In the past eighteen years, my hairdressers, stylists and beautifiers have come in all shapes and sizes. I’ve had a chic English lady in a Tudor-style salon; a manic-depressive former hippie who is married with children; a cigar-smoking, gum-cracking beauty parlor owner who kept special punch going in a special bowl for special customers. They’ve made me laugh, cry, pout and pray.
I laughed out loud and almost ran screaming from the salon when the nice owner told me she had been to “beauty training” forty-nine years ago and was so happy that this state did not require a license to cut hair anymore, only to do permanent waves.
I cried the day I heard, “Oh, here, let me fix that. It’ll grow, you know. Things grow much faster in the South. And, by the way, honey, if you say you want short hair in the South, you’re gonna get short!”
I became increasingly annoyed from the pulsating pain and the words, “Hmmmm, I’m so very sorry I burnt your forehead. I’ve never done that before giving a perm. In all my years working in the beauty industry here at the mall, I’ve never seen a welt like that! Must be some chemical in your hair from that last place you lived. Maybe you better get on the Internet and check into that.”
I pouted for a week after they said, “Brown? Oh, I thought you said blonde. Well, don’t worry now because this is only semipermanent and it should wash out in about three months.”
But now, after all these years, I have decided to forget the crying, the weeklong irritability and the pouting. I have decided to use my time to get acquainted with these beauty folks and learn about their lives, really listen to them and encourage them in their life journeys.
The stories I have heard range from amusing to downright depressing. One woman regaled me with her husband’s tales of “hunting for deer in the woods.” Some of my stylists have been forgotten, mistreated or divorced. One didn’t know how he would pay for his health insurance. Several have never moved more than a block away from their family homes. Thanks to Uncle Sam and the U.S. Air Force, my life truly is an adventure to them—I’m remembered, insured, treated well, travel extensively and still very much in love with my husband!
Instead of expecting these beauty folks to wave a magic wand and make me beautiful for $19.99 plus the tip, I now wonder if I’ve been more than just an irritable customer, passing through town on a three-year tour. Have I been a friend? Have I been a good ambassador for our air force?
Instead of feeling sorry for myself when my husband comes home with “The Look,” I remind myself how quickly assignments pass, how quickly our lives pass through others’ lives, and how I have an opportunity to be kind, to laugh, to pray, to be a lady.
We’re all different, but we’re the same, too. We all have fears and foibles, faults and favorites. I can choose to enjoy this journey, to learn from my experiences and all the people God sprinkles into my life. Or I can be miserable. I have the opportunity in that sea foam swivel chair (wearing the lovely matching sea foam frilly cape) to learn and listen, laugh and encourage. My hair, my choice, my attitude.
Laura C. Fitch
Footsteps at the Door
Another sleepless night for me
Alone upon our bed
I see again his every move
And those last words he said.
So proud he looked in uniform
Convinced that he was right
He had to go, for duty called
There was a war to fight.
Those last few days before he left
I hid the pain inside
We talked and loved and even joked
He never knew I cried.
And when the dreaded moment came
He kissed me tenderly
His eyes met mine, and then he said,
“I’ll be all right, you’ll see.”
I tried to smile and nod my head
Afraid to let him see
The terror that I feared if he
Did not come back to me.
His precious children hugged his neck
He told them to be good
And help their mommy out at home
And mind her like they should.
They were too young to realize
That Dad would not be there
To tuck them in their beds at night
Or listen to their prayers.
I see him as he walked away
I tried to say “good-bye”
But words were trapped within my throat
All I could do was cry.
The weeks have stretched now into months
And every night I pray
That God will keep him in his care
And bring him home one day.
I do not moan beneath the load
Of all that I must do
My children will see strength in me
Until this war is through.
At last I drift off into sleep
In dreams I see him more
I turn around and smile to hear
His footsteps at the door.
Restless I sleep, and then I wake
Not opening my eyes
I move my hand to reach for him
But no one near me lies.
I will not give in to despair
With each new day I’ll cope
For I know he would want me to
Be brave and live with hope.
I hear the voices loud and strong
Who criticize the war
While yelling men are fools to go
They stay on freedom’s shore.
A man who cowers under fear
Will die a thousand deaths
While men like mine for freedom fight
And offer their last breaths.
I hope perhaps in fifty years
When men remember war
They won’t forget the wives who dreamed
Of footsteps at the door.
Gwen C. Rollings
Only Joking
Ask and it shall be given to you.
Matthew 7:7
I was a military wife stationed in California in the mid-1980s. My helicopter pilot husband was gone much of the time. He handled the separations in his way, and I handled them in mine.
During this time, he was often in Panama for three to four months at a time. He was able to call me at home once a week, for five minutes. I was often not at home when he phoned and would keep his messages on the answering machine tape to listen to over and over again until he returned.
Once, just before he was due to return, he phoned, and during the conversation said he had bought something for me. The very next night he was able to surprise me with another phone call. He had only a minute to talk, saying he had been celebrating the night before and didn’t remember what we’d talked about. I reminded him that he said he’d bought me lace table linens and a gold bracelet. He hung up before I could tell him that I was only joking and that he hadn’t told me what he’d bought for me at all.
When he got home three days later and was emptying his duffel bag, there they were: the hand-embroidered lace tablecloth and napkins, and a lovely gold bracelet— all of which he had quickly gone out and bought for me after that second phone call.
I finally told him the truth about that second phone call, but only after I’d put the linens on the table and the bracelet on my wrist. We had a good laugh, and he never again used his five-minute phone call to telephone me after he’d been “celebrating.”
Vicki A. Vadala-Cummings
“Tell me again about the time you helped to fortress a city, subdue hostile fire and got home and baked us all raspberry strudels.”
© 2004. Reprinted by permission of Jonny Hawkins.
Thank You
Just to be is a blessing. Just to live is holy.
Rabbi Abraham Heschel
During my husband’s yearlong deployment to Iraq, we received many words of encouragement from friends, family and a surprising number of strangers. In fact, it was a person I had never met who gave me the boost
I needed to endure the long separation and endless, worrisome nights.
In Iraq, part of Brian’s job was to locate contractors to make necessary repairs to the public facilities in his unit’s area of responsibility. One of those facilities was the Hiba Down’s Syndrome School. It was a school founded by Mr. and Mrs. Mansur, whose daughter Hiba was born with Down’s syndrome. The school had been damaged in the war, and the teachers hadn’t been paid in several months.
Brian visited the Hiba school frequently to ensure that the repairs were being done and that all the needs of the school were addressed. On one particular visit, he had the great pleasure of giving paychecks to the teachers and Mrs. Mansur, the headmistress. He told me about the joy and gratitude they expressed to him on that day. In fact, with that little bit of money, Mrs. Mansur purchased a small wrapped package, which she gave to Brian on his next visit. But the gift was not for him. Instead, she instructed Brian to send the little gift to me.
Me?! What did I do? Nothing! I just stayed here hoping and praying that Brian would survive another day. The gift wasn’t anything expensive or exotic. It was a simple bracelet and necklace made of the thinnest metal I had ever seen. But the short handwritten note that accompanied the gift brings tears to my eyes each time I think of it. It read: “Thank you for your husband.” That is the kind of encouragement we all need. We know that it’s worth it; it’s just nice to hear that somebody else appreciates it.
Kristin Spurlock
The Cookie Lady
Everything we say and do has an effect on the fabric of humanity.
Mahatma Gandhi
As the events of 9/11 unfolded on TV, I did not realize what that meant for our little military community in Mountain Home, Idaho. Within hours, our lives as we knew them changed drastically as word spread of the possible deployment of our squadron in support of Operation Enduring Freedom. Within a week, that word came true, and members of our squadron began deploying.
For security reasons, spouses are not immediately told where their loved ones are going or for how long. The good-byes were especially hard as this was a “first” for many in our young squadron.
The day my husband left, I found a Baggie of cookies hanging on my mailbox. A note was attached with black and red ribbon, our squadron colors, which read: “Thinking of you, Linda!” As I looked at the note trying to recognize the handwriting, I turned it over and saw one of the squadron patches photocopied on the back and realized this person had gone to a bit of trouble to do this. I enjoyed every cookie and wondered who had thought of me.
As the first week went by and Friday was approaching, I was thinking about our first weekend without my husband and how lonely it would be for our children and myself. I woke up Friday to another Baggie of cookies! The note attached read: “Here’s a Friday cookie pick-me-up for you!”
By then, there was a rumor that a young captain’s wife in our squadron, Julie, was the one spreading good cheer to all the spouses in our squadron living on the base. We loved it! She was dubbed “The Cookie Lady.” Every Friday, there was a different kind of cookie hanging from my mailbox with a word of encouragement attached. I so looked forward to Fridays! Even my children would ask what kind of cookies I got today. That little gesture of kindness kept us all going in a time of uncertainty for our husbands as well as our nation.
Our spouses were deployed for four months, and, every Friday during that time, Julie baked and delivered cookies to the spouses. The last cookie delivery she made was to our husbands after they arrived home safely from the deployment. The note attached read: “We are proud of you and the job you’ve done to serve our country! Welcome home!”
Linda Valle
The Honeymoon Is Over
If your ship doesn’t come in, swim out to it.
Jonathan Winters
In the spring of 1963, I brought my new bride of three weeks home to meet my parents. We had to stretch the fifty dollars we had to get home to Redwood City, 475 miles away, where money in my bank account was waiting.
We had to select from two motels on either side of the highway. One wanted fifteen dollars for the night, while the other wanted four dollars. I opted for the bargain, but my wife wanted to stay where the amenities were more conducive to “freshening up” and looking her best when she was introduced to my family.
I pointed out the practical side of the situation— notably, the lack of funds—so she reluctantly agreed on the bargain.
I’d just set our bags down when my wife noticed the busy scurrying of a multitude of tiny black “critters” cavorting on the shag throw rug next to the bed!
Wanting to make the best of a sticky situation, I took the rugs outside and gave them a good shake, then placed them back on the floor. “Oh, no!” she said. “I don’t want those filthy things in here!”
“Okay, honey,” I replied and put them outside by the door. I wasn’t about to dispute the matter further because she was clearly agitated.
After a few kisses and an apology from me, she snuggled up and said, “Oh, that’s okay. I know we have to save money, and it’s really not so bad.”
Young love is great, isn’t it? That was about to change— drastically.
“Why don’t you go get some takeout while I shower and wash my hair?”
Good idea, I thought. It would give her some time to cool down a bit, for she was still a tad upset.
I returned from the greasy spoon with two hamburgers and two helpings of fries in a grease-stained paper sack to be greeted by pounding and crying coming from the bathroom.
“The water just stopped; I’ve got my hair and eyes full of shampoo; there’s no towels in here and I can’t open the door because somehow it’s locked. Just get me out of here. Please!” she said.
I turned the knob but it wouldn’t budge. I shook it, rattled the door and did everything I could to get it to open—all to no avail. Giving one last mighty turn, I felt a grinding from within, and the knob came off in my hand as its mate dropped to the floor on the other side.
We replaced the knobs on the door, but no amount of fiddling would get the stubborn thing to open.
“Sorry, honey, I’ll have to get the manager.”
“But I don’t have any clothes on. . . .”
“Just stay calm, dear.”
The manager, a grizzled old geezer, wearing a pair of stained overalls, dusty brown high-top boots, and a T-shirt that, even in its better days, should have been used as a dust rag, was very helpful and understanding.
“Well, ain’t that somethin’!” he exclaimed as he turned the knob to no avail.
He threw up his hands. “Hang on. I’ll be right back.”
“Everything will be fine, honey,” I said through the door as she sobbed. “Just be a little patient, okay?”
Soon the manager returned and handed me a fire ax. “Just break it down. Don’t worry about damages. Should have fixed that a long time ago.”
“Stand back, honey!” I said.
“What are you doing?” my wife screamed as the first of several blows from the heavy ax split open the door.
“Getting the door open, love,” I replied. “Just stay calm, okay?”
In short order, the door was in splinters, and my disheveled wife emerged with drying soap clinging to her wet hair, and I couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight.
I soon learned a husband should never confront his wife with laughter, especially when she doesn’t look her best. I swore I wasn’t laughing at her, just at the situation. Yet at the time my sensitive mate took it personally. She said nothing to me. She didn’t have to. Her eyes said it all!
I returned the ax to the manager and asked about the water. “How is my wife going to get the soap out of her hair?”
The old guy scratched the back of his head for a moment, then brightened. “Wal, there’s a fifty-gallon barrel that collects rainwater from the gutters. Ain’t rained for a bit, but she’s welcome to use it.”
The condition of the water in the barr
el made the rugs look like Persian carpets. All sorts of debris and bugs were collected at the top. Some living, most dead.
Enough is enough, I thought. The fancy motel was beginning to look like a bargain. If we didn’t eat breakfast and had crackers for lunch, we could make it home on thirty-five dollars.
We were lying in bed at the “expensive” motel when I turned to her and chuckled. “Y’know, love, a few years from now we’ll look back on all of this and laugh.”
No comment.
The following day a beautiful and elegant Lynne emerged from the car to welcome hugs from my mother and father.
Forty-two years later, we’re still happily married with three children, eight grandchildren and fifteen years of military service. However, I had never really apologized for my wrong decision. Now I realized that girl of twenty-one years simply wanted to please her man.
One evening, I took her in my arms and hugged her.
“I’m sorry, dear.”
She turned toward me with a puzzled look on her face and frowned. “For what?”
“Motel Hell. Guys can really be insensitive, I know. I was no exception.”
She snuggled into my shoulder, her lips close to my ear.
“It was something,” she said.
“Yeah,” I replied. And this time we both laughed.
Gary Luerding
Chicken Soup for the Military Wife's Soul Page 12