United.

I used to have the news on in the background as I would get ready in the morning.  My mom always did, and I guess I felt something nostalgic about it- like it was something you did when you’re a grownup.  However, over the past few weeks- I have really hesitated to even turn it on.  I knew it’s not going to be good.  More deaths.  More hate.  More conflicting opinions resulting in longtime friends and even family members turning against each other.  The same thing carries through onto social media.  It’s overwhelmingly dismal.  I find myself having to step back and focus on what is directly in front of me- the welcomed monotony of endlessly reminding my kids to brush their teeth (and yes, even shower) every day.  I almost welcome the chaos of getting three kids out the door, because it’s a happy stress.  Not the feeling of devastation for mankind that is coming through from the media.

Then, last week I went down to Dallas.  My publisher, Tactical 16, was sponsoring and participating in an event to raise money for The Lone Survivor Foundation.  I wasn’t sure what to expect.  I knew there would be a softball game with a mix of celebrities and veterans.  Matthew McConaughey and TobyKeith were the headliners.  I knew to bring my books.  I was armed without expectations, but knowing it had potential to be a great time.

The night before the game I was introduced to Tim Klund (the organizer of the event), Ryan Weaver, and Cristina Coria- and each of them blew me away with their amazing personal stories.  Weaver is a combat veteran, Gold Star Family member- not once- but TWICE, as he lost both his brother and brother-in-law in combat.  His journey of rising to a successful country music star is unlike any others. 

Coria is a retired veteran of the police force.  She has survived many things in her life to include tragically losing her father at the age of 12, being hit (and temporarily paralyzed) by a drunk driver, and a gunshot wound that she barely escaped with her life.  She went on to become a guest on the reality TV show Survivor. 

What captivated me the most with both of these two was their enthusiasm and kindness.  They were survivors.  They had been through the ringer.  And all they wanted to do was to help others that were going through an even more difficult time.

The next night I set up my table of books and began meeting and speaking with many of the guests in the audience.  After the game, the night continued on, and I met the players- celebrities and veterans.  The theme was resounding.  Everyone was here for a reason.  They all had stories.  They all had endured some of life’s greatest hardships, but it didn’t break them.  And they were here to make sure no one else would break.

At one point, I looked out from the top of the stadium at the audience and the players under the lights.  It was a complete rainbow.  They all stood together- black, white, Hispanic, Asian- all colors and nationalities, from all parts of the country.  Everyone had a story about how they got there.  Everyone had ties to or were there to support the military in one way or another.  The veterans weren’t in a war overseas anymore, but they were still fighting for their brothers and sisters standing next to them.  They were still fighting for the people of our country.   

The event served as a huge reminder that we were all united, simply under Red, White, and Blue.  And in a world where so many of the bad stories have become the focus, they gave me hope. 

 

The World's Largest Wild Rice Festival

Well the reunion came and went, and dare I say it was a blustering  success!  20 years of missed conversations with great people all packed into one night.  Anna and I traveled home together sans kids and husbands- something we have not done since our ten year reunion!  Who would have thought we could have the best girls weekend away in Deer River?? (This is us being mature and fun.)


Not only was it our 20^th reunion, Deer River, Minnesota also hosted it over one of the best weekends of the year:  The World’s Largest Wild Rice Festival.  What an amazing coincidence!

Yes, in Minnesota, we have festivals around our native foods!  As kids, we always looked forward to the festivities.  Surprisingly, it took me being gone for 20 years to realize what a unique privilege this little celebration was.  Where much of the year Northerners retreat to their summer cabins on the water, or hibernate during the long winter months in their warm log homes and fireplaces, this little gem of a weekend brings EVERYONE- old and young out of the woodworks.

While the Carnival rides go on for the littles Friday evening through Sunday afternoon, Bingo games sponsored by the Lions Club go on for the older folks that are feeling a little lucky.

Friday evening is kicked off by a Turtle Feed. No this is not a place where you buy food for your pet turtle.  Mr. Turtle is the main dish for this event!  (Hide your turtles, kids!)

Next, the Leech Lake Ojibwe Tribe hosts a Pow-Wow for all to celebrate and learn about their Native American culture through song, dance, and dress.  Everyone is invited to observe and even participate.

Later, the local Vets Club sponsors the Beer Garden all night- where the darkest beer you’ll find is an amber that you can still see through- which is a sin in some countries.  On the other side of the block you can find the street shut down and the dance going on both Friday and Saturday evening.  (This is Anna with her "I don't know what to do with two beers" face.)

If you’re up and at 'em early enough the next day, Saturday is kicked off by the Wild Rice Run (race) and a bike rodeo for the kids to have a chance to win a bike and enjoy some ice cream.  This is serious business for these little guys! 

Saturday is also the big day for the flea market and this isn’t just any flea market.  Here you can find some unique gifts, such as taxidermy...

 Shotguns or rifles for hunting...

And raffles that support the local high school trip to Washington DC with a chance to win a beautiful custom-designed bon fire pit.  Though I entered, I wasn't quite sure how to haul this baby home if I was lucky enough to win.

Sunday afternoon is the big parade, where you will find true hometown pride, as we salute the veterans marching with the flag.  Additionally, we pay tribute to the other hometown heroes- the volunteer fire fighters and EMT workers of Deer River and neighboring towns.

Local businesses, student clubs, and even a princess or two can be spotted riding in the floats and on top of cars. 

All will be throwing candy out into the crowds for eager little ones to come racing into the street and fill their bags- because you can still get away with this in a small town.

And this simple festival is all the town needs for an opportunity to catch up with old friends that haven't seen each other since spring thaw.  One can sit down, enjoy an indian taco with some wild rice soup and a Bud Lite.


The weekend was a whirlwind.  I left with a full belly, sleep deprived, and mentally restored.  In addition to catching up with friends, going home to Deer River reminds me to take the time to enjoy the little pleasures in life that I tend to overlook when I am rushing around to the next big thing.  And this is why I come home.

(photo credits to Anna Lise Photography)

Dear Class of 1997

Dear Class of 1997,

Can we eat nachos yet?

As I have the day off today, I am throwing random clothes into my suitcase for my long awaited trip.  (That is a lie. They're actually color-coded and rolled neatly to prevent wrinkles.)  This weekend I’ll be heading home to Minnesota for my 20^th reunion.  Only four more days! 

20 years!  How crazy is that?  What an accomplishment.  What a lifetime ago- that seems like it was just yesterday.  And when did we get... old?

I’m so beyond excited; however, I cannot help but see a few apprehensive posts and messages on Facebook in addition to the excitement.  Could it be true- that at our 38/39-year-old place in life, that we are still nervous to see the ones that saw us back when we had overall jeans and mullets?

Quick answer?  Yes.  Probably.  There is some stupid pressure that goes along with having been graduated for 20 years.  We should definitely have it all together by now, right?  We should be gently snuggled into our career field of choice, with a 401K growing ever so diligently.  We should have our debts paid off and a nice college fund saved up for each of our kids, right?  We should have our ‘forever’ home bought and at least a decade into the mortgage, right?  Student debts should all be paid off by now, degrees are all completed, and we’re living all happily ever with our significant other. Oh, and we’ve also managed to lose those 15 pounds we’ve been battling since college, or post-babies, or whatever, right?

Oh crap.  But what if we don’t?

What if we’re still trying to figure out what we want to be?  Or paying off debts, or trying to lose the weight?  Hell, I’m still fighting with pimples- and wrinkles!  What kind of an evil is that about?

 And now, we are 4 days away.  I’m thinking I’m probably not going to lose the weight or the wrinkles.  But I was able to color some of the gray out of my hair.  Because I’m sure everyone will care- because I know I’m going to be analyzing everyone else’s gray hair.  Or… not at all. 

The reality is, I’m so beyond excited to see the friends and classmates that I grew up with for 13+ years.  I cannot wait to hear their stories and what their secrets are to surviving this life.  I cannot wait to laugh at old stories, and reminisce.  I cannot wait to share a beer and sincerely just see everyone for who they really are, because there is something so unique and special about the bond that you form as kids.  There is an understanding- an unspoken knowledge of the many things that we all went through to become the adults that we have become.  They know.  They were there.

And so, four days away from my reunion, as I’m packing my suitcase, I think I’m going to enjoy a plate of nachos and a beer.  Maybe I’ll even wait until after noon.  Maybe.

Moose Milk

My inspiration for today comes from the link that was shared with me last night by my fellow Combat Aircrew 9 member, Deena. Somehow, through the glories above, she found the famous/infamous recipe for the Canadian’s Moose Milk. Yes, just the mention of the words Moose Milk conjures up all kinds of images. None of which, surprisingly, are moose.

The year was 2000. Location was Sigonella, Sicily. The mission: Dogfish.

Excerpt from What They Don’t Teach You in Deer River:

“To keep NATO (North American Treaty Organization) forces sharp, in 1975 they developed a joint exercise called Dogfish. Besides us representing the mighty Americans, other participants included the Canadians, French, Germans, Greeks, Italians, Dutch, Norwegians, Portuguese, Spanish, Turks, and the Brits. For almost two weeks straight, our crews worked jointly with our allies in various multi-coordinated anti-submarine warfare operations with a force of ships, submarines, and aircraft. We flew around the clock and engaged in many cat-and-mouse games that worked to improve the coordination and skills of our own military operators as well as our joint NATO force operations. It was both exhausting and a blast!

Of course, upon completion of this exercise, what were we to do but host a marvelously entertaining shindig for all of the aircrew platforms involved. Every country brought drinks and/or food representing their country. The French brought wine and cheese. The Spanish brought sangria - (nicknamed ‘the leg-spreader of the Mediterranean’) the best and most dangerous sangria I’ve tasted to date. The Germans beer and Wiener Schnitzel, and the Canadian’s brought “Moose Milk”. Not literally, as that would be weird - but it was a type of mixed drink similar to a white Russian. I can say that since the Russians weren’t there, because, well Russia always cheats at war games. Just kidding, Russia. xoxo. It was almost like a mini Epcot Center - only with war-fighters and much alcohol. Ironically, I cannot remember what we brought that year. Perhaps Cheeseburgers and Coors Lite? I seriously hope not. But clearly it wasn’t anything to write home about. Or in a book. 

The party proved to be a great time, and after a few swigs of Moose Milk, I headed over to the German table. I was so ready to impress them, so I let loose and recited the only line I could remember from taking two years of German in high school. “Darf ink zur toilette gain?” Which translates to “May I use the toilet?” At least I thought it did. That’s what our German teacher in high school taught us to say if we wanted to use the facilities. Of course that would be the only line that came to mind. The worst part was that I wasn’t even asking where the toilet was - like normal people would. I was asking them for permission. 

They all looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders and replied an apathetic, “Uh, ya...”

“Danke. Ich bin Julia.”

“Sie sind willkommen.” I quickly learned that their German was very different from the German I learned in school. Just like the time I went to a Puerto Rican wedding with my friend, Freddie. I sounded like a formal robot. Thankfully, they were quickly forgiving of my awkwardness (in both occasions), and a good beer fixed everything (again, both occasions). I learned quickly that even a poor attempt to speak another’s language is always worth the effort. Even if you mess it up - they will be grateful that you tried.

I also learned that it’s a bad idea to mix all of the drinks from all over the world. Apparently, there is a reason oceans separate some of us.”

So for your holiday party delights, the Moose Milk recipe below, found on the page: http://m.dailykos.com/story/2013/12/31/1266338/-Royal-Canadian-Air-Force-Moose-Milk-Recipe

It is New Year's Eve, so in order to assist those aviators and airport bums who enjoy entertaining at home, I present the secret recipe for the concoction known to RCAF personnel as "Moose Milk". Originally made with milk obtained from a lactating Alces alces, the practice was eventually curtailed. Too many pilots and flight crew members began attending morning "sick parades" due to a variety of "non-combat related" injuries, leaving no one to "slip the surly bonds".

RCAF MOOSE MILK

 Ingredients:
12 Egg yolks
40 Oz Canadian Whiskey
40 Oz Rum
5 Oz Kahlua
10 Oz Maple Syrup
40 Oz Milk (homogenized – don’t use skim!)
40 Oz Heavy Whipping Cream (not canned)
1 Cup Sugar

Method:
Beat yolks until fluffy and well mixed.
Add sugar and beat mixture until thick.
Stir in milk and liquor
Chill at least 3 hours. Best if can sit overnight.
Then: Whip cream until good and thick (canned whip cream will go flat, so avoid canned cream)
Fold in whipped cream (it will appear as if it has totally thinned out, but don’t worry, that is normal)
Chill for another hour.
Sprinkle the top with nutmeg and cinnamon.]
Should be kept chilled because of the raw eggs.
This should not be a problem as Moose Milk disappears quite quickly.
Should serve a crowd of fifty....
Or ten aviators.

Drink with caution.

Keeping the Watch

My first Thanksgiving after I left home was when I was going through my technical training down at NATTC (Naval Aviation Technical Training Center) Pensacola, Florida, and learning Oceanography and how sound travels through the water.  We students would not be allowed to go on leave until Christmas break, so I was on my fifth month of being away from home and my family since I had left for boot camp back in June.  I had concocted a plan to just go to the galley with a few friends and have a turkey dinner complete with that crazy ‘sweet potato pie’ that they made there.  I had been eating it for weeks now thinking it was a weird pumpkin until someone politely corrected me.  Coming from the North, I had no idea people made sweet potatoes into a pie.  The idea was absurd.

When I awoke on Thanksgiving after the rare chance of sleeping in until 0800, I went down to the common areas to find that my LPO (Lead Petty Officer) of the performing units was setting up a table for our grand lunch.  As the day went on, he and his wife and a few other friends had brought in home-cooked dishes of Turkey, stuffing, and the whole works.  Our folded table stretched long down the hall and fit nearly 30 of us.  That afternoon we sat and gave thanks for our first home-cooked meal in nearly half a year.

The next year, I went on my first overseas deployment to Iceland.  I arrived there a week before Thanksgiving, and felt like I had landed on another planet.  I knew not a soul, but was assigned to combat aircrew #9.  A few days later, my crew and a few of their wives that had come to visit on the rock they called Iceland had made arrangements for a wonderful Thanksgiving dinner complete with a folding table and paper plates.  It was prepared in the Flight Operations room, so those of us that were on duty could enjoy a dinner and reflect on our gratitude.  I had been so lonesome for my family, but that day I had the opportunity to get to know my new family.  I was so impressed that the officers on my new crew included us enlisted guys in their celebrations.  I quickly came to learn that they always would take care of us, ensuring our meals before their own. 

As the years went on, and we were deployed or on duty on Thanksgiving or the holidays, this would continue as our new tradition.  No matter where we were, someone would always put together make-shift meal at some folding table.  Sometimes it would be me, mastering the art of a Ramen-Noodle Casserole, deli-sliced turkey, and canned cranberry jelly, or whatever I could come up with in the barracks.  Really, it didn’t matter.  And as a tradition, we would express our gratitude for all that we had in that moment and remember those less fortunate.  We would all have those fleeting moments of sadness as we thought about what our family back home was doing that moment and the traditions we were missing.  But then we would look around and remember that we weren’t alone.  We had each other.  And together we kept the watch.

Tradegy vs. Human Spirit

As I write this, the city of Duluth, Minnesota (about an hour and a half from Deer River) is in a state of emergency.  They have received torrential downpours that have resulted in over a foot of water in less than 24 hours.  Roads are underwater.  Manhole covers are literally blowing off.  Sinkholes are appearing our of nowhere. 

While citizens have lost their homes and vehicles, so far no deaths have been reported which is a miracle in itself.  Unfortunately the city’s zoo was not so lucky. 

“Police officers helped track down a polar bear that got out of its enclosure overnight at the low-lying Lake Superior Zoo where several animals drowned.” ~The Associated Press.

This beautiful city on a hill was originally settled by the Sioux and Chippewa Native Americans.  French fur traders and explorers were the next to arrive in the area.  The railroad was established, and in 1878 Duluth was incorporated as a city.  It soon became a ship-building, lumbering, iron-ore taconite mining area that served as one of the most important centers of shipping on the Great Lakes and remains that to this day.

For us growing up, it was always a special treat to go to Duluth.  It was the largest city near us, full of character and things to see and do.  It bursts with history and emplodes with character. 

Today, Duluth is struggling- literally to keep their head above the water.  (Sorry- too cliché, I know.)

So today I ask of you to please keep Duluth and it’s citizens in your prayers and hearts for the next few weeks and even months as they begin to pick up the pieces of their homes and city.  They will rebuild because the people there are tough Northerners who have endured some of the harshest conditions much of their lives.  They are hardworkers and they are full of sisu. (Finnish for fortitude- my favorite word.)

Of course they will need help.  But that is what we do when a part of our country is down.  We help them back up on their feet.  Whether it’s the hurricanes on the Eastern and Gulf Shores, flooding along the Mississippi, the fires and earthquakes out West, the tornados in the Midwest, the ice storms in New England, or the Twin Towers in NY. 

Our country steps in and donates their time and extra money- whatever is needed to help the victims. I've seen happen time and time again.  That is the spirit that takes over when devastation attempts to deplete our hope.  It is humanity at its best.

All my love, Duluth, Minnesota.  You will survive.  We will help.

 http://newsfeed.time.com/2012/06/21/flash-floods-swamp-duluth-minn/#minnesota-flooding#ixzz1yQdQMLtb

http://www.wday.com/event/article/id/65330/group/News/, WDAY NEWS 6, More Flooding Video from Duluth, MN

 

http://www.u-s-history.com/pages/h2126.html, History of Duluth, Minnesota

Photo credits:  Bob King / Duluth News Tribune via AP


Want to help?  Visit:

http://www.redcrossmn.org/detalle_noticias.asp?SN=10910&OP=10911&id=12246&IDCapitulo=7K58A866M7

Doing the Best We Can

In Honor of Mother’s Day this Sunday, I thought I’d share what I've considered to be one of the most important lessons I believe that I've learned about motherhood.

**********

My best friend and I had our babies within weeks of each other.  The next ones were born within months of each other.  By the time we had our last, we had 5 kids between us- all under the age of 4.  Some days were wonderful.  Most of them were hard.  It didn’t help that our hormones were completely out of whack at the same time.  

A typical conversation of ours over the phone:   “Maybe if we can just get to one of our houses together, we can help each other make it through the day.”  The thought of a simple task such as cooking lunch for the children seemed near impossible.  I was also still feeling weak from my last C-section.  

So we would get together and try to work in 'shifts'.  One would cook with a baby on her hip, serving up plates like an assembly line and the other would be carrying around another baby while supervising the older 3 that were somewhat 'playing' together.  Some days we’d work on thriving.  Some days we were just trying to survive.

We had both struggled with bouts of PPD.  One day it got the best of her.  She fell into an even darker place.  Her husband supported her in every way he could.  Still, it was hard to understand.  And even though I understood- there wasn’t much I could do to help.  I was still struggling to keep my head above water as well.  I listened to her and quietly cried with her.   

On a particularly bad day, I decided that I needed to call her mother- who was like a second mother to me.  She would know what to do.

Without hesitation, her mom flew across the country to be with her daughter as soon as she could get a ticket.  I (trying my best to help out) picked her up at the airport.  At the sight of her I couldn’t hold my tears in any longer.  I wanted to be strong for my friend, but inside I was secretly dying too.

I couldn’t help but wonder what I was doing wrong.  Everyone else made it look so easy.  They said they were happier now as a mother than they’d ever been before in their life.  What was wrong with me?  I felt like I had not only failed myself, I had failed my children.  This was not how I had envisioned it...

I crumbled in her mom's embrace.  Minutes passed.  Finally I pulled myself together enough to drive home.  Along the way I answered many questions and concerns she had about her daughter.  I know she understood.  I knew she’d know what to do to help her.

And then, she looked at me and said, “You know Julia, my mother made many mistakes. She had a lot of things going on in her life when I was young.  I harbored resentment towards her for a long time.   And then one day when I became a mother, I had this simple realization that changed everything. I realized that my mother had been just doing the best she could with what she knew.  I was finally able to let go of the grudges I had held towards her.  And I realized that is all I can do too.  That’s all any of us can do.”

It was such a simple statement, but it changed everything.  I clung to those words.  Things began to get easier as they usually will do.  Not over night, but eventually.  And one day I realized, I too really loved being a mom.

I couldn’t imagine my life any other way.  Despite the fact that I'm not Martha Stewart or June Cleaver, I too had something to offer my children.  All mothers do.

Years later, when given the opportunity, I tell all new mothers- including my little sister who had a baby 3 weeks ago-  we are all just doing the best we can.  It’s such a simple statement- but such a release.  We can let go of the judgment of others and ourselves, the fantasies of being perfect, and the guilt for falling short.  Some days all you need to worry about is surviving.  Tomorrow you can work on thriving.

Crossing the Line

This week I was prompted by Red Writing Hood to write about a time someone crossed the line.  This is a piece about a time I did just that.  Literally.





I had an hour left on my 12-hour shift with 2 flight schedules left to deliver.  It was New Years Eve in Keflavik and most people had already begun their drunken rendezvous.  How I longed to be one of them instead of Duty Driver.

I decided to take a shortcut across the backside of the flight line since it was empty of taxiing aircraft due to the holiday and the hour. I was cruising along, jamming to the only American station that came in- elated to hear English.  It had been too long.

Suddenly flashes of red and blue lights from a base security vehicle cascaded in my mirror and blinded my eyes.  Alarmed, I immediately stopped the van.  Instants later, muffled shouts came from my window.  I glanced in their direction and my gaze was met by the muzzle of an M-16.
  

“EXIT THE VEHICLE IMMEDIATELY KEEPING YOUR HANDS VISIBLE AT ALL TIMES!”

I was paralyzed.  Surely this was a mistake.  I was in uniform, driving a government vehicle.

“SHOW ME YOUR ID- NOW!”  I snapped out of my trance and obeyed.  The dark figure in uniform escorted me in front of the van- directly in the beam of the headlights.

Other vehicles soon surrounded us. 

“On your knees, hands behind your head!”

This has got to be a bad dream.

My American aggressor trudged through the snow away from me and began talking on a scratchy hand-held radio.  This forced him to remove the rifle from my face.  It was nice of him.  The ice began melting under my knees.  I thought of the two flight schedules I had left to deliver.

“Please, what is going on?”  I pleaded to one of the other guys walking over.  I glanced back at our hangar a few hundred feet behind me, wondering if anyone in my squadron could see the chaos.

“Do you know what a ‘red line’ is?”
 

I stared at him blankly as if it were a trick question.  Of course I knew what a red line was.  They surrounded all of the places that were off limits.  I had been warned extensively.  My legs were going numb from the cold and my nose began to run.

Just then, Mr. Rifle Man came back.  “What are you doing on the flight line?” he asked sounding more like an accusation than a question.

           

“I was... delivering... flight schedules."

“Are you aware that you have crossed over a point of no-entry?”

           

“I did?  Where?”  I was confused.  I had driven here before- without a rifle shoved in my face.

“That is where you came from.” He pointed.  "The point of entry is approximately 20 feet to the left.” 

           

I squinted out into the blackness, straining to see my tracks.  Maybe it was the darkness, or the endless snowdrifts, but I saw no such red line.  Still, I nodded.

“Stand up,” he commanded.   “You're gonna have to come with us.”

“Please- my squadron- my SDO is right over there.”  That day the SDO was my 3P (third pilot) affectionately called “Sweet Pea” because of his cherub-like face.  I pointed to the hangar that was a good baseball’s throw length away.  By a professional player that is.

Oh, I was done.  I could see it now.  I’d been in this squadron barely over a month now and already in a dire predicament.  I began shaking.  Partly from the cold, and partly due to the anxiety that began welling up inside me.

Mr. Rifle Man began talking on his radio again.  The guy next to me tried to talk.  In that moment he could have told me that he enjoyed licking spotted frogs and I would not have remembered.  All that I could think about was what was going to happen to me.

Then, in the small light from the hangar, I could make out the SDO trudging down the snowy flight line.  I was flooded with relief upon the sight of a familiar face.  As he approached I shot him the best I’m-so-sorry-please-don’t-be-mad face I could muster.  He simply shook his head.

           

I don’t know what he said to Rifle Man, but soon after, they released me to him.  We drove back to the duty office in silence. 

At last, I broke it by saying the only thing I could.  “I’m so sorry, Sir.”  My voice wavered.  Don’t do it.  Don’t get emotional.

“Airman Maki, stop.” There was a long pause.  Then in a business-like tone he continued. “I trust you will be more careful around the red lines from now on.”
 

“Yes, Sir.”

And true to my word, I avoided red lines like the plague.

Broken

(Photo courtesy of stock.xchng)

They say you’ll never forget your boot camp bunk-mate, and I can attest that a true statement.  Her name was Sheila.  Though we never stayed in touch, she taught me many lessons during the longest nine weeks of my life.

 

She was the first African-American I’d ever met.  Sure, I’d seen black people before on TV and when we’d drive down to The Cities.  I wasn’t racist because I had no reason to be.  I never had to fight the white/black wars.  If anything, Sheila was a novelty.  I marveled at her gorgeous cocoa-colored skin.  I wanted to touch it- to feel if it really was different.

We became good friends during those transforming nine weeks.  We depended on each other, and looked out for each other,  and I did eventually touch her skin.  I held her ankles during sit-ups, helping her up from the ground.  It really didn’t feel any different, and after a while I didn’t even notice that it was a different color.

However, there was another difference.  I never realized how different African-American hair was from mine.  I had no idea that many of those long, beautiful braids people had were often fake hair.  Not until the day our RDC broke Sheila.

She had beautiful, classy-looking braids in her hair that ended up growing just a little bit below collar.  Collar-length was our limit.  One day, the RDC came by and said she had better have them pinned up at all times.  Most times she did, but after marching in the heat all day long, a few would slip out.

Catching them like that one day, the RDC ordered her to remove them all.

Reluctantly doing as she was instructed, Sheila began struggling to unbraid these perfect strands of shiny, coal-colored hair.  She began to cry.  One by one they began to fall into a pile on the floor, leaving just about 2 inches of untamed, frizzy hair.  At first I was shocked and panicked, wondering why her hair was falling out.  Soon, two other black girls came by to help her begin the tedious task of unbraiding them all.  I quickly joined, learning as I watched.

Tears continued to stream down Sheila’s face and she watched her beautiful strands fall.  It was plain heart wrenching.  Her beauty, and femininity was being slowly stripped away.  I guess that was the point.  There was no pride here- not unless it was Navy pride.

I wiped away her tears, promising that when this was all over, we’d get it fixed together.    When we finished, her hair was coarse and unmanageable.  It stuck up in every direction and was completely unruly.

And she was beautiful.

The previous is a piece from "What They Don't Teach You in Deer River" and was written in response to Write On Edge's prompt:  "write about a time when something was irrecoverably broken and the ensuing scramble."

The Measure of a Leader

It had already been a painful day.  We had pre-flighted three planes and ‘downed’ all of them.  Engine oil leak here, cracked wing there…  We were always to be quick and efficient, though to be efficient- it was impossible to be quick.  Finally, on the 5th hour of our 3-hour preflight, we deemed the 4th plane good enough to trust with our lives.   We relocated our gear once more and took off.

The Mission:  Deliver three Commanders to ground forces “In Theater” so they could show how efficient our operations were.  It was not a typical day- it was a show-and-tell day.  The Skipper trusted his best crew would accomplish the mission with ease. 

After dropping off the officers, we took off for the sky.   Somewhere in that moment, a gruesome realization struck our unfortunate Technician, Dan.  Instantly his face grew as pale as a ghost.  I thought him to be ill and quickly searched for an empty bag.

“You okay?”

He hesitated, mumbled something and then spit out, “I forgot the antenna!”

Surely I hadn’t heard him right.  “What?!”

“I FORGOT the antenna.  I left it on one of the other 20 effing planes we pre-flighted.”

I racked my brain for a plan- but fell short.  There was no way of transmitting video to the ground without the antenna.  I strained to find words of comfort to my poor friend.  I had nothing.  He shook his head and accepted the inevitable- he was going to have to tell them.

Over the hum of the engines I watched Dan hang his head as he informed our TACCO of the situation.  It was like watching your best friend march off to the firing squads. 

Big Lovin’ was our beloved TACCO.  Rare was a day that this man’s face did not hold a smile, or a song upon his lips.  He was the size of a grizzly, but had the heart of a saint.  I had never seen him angry.

I watched as Big Lovin’s song stopped.  He paused and looked out the diminutive window at the engines.  Dan stood next to him.  The silence was deafening.  He turned back to Dan and instructed him to sit.  Big Lovin’ got on his radio and informed our pilot of the situation.

The arms of the man in the cockpit flailed about in a disturbed manner.  His lips were moving, but it was like watching a silent movie.  After the soundless commotion had stopped, a voice came across the internal radio, “Continue mission as planned.” 

I glanced back at Rugged, the other operator, my eyes asking how were we to continue a mission without the vital piece of equipment.  He just looked back at me, shrugged his shoulders, and began to work the camera.  It was great stuff.  We could see everything as plain as day.  However, we knew without the antenna, they wouldn’t see anything but fuzz on the ground displays.

“Yes sir, these are great shots!”  Big Lovin’ narrated throughout the day, in such refined detail they could have drawn a picture.  “You’re not receiving them, sir?” he asked nonchalantly.  “Hmmm. Interesting.  Perhaps a bad connection?”

And there it was.  Our equipment failed regularly, (recall:  three downed aircraft) a failed antenna wasn’t a hard concept to believe.  The mission wasn’t a detrimental one- simply a show-and-tell.  And, we had failed.  However, all of the information was recorded, so nothing was lost. 

But something else was gained that day.

In a world where making a name for yourself was paramount to making rank, these two officers were men of valor.  They never faulted Dan for the failed mission that day.  Instead, they took a bullet for their crew.   They had his back. They taught us what it meant to be a true leader.  Respect was never demanded- it was a by-product of being honorable.

**Each of us on CAC-9 had our fair share of bad days and stupid mistakes.  That day just happened to be Dan’s.  Still, it didn’t change the fact that we were the best crew in VP-8.  At least that’s my humble opinion.

**True to their character, our pilot went on to have a stellar career as a civilian pilot and Big Lovin’ is now the Commanding Officer of one of the best P-3 squadrons in the World’s Finest Navy.