After a long hiatus, during which I had the opportunity for a visit with my wife, I find myself writing again. One of the few free moments I have captured and I am stuck doing laundry. Its just like one of those you see on any street, except that there is no sorting. Everything goes in, with extra soap, on “COLORS”. When almost everything you wear is green, black brown or some mixture of those three, laundry is almost mindless.
It is funny the things you take for granted at home. Stuff like the washer and dryer being in the same building, or the food being available to you 24/7 in the fridge. Here, my food is kept in a blue container, and the laundry is a ten minute walk. I can sympathize with the city-dweller, who has to tote 30 punds of crap (laundry, soap, quarters, etc) to wash clothes. I spend this time quietly playing games and watching. Some people read, others call home. Interestingly, many here are trying to learn some form of the language over there. (Bosnia, Hungarian, Serbo-Croat, depending on the bookstore where they bought the book.) While many of my peers are really bright, not everyone has the ability to learn a language by book (I certainly don’t). I look forward to the day I am called to quell a disturbance because someone asked directions to the farmer’s daughter’s crotch.
On July 30, we left the United States. And everything human. But not before we had a “Family Day.” Family Day is the military’s form of an office party. It has the usual uncomfortable moments; the semi-inappropriate jokes, the overly drunk guy, and the boss who everyone’s lips are attaching to. However, the military’s form of the office party has one thing, the office doesn’t have: It usually concludes with the disruption of the family. I have to admit, among the toughest problems for me, was the young soldier whose wife was there, dressed in her best, showing her pride in her husband. Her husband happens to be among my best troops and dedicated to country as much as to family. When she turned around to look at the guy responsible for her husband’s well-being, all of this hit home.
Among the many people there was a remarkable woman named Jean Campbell. Her mission was not as an immediate family, but as a supporter of family members. Her son is serving overseas in Oman currently, and she volunteered with an organization called Blue Star Mothers. This organization was originally developed on the backbone of the blue star flag which hung on the windows during World War II to symbolize the family’s member serving in the war over seas. The flag would hang until the soldier returned, or the star was changed to gold, to show that the family member was killed in action.
Jean’s cause was not remarkable in and of itself, but rather that her resolved and dedication was representative of what I think this country should be about. The Pennsylvania chapter of this organization was being run by a woman older than her fifties. She also had two knees in braces, and carried that 75 pounds of weight, I am sure she would have rather lost. Ultimately, Jean’s resolve was what drove my wife to tears, and us to join her cause. If she believed in car sales like she believed in these flags, I would now be the proud owner of three. It’s pretty remarkable what one life altering incident in September can do. Her son now serves proudly in Oman, while she does her part in the States.
People like Jean came out in droves after the 11th of September 2002. But I think people like Jean existed prior to that fall. She made me remember what being dedicated and proud meant. And she reminded me that for every soldier out on the front in Germany, in Bosnia, or in Afghanistan, there are 2 – 3 people in the States, waiting for their return. Wives, mothers, fathers, and husbands all sit by the television, waiting for news, hoping nothing comes by telegram, and trying to live their lives. My wife sits at home, going to work, and trying to enjoy her free time with friends, but every person she sees, and every news story on the television comes around to me, sitting thousands of miles away.
I hope my wife realizes that while I sit here, passing the time, writing in this journal, I know the sacrifice she makes is exponentially greater than mine.
Now, I sit here trying to think about how to describe the relationship I have with my wife. Words like loyalty, dedication, and pride come to mind. I have never known someone who is more dedicated and so intensely proud of what we have done together. The love we share seems to have gone beyond that of when we first saw the stars in the eyes, and the romance, and all of those things which lovers start with. We have been good at keeping these things alive, but what we have been best at is growing together, in tandem.
I see couples whose passion and feverish love burns so bright at the start that they soon lose that flame, and rapidly fizzle. Others have fallen into a groove of life, and exist day-to-day. However, Amy and I seem to have as strong a passion as when we started. (Not the same passion, just the same strength.) And yet our groove is that of a partnership. We make decisions together, we reach common goals, and together we have found common success. This isn’t Oprah, this isn’t Dr. Phil. This is just the way we have worked it out over the time we have been together.
But we never fight. Ok, we fight, to the point where the neighbors think we’re insane. We fight until we’re blue in the face, and we rant and rave like lunatics. Probably not the best approach, and when I return, I think this is one area where I would change our relationship. However, at the end of it, we often realize that we are better together than apart.
I am nothing more than a person, and yet I know her love for me is without question. We have survived problems, and pain, and fights and tears, and through all of this we have managed to remember where our love lives. Over the years, we have tried many different tricks to minimize the anger which comes after a fight. For years, we subscribed to the theory of never going to sleep angry. Then, we heard that it is ok to sleep angry, so long as you confront the problem and resolve it. Then, we realized that whether we sleep angry or not, so long as our feet were touching when we went to sleep, then we still loved each other. (We saw that last one in a movie, or television.) Despite the resolution to the problem, we found only one thing which pulled us through. Our dedication to solving the problem, and our ability to communicate through the issue, generally at the top of our lungs, lead to the success we have seen.
It sounds weird that sometimes we communicate through yelling, but it has worked so far. The yelling is our way to get heard. As I write this, I again realize how insane this must sound. I plan to revise this communication strategy as soon as I get home. I really do miss her.
It’s funny the things you miss the most. I call it her “Remember to breathe,” stuff. It’s the little things she does which I can’t see here but I know she does, even when I am not there. The way her face gets a worried look on it, when she doesn’t understand. The way she tries to undertake arduous tasks while waiting for dinner to cook, thereby allowing the chicken to harden beyond well done. The way, once in a blue moon, the dinner comes out perfectly. The way she routinely fails to remember how great she is when she has a bad day at the office. I especially miss the loving reminders, her telling me to be careful, or be safe, or some other reminder to breathe, as her parting words, just hoping to have one more sentence before we separate. Most of all, I just miss her.
Now, back to reality. I am sitting in a tent right now. The date is August 4, 2002. The time is approximately 2000. (8:00, normal human time, 2:00 home time.) The 15’ x 30’ rubber and aluminum tent is a throw back to the field days of Washington, at Valley Forge, only bigger. There are probably 50 tents surrounding me at 4’ intervals. The tops leak through the pin holes formed over time, so we have used green packing tape to hold the water back, but we have to replace it pretty routinely.
At night the temperatures fall into the 50-60 degree range, which is in the -50,000 Celsius, I think based upon some rudimentary math conversions. During the day, the temperatures climb into the 90’s, which is comfortable here as the humidity is lower than Pennsylvania. Comfort is relative to the surroundings in which we survive. When you live in tents, and on an aluminum and canvas cot, with concrete and dirt floors, good weather goes a long way.
We are about 30 minutes from a nearby town which is off limits to us. I drove around the German countryside today, visiting a soldier in the hospital. The country here is a strange dream. I don’t understand why, but as I rode along the autobahn, everything seemed covered in a haze. The people aren’t real. They talk funny, and while I understand them and can speak their funny talk, I can’t appreciate them as I don’t see them routinely.
While at the hospital, I went to the gift shop looking for some antacid. However, I don’t remember learning the word for “Oh Jesus Christ, there is an inferno in my belly, and I am begging you to piss on it to put it out,” in German. So I sat there, bumbling through, and pleading for help. What a day. . .
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