“Ackkkkk,” I tried, spitting all over myself. My husband came running to see if I had a chicken bone caught in my throat. “Bitte,” I said to him in German, thanking him with one of the few words I had learned.
“What’s bitter?” he asked. “What did you choke on?”
“Ackkkk,” I replied, in frustration.
Normally, my tongue is wagging at both ends. If silence was golden, I couldn’t earn a plug nickel. Lucky for me, there are two languages: verbal and physical. Until I became more skilled at approximating the German dialect, I would have to resort to pantomime. The merchants wanted my money, so they played along. Besides, talk is cheap; I find that the supply always exceeds the demand.
I finally learned to say “Guten Tag,” which is “Good day” in German. No one told me, however, that Bavaria is to Germany what Texas is to the United States—pretty much a separate country. Saying “Good day” in Bavaria is like saying “Good day” in Texas. It’s just not done. One says, “Howdy.” And, in Bavaria, one says, “Grüss Gott.”
I listened to the folks in my German town saying, “Grüss Gott” for about a week before I finally asked my German friend Wolfgang (that’s German for Bubba) why everyone was so interested in each other’s greased goat. The “You Can Speak German” cassette hadn’t gone here. He explained, and I played along.
“Teach me to say, ‘I’m just looking,’ in German,” I asked him. Every time I went into a store, the merchant hovered over me like an assault helicopter. I set off on my next shopping adventure with my new line.
“Yakkitty-yappin’,” said the shopkeeper to me in German.
I answered with the German quote I had learned from Wolfgang to let her know that I was just browsing.
The shopkeeper looked at me as if I were missing a few pickets from my fence and shooed me from her store. Later, Wolfgang told me what he had taught me to say: “I am a crazy American. I am armed. Back off and let me shop.” No matter that I was only armed with charge cards.
I was so green in Germany, you could have planted me and I would have grown. I wanted to speak the native tongue, so I kept trying. I thought it might be easier to skip sentence structure and get straight to the point.
“Vee Cee?” I asked one merchant. I knew this was the way to say “WC” (water closet), and I needed to find the restroom.
“Yes,” the merchant said in perfect English, “we take Visa.”
I wanted to give up. This was more frustrating than eating soup with a fork.
Despite my idiom idiocy, I did quite well the first time my husband and I went out to eat. I knew I wanted water, Wasser, and I recognized Salat as salad. I was proud until my husband had to clarify another popular word. “Not donkey,” he said. “That’s Danke.” There it is, folks— discombooblement: the inability to understand the people around you and their assumption that you are a boob.
Unlike me, my husband seemed to communicate quite well with the natives. Then again, his favorite local phrases sound a lot like they do back home. “Bier!” he’d say, confidently. And a frothy stein would always be forthcoming.
Jan Hornung
The Difference a Year Makes
The true value of a human being can be found in the degree to which he has attained liberation.
Albert Einstein
We had been married for exactly thirty-three days when my husband received the official notification phone call. I remember everything with vivid clarity. Even though we had both known he would be called to Iraq, it didn’t scare me until he walked around the kitchen corner and said, “Honey, it’s time.”
I could never have prepared myself for what it was like when my new husband walked out our door and out of my life for a year. What do you say? What should you feel at a moment like this? Do you express worry and concern, or do you play the supportive role and pretend for a moment that you know everything is going to be okay?
One year is more than just a time period. It is every holiday. It is the first year of our marriage and our first anniversary. It is thousands and thousands of memories that will never be made together, never shared, never reminisced about later. One year is loneliness, fear and meals eaten alone in the quiet dark.
I worried about the time we were spending apart. Then it hit me—I would keep a journal!
Memories fade, and emotions are forgotten over time, but written testimonials last forever. What better way to stay connected than to inscribe our experiences, feelings, memories and activities into journals that we could later share and explore together?
I sent my husband his own blank journal and immediately started filling up the pages in mine. It felt like the next best thing to actually sharing those experiences with my husband. I found that I loved documenting the way I’d laughed through a new movie, or cried when I felt sad and alone. I wrote in great detail when I was upset or angry, and I spent pages imagining what our reunion would be like once the year was over.
I wrote about personal growth and milestones in my life as I explored my own strengths and weaknesses, and realized that I was sharing things I might never have vocalized.
Time passed, and my husband finally came home safely, bringing with him the journal I had sent. It was full of his year, his emotions and the struggles he had undergone. He wrote about the lessons he had learned and the astonishing experiences he had.
I read his journal the way I would read a suspenseful novel. Writing is intimate, and, even now, we bond on a deeper level when we read one another’s most personal thoughts. I feel like I was a part of his year, and he was a part of mine, even though we weren’t sharing a home, or even a continent.
During an experience that tested our marriage, challenged our commitments and postponed our happy ending, we found a way to laugh, cry and thrive together. And we still got our “happily ever after.”
Megan Armstrong
Saying Good-Bye
Peace on the outside comes from peace on the inside; peace on the inside comes from understanding we are all God.
Shirley MacLaine
In 1997, my husband, a U.S. Marine, packed up and prepared to leave for Okinawa, Japan, for one year. We had three small children at the time and had just completed three years of recruiting duty in Austin, Texas. We were now facing a twelve-month unaccompanied tour—two hardship duties back-to-back. My family was in San Antonio, so the kids and I moved the eighty miles south of Austin to live near family while my husband was gone. We spent the last few days before his departure spending time as a family, and making sure finances and important documents were all in order.
Charles’s departure day finally arrived. It was a Sunday in early January, and we woke up that morning to cold gray skies. The weather seemed to be reflecting what I was feeling on the inside, but I had three little children to consider, and I knew my attitude would set the stage for the way we would handle the coming months.
That Saturday night, we had a special family night. Family night was usually on Monday evenings, but the next Monday would be without my husband. Treats always followed a fun activity, value lesson or family council. This particular night, we talked about why we were such a special family.
Our family is a Marine Corps family. That meant there were certain things we would have to do.One was to move around when they needed our marine in different units, and, sometimes, it meant not having him home for long periods of time while he did his job. We talked to the children about patriotism, serving our country and serving God. We talked about how our family would be blessed because of our service. We also discussed that God would watch over us a little closer and give us the strength and protection we would need while our daddy went to work across the Pacific Ocean. We then had yummy treats, lots of hugs and giggles and bedtime prayers.
When Sunday dawned, we attended church as usual. It seemed important to keep the day as normal as possible, but my heart was heavy, and I wanted the day to be over. I really believed all we had told the children, but the next twelve months lo
omed ahead of me as dark as the gray sky we had woken up to. That evening we loaded up our marine’s gear and headed for the airport.
As the time grew closer for Charles to board the airplane, we gathered the kids from the windows looking out over the tarmac. Charles held our sixteen-month-old baby girl in his arms while he pulled our three-year-old son and six-year-old daughter into a group hug. The kids giggled and rubbed his chin for luck where the beginnings of a five o’clock shadow felt nice and scratchy, something they wouldn’t feel for a long time. Something I hoped they wouldn’t forget.
We found a somewhat empty corner of the boarding area, and the two older children stood at attention while I knelt down beside them. They had decided on a going-away song for their dad, and to show him they were ready to do their part in serving our country. My husband stood tall and strong in front of them, looking every inch a marine, even in civilian clothes. They serenaded him with the first verse of the “Marines Corps Hymn.”
“From the halls of Mont-e-zu-u-ma, to the shores of Tripol-e-e-e-e.” We sang low, but loud enough for him to hear, not really wanting to call attention to ourselves. I don’t think that anthem ever touched Charles more than it did in those final moments in the airport waiting area.
He handed me our baby, gave one last round of hugs and kisses, and then picked up his backpack and turned and walked away.
There was no war he was going to fight, no humanitarian mission at stake. There was no parade or media attention. There was just one man, all alone, turning and walking away from the one thing that meant more to him than anything else in this world: his family.
As he walked away, it was evident that our family moment had not gone unnoticed by other passengers in the terminal waiting area. They knew, even though Charles was not in uniform, that he was a U.S. Marine leaving for duty and leaving his family.
As Charles approached the door leading to the gangway, he turned one last time and we exchanged smiles and waves. Then he was gone.
There was not a dry eye in the house, except ours. Dad was leaving for work as usual. But it would be a little longer than usual before we would be together again.
Kelli Kirwan
The Line Ends Back There
Civilization is a method of living and an attitude of equal respect for all people.
Jane Addams
I was recalled to active duty during the Korean War, leaving my wife and son in Philadelphia until I could find suitable quarters in Tampa, Florida. Nancy knew she would be joining me sooner or later, but hadn’t the slightest idea what to expect. Her knowledge of the military was limited to being able to differentiate between soldiers, sailors, marines and airmen.
In due course, she arrived in Tampa. I was subleasing an apartment until we could find something more permanent, and her only contact with the military was ironing my uniforms. She went shopping at the PX and commissary, both entirely new and strange experiences for her. So, too, was her concept of rank, with which she had barely a nodding acquaintance.
One day, as she was standing in the checkout line, her cart piled high, a lady attempted to push her own cart in front of the line. The would-be interloper announced that she was Mrs. Colonel Somebody and was in a hurry. Outraged, Nancy retorted that she was Mrs. Sergeant Blankfield and that she was in a hurry, too. The end of the line was back there, Nancy pointed out. The astonished lady sheepishly headed “back there,” and waited her turn.
As years passed and Nancy became “Mrs. Colonel Blankfield,” she never forgot her first experience with rank in the MacDill Air Force Base commissary. She expected no special favors or treatment, and sought none. To one and all, she was simply “Nancy.”
Bill Blankfield, Col., USAF (Ret.)
© 2004. Reprinted by permission of Jonny Hawkins.
Our National Anthem
Joy is what happens when we allow ourselves to recognize how good things really are.
Marianne Williamson
My husband and I had not been married long when he took me to an AAFES (Army & Air Force Exchange Service) movie theater at Fort Hood, Texas. We bought our tickets, purchased popcorn and carefully chose our seats to watch the film. The theater began to fill, and we waited for the curtain to go up.
My husband kept glancing at his watch as if he had to be somewhere, and, promptly at 1900 (7:00 P.M.), he set his soda and his popcorn aside. I was about to say something to him when the curtain began to part and I heard the sound of our national anthem being played. I scrambled to find somewhere to put my soda and popcorn, and finally made it to my feet and put my hand over my heart. This was certainly not the first time I had heard the national anthem, but it was the first time I heard it played in a theater before a movie.
I waited for the last note to sound and then looked at my husband’s smiling face. He had purposely not told me so he could see my reaction. Needless to say, the next time we went to a movie on post, I was ready to stand with pride for the playing of our national anthem.
When we moved to Germany, we continued our habit of seeing movies at the theater on post. We had only been there a few days when we went to our first film. Just as before, we bought our tickets and popcorn and made our way to our seats. We stood for the playing of our national anthem, and before we got to “by the dawn’s early light,” tears were streaming down my face. This was my blessed country’s sacred song, but I was no longer living between her shores. Experiencing these words while standing on foreign soil lent every utterance and declaration a deeper meaning.
My heart swells with newfound pride and patriotism each time I hear the sweet strains that remind me of the price of my freedom. I am proud to be an American and even more proud to be married to a soldier who has defended my freedoms and yours for nineteen years.
Only by leaving America did I truly understand and appreciate love of country, and I now wait with great anticipation to return to the “land of the free and the home of the brave.”
God bless America.
Gail Gross
My Home
What your heart thinks is great, is great. The soul’s emphasis is always right.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Even though I have had many addresses while serving my country (fourteen places over the last ten years), I have had only one home. My home moves with me wherever I am assigned to duty.
My wife Julie has long dark hair, hazel eyes and skin like ivory. When I walk through the door at the end of a long day at the base and see Julie’s face and smell the sweet scent of her perfume, I know that I am home. My children are still young. My son, Daniel, is six, and my daughter, Samantha, is four. My house would not be my home without the sound of cartoons on the television, the children giggling and my family greeting me at the end of each day. Home is my family.
I dream of sending Daniel and Samantha to college. I dream of buying some property in a small town and building a house. I dream of spending my life with Julie and watching our children grow. Home is my dreams.
The blue couch Julie and I bought a few moves ago doesn’t fit well in our new house, but it’s part of our home now. We sit on it together, and I read to my children. Or we just sit and watch television. A friend gave us a red dinner plate a few years ago for Christmas. Along the edges of the plate, written in white letters, are the words, “You are special today.” We only use the red plate on special days. Daniel ate off it on his first day of kindergarten. I ate off it on the first day of my new job. Samantha ate off it on her birthday. We all get to eat off the red plate on our birthdays. Home is familiar things.
My faith is always with me. God is always with me. I share that faith with Julie, and we try to set an example for our children. Our faith bonds our family together and strengthens our home. Home is my faith in God.
Home is more than a house you buy or an apartment you rent. Home is the heart you put into that house or apartment. The love families have for each other is what makes a home complete. When I move to my next duty station, I know my home wi
ll be with me because I’ll have the love of my family with me. We’ll bring the things we’ve collected over the years, and we’ll make our next house our home. The red plate will be there, and the blue couch will be there. I’ll have my family, my dreams, my faith in God—and I’ll be home.
Benjamin Pigsley
The Angel Book
Helping one another is part of the religion of our sisterhood.
Louisa May Alcott
In 2002, I watched a friend named Patti Dawes walk a lap around the fitness track at Canadian Forces Base Petawawa. Patti, a young military wife, is a cancer survivor, and this symbolic victory lap was in recognition of her struggles. We were part of a team of women I had organized to participate in the Relay for Life, an all-night, twelve-hour event that is one of Canada’s main fund-raisers for the Canadian Cancer Society. From start to finish, a member of your team is always on the track.
I had just met Patti a few months earlier and was happy to have her join us. She is a generous, soft-spoken, gifted lady, and I had several conversations with her before this event about her bout with cancer. My heart was so happy for her as she traveled around the track with some of her friends. To show her that she had the love and support of all our team members, I presented her with a long-stemmed red rose from the whole team to carry on her victory lap. With a young family (two boys, ages three and eight), Patti had so much to be thankful for.
Just a year later, the words no one wants to hear were voiced: her cancer was back. Over the next few months, I watched the look on Patti’s face change from sheer terror to reluctant acceptance. I marveled at the calm with which she faced her battle, and I admired her for the way she handled this incredibly difficult time.
Chicken Soup for the Military Wife's Soul Page 10
