I'll Take the Free-Range Broccoli, Please.

No particular reason I chose that title; it popped into my head as I unlocked the door to my apartment yesterday after the gym. A moment of Heather Randomness.

I’ve been experiencing a strange kind of phenomenon lately. I’ve suddenly, clearly been confronted with a smell or feeling that directly evokes a sense of propelling me back to some other time in my life. The smell isn’t necessarily real; something in the little memory cubes in my head apparently pops open and creates a mild hallucination of sorts.

The funny thing is, it’s mostly been memories of my time and friends I had when I was in the Air Force. I only keep in contact with one friend from then, and through him I hear of other mutual friends. He’s in Baghdad right now, and served with me at Carswell Air Force Base back during the first Gulf War. (The offer to send you some sweaters still stands, Larry!)

The strongest of these “sensual hallucinations” (for lack of a better term) happened the other morning on my way to work. As I got onto the on ramp to merge with the morning traffic, the radio station began playing a song that was popular during that era. I don’t remember what song it was now, but suddenly I was wholly and completely there. I had a sense of having an almost duplicitous existence – there I was in my blue 1996 Ford Escort heading to work, but my body and head felt like I was back at Carswell.

I felt the way I did then, and could suddenly smell, feel, hear, taste and just thorughly sense the base. I’m sure it was a mixture of the exhaust from the traffic and the construction vehicles working alongside the highway, the weather, the song on the radio -- but to my little nose, eyes and ears, it was the scent and sound of the B-52 and KC-135 planes that we had at the base, the feeling of heading towards work in the morning.

I even half-thought that if I'd looked down, I'd have seen my camouflage uniform and boots, rather than my skirt, t-shirt and flip flops.

I had a strong sense of knowing I’d see my friends that evening when I got off work. I could hear the continual hum-rush-roar of the plane’s engines that ran 24 hours a day, seven days a week (something I can still hear clearly in memory, given it was a constant part of my life for more than two years. It was like a little sense-oriented movie had swung open in my mind to replay some long-forgotten, mundane moment from my time in Texas – Dallas – Ft. Worth to be specific.

It was as pungent as someone tearing open a tree-fresh orange next to me. Vibrant and compelling, I had a sudden longing – though not exactly home- or timesickness – to be back there with all of my friends. I was in for two years, right out of high school, and was honorably discharged after the first Gulf War ended. Even though it was truly my first time away from home, it was a time of deep independence, fun, and innocence – a time that rests in moments before true adulthood set in, before the distinct responsibility of all that comes with it settled around me like a time-cloak.

I even found myself suddenly considering trying once more to go back in.

I’d started the paperwork to go into the Navy as an officer, actually, about five years ago. For whatever reason, I stopped it. I think my intent was to create that sense of those feelings for real again, rather than in just memories. But at some point, I think, I realized I can’t “go home” again. And I reminded myself of that in the midst of that sudden memory sensation that had engulfed me there in my car.

A few days prior to that moment in my car, and in the days that have followed, I find myself wondering about my friends from that time. Tim. Matt. Alex. Chris. Sheri. Susan. Jamie. Pumpkinhead (I can’t for the life of me remember his real name; help me out here, Larry!) Harry. Frank. Tara. My co-workers, both non-com and officers. Tom Castleman. I stayed in touch with him for a few years after I got out; last I heard he was at the Air Force Academy…and then his letters stopped.

And the numerous of other people I can picture clearly in my mind, but to whom I can’t place names.

Where are you all? What has changed? What do you look like? Are you married and do you have children? Do you ever think of me?

I don’t meant that last question to be one of ego. It’s meant wholly to be one of simple curiosity if I ever pass across their thoughts for a moment or two. I’m sure I do. In more wistful moments, I think of how fun a sort of reunion would be.

But maybe times like that are best left where they now rest. They were experiences encapsulated in another life, creating a sort of valve-closing that’s different than that of high school, where reunions are common. Oh, I know military reunions happen all the time. But it’s not like we were a “unit” in the truest military sense of the word, a band of brothers and sisters, if you will. But sometimes those valves leak a bit, and a trickle of memories and senses from that era leak out.

I do miss it – and miss my friends. I truly loved the time I served. The military can so often get criticized and lambasted and decried – as can the men and women who serve. I was once called a “baby killer” at Oregon State by a “neo-hippie” (for lack of a better term), who raged at me for being proud of my time in the Air Force.

I let her speak – well, scream, really – her piece, then calmly replied, “Well, you do realize, that I went into the service so that the constitution you hold so dearly would be protected and safe, and so you’d have the right to stand there and say those things to me. You’re certainly welcome to your opinion of both my service and me – but be thankful that you have the right to speak it.”

She looked at me a moment, gulped in a few breaths, sputtered over a few words…and fell silent. I turned and walked away, leaving her to her rage-red face and confusion. I half expected her to yell something generic at me like, “Yeah, well – so’s your mother!” just to have the last word.

Sure it hurt to have those things said to me, and it caught me quite off guard. But I also knew that she hadn’t really thought her own opinion through. An intelligently-laid opinion is one thing, but one that’s simply a shot from the hip without any kind of true brainwork for support is another.

I’m glad for all the “Support Our Troops” magnets I see. But I sometimes find myself wondering how many people have a full heart behind them, or if it’s just a nice little sentiment they have on their trunks. I know for most people – like my mother who has one on the back of her car – do. Given our family’s military history (her father served in the Pacific during WWII, her grandfather was a balloonist in WWI, my father served in the Air Force during the Vietnam War – but was stateside – and me. I’m the only female in my family to have served). And the other day I found myself behind a truck with a smattering of interesting stickers – POW/MIA, a Vietnam War Service sticker, a Korean War Veteran, and, of course, a Support Our Troops magnet. He also had a Veteran license plate (something I’ve considered getting; I’ll have to look into that next time my tags are due).

It made me pause – and even want to cry. He’d served through not one, but two wars. likely voluntarily.

That’s something we tend to forget – it’s a volunteer job nowadays. And always has been, for the most part. Of course there was the draft during the World Wars (more so during WWII) and Vietnam -- and later the lottery system used during that war. But many men and women walk into a recruiter's office of their own choice and choose to join.

I don’t think our Gulf War veterans will have the same homecoming our Vietnam veterans had (don’t get me started on that insulting debacle), but there still certainly isn’t the same kind of support our troops during WWII had. Those young men were treated as defiled defects of our country, rejected and the receptacles for misplaced anger – when all they did was do what they were asked to do with honor and grace. Many of them didn’t volunteer.

Granted, the politics are different in this war, but wartime politics are never agreeable, velvet-rosey and pretty. There’s a bitterness I sense in all of this that the winds of opinion blow towards our troops, support magnets or no.

And that makes me sad, because it has a tinge and scent to it of that awful homecoming time the Vietnam Veterans had to face.

These men and women chose to go in not because they believe in the reasons for the war, or because they even endorse the choices for it, but because they believe in our country and the people they’re working to protect.

For the most part at least; the reasons for joining are varied.

But there’s generally an underlying similar tenor. For as much as I wanted to smack that girl silly there in the Quad at OSU for calling me a “baby-killer”, I would have done anything to make sure she kept the right to call me that – publicly. A privilege many people – women especially – don’t have in other countries.

Okay, I realize that’s clichéd, but it’s a cliché I think we forget is important. Would I go back into the service if I needed to? Absolutely. But since it’s a choice right now, I’m not going to make it – even though sometimes I’ve considered it. There’s a part of me that always feels a pull to go back in. There’s a sense of security you can have in that kind of environment, but I have to admit that for me, there was a part of me that still exists in my heart and soul that felt truly honored to get up each day knowing I was doing something to keep people safe.

And, yes, I realize that there’s a sad irony that there’s deaths involved to create that safety. I wish there were another way, but those of us (well many of us) who choose to go into the military go in knowing that risk. We know it’s not a first-person shooter video game, even though I have to admit those things do kind of glorify it. But anyone who has their head on straight and plays those things can tell the difference between that and reality; it’s not the fault of the game.

Another topic not to get me started on. You have to be whacko before starting to play those games to believe that there’s a reset button a jungle or field or sand dune, and that war – even being in the military during peaceful times – is all slick graphics and sound effects. I’m sure there are people who join for that reason, but they usually wise up fast.

Usually, anyway. The military didn’t create the Timothy McVeys out there (though many people blame it for doing so); those guys were nuts before theyjoined, and likely believed it to be a video game of sorts.

So I ask you, please don’t focus on those jackasses as for what the military stands. They aren’t the full genetic make-up of the force as a whole.

I knew it wasn’t a game, and so did the men and women who have died. And I honor them deeply. Are there atrocities that those soldiers commit against civilians or opposing force militaries? Sure. And those people are a shameful mark against what the rest of us want(ed) to do.

I didn’t start this blog out to be somewhat of a rant; I just wanted to mention the memories that had been swimming past me like little silvery fish recently, and how I’d been thinking of my friends. I guess through them, and through this entry to my blog, something that’s been sitting with me for awhile found its own opened valve.

So to those of you in the military: I honor you deeply, and will always have an afinity for you.

On a more humorous note:

As I drove back from lunch yesterday I found myself behind a Cadillac-style of car, driven by a teenager. By itself, it was just a “car car”, but what was humorous was (1) the car was raised and on large tires, and two (2) the fact he had a "Lowrider" sticker on his back window....

I suppose it was low compared to a semi or a monster truck, but at the same time there was a small dichotomy between the sticker and the car.

And today, again as I drove back to the office from lunch, I was behind a truck that had a sign on the back that read: "Caution: It is unlawful to operate this vehicle within 10 feet of high voltage lines of 50,000 volts or less."

So apparently, it's legal to operate the vehicle near lines of 50,001 - 1,000,000 voltage lines (or so), but not near, say, the power cord attached to a desk fan.

So, my readers, I’ll close on that.

But I have to admit, I wonder if there's any free-range broccoli in Baghdad.

(Back to I'll Take the Free-Range Broccoli, Please Addendum)