Too Old For Round 2?

“Well, I’m not going to lie.  You’re old.”

This was not necessarily new information to me, but I did believe it was all relative.  Situational.  I mean, in my day-to-day, I didn’t run into too many age discrimination situations.  In fact, it had often been that I was rather young in my current job for so long, that somewhere in there my age must have crept away from me.  Perhaps it was lost in those sleep-deprived, mommy brain moments that came with raising 3 kids so close in age and blurred out much of my twenties.  I had my last child by the time I was 27, so in relation to the other moms that shared kids that were the same ages as mine in  the schools, I was usually on the younger side.  Not that I really even noticed. 
 

Comparatively speaking, to the young woman in her 20s that sat next to me in this moment in her camouflage uniform, I was old.  I was 38 and a half years old now, and considering most of my peers that had stayed in were now retiring from the military at this age, I was way too old to be entertaining the idea of getting back in. 

“I mean, you don’t just have a break in service, you have been out now for 15 years,” the recruiter continued on.

“Right.  I understand that.”  I shrugged my shoulders.  “I just figured I could at least look into it- to see if it’s even a possibility now that my kids are older and more independent; it would be easier for me to be in the reserves.”

She looked me up and down inquisitively, as if she was waiting for me to laugh and say this was all a big joke; that I was just pulling her chain.  This was just the first stop on my way to the muscle car dealership that specializes in midlife crises like the one I was apparently having.  When she finally determined that wasn't happening, she responded by stating, “I’m going to have to talk to my supervisor.”

I sat and waited in the empty office full of military propaganda that was screaming of promises.  It was exciting.  And then for a second I felt like I was betraying my family.  My Navy family, that is.  Here I was in the Air Force recruiter’s office.  The Chair Force.  All those years of making fun of them, (in good fun, of course) and now I was attempting to sign up with them.

After five minutes or so, the recruiter returned.  Clearly, she had not been reassured over this absurd situation. “Well,” she went on, “she said you’re old.”

I sighed, “Right.”  I wasn't denying this.  I was also doing my best not to let it give me a complex.

“And you’d have to go through MEPS again because you’re so old and have been out for so long.”

“Okay, that’s fine,” I replied.  "I had kind of figured that." 

I’m pretty sure I stunned her at this point.  Perhaps she was thinking I’d bail at this point, as my arthritic, pot-smoking days would come to a gentle close.  (P.S. I don’t smoke pot.  Or cigarettes.  Just fish. But not rolled up.  Flat, from a smoker, like everyone else from Minnesota does.)

“Okay.  Well, I guess we can start on the paperwork then,” as she reluctantly logged onto her fancy computer (because these kids nowadays use computers instead of the archaic type writers of 20 years ago.  Just kidding.  We had computers 20 years ago.  We even had the inter-web.  We would just have to use a little thing called dial-up to get it going and it took about 20 minutes to log onto.  Not kidding this time.  And we began the 45 minute physical and mental health checklist.

And that’s how my journey began.  The second time.

And the Story Continues Here...

As my memoir has officially been released in paper/hardcover and e-books, I will wrap up this blog with a link to the book behind the blog as well as pictures from the release party.  I cannot thank everyone enough for all of the great support.  Get your copy of the story here: 

 http://amzn.com/1943226083

     I grew up in Deer River, MN - a one-stoplight town of 903 people. Two weeks after I graduated high school way back in the old days (1997) when everything was in black and white, I enlisted in the Navy in a combat aircrew position that had just been opened up to women. At first we were mistaken by tiny hairless men. Quite a few people told me I was crazy and I would be back home before I knew it. Some of the old WWII veterans patted my shoulder, and nodded, wishing me luck. My dad, fearing my safety, begged me not to go. Honestly, I had no idea what I was getting myself into - which probably was best that way. I just knew I didn’t want to fail.

     Spoiler alert - I didn’t go off and become a war hero. I didn’t save the world. I didn’t win the Noble Peace Prize or even receive the perfect attendance award (I was runner-up); however, I did serve my country, met some lifelong friends, flew over 1300 hours in a war-fighting machine, kicked some submarine ass, and learned a few lessons (the hard way). This book is a compilation of short stories and those lessons learned.

     If you are looking for Steinbeck or Dickens, you probably should put this book back on the shelf and keep looking. However, if you are looking for random entertaining stories that begin with conjunctions, contain cheesy metaphors, and improper sentence structure- well this, my friend, may be the book for you. You may laugh. You may cry. You may want to dance on a barstool next time the opportunity arises. I’m not a writer, I’m a story teller. And this is my story.

I will continue keep my site updated at www.juliamaki.com and will be available to answer questions/comments to the best of my abilities here:  capturingthestory@gmail.com

I hope it inspires, informs, and entertains you.  Always remember- there isn't anything you cannot do!  Dreams come true every day.  Who's not to say today is YOUR day?!

I have the most amazing friends!

My Mom

With Anna, my BFF

The VP-8 guys

My old SS-1 "Rugged"

With friend and fellow military blogger, Dog Tags And Heels

And don't forget- I have books for the little readers out there. 

No, not this book.

These ones:

All my best. ~J.

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.

The Magic of the Moon

 (photo courtesy of sxc.hu)

While on vacation recently, I was abruptly awakened one night by a single stream of light cascading through the blinds.  This light was so bright that I was sure one of my kids was standing over me, shining a spotlight in my face.  It would not have surprised me. 

Instinctively, I checked the clock.  It was near 4 o’clock in the wee hours of morning.  Still blinded, I sat up and realized this glowing light was nothing other than the moon beaming into my window, lighting up a narrow trail across my eyes.  I felt it beckoning me to the window. 

Doing my best to keep silent, I ungracefully tip-toed to the window, tripping over at least three items of clothing.  When I finally arrived at the window, I could not help but take in the sheer magnitude of it.  There it sat, glimmering in the tree branches with robust pride.  Instantly, I felt its peace.  It had been a long time since I'd admired the moon.

The moon and I have had an arrangement for some time now.  When I was younger and away on the other side of the world from my family, the moon was my connection to home.  It was during some of my loneliest nights that the moon served as my sense of strength and comfort.   My first Christmas away from home.  The night of my grandmother’s funeral, for which I was unable to come home.  On those nights, I would look up to the sky and know that I was looking at the same moon my mom, dad, and sisters could be looking at that very moment.

On night flights it helped keep me awake as I watched it rise and sparkle over the ocean.  When I would walk home to the barracks in the dark as I didn't own a car, the moonlight guided me along the right path. 


The sun and the moon are the universal forces that connect all of us on this Earth.  Friend or foe.  Western or Eastern side of the world.

I’ve been back in the states for some time but my sisters have all moved away from home.  My family is literally spread from one side of the country to the other.  There will be many nights in which we will still text each other a simple message.  “Look at the moon tonight.”  And we will know what that means.

I have recently begun to teach my children this as well- for when I travel, they can take comfort in knowing I’m looking at the same moon as them- no matter where I am in the world.  There is just something about knowing that we are looking at the same moon that makes our world feel a little smaller.

Who is this Saint You Speak Of?

Happy St. Urho’s Day!

 
St. Who- you may ask if you are not from northern wooded Minnesota. You know- St. Urho. (Spoken by ‘rolling’ the ‘r’ on your tongue like an exotic linguist.) He's that guy that drove the grasshoppers out of Finland, thus saving the grape crops and joining sainthood.  Oh yes, he’s right up there with Peter, Paul, and Mary and comes marching in with the rest of them.

A Little Background

Ever since I was a wee lass, they taught us all about St. Urho back in the good ol' King Elementary School.  (aka- the only elementary school in Deer River)  We would all wear purple the day before everyone else in the country wore green.  As legend has it- it is speculated that St. Urho's Day was invented in attempt for the Finlanders to get a jump on the drinking before the Irish did on St. Patty's Day.  [Darn Irish bar-hogs!] Of course this key note was left out of our elementary school's teachings.

And So the Legend Goes...

(After a bit of research- I found this rendition to be my favorite, courtesy of www.brownielocks.com/urho.html)

"Once upon a time, many many years ago in Finland they say (they being geologists and such) there used to be wild grapes growing all over.  How do they know this?  From studying the remains of bears in that area.



Well, one season a bunch of grasshoppers (i.e. locust) with a voracious appetite for grapes happen to hop into Finland.  What to do?



Enter our Finnish Hero, St. Urho!  Waving his pitchfork and chanting "Heinäsirkka, heinäsirkka, mene täältä hiiteen" (roughly translated: "Grasshopper, grasshopper, go to Hell!") he drove the grasshoppers out of the vineyards.  Now, I'm sure everyone in Minnesota wished that getting rid of mosquitoes could be that easy!



The Finnish grape farmers (viners?) were very protective of their fields because they didn't have much of a growing season.  (Note:  It isn't exactly like the Italian or French vineyards up there.)  So, rumor has it that they injected Vodka into their grapes to give them a bigger alcohol content.  I guess this is an early version of "organic farming" regarding pest control?



Feeling so happy and grateful to Urho, they declared him a saint.  He did this on March 16, the day before St. Patrick's Day.

Every year since then, the Finnish people celebrated St. Urho's Day on March 16.  The official colors are purple to represent the grapes and green to represent the vines (or the dead grasshoppers-- depending on whose version you hear).



The St. Urho's day ceremony begins at sunrise.  The celebration includes singing, dancing polkas and drinking wine, grape juice,for those underage and having Mojakkaa (fish soup pronounced like "moy-yah-kah") which is what St. Urho ate to give him his strength to fight grasshoppers. [or that was just what our grandparents told us so we'd eat the wretched-smelling treat]



The city of Menahga, MN actually has a stature of St. Urho in the town.  [See picture above] The original statue was carved in 1982 with a chainsaw from a 2000 lb oak block.  Since then, it's been replaced with a fiberglass replica to deal with the harsh Minnesota weather."




And finally, I'll close with my favorite poem in which the essence of a true Finlander is captured along with their beautifully seductive accent: [Frenchmen be jealous!]

Ode to St. Urho

By Gene McCavic

Written in Finnish dialect

(original location at the Iron World Museum, Chisholm, MN)

Ooksie kookise coolama vee

Santia Urho is ta poy for me!

He sase out ta hoppers as pig as birds

Neffer peefor haff I hurd does words!

He reely told does pugs of kreen

Braaffest finn I effer seen!

Some celebrate for St. Pat unt hiss nakes

Putt Urho poyka kot what it takes.

He got tall and trong from feelia sour

Unt ate culla moyakka effery hour.

Tat's why day guy could sase does peetle

What crew as thick as chack bine needles.

So lets give a cheer in hower pest way

On this 16th of March, St. Urho's Tay!



[You must read aloud for full effect.  I like to pretend I'm talking like my grandpa or great uncle.]

And now, you may consider yourself more educated.  Have a fabulous day and don't forget to get your purple beer on!!




For more info visit:
http://sturhosday.com/menahgas-st-urho-statue-park/

Old Enough to Fight

Inspired by a prompt from Write on Edge, I was to write a memoir piece in which one of the following features prominently: Wine, Coffee, or Chocolate.
"Conjure a moment."

The following moment came to mind...

I couldn’t stop thinking about the thick, succulent steak and lobster I would devour that night.  I would order the steak cooked my favorite way- medium rare- knowing I would not have to worry about contamination.

It was the first time I had dressed like a girl in months.  My short legs were finally long again, as they appended sparkly heels.  My hair was full, curled and fell down past my shoulders.  I even took the time to paint my nails fire-engine red. I was completely out of regulation. 
 

I couldn’t stop staring at my handsome date, and my love.  Tonight we were going to be ‘real people’.  I smiled and squeezed his arm close to me as we walked inside the restaurant.

We sat across from each other at a table that overlooked the water, holding hands.  The waves glistened in the moonlight and crashed upon the shoreline.  No expense was spared as we celebrated at our favorite restaurant.

I glanced around and was met with stagnant expressions from my fellow diners.  I wanted to shake them and say, “How are you not smiling?  Don’t you realize we are all here and that all of us have it so good?!”  Instead, I just fashioned them the biggest grin I could.  Surely, they thought I was daft.

The waitress read the specials of the night in English.  Her New England accent was music to my ears.  She asked to start with our drink order.

“I would love a glass of your house Red and a side of water, please,” I requested, thinking how wonderful the wine would taste with my steak.

“Can I see some ID?”

Without thinking, I handed her my military ID- the same 2-inch rectangle that dictated whether or not I was allowed to pass through the safety and familiarity of armed American gates in the middle of a foreign country.  It was the rectangle that held my entire identity and fate for the past 6 months.

“I’m sorry Hun, but you’re not of age.  I’ll bring you that water though.”  She placed the card on the table, and headed back to the kitchen.
 

It took me a second to register what just happened.

“Welcome back to the states, Babe.”
 

Embarrassed, I sat back in my seat. Maybe I was going crazy.  In my head I felt seventy- I had worry lines around my eyes and dark circles to prove it- despite their mere twenty years.  It had been so long now that I was away. I had simply forgotten that I was not old enough to drink a glass of wine with dinner in my own country- though I was old enough to fight for it.

Whipping Shitties and Playing Duck Duck Gray Duck (though not at the same time)

(photo courtesy of sxc.hu)

 
Recently I learned a new expression: "he fell out" It is a southern expression for "he threw a tantrum".  Initially, my mind was going completely somewhere else on this.  [Thank you, NC Narrations- http://nc-narrations.blogspot.com/2012/02/say-what.html]
 

I cannot help but be amazed that within our wonderful country of the USA- we have such vastly different land masses ranging from deserts to cities to mountains to beaches to cornfields etc.  Anyone who has had the privilege of driving from one end of the country to the other can attest to the broad spectrum the little USA has to offer of land masses- but it doesn't stop there!  The culture differences and dialects among the different regions are about as far different as if there were an ocean separating them.  But there is not, or you would not be able to drive from one end to the other.  I divert.
 

I grew up in the northern Midwest region.  Up there, strong work ethics are ingrained at birth.  If something comes too easy- well it's probably a scam because everything worth having takes hard work to achieve.

I also lived in New England for about 4 years.  What an incredible part of the country!  The oldest parts of this region were where some of the first colonies had originated.  In my tiny community of beautiful Phippsburg, Maine, they were also once an established colony back in 1620.  Amazing.  In Maine, I feel compelled to say, they speak funnier dialect than I've ever heard.   The first time my landlord, Martha, (pronounced Ma-thah who was more like a mother) said to me "Just go ahead and pahk the cah in the dooryahd."  I was dumbfounded.  I needed a translator:  Park the car in the driveway.  For some reason pronouncing an "R" is scary to them.  And everything good is proceeded by wicked.  "It was a wicked good time."

Now back in MN, we knOw how to speak.  In fact, I distinctly recall a conversation I had with my friend growing up, "Isn't it funny that everyone else in the country has an accent except for us MinnesOtans?"  I never heard the accent until I went away for a few years and came home.  Everything was followed by "You knOw?  Or 'hey'?  'Hey' is simply used to see if you're paying attention.  "I'm going to the store, hey."  Makes perfect sense.



I also didn't know it was weird to end a sentence with a 'with'. "I'm going to the store, you want to come with?"  I could go on.  Other words in which I knOw we speak correctly but the rest of the country does not:  About, bag, goat, boat, or any other long O word.  We say 'O's the way that God intended them to be spOken.

Another observance for my fellow MinnesOtans:  The rest of the world says "Duck Duck Goose,"  not "Duck Duck Grey Duck".  I'm simply attempting to spare you the embarrassment I suffered when a bunch of preschoolers laughed at my game suggestion one day.  Okay- it wasn't that embarrassing.  They were preschoolers, right?  They can't even drive yet.  So at least I got that on them.  And by the way, when you are driving crazy- apparently it also is weird to say "whip a shitty."  Instead, more politically correct (and more common) would be to say "Whip a doughnut). [this is when you spin around really fast on the snow or mud in your motorized vehicle- usually intentionally for pleasure]

And for my final observance- Southerners- while they can be quite the gossipers and are sure to let you know what's going on with everyone- are the friendliest folks I've ever met.  They'll tell you their entire life story in one sitting- whether they are your waitress, barber, or sales clerk.  They are caring, open, and take their time...which can drive an East Coaster (such as NY or DC) crazy.  Slow down and smell the roses.  They talk slower, eat slower, and tend to enjoy life.  But word of warning- many Southerners don't have the Northern bubble.  Northerners are quite particular about someone getting in their bubble.  It's a comfort zone thing.

One of my good friends was my roommate in the Navy off and on for several years.  I solely blame her for my use of the word y'all.  I never realized the convenience of combining words- or how freely it flows from the tongue.  Northerners take note!  (Though she was also the one who sent me on a mission to get a coke and was upset that I brought her an actual 'Coke' instead of asking her what kind of 'coke' she wanted.  What?!?  Pop = soda = coke.

So I now in my confused state of mind living in the middle of the country may say something like, "Y'all need to checkout this wicked good show, hey!"  I've become a mess.  I stumble upon which word to use when I want a softdrink.  Often it's just better to order by name.  Or just order a beer.  Beer is at least universal, worldly perhaps.  I'm in people's bubbles, asking for soda up north and playing Duck Duck Gray Duck down south.  I constantly have to think before I speak- which I suppose isn't too bad of a habit to get into.