Joke's Over, Part II

I'm disabling the ability to make comments on my blog, since the person who's still leaving "joke" comments got defensive about being "caught. They decided to turn nasty by making fun of a part of my life that seems to be funny to them, but actually was a time that both meant a lot to me, and was hard.

Come to think of it, that was behind the other two "comments". Given they were centered around the same thing. It's just the first ones weren't quite so pointedly, defensively mean.

Here's the point: Humor is only funny if both parties involved find it so.

If it's at the other person's expense, that's not humor. That's being hurtful and mean. That's why you're "lurking" -- you know it's not funny and so you don't want your name or face attached to it.

That's also why you're pissed off (misdirectedly so, as it's aimed at me) and getting nasty.

But, still. Even though I may understand where it's coming from, the other point is that real and true friends don't pull that kind of BS in the first place.

And don't think I don't have an idea who it is, because there's only two people on my blog list who could know about that part of my life.

One of them would never do this because she doesn't have the specificity of the details being used. So that only leaves the other person.

If anyone ever wants to make a comment about something I've written, email me.

OK, Joke's Over

Whoever is posting the fake comments under the guise of old friends can stop now. It's not funny, and I can tell by the timestamp -- and the fact that not only are they coming through together, the comments are similar -- it's from one person, and not them.

Musical Fairs

Okay, before I get truly started, I hae to say I had to fun things happen today via the way of two comments comments to my blog. One was from Pumkinhead, mentioned in my Free Range Broccoli blog who shall no longer be blank in my head and now be reverently remembered by his true name:

Horacio Karkaroff.

You can all see why I blanked on that name; it's the kind where you'd either forget it or remember it because of its nature.

Ha ha! Gotcha Mr. Robert Hart!

The other comment came from Chris "Drakester" Drake, who, I kid you not, I was just thinking of the other day, wondering what he was up to. I hear about you all sometimes through Larry, but not so much Mr. Drakester there (if that really was you who left the message --!)

You really surprised me! Made for a nice day, actually, having you two come out of the blue like that.

So what's up with the two of you?! I'd love to exchange a few emails with you -- leave me your addresses if you'd like in a comment. Or anyone -- I miss you guys!

And now, back to our regularly scheduled programming....

Every once in awhile, a weekend comes along that seems to be a nice turn around a bend – on top of being a nice reminder to give into the little kid in me.

It’s just that, sometimes, you have to hit a few bumps to get to that reminder.

Saturday day was fairly uneventful; I slept in. I vacuumed. I scrubbed down the kitchen counters. I had lunch and read for awhile on my terrace. Then it was time for me to shower and catch the train to the Zoo for an outdoor concert with my mother – the Gipsy Kings an utterly incredible, amazing group

They don’t sing in English; rather, they sing entirely in their native Gipsy tongue of Gitane. But, the thing is, it doesn’t mater that you can’t understand them – you can’t help but be swept away by all the amazing inter-weaving rhythms that seem nearly impossible to braid together. The richness comes from their common way of having all the guitarists strumming in the same manner; the lead singer’s ragged-dry hoarse – but still almost richly velvet – voice pulls it all together.

Occasionally, touches of other styles pop into their music – accordions slip in, giving the song a touch of spicy, foot-tapping Cajun Zydeco; the next song carries the distinct tang of Salsa. But all the while it’s still a sound that’s deeply uniquely they’re own.

I’m not certain how I came across them. I think a song of theirs was in a movie I saw several years ago, and, caught by it, and introduced them to my mother, who, being just as eclectic in her taste as I am (hmm; that sounds somewhat like she got her tastes from me...well, maybe she did!) who fell in love with them as well. Perhaps a year or so later, she found that the band was on tour, and she bought two tickets for the fourth row at the Arlene Schnitzer Concert Hall downtown.

So last night was our second time seeing them. Worth every penny, and all the effort it took for me to get there.

Let me explain. It’s truly another adventure from the Annals of Heather in trying to get to a musical performance.

Two days prior to the concert, my mother gave my brother an envelope with my ticket in it so that I’d have it to get into the Zoo and meet her there. I got to the transit center, right on time for when I wanted to hit the Zoo, and was first hit with the dismay that the ticket machine was glad to suck the money off of my debit card, and was just as glad not to spit out a ticket for me. Thinking the transaction had somehow been cancelled, I tried again.

Same thing.

I tried the other machine, which worked; but it meant my round-trip train ticket cost $10.50, instead of $3.50. I’m calling my bank when the charges come through to see about getting those other two tickets reversed.

But as soon as I stepped off the train at the tunnel stop for the Zoo – I realized I’d left my ticket sitting on the kitchen counter. So back I had to go to grab my ticket, thus losing my nice parking spot. The music, however, beautifully made up for the frustration.

Sunday, however, was the gathering of a few prior bumps to get to it. I have to back up a bit here – actually all the way back to May.

One Wednesday evening as I drove home after acupuncture, the clutch on my car burned up. My car reeked of sour, burned rubber, so much so it made my eyes water. I wasn’t terribly upset about it happening (it’s happened, so what can you do?) and, instead, sat laughing in my car as I waited for the tow truck to collect the car, and for Andrew to collect me. The only worry was that I had a ticket to see Joe Nichols (a country artist I like) in Napavine, Washington two days later, and I was, at that moment, without wheels.

The main reason it was so funny was that not three days before, a friend at work who knew how much the upcoming concert meant to me said, “Make sure your car’s totally safe – last thing you want is to have it break down and have you miss the show!”

Damn you, Keith. You jinxed my car!

The problem was solved – it got towed to the repair shop, and I wound up borrowing Andrew’s car for the weekend since he had alternate transportation.

Now roll forward to this weekend that just passed. I had another ticket to see the Joe Nichols in concert on Sunday; again in Washington. Thankfully, his time just outside Vancouver, not 90 minutes away in Napavine; a very nice outdoor venue, but that night was met with its own humor. The concert was part of a “Hot Summer Nights” concert series, for several days prior to the show in May it had rained, making the ground quite damp.

Despite the fact that’s technically late spring, nobody had bothered to let Mother Nature know. It was so cold that I had to buy a sweatshirt for another layer, and, during the show I started to admire -- well, was envious of, really -- the fact the band members were sweating. I had half a mind to turn into a groupie and throw myself onto the stage, just to get a few minutes’ warmth from the stage lights -- or perhaps a momentary grasp of a warm musician's body before security tore me away and tossed me tidily back outside. When I left, my legs were numb from cold from my feet to my knees....Some “hot summer night” that was!

On this past Tuesday or Wednesday, as I got into my car for work, my mind wandered to the coming weekend and the music that would fill it. I began to chuckle and thought, “Wouldn’t that be funny if my car died again, and I had to take Andrew’s car again to see Joe’s show again!”

Friday morning, already late, I hopped into my car to rush to work, turned the key over, had a flash of engine beginning, lights coming on, and --

Nothing.

It was totally dead. My car refused to utter even the tiniest squeak, wheeze, cough or sputter.

This time the jinx was on me.

Here’s the equation I believe came into play: Joe Nichols + Washington Venue + My Car = Dead Vehicle. Somehow that combination seems to cancel out the functionality of my car. I don’t particularly want to find out if that equation always rings true, so hopefully Joe will simply come to a Portland venue and I can just take the train and not even worry about my car having to work...or maybe the next time he swings through town, I ought to book a rental car the same time I buy my ticket, just to be on the safe side.

I called Andrew, who kindly lent me his car again for the weekend, as he would be away camping for the weekend. (I make it worth his while – not only do I fill up the tank, but I get it washed, vacuumed and I wipe down the interior surfaces.)

Joe Nichols’ show was set for the Clark County Fair, and, misjudging on the side of caution the time it would take me to get to the fairgrounds, I got there an hour and a half early; usually the drive takes a good two hours because of traffic as I always seem to head that direction at the tail end of a work day – and on a molasses traffic Friday.

After watching the tail end of Joe and his band doing their sound check, I meandered around the fair for a bit, drinking in the sounds of children’s screams induced by the delicious terror created by the rides, the wonderful too-sweet aroma of cotton candy, caramel apples, mixed with the scent of freshly-made corndogs and barbequed hamburgers. The air was full of the tangy scent of hot metal, oil, dust, all backed by the thumping bump of the requisite hard rock music that is clearly the mandatory soundtrack played by ride operators. I had every intention of ignoring the rides, and killing time by wandering through the displays. But after looking at a variety of fire engines – one as old as 1855 – I found myself plopping down money at a ticket booth for some tickets.

I nearly had a heart attack, though.

The sign at the ticket booth said “One Coupon $1.” Reasonable, I thought. But then I read that most rides took 3 or more tickets; likely the kiddie rides would be the 3-ticket rides. Unlimited rides were $50. That was the part that gave me the heart attack.

Granted, it’s been awhile since I’ve been to a county fair, but the last price I saw was $15 for unlimited rides, and even that seemed spendy. And, back then, rides were generally one or two tickets – maybe three for the harrier ones. Not four or five as these rides were priced.

I bought 12 tickets – enough for at least three rides, I figured – and threaded my way through the game booths run by tired, dusty, sun-dried vendors who seemed glad for finally having some shade (it’s been in the mildly-cool 90s here lately; yes, Larry, I realize that’s sweater weather compared to Baghdad, but that’s hot for Oregon – especially so many days in a row!) There were the standard rides – The Zipper, The Scrambler, plus the standard kiddie Bugmobiles and carousel.– and ones that were new to me, including one where the rider lies on his or her stomach on a little three-person deal with hang gliding wings above them.

I went for my old favorite – The Yo-Yo, a ride where you sit in swings that get spun faster and faster at intervals so that you get higher and higher; amazing what simple little centrifugal force will do to create all sorts of fun-induced nausea.

There was one ride I had my eye on, but wasn’t sure I wanted to try; it looked much like the old ride that looked much like a hammer that swung people around in a big circle to put you upside down. This one, however, kept you upright – but the spin seemed a bit faster than any ride like that I’d been on.

Instead, I went for a ride on the classic Ferris Wheel (the operator refused my tickets, so I wound up with a nice four rides for my tickets, instead of just three). It really was a pretty day for it – clear all the way to Oregon, not a cloud in the sky. But that ride seems best for nighttime, with all the fair lights blazing, and a dome of stars above you.

It’s also better when you’re with someone.

But it’s still fun to look out over the fairgrounds, dotted with all the brightly-colored t-shirts, rides tidily scattered over the ground. I closed my eyes, and let the momentum of the ride wash over me, the cool breeze blending with the laughter and screams, the smell of sun-hot metal, and the thrumming of the roller coaster motor next to me. It was clean, pure child-borne fun in the best sense. Even the sticky feel on the palms of my hands from the rides and the dust in the air was a reminder.

Since I had one set of tickets left, I braved the whirly ride I’d skeptically eyed (which is funny, because give me any madly cork-screwed roller coaster and I’ll be on it six times before you can blink). I’m glad I went on – it was good, stiff, spinning fun. It was hard not to grin, despite the decided whirliness of my stomach. I was ever so grateful for my early and decidedly light dinner of rice, fruit and a pork chop two hours earlier; I think fair food is designed to make that whirliness even punchier. I gave away my last three tickets (I could have bought one to go on one final ride, but the timing was perfect for the concert, and my stomach was clearly asking me politely not to do so) and went to my seat thinking, I have to remember to do this more often!

It was a good, solid reminder of how much fun acting like an adult kid is.

It was a great show. Joe was clearly in a much livelier, better mood – in May he’d seemed a bit closed and quiet behind his enjoyment of the show; he was much more interactive with the crowd, much bouncier – well, cockier, really; damnably good-looking to begin with, the guy clearly has a rather charming ego that peeks out quite attractively from under his rather classic down-home, polite demeanor. The summer weather and the months of practice between May (which was very early in his tour) and Sunday night made the whole performance feel much more mellow and humorous.

Plus it was a lot warmer.

I have to admit, I’m disappointed the weekend’s over. Bumps aside in getting to it, it was, overall, balmy and calm, and nicely relaxing with great music – and a re-introduction to a forgotten variety of fun, it means I’m back to my car. It’s a decent car, but Andrew’s is decidedly hipper and zippier. But the advent of Monday means it will need to remain tucked away under the car port and the relinquishment of the car keys. Andrew’s going to give my car a jump tonight, as it’s likely my battery. I think I need a new one; I haven’t replaced it since I got the car, and with the hot weather, I’ve been running the A/C a lot, which wears it down. At least I’m hoping that’s all it is.

It’s still extremely busy at work, and so this was a terrific wind-down weekend for me. In and around it all, though it got me thinking about some things – where I’m going personally, what my next step is in life. I don’t know why, but it’s like a curtain of sorts got tossed back by the evening breeze at the fair, or perhaps it was the fresh perspective from the top of the Ferris wheel that knitted it all together more firmly. I just know I woke up this morning feeling like some sort of internal cogs and gears had shifted into a new slot; I’d been feeling somewhat out of sync for a few weeks, now that I look back over time.

I have the odd feeling that there’s something really amazing just around the corner, and that it’s going to involve leaving where I am and heading someplace new; not just figuratively, but as in a new job, and even a new location. I’ve been thinking, lately, that I need a change of culture, but what that means I don’t know yet.

Whatever it is, I’m going to make sure I include at least a few whirly carnival rides on a more frequent schedule.

Free-Range Broccoli Blog Addendum

(Read this link first: I'll Take the Free-Range Broccoli, Please)

I’ve gotten some reactions back about my blog that I wanted to respond to.

Please be aware I am not looking to start an email flurry here; I just wanted to expand on the point I was attempting to make in my blog. Nor am I accusing the people who wrote me of being “wrong” or of holding “bad opinions.”

They’re opinions.

Faulting someone for having an opinion I may not agree with would be like faulting them for the color of their eyes.

Nor am I looking to change anyone’s minds – or opinions. I just felt I had to touch on some things that have been said to me

Please read the whole blog.

If you still feel at the end of it that you need to email me, do so then. Not in the middle of it. (I truly assumed that what I wrote about in my prevous blog was pretty tame.)

Also note: I am not that the reactions to my blog are wrong or bad; they’re the opinions of the speaker and I respect them.

I don’t subscribe to the ever popular thing of, “You’re welcome to have your opinion – as long as you agree with me.” I’d rather have someone disagree with me and retain their personal beliefs / values / opinions than feel they have to shift into mimicking what I’m thinking and feeling. Or feel they need to get me to mimic them.

To sum up: it’s not my intention to change minds or feelings about the war or other things touched by it. I just want to introduce a view through another perspective, one that may not have been noticed before.

Support of our troops overseas – in peacetime or wartime – should be unconditional. Not a political thing.

The war itself is a political thing, but the men and women serving in the military are not themselves a political thing.

It’s possible, I think, to give them our unconditional support while disliking the war. The fact that they’re serving during wartime, volunteered during wartime, happened to be in during wartime, and even continue to serve (like the men who served two or three tours in Vietnam – voluntarily) does not mean they support the war.

Nor does supporting our troops – and continuing to have a Support Our Troops magnets on our cars does not mean we support the war.

The fact that the conditions over there are bare, frustrating, and at time greatly lacking in bare necessities – creating an even deeper sense of being homesick and cut off in those men and women from their families, friends, girlfriends, boyfriends, husbands wives – is why they need our support.

Now more than ever.

It shouldn’t be about “If this President is elected, I’ll support them with my thoughts / prayers / good wishes for health and returning home safety, but if another one I don’t like is elected, I won’t.”

Now – wait.

Those of you who alluded to that, mildly or outright, I ask that you please keep reading before you email me again.

I’ll repeat here – I’m not saying you’re wrong in having that sentiment. You feel you need to have that, that’s fine.

But that’s making our support of those men and women political.

Think back to the Vietnam War. We (though I was barely four years old when it ended, I’m using we because it has a softer impact and alleviates the possible idea that I’m speaking personally – directly – to anyone who has commented on my blog, because I’m not.)

We had friends who were sent over there. Or at least acquaintances. Maybe even someone we loved dearly. We gave them our support for being there – unconditionally – while absolutely abhorring the War itself.

It wasn’t about if-Kennedy-and-Johnson-I’ll-support-them-but-if-Nixon-I-won’t. Or maybe it was. I’m sure many people felt that way.

I realize I’m touching on touchy ground here.

But if we’ll all try to remember: supporting our troops became a political thing then, too.

Compare how the troops from World War II were celebrated upon their return to the near lynch-mob of “support” the men who served in Vietnam got. It was appalling and disgusting – to put it mildly.

Forty years later and we’re still trying to heal from all of those scars. Do we really want the men and women in Iraq to be struggling in the year 2045?

As my friend Walt said, "I'm not sure, 40 years later, that we're capable of healing from the scars of Viet Nam. That war set the country on a path from which it's never recovered, and has polarized us. Yes, even to the point where many can't differentiate between "troops" who deserve unconditional support, and the war itself, which is about 50-50 in the public's mind.

"But there's no concerted "war effort" such as there was in WWII, things like "Loose Lips Sink Ships" posters, Rosie The Riviter, and blackout shades at night over every window in costal ciities, to prevent ememy planes from identifying targets."

The only bumper sticker he's had on his car in the last 30 years -- aside from his sundry Rodeo Association stickers -- is one that says, "Proud Parent of a U S Marine."

Does he support the war itself. No. He hates it. It terrifies him that his son and other soldiers -- men and women -- are over there, and that wars in general exist.

But his support for them is separate from the political entity in which they exist at the moment.

I served during the Gulf War and didn’t agree with the fact it was happening – and even why. It was a stupid war, but I fully supported my friends who were over there. Unconditionally. It wasn’t about “This is a ‘Republican’s War’ so they don’t get my support, but if it was a ‘Democrat’s War I’d be for it 100%!”

It didn’t matter to me who the President was. That had nothing to do with the way I felt about my friends who had been sent overseas. Sure, it was his “fault” they were over there, but there they were. There was nothing that could be done about it, for the most part, except accept it and support them however I could.

That’s what support should be: non-partisan, non-political. Otherwise it’s somewhat (and I realize this is a weak comparision) like saying, “I’ll support you if you go to college X, but not if you go to college Y.”

And, again, because this war with Iraq is so draining on our military forces serving over there – emotionally, physically – and because it’s going on far, far longer than it should (even a three hour war is three hours too long) – that’s why they need our support so deeply. Now.

If you feel that supporting them in whatever way you used to support them is supporting the war itself – and even the people who are “perpetuating” it (that’s my word), that’s okay.

I repeat: that’s okay.

To be honest, I can see the point of that. I really can. I fully respect – and support – you for having that opinion.

I just don’t agree with it.

It just frustrates and saddens me that it’s become a conditional thing (again), and I fear that when this war is over, the men and women who were over there will have even deeper emotional scars to heal, that will take even longer because we’ll place our frustration and anger on them, just as we did for the entire run and aftermath of the Vietnam War.

And the thing is – it’s something I’m already seeing through my job (for those of you who don’t know, I work as a life coach / counselor at a personal growth company). I’m increasingly getting emails and phone calls far more frequently than I’d like to report from Gulf War veterans who have severe post traumatic stress syndrome, are physically ill – and are feeling the resentment being directed towards them, albeit more quietly.

As one man said in an email about the way the public treated him, “It’s like when I came back from Vietnam, except this time, half the time nobody’s speaking to me. It’s all in the way they look at me. I don’t know which is worse.”

He actually felt ashamed for having served – as if the war was somehow his fault because of his involvement. He never said which one, but I’d be willing to bet he meant both.

Support of those men and women shouldn’t be about being a Democrat or a Republican or a Green Party member or an Independent or a Whig or whatever party we subscribe to. It should (and I’m asserting my opinion here) be about giving unconditional emotional support so that we can help those men and women heal from the trauma of serving in a war zone and during wartime, even if they aren’t directly in the middle of it.

You can hate the war. You can hate the people drawing it out for whatever reasons / excuses they give. Or you can agree with it or love it – that’s wholly the free will of choice we have. Exercise it.

But at least try to keep the support of our men and women over there non-partisan and unconditional. It’s not about whoever’s in the Captain’s Chair running the show – or who didn’t get there – it’s about providing a safe place and net for the men and women to fall when they come home. Direct your hatred and disagreement and frustration with the war where it should go.

Just for a moment, I ask those of you (and before anyone jumps the gun here, this is a general, plural “you” – not a singled-out personal “you”) who wrote to try this: pretend – imagine – that it wasn’t a ‘Republican’s War’. Imagine it was a ‘Democrat’s War’. That you fully supported the man in the “Captain’s Chair” wholly and completely.

I’m betting there’s a shift in all of the feelings and sensations clustering around it all.

If there is, then there’s conditional support going on.

If there isn’t, then it’s unconditional.

Granted, the homecomings have been much, much better (see A First Welcome Home as an example). And much more from the heart and supportive. For that I'm grateful and glad and relieved.

But there's still a long way to go for the kind of support I so often sense we don't give these men and women.

Our troops have enough healing to do without having to also deal with the sensation they’ve become pariahs. It certainly isn’t the intention of most people to make them feel that way, but that’s the inevitable result of misdirected – conditional – feelings.

And please note again: I am NOT directing this towards any one, single person. Please keep that in mind if there is a felt need to respond again. Before you email me again, I ask that you wait an hour or so before you do. If you still feel you need to write to me, I welcome your response.

But I would prefer that some air is given to the reply before you do. It goes back to directing feelings to their rightful target.

If you don't agree with what I've said here, that's fine -- but, truly, I don't need my readers to feel that they have to explain why they don't agree with me, their reasons for their reasoning, why they do or don't take action in a way I might, no more than I feel I have to explain my disagreement.

There's going to be as many differing opinons about all of this as there are readers.

But, truly -- that's what makes this world so amazing and wonderful. And I wouldn't have it any other way. Otherwise, I'd have no resource to form my own opinions. Opposition is healthy. And it would be a damnably boring world if we all thought the same.

You dropped your pen, Brother.

No thank you.

So if I've stirred up the pot a bit here, I'm fine with that. That's what blogs are for.

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)