Beginnings & Endings

The following was written as a prompt from Write on Edge:  New

Rain fell on that northern summer morning.  It cleansed the air but cast a dark gloom.  It was the kind of rain that allowed for a lazy summer afternoon indoors, without the guilt and expectations a beautiful day will bring.

            We sat in silence during the hour-long ride to the bus stop.  If a word had been spoken, it was irrelevant, and quickly cast aside.  Everyone’s minds were preoccupied with a shared sensation of the expected loss that was about to come.  Any beginning requires an end- a loss.

            After an eternity, the car came to a halt. 

“Well, this is the place,” my father said. 

            I’d never been to a bus stop before, and this one seemed lonely.  Why was I doing this again?  I could turn around so easily right now.  Everything would be much easier- and safer.  But would I really happy?

I said goodbye to my baby sisters. They stood vulnerable on that cold morning.  Did they think I was abandoning them?  For the first time I was unable to shelter them.  I felt selfish when I thought of the burdens that they were to bear in the future.  I could only hope that someday they’d forgive me.

            It was his cry that paralyzed me.  My father.  He had always kept the monsters away.  And now he cried.

            “If it’s about the money- we’ll find a way to pay for college.” 

            “No dad.” It wasn’t the money.  He would’ve offered me the world in that moment.  But I couldn’t stay. 

I wanted to go home to curl up in my warm bed. But I couldn’t.  I had to go.  I wanted to see the world.  I wanted to fly.  I wanted to “save” the world. I had to jump and look later.

            So I turned away.  Quick, like ripping off a band-aid.  I climbed onto the bus and pressed my face to the window- swallowing to keep back the tears.  This wasn’t the place to cry- not right now.  I watched my family until the very last second- until they were too far away.

And then I panicked.  I just wanted one more look- but it was too late.

Perspectives

My Story:

He peered up at me with those irresistible eyes that were so dark, they were nearly black.  “Mom, I moved my clip today.”

“What?  Are you serious?  This has got to stop!  What this time?”

“I ah- I hit someone.”  He looked down at the ground, reluctantly forcing the truth out.

“That’s it, Joey.  I will NOT stand for you bullying.  No TV for a week!”  I shook my head.  What am I doing wrong?  How do I teach compassion?

“But Mom-"

“But nothing.  Go to your room.”

His Story:

“Hey Joey!  Wait up!  I got something for ya!”

“Uuurrrch!”  I slammed on my brakes, and spun my feet into reverse.  “Squeak!”   I stopped in front of him.

“Here.”  Jack held out a piece of hard candy.  It was gooey and red.  It looked clean.   I popped it in my mouth.

“Thanks!”  Jack is my friend.  He is the only one on the playground that can run as fast as me.

“Ooh!” Something wiggled in the dirt.  I had to get a better look.  A firefly!  Cool!  I stuck my finger in front of it and it climbed on for a ride.  I made a tunnel over it with my hands and looked inside the hole I made between my thumb and pointer.  It flashed green!

“Jack, check it out!  It’s shooting lightening from its butt!”  I laughed and let him look through the peep hole.

“So what?  It’s just a bug.”  Suddenly Jack smacked my hands apart and the firefly dropped to the ground. 

It didn't fly. Is it hurt?  Then he stepped on it and shot its green guts everywhere!

For a second, I couldn't breathe.  I wanted to scream!  Or cry?  I decided to scream.

“Stupid!  You killed it!”  My voice sounded funny.  I was so mad! I swung my arm around and smacked him in the shoulder.  I hate Jack!

“Joseph!”  The teacher called.  “Get inside this minute, young man!”

Defining Moments

Some conversations you never forget.

The night was slow and dramatically drawn out like a cat yawn.  I sat at my desk, spinning my pen with my right hand.  I hated silence and the night shift caused for silences so loud that one could count the seconds

ticking away at the clock that clung to the pale brick wall across the room. 

At last the Duty Officer returned to his desk adjacent to mine after making his rounds. I nearly jumped at the opportunity for some conversation.  I flooded him with questions about his upcoming plans for the weekend.  It soon evolved into talking about his children.  I enjoyed listening as much as story telling.  Almost.

The time began to pass much quicker.  An hour.  Another.  Pretty soon we took a stab at current world events.  I couldn't help but get excited as I do when my passion about a subject leaks out.  My opinions and viewpoints poured on out like a rambling brook.  In turn, I listened intently to his.  Another hour passed.  I felt refreshed.  Cultural stimulation at its finest.  

Then, he crossed his arms across his chest and leaned back in his chair.  He frowned and cocked his head to the side.

“Petty Officer Maki, you’re a smart girl.”  He paused, and I was about to thank him when I sensed there was more to come.  “Why did you go enlisted?”

Enlisted.  The word was spoken like a pungent metallic taste in his mouth.  Had I heard him correctly?  Don't react.  Don't react.

I answered slowly, carefully choosing my words.  “You… think… I enlisted because I wasn’t smart enough to go to college?”

“I didn’t say you weren’t smart, but isn’t that why most people enlist in the military instead of going in as an officer?”  His demeanor was as casual as a Sunday picnic.  It was why I had previously let my guard down.

My fists began to clench.  “No, Sir.”  I was nearly whispering by now.  “Actually, my father begged me to go to college up until the day I got on the bus headed for boot camp.  He promised to find a way to pay for it.  Whatever it took.”  I shifted in my chair.

He looked even more perplexed as he considered the thought.

“I enlisted because I needed to get out there,” I continued. “I wanted an adventure and the Navy seemed the easiest route to do so at the time.”

“Oh.  Okay.”  He paused for a moment as he studied my face.  “Did I offend you or something?”

I had enough conversation for one night.  I began spinning my pen on my desk again, not bothering to look up.  “No, Sir.  Actually, you enlightened me."

  

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.

Finding Contentment

I had been growing restless.  I couldn’t recall how long it had been since I had been on an “adventure”. 
 

I had a problem with contentment and always was searching for the next big thing.  Perhaps that’s why the Navy was good for me.  Flying on old planes was an adventure in itself.  Wings fell off.  Engine caught on fire.  The planes were old.  Oil leaks were a reassuring sign- an indication that the engine still had oil.  There was always a chance of getting shot at.  It was wonderful.

Aside from the Navy, if there was a cliff to dive off, a black diamond to ski down, a car to ride on top of, or a motorcycle to speed down a freeway on, I was the first to volunteer.  Yes, I had this weird thing with riding on top of cars.

Dumb?  Sure.  Did I care?  Not really.  I was invincible.  I had nothing to lose.  My bucket list had only began.

Why did I feel the need to constantly challenge myself?  I didn’t know.

10 years and 3 kids later...  

 I conquered childbirth.  What’s next? 

On a whim, I applied and was accepted into the FBI Special Agent program.

“Congratulations, you have successfully completed the Special Agent tests and interviews.  You may want to start making preparations for Quantico for the next 7 months and eventual relocation.”

It was the opportunity of a lifetime.  FBI. Special. Agent.  The best of the best.

**************************

At dinnertime, I was dreaming about going undercover and investigating dangerous crimes.  

“Mommy,” I suddenly snapped back into reality.   My 9 year old daughter sat in front of her dinner plate next to me.  She shifted her food back and forth on her plate with her fork.

“Yes?”

“Shaylen told me today she doesn’t want to be my friend anymore...  and I don’t have any friends left.”  She hardly could speak the words.  Her head was still down, but I could see her huge brown eyes as they began to well up.

Oh the wickedness of preteen girls. I knew it was a normal growing pain- but oh, how dare they hurt my baby.  

I remembered it all too well myself- thinking back to a time when I was 9.  My friends and I had wretched Jack Sparrow-like duels.  Why were girls so mean?

I wanted to squeeze her and tell her none of this mattered.  It would pass and someday she would realize how ridiculous it was.

But to her, in that moment, it was her world.  And it was crashing down.

I glanced across the table at my sweet cherub-faced preschooler .  She was so innocent with her golden locks and expressive blue eyes.  Next to her sat her brother with a look of deep concentration on his face.  No doubt the weight of the world on his shoulders, as kindergarten had already presented new challenges for him too.  It was only the beginning.

It was then that I knew where I had to be.   



I was in the middle of the biggest adventure yet.  And I was needed right where I was.

“It’ll be okay, sweetheart.  I promise.”  I whispered. 


And at last, I found contentment.

*Defining moments occur when our past and our present or our future clash. The previous was written for this week’s Write on Edge prompt, write a memoir post describing such a time and the results.

Out of Despair

“Above-normal snowfall in central and eastern North Dakota during the winter of 1996-97 and a blizzard on April 5-6, 1997, caused the worst flooding in the Red River of the North and Missouri River Basins in more than 100 years”*

 

“…A large fire started in Grand Forks, engulfing eleven buildings and sixty apartment units before being extinguished.”**

As if the floods weren’t enough.  Then came the fires.  How does one extinguish fires through streets that are completely encompassed by a river?  

*************************

Yesterday, my biggest concern was finding the perfect prom dress.

Suddenly the world looked very different.

It was my senior year.  As a teenager, we spoke of making a difference someday.  We were young and tragic news stories were only reported from half way around the world.   

When the request came, some went because they needed community service on their scholarships applications.  Some went to get out of school.  The idea of helping seemed nice.  No one knew of the impact the day would bring. 

“Alright kids,” the lady from the Red Cross began.  “We appreciate you volunteering here today.  We really can use the help.  There are a few things we need to go over first.  We need help unloading.  We are receiving donations from all over the country.  A semi-truck full of supplies just arrived from a Mormon church all the way from Salt Lake City!  The outpouring of help has been extraordinary. 

 

We need help stocking.  However, one of the biggest things we need are volunteers to individually go around and “shop” with the flood survivors.  We are discovering that they are not taking enough of what they need.  They want to save enough for someone else who may have lost more than them.  

“Encourage them.  Listen to them.”

*****************

So we listened.  

Everyone had a story.

“We were lucky,” they would begin. “We lost our home, but escaped right before the rush of waters overtook us.  We lost everything, but we are alive.”  It was the resounding theme.

Some felt fortunate, relieved.  Others, lost and dazed.  All were pained.  I wondered if they felt obligated to feel lucky.  It wasn’t lucky to be a flood victim.

A lady with a sleeping baby in her arms loaded her basket with only formula.  I told her she needed to take some food for herself.  She wept and nodded, as if she had forgotten.  I hugged her.  I wasn’t sure if it was against the rules.  I wanted to take her home with me.

Most took less than they needed of the supplies.  They were hardworking Midwesterners and were too proud. 

Despair echoed throughout the city’s destruction.  It had been described as looking like a war-zone.

Then, as they saw the donations fill the warehouses and arenas to the ceilings, something in their eyes changed.  Suddenly there was a trace of hope.  Disbelief.  Tears.

Out of despair came hope.  

Hope is what they drew on for strength to survive the worst of circumstances. It's what kept them going and gave them a reason to wake up another day.  “Out of the ashes we rise…”

And they did.

~Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul - and sings the tunes without the words - and never stops at all.
Emily Dickinson

Here is a shot of a few of us before we left that day.  I'm the one in the back right.  And yes, I thought I was extremely stylish at the time- can't you tell?  Poor Anna below me is showing off her thumb she slammed in a car door.  She's smooth like that.

Some facts on the flood of 1997:

• Flood crest: 54.4 feet. (Flood stage: 28 feet)
• Water flow: 140,000 cubic feet/second. (780 is normal)
• 46,000 people evacuated in Grand Forks (90% of population)
• 8600 homes with damage (75% of total) and 1616 apartments damaged (28% of total)
• Almost two billion dollars in damage (Grand Forks and East Grand Forks)
• 60,000 tons of debris removed.
• 13 days without running water, 23 days without drinkable water.
• No lives lost to the flood. 

http://draves.com/gf/gfindex.htm

Sorlie Bridge in East Grand Forks on April 17, 1997. Army Corps of Engineers picture.

*Quote and photo credits:  Perry, C.A., 2005, Summary of Significant Floods in the United States and Puerto Rico, 1994 Through 1998 Water Years: U.S. Geological Survey Scientific Investigations Report 2005-5194, 327p.

**Shelby, Ashley (2003). Red River Rising. United States: Borealis Books. ISBN 0-87351-500-5.

For more information:  http://nd.water.usgs.gov/photos/1997RedFlood/


Written as a prompt from Write on Edge, "A true story about hope, illustrated through your experiences." 

I Wish You Would've Written Star Wars.

(photo courtesy of sxc.hu)  

 

“A squeaky wheel gets oiled!”  I’ve heard that line now a dozen times in the past two weeks from everyone including family, friends, and marketing representative.  And so, I got squeaky and set up a meeting.  I met with the only bookstore owner within a 50-mile radius- the only bookstore that hadn’t shut down yet as a result of our haggard economy.

I told her I was local and vainly hoped that would be enough.  The truth was, I really didn’t know what I was doing.  It was all new.  I was simply proud of making it up to 187,420 for a day on the Amazon Bestsellers list. I was “moving on up” even if it was at the speed of Molasses.



The silver-haired store owner sat across the table from me.  She picked up my book and inspected it. Then she gently sat it back down on the table and patted the top of it.  I held my breath, waiting. 

“Honestly," she began. "I’d really wished you would’ve written Star Wars.  I can sell Star Wars.”  Hmmm.  I wasn't quite sure what to say to that. I wished I would’ve written Star Wars too?! 

But alas, my book was not Star Wars.



She was a sweet, little grandma.  She was kind, but set in her ways.  And because of her age, she could get away with telling me I sucked without batting an eyelash.  I couldn’t argue with a grandma. Come to think of it, I'm sure many people wouldn't have a problem telling someone they are not good enough.

 

I patiently listened to her for an hour about why she liked the books that she did. Then, for reasons I'll never know, I somehow convinced her to give me a shot.  I'd host a signing in her store, because really, what did she have to lose?



Reluctantly, she agreed- though suggested I write a pop-up book next time, or something of more value.

The day came and I was stunned at the outpouring of people.  I was elated- especially when I realized there were others there besides just my friends and family (as they would have kindly supported me if I had written a story about moldy cheese). I sold more books than I expected.  But even better than that- I met people that genuinely liked my book.  Other veterans (especially women veterans) thanked me for writing a book about them- as there were not other books like it.

That day I realized I would never be George Lucas.  I may never even be a best seller.  (I mean, I can still hope!) However, I wrote a story I felt passionate about.  I had a message I felt compelled to tell.  In the aftermath of the first signing I promised myself I would remember the joy that creating a story brings to me.  I would hope to always remember why I’m really writing.

*This piece was written as a prompt from Write on Edge:  "Write about a time you compared yourself, unfavorably, with someone else."

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."

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.

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.

A Bloody Mess

 

(photo courtesy of stock.xchang)
During Aircrew School optimum health was imperative and medical tests were routine.  One day of screening, we were instructed to 'fast'.  By the time we were to be poked and prodded, I was starving!  Up next for the blood draw and deathly afraid of needles, I nervously sat down in the metal chair next to my friend Chester, the Marine.



“Check ‘er ought, Maki, that there needle’s hew-wedge!”  I shot him an evil look.  “It’s made fer uh Hol-stein!”



“Shut up, Chester.”  The needle penetrated my perfectly sealed flesh.  Damn it hurt.  Stupid corpsmen.  He appeared too happy.



“I’m serious, Maki.  That there’s the biggest darn needle I’ve dun ever seen.

“Shucks,” he attempted to sound excited, but his slow, Louisianan drawl was unconvincing.  “My blood’s all squirtin’ ever-ware.”



Think about something else.  I’m on a beach.  I attempted to distract myself.  I was doing a decent job until the corpsman began carving a cavern inside my arm.  I looked at his eyes- avoiding my arm.


 “Problems?”  I winced.



“I can’t… seem to hit… your vein...”



Waves are crashing.  I am on a peaceful beach.  I said a peaceful beach, dammit!  It was all enough to make me want to vomit.



Then, it came.  The feeling was not a stranger to me.  Immediately, I tried to shake it and regain focus of something.  Anything.  I squinted my eyes. Find a focal point.



“Whoa, Maki, yer face is as white as a gator’s tooth.  You uh-kay?”



My vision tunneled.  The corpsman continued to dig away in my flesh.  I heard everything, but it was hollow and distant.  “I’m… not doing… too… well…” my voice trailed off.  At last the corpsman, not a master of the obvious, realized that his inexperienced excavating job was affecting me severely.

I knew I was going to pass out soon if I didn’t do something quickly, but I didn’t want to draw attention to myself in front of all the guys.  If I just do it quietly in my chair, no one will notice.

“Airman, you need to put your head between your legs!”  The corpsman yelled off in the distance.

I protested.  Surely there was another way…  And then... there was darkness.



Seconds later, I came to- lying on the floor.    The corpsman and Chester were both standing over me.  I laughed.  Poor lanky Chester...  I wonder if he’ll ever find a wife...  I miss my cat...

I caught a glance of my arm. A needle and syringe were sticking out of it, blood trickling out, completely covering my arm with dark fluid.  I mumbled, “Can I get… another… corpsman?”  And then… blackness.  Again.

*The previous is a piece from the book What They Don't Teach You in Deer River. For those that aren't as familiar with the military- you are much of a practicing bed for the corpsmen in training. 

Shared Joys

“We’re only 10 minutes away!”  She squealed into the phone.

“Ten minutes?!  I’ll be right there!”  I hung up, dropping everything.  The errands would wait- they were almost here!

I pulled into their driveway seconds before I saw the truck making its way up the path.  Tinted windows shielded the glare of the afternoon sun as well as their faces.  I sat back in my seat, and waited. I took a breath.

She would be sitting in the passenger seat.  The thought pasted a cheesy grin on my face, waving my hands in the air for her to see me through the window.  It had been two years.

As she came into view, I watched her gaze up at the new home. Her mouth dropped open as a smile bloomed across her face like a field of sunflowers in the light of dawn.  Her hands delicately touched her face and tears began to fall as she shook her head in disbelief- as if she couldn’t believe the moment was really happening.

Immediately, I recognized that familiar look of pure, raw joy.  It was the joy I saw as I watched her hold her newborn babies for the first time.  It was the same joy she had shown when she held my babies.  My joy was her joy.

We became instant best friends the day Mrs. Stejskal asked me to "show the new girl around" in second grade.  She taught me how to do a one-handed cartwheel.  I taught her how to water-ski.  We were inseparable. 

After graduation, I joined the military to ‘fight in wars' and she went to Africa to build orphanages. 

She is sensitive and pure.  I get angry when she doesn't stand up for herself.  Then I talk her into Chipotle instead of Chic-Fil-A. 


After 25 years, we finish each others’ sentences. I know how she thinks and she knows why I am the way I am.

Naturally, she was my maid of honor.  That day, she cried tears of joy for me.  One year later she married the Best Man.  I cried tears of joy for her.

We raised our babies together and had game nights every Saturday.  Then without warning, they lost their job and had to move.

Now three years later, they found a job nearby. We were neighbors again- 1300 miles from where we first met in Deer River.  They had a home again.  And I felt her joy.  Her joy was my joy.

(A pic of us in 2nd grade. I'm the one with the mullet- thanks Mom!)



*This piece was written in response to a Write on Edge prompt.

The Salt Water Cure

“The cure for anything is salt water… sweat, tears or the sea.”  ~ Isak Dinesen, pseudonym of Baroness Karen von Blixen-Finecke



I had to get away.  I sprinted into the repulsive port-a-potty at the base camp.  I locked the door just as a flood of tears began pouring uncontrollably down my face.  I didn’t know why.




I wasn’t okay anymore being stuck up on the mountain.  Not that I ever expected it to be- but I just wanted it to all be over.  I was sick of feeling like I needed to prove something to everyone.  I never wanted to see in innocent life die so horrifically- even if it was for survival. The thought made me cry harder.  I pictured the poor rabbit so sweet in the instructor’s arms.  And then the blood.  The blood speckled the faces of everyone watching the demonstration as the rabbit’s head made contact with the stump and sprayed its contents.  I thought of our rabbits on the farm that we had growing up.  I thought of the other four rabbits in the cage and what was probably happening to them that very second.  Shaking and sobbing now- I couldn’t hold it in any longer.  It wasn’t just about the rabbits anymore.



I was hungry, cold, and lonely.  I wanted to go home.  I needed my mom.  I hadn't showered or shaved in three days.  I disgusted myself.  Four days still to go. Maybe I just wasn’t cut out for this after all.  I knew I had come too far to give up now, but that’s all I wanted to do.  Five minutes passed.  Then ten.



Finally, I decided I had cried enough.  I wadded up some toilet paper and wiped my face.  I waited a few seconds for my eyes to clear and opened the door.



No one was near or had noticed my absence. If they had, they didn’t say anything.  I walked to my group, grabbed a knife and began peeling the vegetables for the rabbit soup.  Four more days.


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This post was written in part of assignment for Red Writing Hood/Write On Edge:  "tell us about the last time that one of these three things 'cured' you." [sweat, tears or the sea]

The previous is from the book that I have been working on for some time now- you guessed it: What They Don't Teach You in Deer River.  This is a piece from the chapter on my SERE school training in the Navy.

Battlestations

Navy boot camp is a total of 9 long weeks.  At the end of week 7, there is one summarizing event where in a matter of 12 hours, one is tested on everything that has been learned up to that point.  It’s the end-all, be-all.  Fish or cut bait.  Cut the loose ties.  You get the drift.  Upon completion of this whopper-size accomplishment, a “recruit” (as the enlisted folks are called during boot camp) will have the ceremonious crossover from a “Recruit” ball cap to earning their “Navy” ball cap. A sign of respect around those parts.  Aside from graduation, this is the next prevalent event for a young sailor-to-be during the boot camp progression.

The entire evolution begins right around the time one is about to fall asleep- that phase where one is just coming into a delusional but realistic crossover into the dreamworld phase.  About an hour after taps a siren will sound indicating that it is time to “man your battle stations,” and simulate a shipboard attack.

The recruits are sprung into action and never stop moving from that moment forward.  The entire night is spent testing everything learned about survival swimming, first aid and safety procedures, fire-fighting, rifle shooting, damage control to name a few.  All of this is performed to the highest standard under intense conditions- always  with an emphasis on teamwork.   Over the next 12 hours in a massive hands-on exercise the recruits will feign a wartime scenario.  It is designed to test endurance, fortitude and stamina.  This had proved to be an incredible test of will-power and preparation of my future Naval career ahead.  It also was the closest comparison to the challenge I (being one of those recruits) would face in the next phase in my life after the Navy:  motherhood.

Last night, as I arose every hour, on the hour for various reasons, I could not help but think comparatively of the night I endured the ultimate “battlestation” test back in my boot camp days. 

The following is a rough play-by-play of my night:

10:30pm- Lights out.  Excited I made it to bed early- I was anticipating the fact that I may actually squeak out 8 hours of sleep on a weekend!  I slipped between the cool sheets and snuggled into my plush, comfy bed and easily drifted off to dreamland.

11:20- Abruptly awakened as my child feels it is necessary to notify me that she is using the bathroom.  Permission granted- I re-emphasize permission is not required.

11:30- Now awakened- I realize how hot the bedroom has become as I forgot to turn down the heat.  Reluctantly, I trek downstairs and turn down the heat, and quickly return to bed.

12:43- 2^nd Child wakes up to remind me that she still needs lunch money on Monday.  I assure her that this can be addressed in the morning.  She will not go hungry. 

2:18- I awake to the cat trying to get out of my room.  Apparently she ran in and became trapped inside last time a child came in.  I let the cat out and climb back into bed.  I yet again attempt to fall asleep.

3:45- 3^rd child wets bed.  Mechanically, I change the sheets.  When changing sheets- I pull out a tooth secured neatly in a Ziplock bag and realize we had forgotten to leave tooth fairy money.  I set alarm for half an hour in hopes that he will be back asleep so the ‘tooth fairy’ can inconspicuously retrieve tooth under pillow.

4:00- I return to bed.

4:10- 2^nd child awakes to ask permission to use bathroom.

4:35- Alarm goes off.  I deliriously awake from my 5 minute slumber to delicately stuff $2 under the pillow and ever so slowly slide out the tooth.  I attempt to be stealthy- thinking like a ninja.  I trip over toys upon my exit.  I realize I am not a ninja.  This saddens me for a second.

4:53- Blasted cat begins meowing outside of bedroom door indicating the expectation of food.  I get up and scold obscenities that can only be spoken at 4:53 in the morning to the cat.

5:01- Cat continues to disrespectfully scratch outside the door-now in retaliation I am sure.  I force myself to ignore the cat.  I secretly promise myself I will invest in a shock-collar with a remote for the cat.

6:02- Kids bombard the bed- announcing the arrival of morning in jubilance.  In a state of fog, I get up, put some cartoons on the TV and retreat back to my bedroom in desperate hopes for just a few more minutes of sleep.  I’m fishing for crumbs.

6:15- Kids begin tattling on each other. I referee. 

6:30- Listening to commotion- I at last forfeit any hopes and dreams of obtaining a good night’s sleep.  I wake and attempt to press on despite my defeat.  I stumble to the kitchen and put on the coffee.

In my stupor, it suddenly occurred to me the countless nights I have relied on my Battlestations training without realizing it.  The digging deeper- finding the extra "umph" inside to push through sheer exhaustion.  Although Battlestations was preparing for us all for a war-time scenario, I didn’t realize at the time the fires I’d later be putting out all night were those of my children’s.  I wonder if all of the old RDC’s that lead us back then realized that their wives were probably going through their own Battlestations at home at that very night.