, J
When George first perused this scrapbook, he read this letter with huge eyes and shocked expression...right up to the line about Lil' Abner. He said that, as he was reading it, he couldn't believe Grandma had put the letter in a scrapbook for all to see. Those of us who knew Grandma well expected some sort of punch-line, though. Nor are we surprised that she was threatening to pull out Johnson's remaining hair. Papa always teased her that she had yanked out all his hair, too.
I asked my Mom if she knew anything about Johnson. She said no. She believes there is a photo of him somewhere, but she's not sure. If there is, it's likely not labelled. Johnson is probably one of the nameless faces in the many war-era photos that my Grandmother put in albums. The Greatest Generation is becoming the Lost Generation. But this letter gives us a glimpse into that time. And that makes it a precious thing to hold.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Monday, May 31, 2010
Get a Box of Kleenex for a Good Cry
Don't worry. We still have Hoover, the miracle dog who ate hot dogs and french fries yesterday and looked remarkably perky for a dog who was supposed to be dead a month ago.
What a blessing to us that he's doing so well!
No, today's cry comes to us courtesy of Pioneer Woman's photo contest "Coming Home," featuring photos of Armed Service members coming home. Not only did I have flashbacks to welcoming George home from the Persian Gulf War and Iraqi Freedom, but I was deeply moved by the sheer volume of photos. Some of the welcome home photos are of flag-draped coffins, of loved ones being handed flags graveside, and of grave markers at Arlington. Some are of daddies meeting their babies for the first time. Some are of moms in uniform holding their children. Some are from World War II, some are from the recent past. All are precious.
Click, and be moved. Sniff, sniff.
Coming Home Group 1
Group 2
Group 3
Group 4
Group 5
What a blessing to us that he's doing so well!
No, today's cry comes to us courtesy of Pioneer Woman's photo contest "Coming Home," featuring photos of Armed Service members coming home. Not only did I have flashbacks to welcoming George home from the Persian Gulf War and Iraqi Freedom, but I was deeply moved by the sheer volume of photos. Some of the welcome home photos are of flag-draped coffins, of loved ones being handed flags graveside, and of grave markers at Arlington. Some are of daddies meeting their babies for the first time. Some are of moms in uniform holding their children. Some are from World War II, some are from the recent past. All are precious.
Click, and be moved. Sniff, sniff.
Coming Home Group 1
Group 2
Group 3
Group 4
Group 5
Gratitude Journal #43
My husband, George, served in the United States Air Force for twenty years. In 2007, about six months before he retired from active duty, he was invited to speak at the Cedarville Memorial Day parade. Here's a bit of what he said:
"So while we reflect upon our fallen patriots, and shed a tear on their behalf, let us also honor them by resolving, each and every one of us, to do what we can to ensure that America remains a place worth living for, fighting for, and yes, even dying for."
It's not just that these patriots died for the freedom we enjoy. Their sacrifice calls us to action to preserve and protect their legacy. For some of us, like George, this means serving in the military, but for most of us, this means voting, volunteering, and standing up for the oppressed in our communities, states, country, and world. It's easy to forget, to take for granted our freedom. Today is our annual reminder of what that freedom cost those who paid for it with their blood.
Let's carry that reminder in our hearts each and every day with faithful gratitude.
*And because I'm a total sucker for patriotic montages, check out this video of God Bless the USA by Lee Greenwood
"So while we reflect upon our fallen patriots, and shed a tear on their behalf, let us also honor them by resolving, each and every one of us, to do what we can to ensure that America remains a place worth living for, fighting for, and yes, even dying for."
It's not just that these patriots died for the freedom we enjoy. Their sacrifice calls us to action to preserve and protect their legacy. For some of us, like George, this means serving in the military, but for most of us, this means voting, volunteering, and standing up for the oppressed in our communities, states, country, and world. It's easy to forget, to take for granted our freedom. Today is our annual reminder of what that freedom cost those who paid for it with their blood.
Let's carry that reminder in our hearts each and every day with faithful gratitude.
*And because I'm a total sucker for patriotic montages, check out this video of God Bless the USA by Lee Greenwood
Friday, May 28, 2010
Words, Words, Words for Memorial Day
This photo shows the crew of a B-24 Liberator which bailed out over China during WWII. The plane that crashed (not pictured) had nose art that said, "Dippy Dave and his 8 Dippy Diddlers."
Dippy Dave was my grandfather, D.L. Willis, who was the pilot (back row, second from left). One of those Dippy Diddlers was Lt. Christopher Williams (back row, far right), the bombardier of the crew. Today's words were written by him, describing the crash of the Dippy Dave and the crew's long walk to safety.
My grandfather rarely spoke of this event, and I only remember him saying that he never wanted to bail out of a plane again because you can only do it wrong once. Williams' son, who found his father's diary after his father's death in 2003, states that no one knew of the existence of the diary. I'm so grateful he found it and took the time to post it online so we could all see the quiet courage and sacrifice of those who served.
Today's post is dedicated to them.
Words, Words, Words by Lt. Christopher Williams
Williams' Full Diary
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
It's Just a Matter of Time
I have mentioned before how thermally incompatible George and I are, but recently, it’s come to my attention that we are also temporally incompatible on several levels.
Consider our mutual interest in history. I love all things medieval and can talk intelligently about the effect of longbows on military tactics in the 14th century, the monastic revivals of the 10th and 12th centuries, the Norse invasions of the dark ages and the resulting linguistic oddities in English place names, as well as the impact of the bubonic plague on medieval sermons. But don’t ask me much about American history because I haven’t touched that subject since 10th grade when I didn’t have a choice in the matter.
George, on the other hand, knows a scary amount of both American and world history covering the past 200 years. He is appalled at my level of ignorance on the more recent past and wonders how I have the mental capacity to stand upright and, you know, walk around without assistance. He has always accused me of being the intellectual snob. I don’t think so. Hmmph.
Anyway, our temporal incompatibility extends beyond history to daily time-keeping. It’s really all the military’s fault. You see, George’s training as an aviator in the United States Air Force deeply inculcated the idea that you live and die (quite literally) by Zulu time, also known as Greenwich Mean Time. George was a weapon systems officer on bombers, so it was his responsibility to tell the pilots where to go, how fast to get there, when to turn, and so forth. It was also his job to drop bombs on target. On time. No exceptions. If he screwed up the timing, the bombs could kill the wrong people.
I seriously don’t know how he handled that responsibility, but I do know that before he went to war, he had nightmares about killing civilians or our own troops with an ill-timed bomb. His nightmares didn't come true, though, because he’d learned his lessons about being on time and on target very well.
For USAF aviators, if you’re not in your seat five minutes early for mission planning, you don’t fly. The rest of the crew will find someone else who wants to fly. George can not turn off this programming even though he no longer flies. He and I are always early to everything, including parties. This freaked out some friends who had said we could come a little early to a dinner party at their new house in another town. Thanks to George, we showed up two hours early because he didn’t want us to be late and we might get lost on the way.
Our hosts were incredibly gracious (the husband was also a navigator, so I’m sure they understood), but the whole experience was so embarrassing. We tried to made up for our egregious earliness by pitching in to help get ready for the other guests…who showed up fashionably late.
George retired over two years ago, but he’s still obsessed with the right time. When we spring forward or fall back, he’s the first to climb on the step ladder to reset our kitchen clock. I’m certain he checks his computer and cell phone clocks to make sure they self-adjust properly. The clocks he never looks at (our bathroom, the stove, the microwave) can stay wrong, but not the clock in his car. It’s definitely set to the correct time all the time.
Months ago, my car needed a new battery. It’s a VW Passat station wagon and I love it, but those silly German engineers designed the innards so that changing the battery takes an hour and can only be done by someone who knows what he/she is doing, which isn’t me. The service station’s parts supplier sent the wrong battery, so they installed it and told me to come back in four days, when they would replace that battery with the correct one.
Do these sorts of things happen to you? Am I the only one?
Anyway, knowing that they would replace the battery, I didn’t bother fixing the dashboard clock since I’d just have to do it all over again in four days. During the wait for my new battery, I had to take George’s GTI for an oil change, so he drove my car. Sure enough, the next day, I noticed the clock in my car was correct. George couldn’t even drive my car for a single day until he’d fixed the clock setting.
Oh, by the way, I did reset the clock in my car for daylight savings time—yesterday.
When I had Nick, I entered the time warp I call Baby Time. I totally lost control of time and was forced to go with the flow and not watch the clock much at all. If the baby wanted to play at 2:00 in the morning, I had very little choice in the matter. Knowing the precise time somehow made the whole thing more painful. Now that both my babies are big boys, time isn’t so warped, but I’ve sort of lost my ability to worry about time. Can you imagine how frustrating this is for George? Poor man.
George is an amateur chef, and I’m often enlisted to help with the more basic preparation, like cleaning green onions and making rice or pasta or mashed potatoes. When I was growing up, my mother never timed her pasta; she went on appearance and taste and whether or not the spaghetti stuck to the wall when she threw it. George’s mom, on the other hand, timed her pasta. After almost 24 years as husband and wife, George still expects me to set a timer for pasta, and he is shocked every time to see that I have not.
Last Saturday night, we had burgers and fries for dinner. George fretted over the timing of the fries I had popped in the oven.
“How much longer on the fries?”
“Twenty-five minutes.”
“Okay, I’ll put the burgers on when the fries have fifteen minutes to go.”
Some time later, he asked, “How much longer on the fries?”
I glanced at the kitchen clock. “About 15 minutes.”
“That can’t be right! I asked you seven minutes ago, and you said, ‘25 minutes.’ It should be 18 minutes until the fries are ready!”
“If you knew, why did you ask?”
When we sat down at the table and started dressing our burgers, I looked around and said, “Oh, no!” I’d forgotten about the fries, ran across the kitchen, and got them out of the oven. They were fine.
The very next night, George asked how long it would take to make the mashed potatoes so he would know when to put the leg of lamb on the grill.
“About 35 minutes,” I replied.
“Is that 35 minutes from putting the water on to boil, or 35 minutes once the potatoes are boiling?”
Long pause. “Um, maybe 40 minutes from putting the water on to boil.”
“Are you sure?”
I wanted to say, “No. No, I’m not sure, and what the heck difference does it make because if everything comes out close, who CARES!?!? It’s not a matter of national security!” Instead, I said, “Pretty sure.”
Then HE screwed up the timing. He put the water for the potatoes on the stove and told me, “Your water is on.” I finished preparing the potatoes, and dropped them in the water. Ten minutes later, I noticed the pot still wasn’t boiling. George had set the burner to low, not high. When I pointed this out to him, he panicked. The lamb was already on the grill, but you’ll never guess what happened.
The meal came together just at the right time and everything was scrumptious. It’s a good thing I was wrong in my estimate of the time for the potatoes.
I’m thinking that somewhere between the two extremes George and I represent on the time-obsession spectrum, there is a reasonable, moderate place where time is everyone’s friend and we can all get along. Neither George nor I are moving toward that moderate place. It was made worse recently by the fact that I lost my favorite watch—a daintily pretty silver-and-gold Bulova I’ve had for about 15 years. Now, the only watch I have is a horridly uncomfortable and bulky sports watch I bought for eight bucks at Target. Needless to say, I’ve been doing without.
Eventually, I will drive George completely insane or, at the very least, burn something in the kitchen.
It’s just a matter of time.
Consider our mutual interest in history. I love all things medieval and can talk intelligently about the effect of longbows on military tactics in the 14th century, the monastic revivals of the 10th and 12th centuries, the Norse invasions of the dark ages and the resulting linguistic oddities in English place names, as well as the impact of the bubonic plague on medieval sermons. But don’t ask me much about American history because I haven’t touched that subject since 10th grade when I didn’t have a choice in the matter.
George, on the other hand, knows a scary amount of both American and world history covering the past 200 years. He is appalled at my level of ignorance on the more recent past and wonders how I have the mental capacity to stand upright and, you know, walk around without assistance. He has always accused me of being the intellectual snob. I don’t think so. Hmmph.
Anyway, our temporal incompatibility extends beyond history to daily time-keeping. It’s really all the military’s fault. You see, George’s training as an aviator in the United States Air Force deeply inculcated the idea that you live and die (quite literally) by Zulu time, also known as Greenwich Mean Time. George was a weapon systems officer on bombers, so it was his responsibility to tell the pilots where to go, how fast to get there, when to turn, and so forth. It was also his job to drop bombs on target. On time. No exceptions. If he screwed up the timing, the bombs could kill the wrong people.
I seriously don’t know how he handled that responsibility, but I do know that before he went to war, he had nightmares about killing civilians or our own troops with an ill-timed bomb. His nightmares didn't come true, though, because he’d learned his lessons about being on time and on target very well.
For USAF aviators, if you’re not in your seat five minutes early for mission planning, you don’t fly. The rest of the crew will find someone else who wants to fly. George can not turn off this programming even though he no longer flies. He and I are always early to everything, including parties. This freaked out some friends who had said we could come a little early to a dinner party at their new house in another town. Thanks to George, we showed up two hours early because he didn’t want us to be late and we might get lost on the way.
Our hosts were incredibly gracious (the husband was also a navigator, so I’m sure they understood), but the whole experience was so embarrassing. We tried to made up for our egregious earliness by pitching in to help get ready for the other guests…who showed up fashionably late.
George retired over two years ago, but he’s still obsessed with the right time. When we spring forward or fall back, he’s the first to climb on the step ladder to reset our kitchen clock. I’m certain he checks his computer and cell phone clocks to make sure they self-adjust properly. The clocks he never looks at (our bathroom, the stove, the microwave) can stay wrong, but not the clock in his car. It’s definitely set to the correct time all the time.
Months ago, my car needed a new battery. It’s a VW Passat station wagon and I love it, but those silly German engineers designed the innards so that changing the battery takes an hour and can only be done by someone who knows what he/she is doing, which isn’t me. The service station’s parts supplier sent the wrong battery, so they installed it and told me to come back in four days, when they would replace that battery with the correct one.
Do these sorts of things happen to you? Am I the only one?
Anyway, knowing that they would replace the battery, I didn’t bother fixing the dashboard clock since I’d just have to do it all over again in four days. During the wait for my new battery, I had to take George’s GTI for an oil change, so he drove my car. Sure enough, the next day, I noticed the clock in my car was correct. George couldn’t even drive my car for a single day until he’d fixed the clock setting.
Oh, by the way, I did reset the clock in my car for daylight savings time—yesterday.
When I had Nick, I entered the time warp I call Baby Time. I totally lost control of time and was forced to go with the flow and not watch the clock much at all. If the baby wanted to play at 2:00 in the morning, I had very little choice in the matter. Knowing the precise time somehow made the whole thing more painful. Now that both my babies are big boys, time isn’t so warped, but I’ve sort of lost my ability to worry about time. Can you imagine how frustrating this is for George? Poor man.
George is an amateur chef, and I’m often enlisted to help with the more basic preparation, like cleaning green onions and making rice or pasta or mashed potatoes. When I was growing up, my mother never timed her pasta; she went on appearance and taste and whether or not the spaghetti stuck to the wall when she threw it. George’s mom, on the other hand, timed her pasta. After almost 24 years as husband and wife, George still expects me to set a timer for pasta, and he is shocked every time to see that I have not.
Last Saturday night, we had burgers and fries for dinner. George fretted over the timing of the fries I had popped in the oven.
“How much longer on the fries?”
“Twenty-five minutes.”
“Okay, I’ll put the burgers on when the fries have fifteen minutes to go.”
Some time later, he asked, “How much longer on the fries?”
I glanced at the kitchen clock. “About 15 minutes.”
“That can’t be right! I asked you seven minutes ago, and you said, ‘25 minutes.’ It should be 18 minutes until the fries are ready!”
“If you knew, why did you ask?”
When we sat down at the table and started dressing our burgers, I looked around and said, “Oh, no!” I’d forgotten about the fries, ran across the kitchen, and got them out of the oven. They were fine.
The very next night, George asked how long it would take to make the mashed potatoes so he would know when to put the leg of lamb on the grill.
“About 35 minutes,” I replied.
“Is that 35 minutes from putting the water on to boil, or 35 minutes once the potatoes are boiling?”
Long pause. “Um, maybe 40 minutes from putting the water on to boil.”
“Are you sure?”
I wanted to say, “No. No, I’m not sure, and what the heck difference does it make because if everything comes out close, who CARES!?!? It’s not a matter of national security!” Instead, I said, “Pretty sure.”
Then HE screwed up the timing. He put the water for the potatoes on the stove and told me, “Your water is on.” I finished preparing the potatoes, and dropped them in the water. Ten minutes later, I noticed the pot still wasn’t boiling. George had set the burner to low, not high. When I pointed this out to him, he panicked. The lamb was already on the grill, but you’ll never guess what happened.
The meal came together just at the right time and everything was scrumptious. It’s a good thing I was wrong in my estimate of the time for the potatoes.
I’m thinking that somewhere between the two extremes George and I represent on the time-obsession spectrum, there is a reasonable, moderate place where time is everyone’s friend and we can all get along. Neither George nor I are moving toward that moderate place. It was made worse recently by the fact that I lost my favorite watch—a daintily pretty silver-and-gold Bulova I’ve had for about 15 years. Now, the only watch I have is a horridly uncomfortable and bulky sports watch I bought for eight bucks at Target. Needless to say, I’ve been doing without.
Eventually, I will drive George completely insane or, at the very least, burn something in the kitchen.
It’s just a matter of time.
Friday, February 26, 2010
This Week's Guest Blogger: Hoover
Hello. My name is Hoover, and I am a good dog. I am also a handsome dog, don't you think? The Woman asked me to fill in for her this week because she has writer’s block. She told me to tell you that she loves you and will write for you again next week. She promises.
Between you and me, the Woman has been hormonal lately (I can smell the chemicals coursing through her body), and she suffers from Seasonal Affective Disorder because it’s always gray in winter in Ohio. Needless to say, she’s a bit grouchy, but not to me. She didn’t even yell when I pooped in the basement yesterday. Hey, I had to go, and she was not home. What’s a dog to do? Do the doo and look innocent. Works every time.
Golden retrievers never suffer from SAD because we are furry and golden and carry sunshine in our hearts. Our whole existence is about spreading warmth and happiness to the world. Except to the UPS man or mail man. Or the schnauzers down the street. Or the vets who smell funny and do horrible things to us. We want to fry them with our warmth. Watch them run away from us! Ha, ha, ha!
We goldens don’t suffer any sort of depression, except when we don’t get treats or have to wear the cone of shame or our peeps leave us. Usually, when my peeps go have fun without me, they take me to a place they call “Dog Lady’s Pet Camp.” Huh. It’s not a camp. It’s a puppy prison. Except for the play yard. That place rocks, Dudes. One day, I was having so much fun in the play yard that I didn’t come in when the Dog Lady called. Ha, ha! I got down in a play stance and wagged my tail and said, “You can’t catch me!” That’s when I found out the Dog Lady is also the Rodeo Lady. She lassoed me with a rope and dragged my adorable furry butt back into the prison. Totally not fair.
The Dog Lady is nice enough when she doesn’t have a rope, I suppose, but she’s not the Woman. The Woman is my favorite human, and not just because she didn’t yell about the poop yesterday. She also gives awesome, totally radical butt scratches upon request. All I have to do is present her with my butt. She automatically reaches down with both hands and scratches the base of my tail vigorously until I just can’t take the joy anymore.
She also gives me peanut butter on a spoon. I love her.
But the Woman was not always my favorite. The Man was my favorite for years. I put up with the Woman because she gave treats and stayed up all night with me when I had kennel cough. But back when I was a young and frisky and furry imp, she was definitely not my alpha. She yelled at me when I peed in the house and when I ate a pillow and carpet and the Man's wedding ring.
When she called me, I would go the other way, unless she had food. When she told me to sit, I would think about it and only cooperate if I felt like it. Unless she had food. And sometimes not even then. She felt the weight of my disapproval, I tell you.
It was all because she loved the White Dog more than she loved me. The White Dog was my big sister who bit my lip when I jumped on her head. I ask you, was that called for? I didn’t think so, either. Anyway, the Woman laughed when the White Dog bit me, so neither she nor the White Dog was my favorite.
But I was still sad when the White Dog died. It was worth getting bitten for the fun of jumping on her head.
Back then, I loved the Man most. He took me running in open fields and swimming in lakes and ponds; the woman said I stank afterward and made me take a bath. Pond water is perfect; bath water is evil, evil, evil. I had lots of fun with the Man. Twice, in fact, I had so much fun that the Man and the Woman had to take me to the doggie hospital to have my paw pad sewn up by the Evil Vet Person who smelled funny and took my testicles away. That was bad. I had to wear the cone of shame and was so, so sad. But running on sharp rocks is fun, and pond water and open fields smell good. So good.
One January, after weeks of strange goings-on that I didn’t understand, the Man left home in the middle of the night with a bunch of canvas bags. He’d often left for a few days or sometimes a week, but he always came back, and I could jump and whimper with golden joy when I saw him again. This time, I knew something was bad because the Woman closed the door on the garage when he left and started crying.
Thus began the First Long Sadness. The Woman watched news channels all day and late into every night that didn’t show golden retrievers. Why are there not more golden retrievers on news channels? Instead, the new channels showed tracer bullets and bombs and other unpleasant, unfurry, loud things. The Woman cried a lot. I licked her tears and looked cute, but she was so worried and that made me worry, too. I started to wonder if the Man would ever come back.
Happily, he did, and the First Long Sadness ended. He smelled of dry, dry desert sand and jet fuel. I forgave him for abandoning me because I am a good dog.
Everything was normal for a few years. The Man took me on walks and loved me and petted me and let me get on the bed at his feet every night. But then, the unthinkable happened. He packed a bunch of bags and left AGAIN! What the hell was that all about? Golden retrievers can cuss. Did you know that? When the Man left me for almost five months, I had every reason to cuss. The Second Long Sadness began.
During that five months, the Woman did not cry or watch unfurry news programs. She missed the Man but wasn’t worried, so eventually, I quit worrying about the Man, too. The Woman fed me, walked me, picked up my poop, and let me sleep on the bed all night with her. She gave me butt scratches and tossed biscuits for me to catch. I gave her lots of happy kisses and shed my beautiful fur all over her dark clothes. People really do need more fur. I missed the Man, of course, but the Second Long Sadness wasn’t nearly as bad as the first, and by the end of it, I’d almost forgotten to be sad about the Man.
Then, the Man returned, smelling of salt water and beach sand. That was the final insult. He went to the big, giant, fun-filled, endless water I can only dream about, and he DIDN’T TAKE ME! Can you believe that? Neither could I. Oh, the betrayal!
Now, the Woman is my favorite human. When the Man calls me, I go the other way, unless he has food. When he tells me to sit, I think about it and only cooperate if I feel like it. Unless he has food. And sometimes not even then. Now it is his turn to feel the weight of my disapproval.
Since the betrayal, the Woman is my go-to person. When I need to get up in the middle of the night or wee hours of the morning (get it, “wee” hours! I crack myself up!), I go to her. She doesn’t yell at me when I flap my ears and woof quietly in her ear. She pulls on her robe because, sadly, she’s not naturally furry, and she walks down the stairs and opens the door. Sometimes, I need to be outside for a while, but she just waits for me patiently and opens the door as soon as I’m done.
After dinner, when the peeps are eating dessert, I go to her first because she will always leave a little ice cream on the popsicle stick for me to lick off. She also understands that I can’t jump on the bed anymore, and she gives me pills that make my bones feel better so I can sleep, sleep, sleep all day long, except when the Woman has food because if I look alert and cute, she shares. She loves me.
But really, it was the butt scratches that totally won me over.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Strange Adventures with the USAF: Drunk and Disappointed
For previous Adventures with the USAF, click here and here.
As I’ve already mentioned, alcohol is a big part of Air Force life, particularly among lieutenants and young captains who enjoy getting stupid in their off-duty hours. By the time most folks reach the rank of senior captain, they no longer enjoy the after-effects of being stupid and prefer to be designated drivers for the younger guys and gals who are still stupid. It’s sort of strange how killing brain cells eventually makes you smarter, but I quit trying to figure it out years ago. Very little in Air Force life makes sense, and you’ll go crazy trying to make it come out all logical.
Back in 1988, George was a butter-bar second lieutenant intent on killing plenty of brain cells every Friday night. I could see why. The stress of Undergraduate Navigator Training (UNT) and Electronic Warfare (E-Dub) Training was intense. He needed to have fun, cut loose, and do something his mother didn’t approve of. Youth craves freedom, rebellion, and a serious buzz. These young men and women were signing over their freedom and perhaps their very lives to their country and the mindless machine that is the bureaucracy of the Department of Defense. They were no longer Americans with names, just numbers to be slotted into the machine in whatever way the uncaring pencil-pushers saw fit. George was about to learn this first hand.
The goal for most folks in UNT was a fighter cockpit. There were three “tracks” for UNT graduates: fighter, tanker/transport/bomber, and electronic warfare. A random, highly variable number of slots for each track came down to each class. The fighter slots went to the top students: the hot shots with dreams of being like Tom Cruise in Top Gun—only Air Force, not Navy.
Electronic warfare was next in prestige, mainly because if you went through E-Dub training, you still had a shot at a fighter.
Most slots, however, were for navigators in heavy aircraft: the bombers, tankers, and transport planes. These planes were not nearly as sexy as the fighters. Some, in fact, were downright ugly, like the B-52, which was called the BUFF (Big Ugly Fat F-er). Air Force aviators say the B-52 is so ugly that doesn't actually take off, it just scares the ground away. Watch one take off and you'll see just what they mean.
UNT students filled out a dream sheet with their top choices ranked in order of preference. My grandfather, who flew in WWII, warned George that the Air Force looked at your dream sheet and then gave you whatever was furthest from your dreams. Not much had changed by 1988. I doubt it ever will.
George wanted the back seat of an F-15E Strike Eagle, though he would have settled for any fighter in the inventory. George’s UNT class had over 40 students. Five fighter slots came down. He ranked seventh in his class, which meant he didn’t get one of them. He went to Electronic Warfare instead.
Disappointment #1.
At one point in UNT, George should have gone to the flight doctor and been made DNIF…Duty Not Including Flying. He was sick and shouldn’t have flown one of his check rides. But all Air Force aviators avoid the flight docs like the plague (which some of them are, as we found out later). So George toughed it out and stayed with his class. Had he washed back to the next class and finished well, he would likely have been assigned to a fighter because 12 fighter slots came down for that class.
I believe we can call this salt in the wound. Disappointment #2.
By the time that UNT class graduated, however, George was already well into E-Dub training, the classified equivalent of memorizing the Sacramento phonebook. There are lots of numbers and frequencies and, well, electronic stuff to learn, and all of it is classified. The E-Dub training building had no windows. I of course never saw the inside, and during this training, George was able to use the line, “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you,” which caused me to pull a muscle in my eye from rolling it so hard. Obviously, study materials could not be brought home, so the guys spent roughly 100 hours every day in a windowless building memorizing very important crap.
George was motivated to do well, however, because he could still get a fighter. When the assignments came down the week before assignment night, only one fighter came through, and George was second or third in his class. To reward him for his good performance, he was assigned to be the very first navigator student to receive a slot in the sexy and still relatively new B-1 bomber, which until then had only been given to experienced aviators from the B-52 to reward them for hard time served in the BUFF.
Going to the sleek B-1 wouldn’t have been so bad, but the B-1 slot got TAKEN AWAY by the pencil pushers at the last minute and given to some B-52 electronic warfare officer, so George got that guy's sloppy seconds…the B-52. My husband, who worked so hard and did such a stellar job throughout his training, received the WORST E-Dub assignment available.
Disappointment #3. Are you noticing the trend here?
B-52s are old and slow, and the electronic warfare officer on the crew has very little to keep him occupied during 10-hour training missions. The other crew members—pilot, copilot, two navigators, and (at the time) a gunner—referred to the E-Dub as self-loading baggage. On those long missions, George would eventually find that, after reading the stock of magazines packed in his flight bag and eating his boxed lunch, he could take a nap by wrapping himself around the base of his ejection seat with the hot air vent blowing on him. Then, he could wake up, do his half-hour of actual work for the day, and go back to sleep until just before landing. Oh, the exciting life of an Air Force aviator!
Disappointment #3 led me to the one and only time in my life I got drunk. It goes without saying that George got drunk, too, and I stayed sober for him, walking the dark and empty streets of Rancho Cordova as he processed his disappointment and threw up on the curb. But when I was in the apartment the next afternoon, alone, my sister called. She was experiencing some serious disappointment in her own life at that moment, and we were commiserating. She brought up the idea of getting drunk together via long distance telephone, and it seemed like a good idea at the time.
As one of George’s later instructors might have said, in his delightful southern drawl, “It was a good idea that shouldn’t have seen the light of day.”
It turns out, I am not a fun drunk. I go straight from pleasantly buzzed to hugging the toilet very, very quickly. By the time George got home, he found me lying on the bathroom floor. I mumbled something like, “You always wanted to see me drunk!” He took good care of me, made sure I drank plenty of water, and helped me to bed. Bless him.
Getting drunk didn’t help…a lesson I learned the first time through and haven’t felt the need to repeat. Our disappointment at George’s assignment was acute, but we made the best of it and met a lot of really great people, which I considered to be the best perk of living the military life. After a few years at Wurtsmith AFB in Michigan serving hard time as self-loading baggage in the B-52, he got his B-1.
But he never gave up on his dream to fly fighters, which—as you can probably predict at this point—simply led to further disappointment and drunkenness. But let’s save those adventures for another day.
As I’ve already mentioned, alcohol is a big part of Air Force life, particularly among lieutenants and young captains who enjoy getting stupid in their off-duty hours. By the time most folks reach the rank of senior captain, they no longer enjoy the after-effects of being stupid and prefer to be designated drivers for the younger guys and gals who are still stupid. It’s sort of strange how killing brain cells eventually makes you smarter, but I quit trying to figure it out years ago. Very little in Air Force life makes sense, and you’ll go crazy trying to make it come out all logical.
Back in 1988, George was a butter-bar second lieutenant intent on killing plenty of brain cells every Friday night. I could see why. The stress of Undergraduate Navigator Training (UNT) and Electronic Warfare (E-Dub) Training was intense. He needed to have fun, cut loose, and do something his mother didn’t approve of. Youth craves freedom, rebellion, and a serious buzz. These young men and women were signing over their freedom and perhaps their very lives to their country and the mindless machine that is the bureaucracy of the Department of Defense. They were no longer Americans with names, just numbers to be slotted into the machine in whatever way the uncaring pencil-pushers saw fit. George was about to learn this first hand.
The goal for most folks in UNT was a fighter cockpit. There were three “tracks” for UNT graduates: fighter, tanker/transport/bomber, and electronic warfare. A random, highly variable number of slots for each track came down to each class. The fighter slots went to the top students: the hot shots with dreams of being like Tom Cruise in Top Gun—only Air Force, not Navy.
Electronic warfare was next in prestige, mainly because if you went through E-Dub training, you still had a shot at a fighter.
Most slots, however, were for navigators in heavy aircraft: the bombers, tankers, and transport planes. These planes were not nearly as sexy as the fighters. Some, in fact, were downright ugly, like the B-52, which was called the BUFF (Big Ugly Fat F-er). Air Force aviators say the B-52 is so ugly that doesn't actually take off, it just scares the ground away. Watch one take off and you'll see just what they mean.
UNT students filled out a dream sheet with their top choices ranked in order of preference. My grandfather, who flew in WWII, warned George that the Air Force looked at your dream sheet and then gave you whatever was furthest from your dreams. Not much had changed by 1988. I doubt it ever will.
George wanted the back seat of an F-15E Strike Eagle, though he would have settled for any fighter in the inventory. George’s UNT class had over 40 students. Five fighter slots came down. He ranked seventh in his class, which meant he didn’t get one of them. He went to Electronic Warfare instead.
Disappointment #1.
At one point in UNT, George should have gone to the flight doctor and been made DNIF…Duty Not Including Flying. He was sick and shouldn’t have flown one of his check rides. But all Air Force aviators avoid the flight docs like the plague (which some of them are, as we found out later). So George toughed it out and stayed with his class. Had he washed back to the next class and finished well, he would likely have been assigned to a fighter because 12 fighter slots came down for that class.
I believe we can call this salt in the wound. Disappointment #2.
By the time that UNT class graduated, however, George was already well into E-Dub training, the classified equivalent of memorizing the Sacramento phonebook. There are lots of numbers and frequencies and, well, electronic stuff to learn, and all of it is classified. The E-Dub training building had no windows. I of course never saw the inside, and during this training, George was able to use the line, “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you,” which caused me to pull a muscle in my eye from rolling it so hard. Obviously, study materials could not be brought home, so the guys spent roughly 100 hours every day in a windowless building memorizing very important crap.
George was motivated to do well, however, because he could still get a fighter. When the assignments came down the week before assignment night, only one fighter came through, and George was second or third in his class. To reward him for his good performance, he was assigned to be the very first navigator student to receive a slot in the sexy and still relatively new B-1 bomber, which until then had only been given to experienced aviators from the B-52 to reward them for hard time served in the BUFF.
Going to the sleek B-1 wouldn’t have been so bad, but the B-1 slot got TAKEN AWAY by the pencil pushers at the last minute and given to some B-52 electronic warfare officer, so George got that guy's sloppy seconds…the B-52. My husband, who worked so hard and did such a stellar job throughout his training, received the WORST E-Dub assignment available.
Disappointment #3. Are you noticing the trend here?
B-52s are old and slow, and the electronic warfare officer on the crew has very little to keep him occupied during 10-hour training missions. The other crew members—pilot, copilot, two navigators, and (at the time) a gunner—referred to the E-Dub as self-loading baggage. On those long missions, George would eventually find that, after reading the stock of magazines packed in his flight bag and eating his boxed lunch, he could take a nap by wrapping himself around the base of his ejection seat with the hot air vent blowing on him. Then, he could wake up, do his half-hour of actual work for the day, and go back to sleep until just before landing. Oh, the exciting life of an Air Force aviator!
Disappointment #3 led me to the one and only time in my life I got drunk. It goes without saying that George got drunk, too, and I stayed sober for him, walking the dark and empty streets of Rancho Cordova as he processed his disappointment and threw up on the curb. But when I was in the apartment the next afternoon, alone, my sister called. She was experiencing some serious disappointment in her own life at that moment, and we were commiserating. She brought up the idea of getting drunk together via long distance telephone, and it seemed like a good idea at the time.
As one of George’s later instructors might have said, in his delightful southern drawl, “It was a good idea that shouldn’t have seen the light of day.”
It turns out, I am not a fun drunk. I go straight from pleasantly buzzed to hugging the toilet very, very quickly. By the time George got home, he found me lying on the bathroom floor. I mumbled something like, “You always wanted to see me drunk!” He took good care of me, made sure I drank plenty of water, and helped me to bed. Bless him.
Getting drunk didn’t help…a lesson I learned the first time through and haven’t felt the need to repeat. Our disappointment at George’s assignment was acute, but we made the best of it and met a lot of really great people, which I considered to be the best perk of living the military life. After a few years at Wurtsmith AFB in Michigan serving hard time as self-loading baggage in the B-52, he got his B-1.
But he never gave up on his dream to fly fighters, which—as you can probably predict at this point—simply led to further disappointment and drunkenness. But let’s save those adventures for another day.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Words, Words, Words for Veterans Day
"I think there is one higher office than president and I would call that patriot." Gary Hart
May God richly bless all who have served, are serving, and will serve with honor as patriots for freedom here in the United States and around the world. Freedom isn't free, and those of us who spend our lives enjoying the fruits of patriots' labor are reminded today that we owe them an immeasurable debt of gratitude.
Thanks, George, for serving so honorably for twenty years.
May God richly bless all who have served, are serving, and will serve with honor as patriots for freedom here in the United States and around the world. Freedom isn't free, and those of us who spend our lives enjoying the fruits of patriots' labor are reminded today that we owe them an immeasurable debt of gratitude.
Thanks, George, for serving so honorably for twenty years.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
PDA and Chit Chat
At home, George and I are a sickeningly affectionate couple. We hug, kiss, and call each other pet names like Honey-Bunny and Sweetie-Woogums. I rub his cute bald head, and he massages my shoulders. I know, I know. It’s disgusting, but I’m convinced that this is one secret to the longevity of our marriage. That, and we’re both too stubborn to quit.
Despite this lovey-dovey life in the privacy of our own home, George’s twenty years of service in the United States Air Force eliminated virtually all public display of affection (or PDA) from our relationship beginning with Navigator Training in 1988. Suddenly, he wouldn’t even hold hands with me in public while in uniform. In civvies, he would only hold hands.
Early on, I tested this restriction to amuse myself. While in public, I would reach out to hug him or throw an arm over his shoulder. He’d dance fearfully away from me while whispering "No PDA!" and then he'd glance around to see if anyone witnessed this egregious violation of military discipline. Eventually, I got bored and acquiesced to the military code of “No Touchy!”
A few times in his career, however, our private affection leaked out in public. Just a week or so after my c-section in August, 2002, George and I were invited to attend a 34th Bomb Squadron dinner party for two of the Doolittle Raiders: Richard Cole and Thomas Griffin. No way would a little ten-inch abdominal incision and massive doses of Percocet keep me from meeting two genuine American war heroes.
During dinner, George was extraordinarily attentive to my comfort. At one point, he asked me quietly, “Are you doing okay, sweetie?”
Across the table sat the flight surgeon and his wife, who overheard George’s question. Astonished, she asked me, “Did he just call you ‘sweetie’?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“Wow!” she said. Then, after a sideways glance at her husband, she added, “You are so lucky.”
Why, yes. Yes, I am.
But the injunction against PDA is so deeply ingrained in me, despite George’s retirement from the Air Force almost two years ago, that I simply don’t touch him in public other than to hold hands if we happen to be side by side.
Last weekend, I took Hoover for a walk, and as I turned up our cul-de-sac to return home, I saw George and the boys in swimsuits heading toward me. When George and I met up, he said, “We’re meeting Debra and Parker at the pool. They invited Nick, but Debra has to work and can’t watch Jack, and I thought it would be mean to not let him go, too. Are you going to join us?”
“Sure. Let me take Hoover home and grab a magazine. Do you have the house key?”
“I left it unlocked.”
“Okay, see you in a bit.”
Nick, accustomed to seeing his parents’ daily private displays of affection, was disconcerted after witnessing our brief and oh-so-polite public encounter. He confronted George:
“How come you guys didn’t hug? I was expecting something more loving than just…chit chat.”
Sorry to disappoint you, Nick. For future reference, never underestimate the value of chit chat. You can be happily married without PDA, but you can’t be married at all without chit chat.
Despite this lovey-dovey life in the privacy of our own home, George’s twenty years of service in the United States Air Force eliminated virtually all public display of affection (or PDA) from our relationship beginning with Navigator Training in 1988. Suddenly, he wouldn’t even hold hands with me in public while in uniform. In civvies, he would only hold hands.
Early on, I tested this restriction to amuse myself. While in public, I would reach out to hug him or throw an arm over his shoulder. He’d dance fearfully away from me while whispering "No PDA!" and then he'd glance around to see if anyone witnessed this egregious violation of military discipline. Eventually, I got bored and acquiesced to the military code of “No Touchy!”
A few times in his career, however, our private affection leaked out in public. Just a week or so after my c-section in August, 2002, George and I were invited to attend a 34th Bomb Squadron dinner party for two of the Doolittle Raiders: Richard Cole and Thomas Griffin. No way would a little ten-inch abdominal incision and massive doses of Percocet keep me from meeting two genuine American war heroes.
During dinner, George was extraordinarily attentive to my comfort. At one point, he asked me quietly, “Are you doing okay, sweetie?”
Across the table sat the flight surgeon and his wife, who overheard George’s question. Astonished, she asked me, “Did he just call you ‘sweetie’?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“Wow!” she said. Then, after a sideways glance at her husband, she added, “You are so lucky.”
Why, yes. Yes, I am.
But the injunction against PDA is so deeply ingrained in me, despite George’s retirement from the Air Force almost two years ago, that I simply don’t touch him in public other than to hold hands if we happen to be side by side.
Last weekend, I took Hoover for a walk, and as I turned up our cul-de-sac to return home, I saw George and the boys in swimsuits heading toward me. When George and I met up, he said, “We’re meeting Debra and Parker at the pool. They invited Nick, but Debra has to work and can’t watch Jack, and I thought it would be mean to not let him go, too. Are you going to join us?”
“Sure. Let me take Hoover home and grab a magazine. Do you have the house key?”
“I left it unlocked.”
“Okay, see you in a bit.”
Nick, accustomed to seeing his parents’ daily private displays of affection, was disconcerted after witnessing our brief and oh-so-polite public encounter. He confronted George:
“How come you guys didn’t hug? I was expecting something more loving than just…chit chat.”
Sorry to disappoint you, Nick. For future reference, never underestimate the value of chit chat. You can be happily married without PDA, but you can’t be married at all without chit chat.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
The Unknown Dead
Memorial Day is America’s day to honor the memory those who served their country, who fought for more than themselves, and gave all that they had so others could know freedom.
My grandfather, David Lee Willis, served in WWII as a pilot. He flew the Hump (the route over the Himalayas in the China-Burma-India Theater) in a B-24-D painted with nose art which read “Dippy Dave and his 8 Dippy Diddlers.” He and his crew were forced to bail out on a mission in China. A secret memo dated May 5, 1943, reported his missing status (published in the book Chennault’s Forgotten Warriors). It states:
Ship No. 24143, 1st Lt. D. L. Willis, pilot, lost from returning formation in heavy overcast. Last reported at 1530 at coordinates 22° 50’ N-104° 45’ E at about 19,000 feet headed on 310°, believed probably bailed out or landed at WENSHAN about 50 miles NE of reported position.
The fuel transfer system failed and Dippy Dave and his Diddlers were forced to bail out near Amichow. One man’s chute failed to open, and he died. The remaining crew, including my grandfather, survived and returned to base. I do not know the name of the man who died, or if the following picture is of that particular crew (the plane isn’t the same). But I honor this unknown man’s memory.
Papa always said that he didn’t want to jump out of a plane because he never wanted to practice something he could only do wrong once. His experience in China adds a layer of bitter irony to his joke that I never appreciated as a child.
Papa later flew in the Berlin Airlift, dropping supplies to people who needed them. He was dedicated to his country and risked all he had in its service. He came home. Many, many others did not, including George’s great uncle George Paloranta, after whom George was named.
This Memorial Day, America honors the memory of the fallen, and those who stood by them. I thank them all for their sacrifice, because even those who come home from war sacrifice more than any civilian can ever understand.
Blessed are those who mourn; for they shall be comforted. (Matthew 5:4)
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Strange Adventures with the United States Air Force, Part 2
For Part 1 in this series, click here.
Making Friends
When you’re married to the military, you form friendships that last forever, no matter how much time or distance separates you from these friends. In our very surreal year at Mather AFB in Sacramento, California, we met Chris, the first of many good friends we made in the military. Chris was the quintessential dignified southern gentleman, a bit formal in manner and reserved (most of the time) in speech. He was also a bit older than most of the guys at Undergraduate Navigator Training and infinitely more mature.
We spent a lot of time with Chris because he was so much fun and so not a part of the JOC-Night ethos of navigator training I found so uncomfortable. George and I sat at the table a few weeks ago and reminisced about good times spent with Chris. Most of the stories and snippets of memory involved a healthy dose of laughter. Chris had a wonderfully self-deprecating and dry sense of humor that snuck out at odd moments. For instance, we were all watching television one night when a commercial for Rogaine came on. Chris, who was prematurely balding, muttered, completely deadpan, “Doesn’t work.”
He could also spin a funny story with himself as the butt of the joke. Our favorite—the one that always pops to mind whenever we’re discussing Chris—is the xylophone story.
Chris grew up in a very musical family, so when he went to high school, he realized the cool kids who played instruments played in the marching band. Being far too dignified to want to dance around with a trombone or saxophone, he quickly noticed that the percussionists spent practice sitting under a tree while everyone else rehearsed dorky dance moves in the blazing Georgia sun. Being a smart young man, Chris wanted to be with the drummers hanging out in the shade. The only percussion instrument not already taken, however, was the xylophone.
The xylophone had to be firmly strapped onto him and didn’t come off easily. So when he had the luxury to sit in the shade while the rest of the band practiced dance moves, Chris had to kneel with the xylophone resting on his lap, hunching over to take the strain off his shoulders.
Yeah, that really impressed the girls.
Then, there was the day trip to San Francisco, during which Chris almost got us shot at the Army’s beautiful Presidio Officers’ Club by asking, loudly, “How do the grunts rate this?” Well-mannered southern gentlemen simply don’t say things like that, and the incongruity still makes me giggle. But not in front of Army officers.
George and I had the same favorite day in 1988. We went with Chris to Lassen National Park to hike. It was a gorgeous California day, sunny and not too hot. We had backpacks loaded with water and sunscreen, and were wearing comfortable walking shoes. We took our time enjoying the scenery as we climbed Mt. Lassen and poked around the volcano’s caldera, with whiffs of brimstone adding spice to the adventure. We also made condescending comments about a group of sunburned Mennonites who had hiked the mountain without water and wearing terrible shoes.
Never, ever make condescending comments about Mennonites. They may not believe in karma, but karma believes in them.
We’d drunk all the water we brought by the time we got down from Mt. Lassen and should have headed home, but a friend had recommended the Bumpass Hell trail, which was supposed to be fairly short so we did it without water. Bumpass Hell has bubbling mud pots and a much stronger odor of brimstone than the caldera, and the hike was longer than anticipated. Much longer. The three of us death marched out of Bumpass Hell feeling parched and hot.
Karma really is a bitch.
Then we got lost trying to drive out of the park. Remember, there were no Tom-Toms in 1988, and I was with two navigators-in-training. Combine these two facts with our dose of bad karma, and we were destined to get lost. All we wanted was a restaurant to drink gallons of water and eat something that didn’t make us feel sick, but the one place we found in the park was, of course, closed. I don’t remember the meal we eventually found, but I do remember the time in the car because Chris proposed a game in which one person starts a story and passes it off to another person who adds to the story and then passes it on. This was an excellent distraction from our dehydration headaches and general frustration.
Our first oral-tradition epic included a mystery that took our detective to Big Al’s Nudist Colony and Farm Cooperative. It would have been a best-seller if we’d written it down, but now, 21 years later, all I remember is Big Al’s Nudist Colony and Farm Cooperative, which Chris cleverly contributed to the story line. Our second oral epic devolved into a bad episode of Miami Vice, but it carried us, exhausted, all the way home. Genius needed its sleep.
When we compared notes the next day over lunch, however, it turned out none of the three of us got any sleep because we all had horrible sunburns on our necks and ears and the backs of our legs. Lying on a pillow with blisters forming on your neck hurts. A lot. Sunscreen doesn’t work well when it stays in the backpack all day and never touches your skin.
Isn’t it amazing how three smart, college-educated young adults can be so unprepared and plain ol’ stupid? Honestly, it’s moments like this that remind me how incredibly lucky we are to have survived as a species.
You might be wondering why George and I both remember this day so fondly, given the extreme discomfort of dehydration headaches and sunburns, but when you go through a day like that with a good friend, the memory of companionship definitely trumps the discomfort.
Today, Chris runs his own cockpit resource management company and is happily married to Ruth, who teaches English as a second language and keeps everyone laughing with her own delightfully warm sense of humor. They have two talented daughters who were kind enough to dress my elder son in a medieval gown to sing karaoke while I snapped pictures during a visit to their home in 2005. These pictures will be extremely useful when Nick is a teenager.
Old friends come in handy for the darnedest things, don’t they?
Making Friends
When you’re married to the military, you form friendships that last forever, no matter how much time or distance separates you from these friends. In our very surreal year at Mather AFB in Sacramento, California, we met Chris, the first of many good friends we made in the military. Chris was the quintessential dignified southern gentleman, a bit formal in manner and reserved (most of the time) in speech. He was also a bit older than most of the guys at Undergraduate Navigator Training and infinitely more mature.
We spent a lot of time with Chris because he was so much fun and so not a part of the JOC-Night ethos of navigator training I found so uncomfortable. George and I sat at the table a few weeks ago and reminisced about good times spent with Chris. Most of the stories and snippets of memory involved a healthy dose of laughter. Chris had a wonderfully self-deprecating and dry sense of humor that snuck out at odd moments. For instance, we were all watching television one night when a commercial for Rogaine came on. Chris, who was prematurely balding, muttered, completely deadpan, “Doesn’t work.”
He could also spin a funny story with himself as the butt of the joke. Our favorite—the one that always pops to mind whenever we’re discussing Chris—is the xylophone story.
Chris grew up in a very musical family, so when he went to high school, he realized the cool kids who played instruments played in the marching band. Being far too dignified to want to dance around with a trombone or saxophone, he quickly noticed that the percussionists spent practice sitting under a tree while everyone else rehearsed dorky dance moves in the blazing Georgia sun. Being a smart young man, Chris wanted to be with the drummers hanging out in the shade. The only percussion instrument not already taken, however, was the xylophone.
The xylophone had to be firmly strapped onto him and didn’t come off easily. So when he had the luxury to sit in the shade while the rest of the band practiced dance moves, Chris had to kneel with the xylophone resting on his lap, hunching over to take the strain off his shoulders.
Yeah, that really impressed the girls.
Then, there was the day trip to San Francisco, during which Chris almost got us shot at the Army’s beautiful Presidio Officers’ Club by asking, loudly, “How do the grunts rate this?” Well-mannered southern gentlemen simply don’t say things like that, and the incongruity still makes me giggle. But not in front of Army officers.
George and I had the same favorite day in 1988. We went with Chris to Lassen National Park to hike. It was a gorgeous California day, sunny and not too hot. We had backpacks loaded with water and sunscreen, and were wearing comfortable walking shoes. We took our time enjoying the scenery as we climbed Mt. Lassen and poked around the volcano’s caldera, with whiffs of brimstone adding spice to the adventure. We also made condescending comments about a group of sunburned Mennonites who had hiked the mountain without water and wearing terrible shoes.
Never, ever make condescending comments about Mennonites. They may not believe in karma, but karma believes in them.
We’d drunk all the water we brought by the time we got down from Mt. Lassen and should have headed home, but a friend had recommended the Bumpass Hell trail, which was supposed to be fairly short so we did it without water. Bumpass Hell has bubbling mud pots and a much stronger odor of brimstone than the caldera, and the hike was longer than anticipated. Much longer. The three of us death marched out of Bumpass Hell feeling parched and hot.
Karma really is a bitch.
Then we got lost trying to drive out of the park. Remember, there were no Tom-Toms in 1988, and I was with two navigators-in-training. Combine these two facts with our dose of bad karma, and we were destined to get lost. All we wanted was a restaurant to drink gallons of water and eat something that didn’t make us feel sick, but the one place we found in the park was, of course, closed. I don’t remember the meal we eventually found, but I do remember the time in the car because Chris proposed a game in which one person starts a story and passes it off to another person who adds to the story and then passes it on. This was an excellent distraction from our dehydration headaches and general frustration.
Our first oral-tradition epic included a mystery that took our detective to Big Al’s Nudist Colony and Farm Cooperative. It would have been a best-seller if we’d written it down, but now, 21 years later, all I remember is Big Al’s Nudist Colony and Farm Cooperative, which Chris cleverly contributed to the story line. Our second oral epic devolved into a bad episode of Miami Vice, but it carried us, exhausted, all the way home. Genius needed its sleep.
When we compared notes the next day over lunch, however, it turned out none of the three of us got any sleep because we all had horrible sunburns on our necks and ears and the backs of our legs. Lying on a pillow with blisters forming on your neck hurts. A lot. Sunscreen doesn’t work well when it stays in the backpack all day and never touches your skin.
Isn’t it amazing how three smart, college-educated young adults can be so unprepared and plain ol’ stupid? Honestly, it’s moments like this that remind me how incredibly lucky we are to have survived as a species.
You might be wondering why George and I both remember this day so fondly, given the extreme discomfort of dehydration headaches and sunburns, but when you go through a day like that with a good friend, the memory of companionship definitely trumps the discomfort.
Today, Chris runs his own cockpit resource management company and is happily married to Ruth, who teaches English as a second language and keeps everyone laughing with her own delightfully warm sense of humor. They have two talented daughters who were kind enough to dress my elder son in a medieval gown to sing karaoke while I snapped pictures during a visit to their home in 2005. These pictures will be extremely useful when Nick is a teenager.
Old friends come in handy for the darnedest things, don’t they?
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Strange Adventures with the United States Air Force, Part 1
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