Twas the Night of Christmas

Now, I’m not going to discredit my husbands driving, because honestly—it’s far better than most peoples. He has never been pulled over, never been in an accident, and has driven more different kinds of vehicles than I can count, including MATVs in Afghanistan while TRYING to find IEDs. He has also driven me (literally) all over the country—from North Carolina, to Minnesota, back to North Carolina, then down to Florida, Alabama, and up to Minnesota again. So, I have ridden MANY hours with him. And I have no complaints. But I do have to say this—his attention to detail while driving is pretty much non-existent.

Here’s a short example: one of the times we were driving to or from North Carolina, there was a piece of wood lying in the middle of the road. When I am driving and I see a piece of wood lying in the middle of the road, I avoid it at all costs, because my thought is “It might have a nail in it, and I don’t want a flat tire.” A logical thought, I think. However, Steve just drove right over the top of it. And I said, “I hope there wasn’t a nail in that!” To which Steve responds, “A nail in what?”…“Umm…that board that was in the middle of the road that you just drove over”… “Oh, I guess I didn’t see it”. While I’m thinking “How in the world did you NOT see that!?”

I also can’t tell you how many times we have been driving home at night—during prime deer season—and I will be “on the watch” for deer. When I see one, I will say “Deer!” and point to the direction in which I see it. I do this, with the intention of pointing it out to Steve, so he, too, can see it, watch it, and slow down for when it decides to jump out in front of us. Generally when I do that he says “What?”, and again, I say “Deer!” while pointing even more frantically in the direction of the deer that I just KNOW is calculating the perfect time to decide to go springing in front of us so it was sure to be a direct it. But still, Steve stares dumbfounded out the windshield and continues driving full speed ahead, while I attempt to stare the deer down DARING it to cross the road…

Well, tonight we are on our way home from the in-laws Christmas, and as always, Steve is at the wheel. We are talking about who knows what, when out of nowhere, comes a deer that had just made a HUGE bounding leap and was flying through the air. I saw it, almost immediately and knowing we were going to hit it, all I could manage to squeak out was “AAAHHH!!”, as I literally stared him in his eyes out the side window as he reached the moment of panic when he realized he shouldn’t have made that fateful leap. I was almost positive that in 1.2 seconds I was going to have a deer sitting on my lap. Then we hear “THUNK!” on the side of the Blazer. And, of course, to no avail, Steve says, “What was that?” In my head, I was thinking, “Umm…did you COMPLETELY miss the whole episode with the flying deer?” but I just responded “A deer. We just got hit by a deer.” His reponse? “A deer?”…“Yes, a deer.”

And the next words out of his mouth? “Well you could have warned me.” (Because as per the story further up the page, you all know that warning him works SO well). I informed him that warning him would have done absolutely no good—partly because we would have hit him no matter what, partly because my mouth was unable to form words, and partly because he wouldn’t have paid any attention to me yelling “DEER!” anyway.

I suggested we should get out and check the damage once we got to town before we got home, so we were in a well lit spot where we could see. Steve responded with “We have flashlights”. But I convinced him by saying “But the damage always looks way worse in bright lights.”

We checked it out and luckily it’s not terrible, although any body damage is usually pretty expensive to fix. There is a little bit of a dent in the wheel well, but we were at least able to laugh about it on the rest of the way home.  

As for my project? There is no picture, because it’s dark and cold outside—plus I don’t know that I can really be that artistically creative while photographing a dent in the vehicle anyway. I am also not entirely sure that there is a lesson to be learned here either. Maybe if I thought about it long enough, but I think I am just going to leave that out…for now.

Camaraderie

I frequently feel bad for my younger brother. Despite having 2 siblings (and now, 2 sibling-in-laws), he pretty much grew up as an only child. There were only 2 years between my older brother and I so we pretty much had a “built in” playmate (each other) which was vital when we were younger and lived so far out in the country that we couldn’t just “ride our bikes” to our friends’ houses. But with 11 year between my 2 brothers, and 9 years between my younger brother and I, his built in playmates were both graduated from high school by the time he was in 4^th grade, and married when he was in 7^th grade.

I haven’t failed to notice though, that he DOES get to do more things than Derek and I did as kids, and he gets away with a lot more too—thereby making him the “spoiled child”. However, I have also decided that no amount of being spoiled would make me want to trade in the memories of playing tractors, building snow forts, hosting our own radio show in the sandbox, or the time that we (I say we because Derek was CERTAIN it would work, and I—stupidly—believed him) discovered that girls CANNOT, in fact, pee on the tree while standing up—which is a few of the things that Derek and I did while we were younger.

However I have recently realized another advantage he has to growing up, being the youngest by many years. His own personal cheering section at wrestling matches and other sporting events is 350% (or more) larger than what Derek and I had. I wasn’t in sports really—2 years of softball was about it for me—but when I was, usually it was mom and dad that showed up at my games (which was fine, since I rarely hit the ball or made any “big” plays, or even any plays at all). Grandma and grandpa would occasionally come, but with 10 grandchildren they had to divide their time (understandably). Alec had his first (home) wrestling meet on Thursday and I looked around. There we all sat—Mom and Dad, Grandma and Grandpa (who now have 11 grandchildren, but with 5 that are older and don’t have anything exciting enough worth watching going on), Steve and I, Derek, Kolby, and 5 month old nephew Jack. That’s right—we were all there. The cheering section of “2” that I had when I was younger, has since turned into a cheering section of “9”. Probably the biggest personal cheering section there that night. Although, if you’ve ever been to a wrestling match, you soon find out that the entire crowd becomes this unified, almost magical cheering section for ever kid that wrestles—whether they know them or not. And they. Are. VOCAL. And even though this is completely irrelevant (as is a lot of stuff in this blog post) I just MUST point out that on this particular night at the wrestling match, I knew of at least 3 families who didn’t even have children IN HIGH SCHOOL, let alone in high school wrestling that were there. And that was just the ones that I knew and could see from where I was sitting.

Anyway, there we all were, present and in the flesh, ridiculously early (except Steve who came later). When the time came, the lights dimmed and the ‘spotlight’ was turned on illuminating the wrestling mat. The music starts—“Sandstorm”—I had no idea that techno was still taking the world (or at least the high school) by storm. And out they come running—around the circle of the wrestling mat. My mom, always the avid sports fan (insert sarcasm here), says “This is a little overdone.” I told her that they have done this for as long as I can remember. In fact, I wouldn’t doubt that they did this when Derek was in wrestling 13 years ago. I figure, that whole spectacle got me kind of “pumped up” sitting in the crowd—I can’t imagine what it does for them as they run around that circle to a song that they undoubtedly chose. And if that’s what gets them excited and ready to go, then by all means, “overdo” it as much as necessary! Alec was one of the last ones to wrestle.

We sat through many wrestling matches, of kids we didn’t really know, and yet still got into the spirit of the “whole crowd” cheering going on. I’ve never been one to be real vocal in my cheering—I’ve decided that the chance that they are actually going to hear me is far to slim to justify the energy it takes to yell it. Plus, what do I yell? My dad, being a state champion wrestler in high school, can actually yell out useful information. He can yell out what move the kid should make so he would actually be of some help in the event that the kid hears his voice. Me? Although I have been to MANY wrestling meets, I know very little about the actual rules of the sport—I know punching and biting are not allowed, and that’s about the extent of my knowledge. I can’t see what move the wrestler should make next in order to escape whatever predicament he has gotten himself into. That means that my yelling would consist of “Come on ________” What does that even mean? And how exactly would that benefit him in the event that he hear my voice above everyone else’s. It wouldn’t benefit him. At all. So, I usually choose to sit there and cheer on the inside where my pointless advice won’t be heard by anyone else. Maybe it would also increase the likelihood that he would hear one of the people, like my dad, who is actually providing him with useful information.

When the match got to the wrestler right before Alec, I grabbed my camera and headed down the steps of the bleachers to sit on the floor in front of everyone—knowing that my camera’s zoom is minimal, at best (until I can save up enough money to buy a telephoto lens for it). I sat there and played with it a little bit, photographic some kid that I don’t even know as he wrestled another kid I don’t know. In an attempt to find some cool shot that I could use when Alec was wrestling. And I finally figured it out. I was so excited that I figured out how to do something cool with my camera that I didn’t really KNOW about, but discovered by experimenting. Here it is (only this is actually Alec wrestling):

  

Now, I know that if this same exact photo, in this same exact situation were taken  by someone else, I’m sure they would have been able to make the shot at least 400 times cooler, just by doing some other adjustment that I don’t actually know about—yet. I also know that my fancy schmancy camera is capable of taking photos way better than this. But I’m learning, remember?! That’s the whole point of this. So, for now, I am satisfied with this. I had a vision in my head of what I wanted the picture to look at, and through trial and error I figured out how to produce it.

For the record, here is a shot similar (lighting wise) to what that picture would have looked like had I just used my camera as a “point and shoot” instead of making adjustments myself:

Either way, as I was sitting there on the floor, for the first part of the match that Alec was wrestling, I was completely absorbed in my camera. I wanted to get “the shot” before he either lost, or beat the person he was wrestling. But as the match went on, and on, and on. I become less interested in taking pictures, and more interested in how Alec was doing. He was “winning” for most of the match. He always had the “upper hand” on the other guy and was always in the better position. There was one point where he got into trouble, but he was lucky (yes, lucky) that he was right on the outside of the ring and managed to scoot/get pushed out far enough that they had to get up and move to the middle again.

Toward the end of the match, I found myself yelling—like, out loud, not just in my head—although still nothing worthwhile. And I’m pretty sure I even threw in a few floor slaps—since I WAS sitting on the floor. I could tell toward the end that he was getting tired (and understandably so) and I think that’s why I was yelling. I was trying to use my energy to help him. Of course it doesn’t actually work that way. They went all three periods with no pin, but because Alec had acquired the most points during those three periods, he achieved himself a “win by decision”, three points for his team, and his FIRST varsity wrestling victory with his whole family sitting there watching him.

So, in regards to my New Year’s project, I have the blog post, I have the photo experiment, where’s the lesson? I have no idea. With the photo on Facebook, I posted this quote:

“The art of living is more like that of wrestling than of dancing. The main thing is to stand firm and be ready for an unforeseen attack." -Marcus Aurelius

I had the intention of making my blog about some lesson related to this quote, but the blog seems to have taken a different path and maybe there is a second lesson that lies in the blog post I generated. Maybe it should be something along the lines of:

“The camaraderie that exists—between strangers, and between family—paired with the inner strength that you know you possess, can yield results you thought might not be possible.”

How’s that for profound?

New Year's Resolution

That’s right, I have one this (or I guess it would be NEXT) year. I’ve never had one before, because I always thought they were kind of silly, and everyone knows that no one usually ends up keeping their anyway. BUT, next year I have one, and I already know what it is. Although I think it’s more of a New Year’s PROJECT, than a resolution. And, since I never do anything “halfway”, it’s actually like 3 projects all rolled into one.

I have 3 passions. Okay, that’s a lie, I have way more than 3 passions. Two of these, have kind of been left by the wayside in the past few months/year.

One of these, is this blog. I started it at the beginning of the year, and did pretty well with it for a while, but then got a serious case of “writers block” and have been battling ever since. My life doesn’t seem to be all that exciting lately—and after 4 years of non-stop military “excitement”, that is fine with me. But it doesn’t really help the writers blog any. So, resolution #1 is to blog more.

The next of these passions is learning. I have always said, that if going to school didn’t cost so much, I would probably still be going. I would love to take all kinds of classes just for fun—unfortunately it seems to be rather expensive fun. So, I am going to have to find some other means of having fun…or am I? Resolution #2 is to find a different means of learning that doesn’t cost $10,000 a year.  

And, of course, the 3^rd of these things, is taking pictures. I love taking pictures, and I have wanted to learn more about photography. My husband bought me a big fancy schmancy camera for my birthday—that’s right, my birthday—in April—and I am still trying to figure out what all I can do with it. So, you guessed it, resolution #3 is to learn more about my camera, and experiment more with taking photos.

So, by now you are probably thinking “Where does the 3 projects rolled into ONE come into play? What do these things even have to do with each other?” Well, ask yourself no longer. My New Year’s Project that is absolutely ridiculously and obnoxiously ambitious, is to the 365 Photography Project, only with an added twist. My goal, is to try to find something in every day that is a lesson to me (here is the “education” part). It might be a reminder of something that I already knew, it might be something simple and silly like how you should never seek sympathy from your husband after you burn your hand TWICE, in the same day, doing the same thing, or, it might be something wonderful and profound that I have never thought of before. Hopefully I can find something to take a picture of (here’s the photography part) exercising my experimenting and/or creativity with my new(ish) camera. Then, of course comes the blogging end of it. Although I don’t expect to have a big long story to go with my life lesson every day, my hope is that these little life lessons will provide inspiration for me to blog more—to give me topics that will help me snap out of my writers block.

So there you have it…my New Year’s Resolution/Project. Ridiculously ambitious. I’m  not entirely sure how long I will be able to keep at it, or if I will be able to come up with something every day—I might have to “work up” to doing this every day. But I think I will be satisfied even if I can do this once a week.

Now that I have explained this whole little project, stay tuned for my “test run”, that will hopefully be posted tomorrow!

Brothers (In Arms): A Veteran's Day Post

 

(I’ve decided to try to get a jump start on my Veterans’ Day post since 9/11 was here and gone before I could even think about posting the blog I had typed up for it!)

My grandfather has an incredible memory. Especially for an 80 something year old man. It’s far better than mine. And I would be willing to bet that if you asked him what happened in any given year of his life, he would be able to tell you numerous things, without even taking longer than 10 seconds to think about it. I could probably tell you what I was doing during any given year of my life, but not without intense research of past emails and historically significant dates and occurrences to help remind me. How he is able to remember specific dates, and things that happened, never ceases to amaze me.

Every once in a while, he would grace us with stories from the past. As small children, we were never really THAT interested and couldn’t figure out why my mom was always wanting to hear more. Hadn’t she already heard them like a million times—he WAS her father, after all. I didn’t realize that the older the got, the more interesting these stories would become. That I would want to know more about my family history before the people who could actually remember it weren’t around any longer.

Among these stories, were stories of his childhood, stories of my mom’s/uncles’ childhood, and most frequently, war stories. After hearing bits and pieces of his “story”, my mom encouraged him to write it down, or tape record it, or SOMETHING, so that his stories would live on long after he was gone. A suggestion was pretty much all it took. After probably a year or less, he had compiled a book, handwritten. One for each of his children, and one of each of his grandchildren detailing everything that he could remember about the war. Which was, of course, a great deal of information. I read through it as soon as I got it, reading through many parts of the story that I had already heard, but also reading things that I didn’t know about, things that I had no idea that my grandfather had experienced.

My grandfather was drafted into World War II, and before long was on his way to Germany with people he had never met before boots far too large for his feet (the only size they had left for him). While he was there, he carried ammo for the unit he was with, and of course, had his fair share of traumatizing experiences. While he was away, he left behind my grandmother, although they weren’t married at the time. It didn’t occur to me until a project in my senior year of college, that my grandmother was, in fact (for all intents and purposes), a military spouse. Who knew we had so much in common?

Although I have spent more time with my grandparents over the past 5 years, due to going to college 20 minutes away, my husband has spent very little time with them. For very good reason, of course—not long after graduating from high school, it was off to the Marine Corps in an entirely different state and sometimes, an entirely different country. In all honesty, I could probably count the number of times they have been under the same roof together, on my fingers. And half of those times have been in the past year.

Nevertheless, whenever I went to my grandparents house, their main concern (especially when he was in a warzone) was always “How is Steve?” Especially my grandfather, who was always persistent in wanting to know everything. “Is he okay? Where is he? Have you heard from him lately?” Keep in mind, that in no way was I bothered by this. In no way am I complaining about it. And in no way was it ever anything that I would have wanted to occur differently. It was a testament of genuine concern from someone who had “been there, done that”, and was now wanting to watch out for anyone that was following in similar footsteps. When it comes to military life and being constantly faced with uncertainty and potential danger, that’s the closest thing to comfort you can ever find. Someone who understands and genuinely cares for you or someone you love, as much as you do. Each day that I visited them that Steve was overseas, as I would say goodbye to my grandparents and headed out the door, I would hug my grandpa as he sat in his chair, and tell him that I loved him. Each time, his eyes would well up with tears, as he would tell me that he prayed for Steve’s safety all the time, and hoped more than anything that he would make it home safely.

If ever you wanted an idea of the bond that exists between brothers in arms, there it is. An 80 something year old many, 60 some years removed from his own service in the military, crying for the safety of a Marine currently at war.

Steve has since returned from his deployment to Afghanistan, and has been able to go with me to my grandparents’ house more. And it almost seems as if my grandpa becomes an entirely different person when he is sitting next to Steve. It’s almost like he goes back to his war days, and relives them, knowing that he is sitting next to someone who has been through something similar. Although completely different ages, and although they fought it completely different wars, in completely different countries, in completely different positions, and completely different time periods, they still have a bond. They are still brothers in arms.

And despite the fact that my grandfather has in impeccable memory, and despite the fact that he used that impeccable memory to record his memories in a book for each of us, when he his with his fellow brother, all of a sudden we are enlightened with stories that we’ve never heard before, and that somehow escaped being recorded in his book. Mostly it’s ‘then vs. now’ stories, but every once in a while some other little story slips in there too. One that I can’t help but wonder, if it was triggered by simply being in the presence of one of his brothers in arms.

So there you have it. The two veterans in my life, who seem to demonstrate the “band of brothers” bond beyond just a single squad, beyond just a single company, beyond just a single platoon, beyond just a single battalion, beyond just a single branch of the military. Beyond just a single war. The two veterans in my life, who have fought for different things, who made different sacrifices, and who experienced completely different methods of war, but still relate to each other. The two veterans in my life, whose stories seem to become more and more complete with each passing year. And the two veterans in my life for whom I am very thankful. TO whom I am very thankful.

Traveling Shoes

Lately I have been itching to travel. To go somewhere, ANYWHERE. I have always had a desire to travel, to see the world, to make observations and take in as much as I possibly can.

Every year since I was in the 8^th grade, I have gone somewhere. Every year. Except one. Some years I went two different places. And I loved every minute of it. I love being on the road, I love living out of a suitcase and being in a different place every night. If I could make a living out of traveling (and I’m sure there are people who do) it would be my dream job. Unfortunately, my husband seems to be kind of a homebody, so a life of travel probably isn’t in my future.

Lately I have been desiring so much to go somewhere. Anywhere. It has been lass than a year since we got back from our last trek cross-country and it seems like forever ago to me.

I have tried to talk Steve into going somewhere (even if it just to like South Dakota or something), but to no avail. He keeps telling me “We’re going to Vegas in February, that will be our vacation.” Except that we are going to Vegas for a business trip with thousands of other people—not exactly my ideal vacation, although I’m still excited to go!

I even resorted to trying to talk him into going to our “unofficial” honeymoon location for our anniversary. For those of you who don’t know, our “unofficial” honeymoon location is about a 3 hour drive from where we live, and still in cold, soon-to-be snowy Minnesota. Our “official” honeymoon hasn’t even been booked yet—2 years after being married. Upon this proposition from me to him, he replied with “What’s wrong with staying home?” *sigh* I guess I can pretty much rule out going anywhere until the Vegas trip.

My goal (okay, one of my more achievable goals) is to go to all 50 states, and not just GO to them, but to spend time driving through them and taking in what things set them apart from other states and places I have seen. On my first trip driving (okay, I guess I was pretty much RIDING) from North Carolina to Minnesota, I noticed that each state had one or two things that stuck out about them. Something different that I hadn’t really seen before. Something that set them apart from all the other states. So, I wrote those things down. And started making a journal of my journey through each of the states. I did the same thing for the trip from Minnesota back to North Carolina, and again when we headed home and took a detour through Florida.

I don’t know what spurred me to do this, I just know that I started about halfway through West Virginia on the first trip to Minnesota, and now I desperately want to finish it by completing all 50 states. Some of the states that I am “missing” I have been to, and I have spent time driving through, but didn’t really take time to look around and observe my surroundings and figure out what exactly I found fascinating about that particular state. Instead I spent my time sleeping, or with my face buried in a book, or some game that my brother and I were playing in the backseat—or fighting with my brother over who was taking up more than their half of the backseat. Either way, I find that I’m really bummed out that I didn’t take advantage of that driving time and learn more about the great states that make up the country I live in.

So, I have decided to restart. I have my observations from the trips from North Carolina to Minnesota and back, but as far as I’m concerned, I haven’t been to any of the other states—since I remember nothing about them.

I’m so excited about this “project” of mine, and have found that not only is a good reminder of what I found unique about certain places, but it also spurs memories of my husband’s and my trips. When you spend 2 weeks basically living out of a vehicle and hours on the road, driving through certain states (Alabama) where the only thing on the radio is the “twang”iest backroads country you’ve ever heard, and gospel, you learn quite a bit about each other, and find that you can have conversations about some of the strangest things. Not to mention some of the things you do to entertain yourselves and each other, all while going completely stir-crazy in a Blazer that is literally packed to the ceiling with all kinds of items that are being moved “home”.

Either way, I think the most exciting part about this project, is not only that it involves traveling, which I love, but that I have every intention of completing it with my husband and best friend, since we basically started it together, and since he’s my “driver”. J. I can’t wait until the next time that we can just jump in the car, and take off for the next route with new states to see and new observations to make. I have 15 states down already, which leaves only 35 left!

I can’t wait until the next time that I can put on my traveling shoes.

“A man on the corner, said ‘Son, what would you choose—the life that you’re livin’ or this pair of travelin’ shoes?’ Well there’s a place called California, and the road there is free, so it’s off to California for me”

-“California” Tyler Hilton

Where My Heart Lies..

So, a couple blog posts ago, I talked a little about Steve’s homecoming from Afghanistan, and something about “inspiration” on my part. I still haven’t really figured out what all that entails yet, but I have an idea of what I’d like to start with, but still have some work to do on figuring out how to go about it.

During Steve’s time in Afghanistan, I happen to know that there were very few guys with him, that were married, or even had fiancés or girlfriends. And there were a couple of them, that I felt genuinely sorry for because I know they didn’t get as many letters or care packages as the others. Not that they didn’t have mothers and fathers or siblings or grandparents or whomever that cared about them and loved them dearly. But to be honest, the way it generally works parents and other family are frequently more “out of the loop” than wives, fiancés and girlfriends. Mostly because the SOs find each other. Via Facebook, their husbands, the FRO. Parents don’t generally seek each other out (although some do!) I tried my best to keep Steve’s parents, and family (and mine as well) “in the loop” about how he was doing, what he could use if they wanted to send a care package, and things like that. But, as I said, there were some guys who didn’t have girlfriends or wives to relay information to their parents, and their parents didn’t have a support system that helped in relaying information.

The wives would frequently get together and make care packages. Sometimes all of the unit wives would get together and make “generic” care packages—for all of the guys in the unit to distribute evenly. So all of them would feel included. But, there were also times when just a few of the wives would get together and make care packages “together” but for their own SOs—and quite frequently, at that!

That being said, I found myself feeling bad for those Marines that were a part of Steve’s unit that didn’t have someone who was sending them letters or care packages every week like the ones with wives and/or very dedicated parents! I was fortunate enough, to be able to “provide” for one of those Marines in a round-about way, just by sending stuff to Steve. I tried to send LOTS of EVERYTHING that I sent, so he didn’t have to “give up” one of the “treats” I sent him, by sharing. And I think every time I sent him, the next phone call he received after he got the package he would say “Eckstrom really liked your cookies”, or “Me and Eckstrom ate that whole thing of Oreos”. I was so glad that he was sharing, and that someone else was looking forward to getting MY packages that I was sending.

Now that Steve is home, and done, and I no longer have my own Marine to send letters and care packages to, I really want to find someone (or multiple others) that I can “adopt” and continue to send care packages to. I don’t think that any of them should ever have to go more than 2 weeks without getting a letter and/or care package. When you’re in the desert, facing death every day, there isn’t a lot to look forward to. Not even weekends or holidays, which essentially don’t exist over there. About the only thing, is mail. And I would love nothing more, than to give as many of them something to look forward to as possible.

This is probably the more “attainable” part of my desire. I have been kind of trying to get the word out to other military wives and families that I know that are still actively connected to the military, and have husbands that are deployed. The easiest way to find out which Marines aren’t getting much mail is to go straight to someone in their unit! I also am hoping that some of the FROs can provide me with some names and addresses that I would be able to use—and maybe help me get the word out so that someday I can maybe have a “system” down.

The other part of this “desire” that still needs some work, is my desire to have someone at a homecoming for everyone. I watched numbers Marines get off the bus after a 7 month long deployment, grab their bags, and head straight for their vehicles. No one there to celebrate their accomplishments with them, no one there to welcome them home. I realize they are not only men, but Marines—so they aren’t nearly as devastated as I am for them. But I still can’t help but think that they were secretly hoping that SOMEONE would be there for them. That SOMEONE would still be waiting for them after 7 months.

Now, I’m not entirely sure how to go about this aspect of it. Homecomings are the most incredible experience on the face of the earth, and I would love nothing more than to go to the homecomings myself and welcome them home and thank them for all they have done. But, I also think it would be unfulfilling (for them), not to mention a little awkward, to have a complete stranger standing there waiting for you upon your return. At this point, my only possible idea for how I could do this, would be to find some way to raise money to pay for family members to go out there, or to attempt to “raise awareness” or how much it would mean to the Marines to have at least one of their family members or friends there for them when they return. But, that’s a lot of money that I have to figure out how to raise, and that’s a whole new level of “connecting” with families, that might prove to be very difficult, so I am still working on this part of my goal.

I have also frequently thought about joining the Ladies Auxiliary. I have been learning more about what kinds of things they do through the newsletters that Steve receives from the VFW. I realize that the Ladies Auxiliary is probably made up of a bunch of old ladies—just like the VFW is made up of a bunch of old men (plus Steve and his brother). But I still have a desire to be a part of it. To be a part of the things they do. To use it as a way to stay connected to our military and to help them in any way possible. Unfortunately, I also found out that they hold their meetings at 2 pm on Wednesdays—probably the reason it is only old ladies that are a part of it. I wish they would hold their meetings in the evening so people who work could attend. I am thinking about contacting them, and seeing if they would consider changing it to better accommodate the “younger” wives in the area.

So there it is. My desire, my goal, where my heart lies. My heart still lies with the military and helping people in it. Hopefully I can find a way for my heart to be fulfilled.

Tales of the Married...

First off, I’d like to say, that I have what is probably the most amazing husband in the whole world (maybe I’m a little biased?). And every day seems to be a new adventure and hold some new “quirk” that I usually find quite comical.

One of the first things I found out upon living together is that Steve has a very complex methodology for waking up in the morning. He sets a total of 3 alarms. 2 on his phone, one on an alarm clock strategically placed at the opposite end of the room. They all go off at different times. The first one, I call the “If I get up now, I can take my time getting ready, watch some TV and eat breakfast”. The second one would be the “I have plenty of time to get ready, and can eat breakfast if I inhale it on my way out the door”. The third one (the one across the room), of course is the “I need to go now, I’ll be lucky if I have enough time to get my pants buckled before I get out the door” alarm. As with 95% of the rest of the population—he never actually gets up until the last one goes off.

This sometimes results in a lot of confusion for me, and sometimes black eyes for Steve. One morning, after his first alarm went off, I apparently fell back asleep and dreamt that he had already left for work. After hearing his alarm #2 going off, I shot straight up (perhaps a flashback from deployment days), and began to reach across the bed in the direction of the ringing phone. Except Steve hadn’t left for work and was still in bed next to me, causing my over excited reach to end with my elbow in his cheek. I have always been the type of person who hears the alarm and has it shut off before it can beep twice, because I can’t stand the sound of blaring noises right away in the morning. So I have gone from listing to half a beep for an alarm, to having to listen to 3 go off every morning for about 5 minutes each—I usually kick him by the third one so he will get up and shut it off. I usually fall back asleep in no time though, since I never get up until 7:30.

Now, to change gears a little, when Steve gets home, he usually has a little bit more work to do on his computer, so he messes around with that while I make supper, and then while we are eating supper, I will attempt to have a conversation with him. Since our “kitchen table” is better known as our “coffee table”, the TV is generally on and as with most men when the TV is on, he is completely zoned out. I could strip naked and to streaking right in front of him out the front door and around the block and in the back door and he would have no idea that I even left. (I just asked him if this was a valid statement, to which he replied “it depends what’s on”). So, all hope for a conversation is pretty much lost.

That being said:

This morning, the plumber was scheduled to come to fix our backed up sewer. I had called my grandma yesterday to see if she could stop at our house and lock it up since Steve and I would both be at work—Steve in Alex, and me in Starbuck. Steve contemplated just staying home, and starting work late so he could be here in case they needed anything, and lock up himself. So, this morning, his alarm(s) went of at 5, 5:15, and 5:30 (the normal times), and he laid in bed contemplating whether to go to work at the normal time, or start late and stay with the plumber. He had asked me what he should do the night before, and I told him it was completely up to him.

Now, this isn’t the first time that this has happened, but all of a sudden, at 5:30am, he wants to hold a conversation with me. This morning it happened to be about the “stay or go” dilemma, but usually it is about other things. While I appreciate the fact the he wants to be conversational, I have yet to figure out why 5:30am, when I’m trying to sleep, is the magical time of the day that makes him all chatty.

After I silenced the conversation by responding with “it doesn’t matter to me what you do, it’s a decision you have to make yourself”, I thought for sure I was on my way back to dreamland. Here is how the next ¹/₂ -1 hour went:

Steve gets out of bed.

Steve turns on REALLY BRIGHT hallway light.

Kayla rolls over, turns back to said light.

Steve gets back in bed and snuggles up to Kayla.

Steve gets out of bed.

Steve gets dressed in his work clothes.

Steve leaves room for about 5 minutes.

Steve comes back, lays on top of covers.

Steve gets up.

Steve takes off dirty pants/shirt.

Steve crawls back in bed.

Steve snuggles up to Kayla and damn near pushes her off the other side of the bed.

Kayla gets ZERO sleep after methodic alarm schedule that started at 5:00am.

Needless to say, Steve decided to take a late start and stay at the house and wait for the plumber. Despite the fact that I was crabby all day—due to a bad day at work, and 2¹/₂ fewer hours of sleep, I couldn’t be crabby at him. I came home to the basement floor wet, but cleaned up after the sewer created quite a mess, and the “tracks” on the kitchen floor from going back and forth also cleaned up. I love him!

Brutal Honesty

So, maybe I haven’t been entirely honest about why I wanted to stay in North Carolina, and why, now that I am back in Minnesota, I am wishing I could go anywhere but here. Yes, I did really, really like North Carolina, and wish I could have stayed. There are many things that I love about that place. The weather (believe it or not), the architecture, the scenery, the history. I love it all. And I would gladly go back there. But, I would likely be just as happy going anywhere else too. Anywhere but here. Even somewhere that I’ve never actually been before. Why? The honest truth?

I feel like I don’t belong here. And I don’t know that I really want to. Before I moved to North Carolina, I found myself feeling like I wasn’t where I should be. I tried to force myself to believe that it was because Steve was in North Carolina, and I was here, but there was always a part of me that had the feeling that it was something different that was making me feel that way. Maybe because I had felt like that before Steve even left.

This was probably the biggest driving factor in my decision to move to North Carolina. I used “I didn’t have a job anyway” as an excuse, but to be honest, I wasn’t searching all that hard. If something would have landed right in my lap, I probably would have taken it, but what were the chances of that happening—especially in THIS job market? Reality is, I wanted to go. I NEEDED to go. I had to see if my suspicions of what I was feeling were correct, or if it was just an unexplainable feeling I would always have.

When I packed up and moved out there, I was so excited. It is something that I had wanted for a while. I had friends out there, before I even moved. Friends that I shared a special bond with that would never be broken, friends I had all kinds of things in common with, and friendships that had become some of the best friendships I had ever had in the short 7 months before I had even moved out there.

The 4 months I lived out there were the most exciting, and happiest months of my life. There is something very liberating and stress-free about being out on your own, being able to be who you want to be, and do what you want to do. I loved every minute of it. And for the first time in a long time, I felt like I fit somewhere. I felt that feeling inside me disappear and actually stay away for a full 4 months. I had hoped that this 4 months would give me a long enough break from this feeling that maybe when I went back to Minnesota, it would stay away.

One of my favorite pictures of home...

It seems like it was almost immediately after I returned to Minnesota that the feeling returned and hasn’t left since. Everyday my eyes are opened to another reason why I wish I was somewhere else. Why I simply don’t belong here. Why I am meant to be in a location other than here. Each day, I wish more and more, that I was on my way to somewhere else. That I could take my husband and I, and our jobs, and transplant them somewhere else. To go from an environment where I was happy, had no stress, lots of friends, and felt “at home”, to an environment where I constantly feel out of place, have stressors that likely shoot my blood pressure through the ceiling, and have called my home all my life, but have no friends, is almost unbearable. And the biggest reason I want to go back to a place where I felt like I was at home.

Someday I hope (only because I know that I will never actually get to move) that I can find my place here, and that it will begin to feel like home, but right now, I don’t feel like that will ever happen. Unfortunately, I think it will always be this way. And that I will always struggle with the desire to go somewhere, to live life in a different location, to recreate who I am and who I want to be. But for now, it is back to the old way of doing, the old way of feeling, in the place I’ve always called “home” but has never felt like home.

“’Cuz I’m a rambling (wo)man, I ain’t ever gonna change. I’ve got a gypsy soul to blame and I was born for leaving…”

-Zac Brown Band

Sometimes When Words Fail You, Inspiration Is Born...

Last year, at this exact moment, I was on my way to the gymnasium at Courthouse Bay on Camp LeJeune in North Carolina. It was down pouring in rain, and had been for almost a week.

About ¹/₂ hour earlier, I had gotten the most exciting text message I had received in at least 8 months, probably my entire life. One of my fellow military wives and I had been driving around look at the “Welcome Home” signs notoriously hanging on the fence. The fence surrounding the military base is always COVERED in them. Someone removes them every Thursday, and by Friday, they are covered again. It’s become a permanent and familiar fixture in Jacksonville and the other towns surrounding the base. It is a good indication of how many families are reunited each week, and how many Marines return home safely after fighting for my freedoms for 7+ months. And what a good reminder they are! We were taking it all in, when I got it—the text message.

It was 3 words, but spurred the excitement I was already feeling to new heights you wouldn’t even think imaginable. “Through the gate.” I read it to my friends who was driving and we were immediately done admiring signs and off the gymnasium, through the flooded roads in the pouring rain. We had endured 7 long months without so much as a phone call from our husbands, a grand total of 4 delays, and what seemed like a ridiculously long drive bus ride (for our Marines) from Cherry Point, to Jacksonville.

And they were finally here. When we got the gym, we waited, and waited, and waited. The top priority of whoever was in charge of our Marines was to get the guns to the armory and get them locked up. I guess that’s a reasonable top priority…but not much fun when you are waiting for them to arrive.

After what seemed like two hours of waiting, but was probably really just ¹/₂ hour (in the rain, no less) we finally saw the bus. At a turtle’s pace, it pulled closer and closer and…kept going. Chinese Water Torture, anyone? It continued to go at a turtle’s pace around the block and finally came to a stop in front of the crowd of rain drenched, but still excited family members. 

I find it kind of funny. I don’t really remember the rain. I mean, I know it was raining, but I don’t really remember it. I don’t remember wishing that it wasn’t raining, I don’t remember complaining about being wet, and cold while standing outside waiting for the bus to get there. I think I was so excited to be there. To be able to be at the homecoming. To be a part of something so exciting. And to be living my life, that the rain was completely irrelevant, and unimportant.

Apparently one of the people “in charge” (perhaps the same one who ensured the safety of the weapons at the armory?) had some compassion. I had never been to an ordeal like this before, but was informed by others who had, that generally they get off the bus, and are led in front of, and past the crowd of people standing in the rain waiting for them, without the ability to acknowledge their presence, and would meet in the gym for one final formation (as if someone would be careless enough to miss the bus that was bringing them home) and one final “debriefing”. Does this sound familiar to anyone? Perhaps from reading about my boot camp experience?

I think some people were rather surprised when the first of our Marines stepped of the bus, and almost impossibly instantaneously located his wife/girlfriend/sister/whoever, and with one swift motion, picked her up and hugged her. The Marines continued to file of the bus—some picking their family members out of the crowd unbelievably quickly, while others—presumably those who did not have family members there to greet them—went straight to the storage compartment of the bus, and began unloading the bags.

While I stood their waiting for Steve to get off the bus, part of me wanted so badly to go to the guys who didn’t have family or friends their to greet them, to tell them how much they missed them, to thank them for what they did, and to welcome them back to the US of A. But even being a military wife, and being involved in the military lifestyle, and being exposed to Marines on a regular basis, it seems words fail you in a situation like that. So instead, I said nothing. Instead, I stood and observed that slowly, but surely, as more and more Marines filed off the bus, the crowd was overcome more and more with desert cami color, as families—mothers, fathers, children, wives, aunts, uncles, and friends were reunited with their Marines. Two of these men held their first child for the first time on this day, after missing the birth of their babies while they were in Afghanistan.

I continued to wait, and wait, and wait, beginning to think that Steve had somehow been left in Afghanistan, or Bulgaria, until he FINALLY stepped off the bus—one of the last ones—I should have known he would do that to me…

And there we met, about 3 feet from the bus, in a sea of other men in uniform and reunited families. There I finally got my turn to be picked up, and hugged. There is where I finally got to see my husband, and finally start BEING husband and wife—even though we had already been married for 9 months. It’s more or less where my married life started—maybe we should count THIS day as our anniversary, since we are having so much trouble deciding which date to use as our “official” anniversary.

There is so much more that I could say about this day, but for now I think I will leave it at that. It’s so hard to come up with words to describe something that few other people have experienced, and will ever experience. I am hoping some day I will find the words to describe what it’s like the moment you see someone you love for the first time after 7 months of only talking to them on the phone. But much like when I was watching Marines step off the bus with no one to greet them, words fail me now as well.

I will say this though, although I have said that this day was a beginning, it was kind of bittersweet, because I knew it was an ending too. I knew that this would be the last homecoming of this caliber, that we would never again be separated by the military (unless there is a war of epic proportions—knock on wood that doesn’t happen), and I knew that from here on out, the rest of Steve’s military career would merely consist of “going through the motions” to make everyone happy. All of the things that had made me feel so strong, so independent, and so supportive, were coming to and end. And although there is excessive amounts of stress that came with the job title, there was so much pride, and so much courage that came with it also, that cannot, and will not, ever be able to be replaced.

There was so much that I learned during the 7 months that Steve was in Afghanistan, about who I was, what I was capable, and what I wanted to do. Perhaps some of it was spurred by the sight of Marines with no one to greet the, perhaps some of it was from knowing that Steve shared his care packages with a buddy who didn’t get very many, perhaps it was a desire to continue to be connected to the military and supportive of our troops in any way that I could, but following this deployment, I had a desire. I’m still working on what all that desire entails, and how I want to go about it, but hopefully in the next few weeks, I will be able to find some way to go about it, and have enough information to post about it, and maybe involve some of my readers who want to be a part of it as well (is this the longest run-on sentence you have every seen, or what?!). Only time will tell if I find a way to fulfill my desire!

In the meantime, I will bask in this day, knowing that last year, at this time, the best part of life (the married and actually getting to be together part) was just beginning. Just remembering the events of this day last year, makes my heart beat faster, and harder, and brings tears to my eyes. And makes me wish that I could remember exactly how it felt, exactly how it happened. Although I still cling to a past lifestyle that I miss dearly, I am starting to be more comfortable with moving on to something new, and continuing a life being married to my best friend.

D-Day

I eventually got my luggage after the ridiculous trip home, and went back to trying to pay attention during classes. Steve was training for pretty much the entire month of February. He spent a couple weeks “in the field”. His parents went out to see him a couple weeks after I had been there. I really wished that I could have gone with them, but instead, I was stuck staying home.

With February being very busy for both of us—Steve with training, me with trying to catch up on schoolwork, it flew by and before I knew it, it was March 6^th—“D-Day’. I t was a Saturday, which made it even worse (no classes or work to keep my mine busy).

I spoke my final words to him, for an unknown length of time, on my cell phone while I was driving home from school. Also not the most ideal—long car rides = ample time to think and let your mind wander wherever it damn well pleases. And at this moment in time, it damn well “pleased” to think about the things going on in Afghanistan, when the next time I would see him or talk to him would be, what exactly our life was going to be like for the next year.

It ended up not being very long before I hear from him again when he called from Germany during his layover there. I know it wasn’t a very long conversation, because calls from Germany aren’t exactly cheap, but I was happy to hear from him.

Once he left Germany, the next place he ended up was Kyrgyzstan. He stayed there for a couple weeks in an airport/air base. This was their time to get acclimated to the time change, the climate and to mentally prepare for the months ahead. The time change was 9 ¹/₂  hours—I’m still trying to figure out where the ¹/₂  comes from, but it’s there! So, his days literally became his nights, and his nights turned into days.

This also began the waiting game. And the constant changing of minds. During his time in Kyrgyzstan, I talked to him a couple times, and each time when we hung up, he would say “I gotta go! The planes are here!”…and 2 days later he would call again still in Kyrgyzstan.

Eventually they made it out of Kyrgyzstan and to their final destination of Afghanistan. I know that the first place he went, was Camp Leatherneck—which is pretty much the biggest base in all of Afghanistan. And from there, I have no idea where he went. I never knew where he was when he called, other than “in Afghanistan”. I about 95% certain that he never left the Helmand Province (the place where all of the action was happening), but I never knew where exactly he was. He never told me, and I never asked. Would he have told me if I had asked? I have no idea—maybe. As much as I wanted to know, I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want to turn on the news and hear about all the soldiers that were dying in the same area that Steve was in. I knew that it was happening, but I didn’t need the media to “rub in it”.

Many of the other wives, supposedly knew where the guys were, at all times. And sometimes they would tell me (a HUGE violation of OPSEC on their part). However, I tried my best to pretend I didn’t hear. And it was usually kind of easy, because the ones who thought they knew where our men were, were the ones that were relatively new to the Marine Corps, and would have believed that the clouds were made of cheese if someone in the Marine Corps had told them it was. I, on the other hand, had experienced my fair share of the Marine Corps saying one thing, and then changing their minds, again, and again, and again. So I had grown accustomed to not believing much of what I heard.

I wrote him letters almost every day at first, and then it got a little more spaced out as time went on and turned into once or twice a week. However, I sent WAY more than I did for the first deployment, and this deployment seemed WAY easier for me to deal with than the last one. Steve was actually able to call more often—which seems kind of odd. He usually called about once every 2 weeks—sometimes shorter than 2 weeks, sometimes longer than 2 weeks. Some girls got calls every other day. Initially I had hoped that Steve would call me that often too, but as time went on. I was glad that he didn’t. Sure I would have loved to hear from him more—it would be foolish to say that I didn’t want to hear his voice more. BUT, I watched those girls who received frequent phone calls, struggle when the guys were out on missions or in “River City” and unable to call for an extended period of time. It’s like their whole worlds were falling apart. They came to expect their frequent phone calls. I had come to expect nothing. If it weren’t for them, I wouldn’t have even noticed that the guys weren’t able to call.

I also kept a new calendar of obsession. A more detailed and complete one. I, again, made copies of letters, kept track of phone calls, family events, significant pieces of information Steve told me, the care packages I sent and what they contained. When he called, I even made notes as I was talking to him because I wanted to remember everything he said. I also kept a journal that I wrote in every day, as a reminder of how I felt at different times during the deployment. Although I’m proud of myself for doing that well, I still wish that I would have taken more time to write “short stories” about my experiences while I was experiencing them. The longer I am out of the military lifestyle, the more I find myself forgetting the feelings that went along with it. The feelings that had me feeling like I was on rock bottom, the feelings the frequently resulted in my crying myself to sleep, and feeling defeated. But also the feelings that made me proud to bear the title of Marine Wife. The feelings that I know I will never again experience.

Goodbye Again, My Love

(This is another break from my military life story. I seem to be struggling with how exactly to write about the “Afghanistan deployment”. I have it mostly written out, but can’t quite decide how I want to finish it.)

Tomorrow (today) Steve leaves for training for 10 days. I have to leave for work early in the morning, and shortly after, he will be leaving for the cities to board an airplane to Ohio. Which means I won’t see him at all for almost two weeks. I realize that it is Ohio, and not Afghanistan, but I’m still completely dreading this. I know that I have endured far worse, but it is still something that I don’t want to have to go through.

He came home from Afghanistan less than a year ago, and since then, we haven’t been away from each other for more than 40 hours. And the one time we were away from each other for 36 hours, I was awake until 3am because I couldn’t sleep without him there. It’s funny how I spent 4 years at opposite ends of the country as him, and 14 months at opposite sides of the world as  him, and yet I am dreading him going somewhere that is within a days drive of where I will be, and only for 10 days.

It’s hard to imagine life without him—even if it is only temporary. I have gotten so used to coming home and either finding him already there, or knowing that he is on his way. I have grown accustomed to falling asleep in his arms and being able to cuddle up next to him any time I want. I was convinced that the last goodbye before his deployment, was, in fact, the last goodbye that I would have to endure.

Oddly enough, right now, my heart is aching, and I have already found myself trying to hold back tears. Even though I know that it is only for 10 days and that I will live, I can’t seem to convince my heart that this is only short-term. I can’t seem to convince my heart that this will be a “piece of cake” compared to the past good-byes. All of the emotion and heart-wrenching thought of letting him go, has come flooding back, and has my heart thinking that this good-bye will be just like the so many before it, and just as difficult.

I’m not sure how I will feel come tomorrow. Although, my guess is that I won’t really notice it until I get home and find that he isn’t there, and isn’t coming home. I am hoping that I will be able to sleep, even without his arms wrapped around me, and without being able to kiss him goodnight, but I’m thinking it’s not likely. So, my other hope, is that God grants me the same amount of adrenaline as I had when I was in school, so I can continue to run efficiently on minimal sleep.

In many ways I hate myself for even thinking that this is going to be difficult. But when you’ve had to deal with devastating good-bye after devastating good-bye, all of them seem like the end of the world—even when they’re not. So, hopefully I will be able to convince my heart that all will be okay, and that this good-bye isn’t going to be as difficult as all those previous ones. And hopefully my heart is as strong as it was just a few short  months ago…