A Nugget of Time

 This article came about do to the repetitive nature of military meals. Don't mistake this for a complaint. Meals in a combat zone have come a long way. Ask your Dad about C-rations or me about eating MRE's for weeks at a time. I'll take a hot meal over a bagged one any day.

Time is important in our society.  We have devices that measure it down to the millisecond.  Not everyone is that particular about their time, unless you are an Olympic athlete.  Yet, every family has at least one, most of the time multiple, calendars decorating the walls of their homes.  You can flip through any one of these, and the neat blocks littered with reminders.  Anniversaries are highlighted in red for forgetful husbands.  Birthdays and appointments are penciled in neat letters.

            Soldiers hang calendars on their walls here as well.  They are not as much for keeping track of time, as they are for the decoration.  The younger soldiers litter their living areas with monthly girls, or guys depending on the sex of the soldier, from swimsuit and infamous restaurant calendars.  The more age impaired individuals, choose car, motorcycle, or family calendars.  My favorite ones are always the humorous ones.  There’s nothing funnier than looking up at a picture of “Sniper Kitty.” You’d probably have to be in the military to appreciate that one.

            These timely reminders are fairly useless to us.  Everyone begins their tour by marking off each day as it passes.  Eventually, the person comes to realize this is a futile effort.  There are too many days left before your flight home.  It depresses you.  Therefore, you stop marking them down.  Eventually, you even quit looking at the calendar.  Someone will eventually remind you what month it is currently.  You’ll flip from July to August, bringing everything current.

            One day blends into the next.  There is only your work and the missions.  The past day seems much like the previous one.  There seems to be a constant debate on which day of the week it is.  There have been soldiers ready to come to blows over the debate.  Others have placed rather large bets on the correct answer.  There is always some soldier with a calendar watch ready to settle these confrontations.

            The Army, in its infinite wisdom, has found another way to aid the soldiers in keeping track of the continuous days.   It is a full proof method controlled and implemented by the base’s head cook.  It is known as evening chow (military food).  I can imagine that questioning look on your face.  The meals are set out on a menu that I believe is outlined for the next decade, if not century.  It very seldom varies.  The High School cafeteria Lady has nothing on these people.

            I know you are wondering how stringent this schedule is.  It is set in stone!  We no longer refer to the days by their proper names.  Each day is instead, referred by the name of the main course being served.  Laugh all you want.  It works and we can keep up the days in this manner.  I’ve seen visiting officers walk into our building and ask what day it is.  Everyone present turns to them and answers, “It’s chicken quesadilla night, Sir.” After the officer recovers, they always say the same thing, “I mean the real day of the week.”

            There is usually a debate set off with that statement.  If we are lucky, Chaplain is present.  He can always settle it quickly.  No one else keeps up with days correctly. He has to.  It would be a tragedy to give a Sunday service on a Monday.  If nothing else, he can tell you when the last sermon was completed.  You just count the number of days to the proper day of the week.

            My Radio Operator is bouncing in his seat and looking up at the clock.  He’s anxious to go to chow.  That can only mean one thing.  It’s chicken nugget night.  That’s Thursday to you.

Easy Bake

              I came up with this idea the other day when I heard a friend quote Forest Gump, "Life is like a box of chocolates." I realized that chocolates are great and yummy. The complexity of baking cookies was more accurate for me.   

                   Most people have an idea of where and what they want to be in life. People create a game-plan on how to achieve these goals. They are like recipes for success. Some people have a quick recipe where things are thrown together. Others individuals are more meticulous and measure out each ingredient perfectly. I compare it to making homemade cookies. They have to be homemade. Store bought ones require no effort and are the same, despite the manufacture’s claims.

Every cookie starts out with an idea and recipe. A person must have some idea of what is their perfect cookie. Some people like a simple sugar cookie, others prefer a Mississippi mud recipe, and many try for the fancy biscotti. People have to decide whether they want the grand or the simple version. This ensures they have the right ingredients for life.  Marshmallows only work in certain cookies.

            Like any cook, we set our lives out like the ingredients in a recipe. There is the right school added to community service. Or, there is the hunt mixed with military training. There are endless other combinations that can be combined. Then a touch of compassion or a scoop of greed is added to the bowl. Some slowly whisk it together. Others beat it furiously. Both, trying to get the batter perfect, yet going about it differently. I prefer the electric mixer. You get the best of both approaches without the carpal tunnel syndrome.

            It isn’t time to toss them into the oven yet. Each person has to add a little extra this, or little less of that. No one can leave a recipe alone without tweaking it. The same happens with our trip through life. Despite listening to the advice of others, we have to try it ourselves. Our mistakes are not always bad. The right dash of space can set the batter apart from any other of its type. The wrong pinch can turn life into an inedible mess or something barely palatable. I’ve seen people try and disguise these with frosting and sprinkles. That may hide the ugly, but will not change the taste.

            Finally, everything is ready for the baking.  People will divide the batter out into equal portions, or plop it down in blobs. It is per taste and design. Once each little tidbit is arranged and prepared, into the oven they go. Patients and attentiveness are the keys at this point. Not all bakers have that ability.  Take them out to soon; it’s just a gooey mess. If you get distracted, then they are hard and tough. A timer, or an assistant can keep you on track to getting them just right.

            Then comes the long awaited moment, it is time for the tasting. They aren’t always what you dreamed they would be. The choice may not have been the perfect one for you. It may be too sweet, or bitter. Some are even hard to swallow. A few are too soft and chocolaty. There are those that are just right as well. They put a smile on your face and fill you full of joy. A cookie can be better or worse than you expect. It doesn’t matter. It is a cookie after all. Everyone loves a cookie. There will always be someone that will enjoy it with you. You just have to find the right person that likes that type.

Butterflies and Tea

                  Life seems to be extremely fast-paced today. We are constantly zipping from one appointment to the next. You go from work, to school, to soccer practice, to dance recitals and Girl Scout meetings. Then there is work. Forty hours a week never seems enough. There is always overtime, required to meet business needs. Or, there is that next report or proposal that needs to be completed. It leaves little time for our families. We are too busy trying to make a better life for them that we sometimes forget them.

            You can’t tell me you have never done this. You’ve had an extra long day at work, and it was worse than normal. All you want to do is vegetate on the couch for a few hours, become one with the cushions and remote. That isn’t going to happen. Children run through the house trying to capture imaginary dragons, or a fight breaks out over which video game will be played next.  You feel your blood pressure rise. “Don’t the kids understand I just want to relax?”

            You throw the remote down, ready to storm in and demand quiet. But right then, your youngest comes skipping into the living room. They are snatching at the air singing as they go. Being devoid of the imagination you had twenty odd years ago, you ask them. “What are you doing?”

            Without any hesitation, the little one jumps on your lap. A smile crosses their face. “Catching butterflies silly.” They open both hands revealing nothing. Yet, they toss their hands into the air. Their head twists and follows the imaginary butterflies as flirt up to the ceiling. A smile crosses your face as some of the tension drains from your body. Before you know it, you are being lead into a room and set down to tea with an army of stuffed animals.

            Time slips by. The pressure of the day is forgotten as you look into those gleaming happy eyes of your daughter. You don’t realize how much time has passed, until your wife comes to get you for dinner. Her laughter makes you glad that there aren’t any camera’s around. There is no way you would want your friends seeing you in the pink boa, straw hat, and star sunglasses. Your daughter giggles and before long, all of you are laughing.

            Life moves by too quickly. Most of the time, we are caught up in the world of work and the desire for material things. There are too many times that we forget about what really matters in life, the smile from your child and laughter of your family. How long will it be before your little princess is someone else’s queen? Or, your toy soldier is standing the long watch across the sea. So, take the time and share a smile while you can.

Last Flight Home

I wrote this column while I was serving in Afghanistan. One of my readers requested I post some of these. I will post one of these from time to time.

I flew into Bagrahm Air Base, like so many of my fellow soldiers entering this area of Afghanistan.  It was my job to ensure that all our soldiers were pushed out to their perspective bases.  This made me one of the last individuals to depart this destination.  I had to fly to my base on a helicopter extremely early that day.  It was cold gray February and I stood outside the PAX terminal.  A gentle mist filled the air as I hovered under the eaves of a building to smoke.  I chatted with several of the other Senior NCOs.  It was small talk.  Nothing of importance was said.  It was that nervous talk that all soldiers do when you are bored or nervous.

            We were about to light our second smokes when the intercom system for the base came to life.  For soldiers, that is a bad sign.  These systems are used to warn us of dark circumstances.  We all froze waiting.  Was there an attack?  It was worse.  The voice announced that a “Ramp Ceremony” was to begin.  This was far worse news than a rocket or mortar attack.  A “Ramp Ceremony” is the final respects paid to a fallen comrade.  IT meant that we had lost another soldier and that they were making their final trip home. 

Military and civilian personnel began to pour from the buildings.  Everyone began lining the streets along the route that the funeral procession would take.  A gentle silence settled over the base.  A few of the younger soldiers started to complain about standing out in the weather.  They were quickly silenced by looks from several of us older soldiers.  We knew that this could be any of us.  The young ones still thought they were invincible.  That would change by the time they left this country.

We all took a station on the edge of the road, standing at parade rest.  Many of the soldiers were standing in ankle deep water.  The mist had changed to a steady rain.  The heavens seemed to weep at this moment.  I thought of home and my family waiting for my body to be brought to them while I stood there.  I could only imagine the pain of my wife standing there with my two small children, as they brought my flag draped coffin off the plane.

It wasn’t long before the vehicles turned the corner, heading in our direction.  Each soldier came to attention and rendered a salute as the vehicle neared.  They held that position, until all four vehicles passed.  A lump caught in my throat as it passed in front of me.  There were two coffins in the back.  Each was draped with the Polish flag.  Six of their country men sat in the vehicle with them, three to each side.  These weren’t my countrymen.  They were my fellow soldiers and allies.  I said a prayer for their souls and their families.

The vehicles entered the airfield and disappeared from sight.  The crowd dispersed.  No one talked and joked like usually happens when that many people gather together.  Several of us older Vets looked at one another, tears held back.  There was nothing else to do, so went lit up another smoke.  It wasn’t long before our silence was broken by a young soldier.  This had to be his first deployment.  He didn’t look old enough to be out of school. 

“Why’d we do that for them, Sarge? They ain’t even Americans,” he asked.

I was ready to yell at the kid when an old grizzled man stepped up.  He was a civilian that was passing out coffee to all of us.  He handed each of us a steaming fresh cup. His eyes teared up as he spoke to the young soldier.

“It’s simple son.  Those boys came here to do the same job you are doing.  That could be you in one of those boxes as easy as it could be them.  You pay respect to the way they lived, hoping someone would do the same for you.” He then simply turned around and disappeared into the crowd.

I’ve been to more “Ramp Ceremonies” since then.  Some of them were for U.S. soldiers.  The others were for British and Canadian.  They all hit me hard.  I don’t think that will ever change. I still look for that older gentleman whenever I fly to that air base.  There is a need to thank him for his words.  I may never get the chance.  But, I hope someone will do it for me if I can’t.

The Road Home

                 I have been told that, “You can never go home again.” Yes that does come from a famous poet/ writer. I could tell you the author and poem, but what fun would that be. It is far more interesting and educational for you to find it. Sorry, the old teacher in me shows through at times.   Or is it the old sergeant, I’m not sure which it is.

            At one time in my life, I believed the quote to be literal. I scoffed at it. No matter where I traveled too, or how long I was gone. My family and friends were there to welcome me with open arms. Granted, there was an occasional smack to my cranium for not writing or calling. All worries and hurt feelings were soon forgotten, as we caught up on news and compared adventures. There has never been a time when I felt I couldn’t go home to my family.

            Recently, I began to understand the author better. I took a drive around the area where I grew up. I was raised in the mountains of southwestern Virginia. It was beautiful and wondrous place to grow up in.  There were fields and mountains that we explored to our hearts content. Everyone either knew you or your parents, not which was always a good thing when you weren’t on your best behavior. There was no escaping the small town community.

            I left there looking for life and adventure. There have many times I missed my childhood home. However, it wasn’t as much the people and place that I missed. It was the life that I missed. Things were simpler when you were a youth. The pressures of family and work had not come to bare upon your shoulders. Everything always seems better when you don’t have bills to pay. The world was bright and filled with endless possibilities and futures. Places we knew would last forever.

            Most of those places are gone, replaced by more modern buildings. Even some of the characters we loved as children are long gone. Many of the farms and fields have been replaced by homes and businesses. The quiet country lanes have been replaced by modern roads and highways. Some of the same families are still there, however they are caught up in the fast-paced world of modern America.

            The understanding of the quote is clear now. My family and friends will always welcome me. It is just that things will never be as they once were.  I am no longer that chubby little boy, filled with fantasies and ideas of heroics. I have seen the darkness and stood in the light. Things like that change you. As you change, so does the world around you. I can always go home. It just won’t be to the home I knew before I grew.