Under a Shadow of Blue: In the Beginning

I grew up under a shadow woven in hues of blue.  Rarely did I notice it.  That mere fact is an indicator of just how fine of a shadow it was.  It whispered softly over me as I went about the trials and triumphs of growing up; looking down and smiling at me as it went about its own work.  At times, that work was quite burdensome and the shadow grew dark and dense within itself.  Battles with demons were fought, won, lost… and yet always, the wisps that hovered just above me, those that lifted a stray hair now and then, those wisps were light and sweet and true.  Those wisps of the blue hued shadow were selfless; they were love in its purest form.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the early years, if he happened to be on Day Watch, my Father often came home from work with someone in tow.  That someone usually fell into one of two categories, Partner or Trainee; and given that my mother had grown up cooking under the tutelage of Italian women, setting an extra plate posed no imposition.  There was always plenty to go around.

One of those evenings stands out in my mind more vividly than others.  I was seven years old and my younger sisters, twins, were not yet two.  As we saw the tan Pontiac swing into the driveway, our ritual began.  “Daddy’s home!” I gleefully announced to Mom who was off in the kitchen.  I ran for the front door, the twins tottering after me, “Daddy’s home!  Daddy’s home!”  they hollered trying not to trip over their ever present security blankets.  And before he was barely in the door, three little creatures hugged his legs and hopped about ahead of him; all the while maintaining that delighted serenade, “Daddy’s home”!

A man we would later come to call “Uncle Doug” trailed in behind my father looking a tad bewildered.  Gradually the swirling chaos took shape and form in his mind and a hint of comprehension crossed his face, “My god, they act like they never see you!”  At the time I was too young to give the statement much thought, to ponder its dark irony, but my parents beamed and laughed.  For these were the early years, years full of innocence and aspirations; and our zealous greeting was a nightly ritual.  It was not born out of respite from long absence.  In its simple joy, it meant Daddy was home for the night.

Other rituals followed our greeting, my Father, ever vigilant, headed straight for his bedroom closet once he’d dispensed hugs and kisses and pried us from his legs.  We followed down the hall after him, not to witness his careful placement of the item encased in thick black leather on the top most shelf.  No, it was time for “POW on the bed!”  Over and over again the twins were hefted high and then tossed onto their backs into the sloshing water bed.  “POW on the bed!”  Dad would holler every time.  And the more times he hurled and hollered the deeper they squealed.  I do not think there is anything quite so joyous as the sound of a child’s belly laugh; especially when Dad himself is laughing so hard he can barely get the “POW!” out anymore.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

I tended to enjoy the company of Dad’s guests who, after all, were there for no other reason than to entertain us.  Uncle Doug became a particular favorite.  An Uncle in every sense of the word;  he was Dad’s partner and soon every bit as welcome at Grossma and Grosspa’s table as ours.  He bestowed my sister Heidi’s nickname upon her.  Scooping her up shortly after walking in our door he’d toss her straight up in the air and holler “Heida-roooooo!”  To this day we call her Roo.  My nickname, Bug, had been given to me many years earlier by Uncle Mike, a Navy buddy.  But this did not leave me out of the fun, I was inevitably tackled to the ground and tickled until I could barely breathe for laughing.

As much as I loved those times, it was the nights Dad came home alone that I look back on now with the most fondness.  After dinner, once the twins were in bed, it was our time.  Me and Dad.  It was a time when he bestowed upon me one of the greatest gifts he ever has; the love of the written word.  Dad was a deep thinker and he loved to read.  Books were sacred in our home; treasures.  On those evenings I would curl up in the crook of his arm on the couch and in soothing tones he’d make the words come alive.  Winnie the Pooh was never as good when read by anyone else.

As I grew older, the books grew as well.  One summer night I lay sprawled on the couch, chin resting on the arm, fingers in search of the itchy spot on my leg left by the mosquito.  Dad sat in his wooden rocker, teeth gently tapping the stem of his calabash pipe, freshly filled and tamped with sweet smelling tobacco.  He cradled its bowl in one hand while he thumbed through a rather thick paper back I hadn’t seen before.  While I hadn’t seen it, it was not new; it was lovingly well worn.  He studied something just inside the cover for a moment, carefully turned a few more pages, his fingers almost caressing the corners.  Then, holding the book in one hand and the, as yet, unlit pipe in the other, he looked up at me and said, “The Hobbit –or- There And Back Again.”  And so it began, my fondest childhood memory of my father.  Every night that he could, he read one chapter at a time.  Often we wouldn’t stop with just one chapter, “Another one Dad, I’m not sleepy yet…”  and eventually came a night when he produced another thick, well loved volume.  And again he studied something just inside the cover and then, looking up, “The Fellowship of the Ring.  Being the first part of The Lord of the Rings”.  His thumb carefully turned the page, smoothed it down, and for the first time I heard that magical verse:  Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky…  and for the first time my young mind began to wrap itself around the idea of darkness and light, of good and evil, of loathsome vile creatures and those of honest innocence.  And then there was the distant darkness in its power impossible to comprehend; a vague, fearsome thing, certainly impossible to face.  But it was possible.  For now, those who had been called from generations of noble honor, those who had, until now, watched over the innocent, unseen and unheard, now they stepped forward and I beheld the Warrior in full light.  As my father told their tale, it never occurred to me that he stood among their ranks.  It never occurred to me that he held the darkness at bay; I was not yet aware of the shadow of blue that hovered above me.  And not being aware of it, I had no grasp of the demands required to maintain it; demands that took a toll, without mercy, claiming their price.  Yet rarely, in those early years, did my father’s face or the fingers of the hand that steadily turned the page, betray what it was he held at bay or what it took from him.  He held the pipe in one hand, wisps of sweet smoke spiraling upward, and the book in the other, slowly rocking now and then.  And I listened, chin on my forearm, “Another one Dad, I’m not sleepy yet…”  until he’d read them all and the King had returned.

The Not Too Naughty Tales: Mr. Pink-nylons

Carrie Costantini - Friend, Marine Wife & Mom and ever the Lovely Southern Lady, had this to share on Facebook today:

WOODBRIDGE, Va. — A Woodbridge man has been charged with burglary and destruction of property after he was arrested in the closet of an adult video store with a blowup doll.

Prince William County police say the man, 28-year-old Justin Dale Little Jim, is an officer in the Army.

Police responded to a burglary at the MVC Late Night adult store in Woodbridge about 2:45 a.m. Tuesday and found the glass front door shattered and unlocked.

A police dog was sent in and led officers to a closet. Prosecutors told the News & Messenger of Manassas that Little Jim was attempting to have sexual relations with the doll.

An initial court appearance was continued Wednesday. Court records show that Little Jim remained in custody Wednesday and did not list a lawyer.

http://www.marinecorpstimes.com/news/2011/07/ap-soldier-arrested-in-adult-store-070611/

So I promised her I’d put on a pot of coffee and make it my mission today to share at least one of my tales from my tenure at “Not Too Naughty”.  Many moons ago, circa 1995, I “took time off” from college and then took a job as an assistant manager in a porn shop.  Given I was an open-minded, sexually-liberated, confident young woman, I saw it as an awesome opportunity for adventure.  I decided, “What the heck, I’ll do it ‘till it’s not fun anymore.”  That took a little less than a year but I’ve never regretted taking the job; it was one heck of a life experience.

Some important back-story on Not Too Naughty...

In the first weeks of my new job, I was, of course, expected to familiarize myself with our inventory.  In addition to the seemingly endless shelves of VHS boxes, there was the “novelty wall” upon which hung battery operated delights in every plastic-fantastic color under the rainbow, shelves with every variation on human anatomy you can possibly think of --and some you probably never have- every lotion, potion and safe sex supply in the western hemisphere and, of course, the requisite party supplies like inflatable sheep and anatomically correct suckers and candies.

My education, however, did not stop there.  I was also learning some of the history of our fine establishment.  It was explained to me that the corporate office (yes, we had a corporate office; porn is big business) was in a never ending battle with the city and the neighbors around the shop over zoning laws. 

It seems when the store had first opened, it was in full compliance with the zoning laws.  As the demographics of the residents in the immediate area became increasingly more "upscale" however, things changed and the shop was now “grandfathered” in.  Sometime during all this "growth" the business next door had closed and NTN knocked down a wall and expanded.  The big question now was whether they had violated code by doing so.  Corporate insisted we had all the right permits, the neighbors were screaming we didn’t.

As I understood it, this had been going on for some time and the neighbors would go through phases where they got all riled up, organized and started screaming that NTN was the reason their neighborhood was a tad on the shady side.  The ever growing meth trade, apparently, had nothing to do with it; it was us perverts that were the real problem by God!

I got hired right around the time the neighbors were ramping up again.  This led to all sorts of fun antics.  Every weekend they were out there waving signs and ringing cow bells.  I almost felt sorry for them the day all the TV’s and TS’s got together (all three of them) and mounted a counter-protest.  That was a good day, a very good day.  I don’t think I’ve ever been so entertained.

Unfortunately for Pleasant Valley PD, all this controversy meant they had to take time away from real police work and come patrol our humble little establishment 2-3 times a night on Fridays and Saturdays.  They also had a tendency to just “pop-in” randomly during the day and throughout the week.  The overwhelming majority of our clientele were decent folks; mid-30's to middle-aged white males fairly equally divided between very much straight and very much in the closet.  We did have a few freakbats though and the increased police presence meant we kept an even closer eye on them.  Enter…

Mr. Pink-nylons

It was my turn to take the Sunday morning shift.  Yes.  Porn shops are open on Sunday mornings.  We opened at 8am, 7 days a week.  Sunday mornings could usually be counted on to be relatively quiet though and we didn’t often see a customer until at least 9am.  Not today.

8:01am

I’d been up until 3am the night before covering someone else’s shift.  I was making do with gas station coffee.  I had just unlocked the front door, and was ducking down behind the counter to retrieve change, when the “bing-bong” chime went off.

Shit.  Who the f*ck?   

I stand up, look around, and at first don’t see anybody.  Then I realize, whoever it is, has already made it to the back of the store and is on his way up to the counter.  As he makes a bee-line straight for me, I realize he is wearing nothing, NO-thing, but sheer pink nylons.  Nylons.  Not opaque tights; sheer pink nylons.  And?  He’s got the biggest butt plug we carry in his hand.  A good 10 inches in diameter at its base, this thing is really more of a gag gift.  Something my buddy Nick from Ranger Up might send to some poor guy at Ranger School because he really is that big of an asshole. 

As the caffeine contained in the styrofoam Chevron cup I've got a death grip on finally starts to break the haze of sleep deprivation, I realize that the naked-pink-nightmare is very much real and I think to myself, “This would be bad, really, really bad, for a neighbor or cop to walk in on”.  I’m also seriously questioning my decision to drop outta’ college.  But Mr. Pinktights is almost to the counter now so I'll have to reevaluate my life later.  

I give him the Mr. Spock Eyebrow and tell him, “You need to put that down and leave!”

“But can’t I just…”

“No.  You can’t just!”  I am so not in the mood for this bullshit.

He looks around a little flustered, promptly sets the Doc Johnson Plug-Of-Doom down on the nearest shelf and scurries out.

I’m still standing there, still sipping lousy coffee and still pondering why the hell I ever left school, when my janitor walks in.  His name is Manuel and he has a thick Mexican accent.  There is a special place in heaven for this man and all other porn-shop janitors; I’m sure of it.

“Manuel, you are not gonna’ believe the shit that just happened” and I proceed to tell him about Mr. Pink-nylons.

His eyes get kinda’ big and he says, “Kreesta!  I saw this man!  He got on a bicycle and rode away!”

“A bicycle?”

“Yes!  A bicycle!”

“And rode away? On a bicycle?  Una bicicleta? ”

“Si!  Bicicleta!”

My day has just gotten a whole lot better.  Finally, I set my coffee down so I can bend over in a full-blown belly laugh at this image.  I have had a sudden realization and gasp out, "Oh man, Mr. Sir will not be pleased when he gets home empty handed.”

“’Meester Sir’?” asks Manuel.

“Nevermind,”  I respond as I realize neither my Spanish or Manuel's English are good enough for me to explain that when you combine BDSM with a weekend Meth bender, you end up with a man in pink nylons hopping on his bicicleta at 8am Sunday.  His mission?  Bring back something big enough to top the past 36 hours.

The Corpsmen of Guadalcanal

Originally written in April, I'm reposting this in honor of Memorial Day, 2011.
 
When I was a child, my sister and my cousins and I had pretty much free reign in our grandparents’ home.  There really wasn’t any place we weren’t allowed to go; no closet we couldn’t explore, no drawer we couldn’t peek into.  At the time, I didn’t quite grasp their significance, but bits and pieces of testimony to my grandfather’s service overseas lay everywhere.  Among the countless knick-knacks in the family room were delicate, brass rice bowls, hand held spinner drums and wobbly hula girl dolls.  Hanging in the garage were bizarre, coconut monkey heads and in the rafters above them, was my grandfather's old sea trunk.  Grandma had also acquired quite the collection of monkey pod ware during their stay at Pearl Harbor.  My favorites were the large salad bowl with matching smaller ones, used daily as well as Sunday, and one piece designed specifically for serving and cracking nuts.  It was a large bowl with an impressive, solid steel nutcracker mounted in the center of it.  I seem to recall Grampa ate most of the nuts, we kids just liked cracking them.

Then, of course, there was the china cabinet.  On the wall next to it was a portrait of my Grandfather in his dress uniform. Within the cabinet were the traditional, delicate crystal glasses and sets of china; but tucked away in one of its drawers, amidst stationary and stamps, was a small box.   I don’t recall anyone explaining to me that the box and its contents were to be handled with care.  I just remember picking up each colorful ribbon and medal with gentle curiosity, understanding that they were Grampa’s, and that they were special. 

Also tucked away in the drawer, was a book that was special.  It was a copy of Reader’s Digest, circa November 1942.   I knew within its pages was a story about things my grandfather had done that made people proud.  I also knew it was something he didn’t like to talk about.  He could be cajoled into talking about the fact that his Marines never did figure out he’d been hustling pool and cards since age 12 and so they continued to play poker and pinochle with him.  In later years, I got him to tell me about trading the raisins from his C Rations with the cooks for potatoes; the potatoes were delivered to the guy with the still, “a pretty popular guy,” I was told.  He also told me about “Washing Machine Charlie” circling about overhead, checking out the Americans on the ground near Henderson Field, and the day he and his buddies realized creeping down near the edge of the field to get a better look while it was being bombarded wasn’t such a good idea.  Those shock waves were a bitch, resonated right through a man’s chest when he was lying prone on the ground.

That was about all we could get Grampa to tell us about his time on Guadalcanal.  If so much as a hint of the story in the Reader’s Digest came up, he’d get angry and growl at us, “I’m not a hero, god damnit!  I never got a Purple Heart.  I just did what I was told; I just did what everybody else did!”

I’ve now read that story in Reader’s Digest several times; it’s titled, “The Battle of the River”.  It is a condensed version of a first hand account of the Third Battle of the Matanikua River.  It was written by war correspondent, John Hersey, who published the story in far more detail in his book, “Into the Valley:  Marines at Guadalcanal.”  Chesty Puller was there, as were Edson and his Raiders.  Yet the part of the story that always has, and always will, strike closest to my heart is that of the Corpsmen.  During the battle, Hersey was with a column of machine gunners when they were ambushed in a narrow defile.  The heavy guns of that era took time to be assembled and mounted and they were never able to get more than two of them firing.  So as the Marines began a retreat, the Corpsmen began evacuating the wounded.  Hersey's narrative is truly moving.  It's my favorite passage in that treasured copy of Reader's Digest:

Now the heroism of the medical corps showed itself.  They went into the worst places and began moving the wounded.  I joined them because, I guess, I just thought that was the fastest way to get the hell out of there...

The worst blast victim was a boy whom I shall call John Smith.  He had a caved-in chest and one of his legs was blasted.  Part of the time we had to carry him, part of the time he could drag his feet along while I supported him.  Before we went very far, they injected some morphine in his arm.

As we struggled along Smith kept asking for his sergeant, whose name I shall change to Bill Johnson.  “Don’t leave Johnson,” he pleaded.  Smith had been manning one of the machine guns which did get into action.  Johnson was in command of the gun.  A mortar-grenade went off near them, knocking the crew all over the place.  Most of the men took cover.  But Johnson crawled back to the gun just in time for another grenade to come much closer.

“He shouldn’t’ have gone back,” Smith said.  “Why in hell did he have to go back?”

All the way out of that valley of the shadow, John Smith mumbled about his friend Sergeant Johnson.

There were some steep places where we had to sit Smith down in the mud and slide him down the trail.  In other places, uphill, we had to form a chain of hands and work him up very slowly.  It was almost dark when we got out of the jungle.  We turned the wounded over to Doc New, the navy surgeon, who had an emergency station set up on the last ridge.

Then the medical corps men hurried back for Johnson.  It was pitch dark when those heroic boys found him, in territory where if they betrayed themselves by the slightest sound they would have mortar fire pouring down on them.  They asked Johnson:  “How do you feel, Bill?”  He said:  “I think I can make it.”  They fashioned a stretcher out of two rifles and a poncho, and started out.  The only way they could find their path was to follow, hand over hand, a telephone wire which some wire stringer had carried down into that hot valley.

Famous last words are usually edited after the fact.  Johnson’s were simple requests:  “Help me sit up, will you please, oh God my stomach.”  Soon he said very softly:  “I wish I could sleep.”  The wish was fulfilled:  he gave a few short gasps and then just stopped breathing.

Through the wonders of modern technology, I've recently downloaded Hersey's book to my PC and it's proving to be a fantastic read.  It's chock full of fabulous grunt behavior and details that were no doubt deemed inappropriate for the gentle readers of the condensed version.  Last words, were indeed, edited after the fact for Reader's Digest.  So far, my favorite omitted tidbit that I've stumbled on is that, while being evacuated, one of the wounded asked,  "Say fellas, would you help me take a crap?  My stomach hurts, if I could just take a crap."  The Corpsmen promptly helped him do just that, dropping his pants for him and holding him up in the required position.  I couldn't help but chuckle over the frankness of that quote.  Perhaps housewives in 1942 would have found this tidbit a tad distasteful, I, on the other hand, not only chuckled, but got a hint of tears in my eyes.  For the man who needed to take a crap, was Johnson.  "Now that is brotherly love," I thought to myself.  Helping a dying man take a sh*t, in the middle of a dark jungle you really just want to get the hell out of as quickly as possible; all in the hopes it will alleviate some of his pain.

Hersey doesn't provide the names of the Corpsmen that he was with that day, and since Grampa wouldn’t talk about it,  I have no way of knowing if he was one of them.  I do know that my grandfather's unit was awarded the Navy Presidential Unit Citation for their actions on Guadalcanal.  The criteria for that citation reads:  "Awarded to units of the U.S. Navy and Marine Corps and allies for extraordinary heroism in action against an armed enemy on or after December 7, 1941."  

"I'm not a hero god damnit!"  Ok, Grampa, you aren’t a hero; but as you look down on me as I write these words, I hope you'll forgive me for disagreeing with you.  You're my hero and if you'd like, we can leave Guadalcanal and all of WWII out of the discussion.  An orphaned son of Croation immigrants, you left the coal mines you'd worked in since a child to join the Navy.  You wanted to secure a better future for the love of your life and the family you would build together.  You grabbed your piece of the American Dream and passed it down to three new generations; many of whom also chose to serve their fellow man.  You lived a long life and you lived it well; we're a testament to that.

A final note:  While this essay is a tribute to my grandfather and the Corpsmen of Guadalcanal, it was another, recently retired, HMC who inspired me to finally get off my butt and write it.  Darrell "Da-Chief" Crone is one of my oldest and dearest friends from high school.  Thanks to Facebook, we've "reconnected" and when he highlighted my blog on his blog, corpsman.com, I told him, "You just made me cry! Now I'm going to have to write something (about you) to top that!"  So let me give it a try: 

Darrell was one of my best friends during that "time of our life" that so many of us wish we could just forget a big chunk of.  We were part of a tight knit group who scattered to the winds to make our way in life; returning, all of us, to our home town, when Darrell and his family suffered a tragic loss.  When I think of us huddled around him in support, I realize there can't be much more of a testament to the value of his friendship and our love for him.  Darrell has grown into a fine man and I couldn't be prouder of him, not that I take any credit for the man he's become.  That, I believe, is a testament to his wife and children and his "other" family, the United States Navy. 

Trigger-pullers, Gandhi and the Gita

"For a pacifist, Gandhi was not very passive.  'Where there is only a choice between cowardice and violence, I would advise violence,' he once said, not because he welcomed bloodshed, but because he favored engagement.  He had little respect for passivity, and even less for moral weakness." -Mark Juergensmeyer, Gandhi's Way:  A handbook of conflict resolution

A few weeks ago, while I was enjoying one of my precious coffee breaks with a "steely-eyed trigger-puller," he noticed one of the books on my table, "Paths to God:  Living the Bhagavad Gita" by Ram Dass... it had many a sticky note poking out of it.   I sipped my coffee and pretended not to notice him squinting to read the title.  With the barest hint of a smile, I waited for the inevitable:

"What the... you have a GURU now, you damn hippie?"

"No dear, that's a book about the Bhagavad Gita."

His response was a raised eyebrow, so I elaborated:

"The Gita is part of the Hindu sacred text, it's kinda like their Iliad.  It’s an epic poem about doing your duty… you’d love it.”  I knew he had read the Iliad and grokked it in the way only a Warrior can.  “The basic premise is this,” I said, “It’s the granddaddy of all battles and the Warrior Prince, Arjuna, is kickin' it in his chariot with his driver, Krishna –who he doesn’t know is God incarnate.  Time is frozen while they have a little chat before the battle begins.  He's just thrown down his bow and refused to fight, after seeing kin and men of honor amongst the enemy lines; he can’t bear the thought of killing them.  Since Krishna aint yer average chariot driver, he proceeds to 'splain a few things to him about doing his duty."  I reached for another book on the table, my copy of the Gita, and opened it to one of my favorite passages:

Know what your duty is

and do it without hesitation.

For a warrior, there is nothing better

than a battle that duty enjoins.

Blessed are warriors who are given

the chance of a battle like this,

which calls them to do what is right

and opens the gates of heaven.

But if you refuse the call

to a righteous war, and shrink from

what duty and honor dictate,

you will bring down ruin on your head.

Decent men, for all time,

will talk about your disgrace;

and disgrace, for a man of honor,

is a fate far worse than death.

These great heroes will think

that fear has driven you from battle;

all those who once esteemed you

will think of you with contempt.

And your enemies will sneer and mock you;

“The mighty Arjuna, that brave man—

he slunk from the field like a dog.”

What deeper shame could there be?

I closed the book and my friend, the “trigger-puller” didn’t say anything.  He didn’t need to.  The look in his “steely-eyes” was enough.

I smiled and waggled my eyebrows at him and said, “Did ya know Gandhi lived and studied the Gita his whole life?  You know, that 'little brown man in a diaper' that was such a thorn in Churchill’s side?  A ‘seditious fakir’ I believe he called him?  Same little dude hippies worship?”  I took another sip of coffee, “Another 3x5 for your back pocket, I’m sure it will come in handy.  Quoting Gandhi and the Gita to a hippie is way more fun than arguing with them about Che.”

*ssssip*

“Che aint the one who said, ‘Where there is only a choice between cowardice and violence, I would advise violence…’”

Why Fayetteville?

I get that question a lot when people find out I’m from California and moved to Fayetteville because I wanted to, not because I had to. I’m not a Soldier an Airman or a spouse; why on earth would I want to move to Fayettenam? I smile and try to explain, “There’s logic to it, really there is…” Sometimes they “get it,” sometimes they don’t.

The main reason I left California is because, quite simply, I couldn’t afford to live there anymore. The decision to walk away from what I had anticipated would be a lifelong career with U.C. Davis was an excruciating one, but in the end, I had to choose between my health and my career. I chose the former, which meant transitioning to long term Social Security Disability; and you can’t live on that tight of a fixed income in California.  While the decision had been difficult, the fact that I'd become disillusioned with academia and the culture that goes with it, did make it easier (see my "Bliss Bunny" post).  So I put everything in storage, headed down to Arizona and spent an unbelievably healing year with my father and stepmother while I took some time to ponder my next move.

I knew what I wanted and needed: a) a lower cost of living, b) somewhere I already had friends and/or family and c) preferably a coastline and plenty of green stuff. The Mars like landscape of the Sonoran Desert drove home the fact that I’m a west coast girl who needs TREES and water, so Arizona was out. That left Kauai or North Carolina. I’ve stopped elaborating on that fact as I’m often interrupted with, “I’d have gone with Kauai!”

“Ummm… did you miss the part about a lower cost of living?”

“Yeah but why Fayetteville? Why not Raleigh or…”

This is where I usually just smile and shrug and say, “Because life is what you make it.”

There are numerous additional, "logical" reasons for choosing Fay that have to do with being centrally located.  Namely, I didn’t want the financial burden of a car, so having friends, shopping and medical care in the immediate area was a big plus.  Trust me, I spend far less on cab fare than I ever would on a car.  I suppose that's one of my lingering hippie-dippie tendencies that serves me well.  For me, there is no bizarre "social stigma" attached to not owning a "vee-hickle" nor do I feel hampered or anxiety ridden by not having one at the ready in my driveway. 

The more deeply rooted reason for my choice, however, is that I knew I would feel far more at home in a military town than I would in Raleigh or its suburbs. It felt right from the moment I came to visit before making my final decision. It was a culture I had been born into and grown up in; it was the realm of Sheepdogs.  I knew that I would quickly and easily make additional friends; the kind who instantly feel like family.  The kind who inherently understand the pleasure, the value –the gratitude- of only having to walk 10 feet for a hot shower and only 10 more for a hot cup of coffee. I knew that in Fayettenam, I would find kindred spirits; those who understand the importance of "seize the day!"as you don't know what the next one will bring. Lastly, I knew that I could devote much of my new found abundance of "free time" and my passion for service, to those I find ever so deserving of it. I could serve those who Serve.

I’ve been here for almost three years now and am so incredibly happy with my decision. I am far happier and more fulfilled here than I ever was living and working in the realm of public, higher education. So much so, that on several occasions, I’ve awoken with relief to realize, yes, I’m still living in Fayettenam, I haven't moved back to California.  I wouldn't call that one a nightmare, but certainly a bad dream.

Last night, my dreams were peaceful and I slept snug and warm after spending several hours reading about the intimate details of life as a grunt deployed to the armpits of the world. I had finished John Hersey’s “Into the Valley: Marines at Guadalcanal” where my grandfather had served as a corpsman and then plowed through the better part of David Bellavia’s “House to House: A Soldier’s Memoir”.  Due to severe storms, my internet connection had been down for hours by the time I went to sleep, but my power had been restored within an hour of losing it. I had light by which to read, a fully stocked fridge and pantry… a stove, a microwave, hot and cold running water... I was living in luxury.

It wasn’t until I finally rebooted my high-speed, broadband modem late this morning and sat down to read the Fayetteville Observer online , that I realized what I’d missed by neglecting to turn my radio back on while I was reading:

"1 dead, 85 hurt by Fayetteville tornado"

Whoa.

Did I forget to mention one of the other reasons I chose this part of NC is because rarely is it directly impacted by hurricanes and tornadoes?  While I had been blissfully reading away, there had been 62 tornado touch downs throughout the eastern part of the state.

I reached for my cell phone, which I'd left on vibrate on my desk before retreating to my room the night before.  I now had multiple text messages from Soldiers affectionately demanding, “Ping me!” and one from "Wolfpack" (who was on the other side of the neighboring county for the weekend) asking, "Are you alive?"  I looked at the map of the path the Fayetteville tornado had taken and realized that probably, the only reason they hadn’t come pounding on my door was because they knew I was several miles away from it and tend to be a homebody when it's storming out. As I began returning text messages, I pulled up Facebook and my extended “milkook family” network made my heart melt with their concern and affection. Then I read the article in the Observer in full and my heart beamed with pride:

The destruction brought out the best in some people.

Jamie Slife and his family were driving down Yadkin Road when the tornado ripped across the street in front of them.

Instead of panicking, Slife, a Marine stationed at Fort Bragg, jumped out of the car and started helping everybody else.

Within minutes, Slife had joined forces with soldiers who also were helping.

"We pulled seven people from cars," Slife said.

The makeshift unit also checked on people in damaged homes and worked with firefighters and police officers to help secure the area.

"We don't know each other," Slife said, gesturing toward the group. "They're just letting me talk because I have higher rank, I guess." (can't lie, that quote made me laugh)

In the Summerhill neighborhood, residents quickly mobilized to help one another and clear the neighborhood streets so residents and emergency vehicles could get through.

The group of mostly active-duty or retired soldiers brought out chain saws to cut the trees. A man in a tow truck used his winch to pull limbs and trunks out of the way. Some tied smaller limbs to the backs of their Jeeps and trucks and dragged them off.

Staff Sgt. Larry Ruiz used to live in the neighborhood. He grabbed his medical kit and stethoscope and went door to door to offer help.

In Cottonade, paratrooper Teygh Statler used a chain saw to cut a big tree that had fallen on Julie Nelson's house on York Road. Statler was joined by other soldiers and volunteers.

"We've just been kind of driving and helping wherever we can," said Erin Adams, whose husband Steve manned a chain saw in the front yard. "We just hope somebody would do the same for us."

Now. Are there any further questions about, “Why Fayetteville?!?” Good. Glad we got that straight.

Hooah, Oorah, and God love ya, I know I sure do!