What America Means to Me

Ok...so I couldn't wait until tomorrow to honor my husband.  :)  Happy Veterans Day babe - to you, the men you fight beside, and the ones you've lost.  Prouder than any words could explain.

(text from layout - written in 2005) I grew up in the Washington DC area.  I rarely visited any of the monuments or went to the museums unless we had company from out of town.  Our family went to the Independence Day and Memorial Day concerts on the Mall every year.  We wore our red, white and blue outfits.  We sang patriotic songs.  Our church always prayed for our nation's leaders and military people serving overseas.  I had friends whose dads worked at the Pentagon or in some other branch of government.  That was what America meant to me.

Then I moved to the South and started working in a job that put me in close contact with members of the military.  My roommate was a pilot, my boyfriend was a navigator, all of my friends were in the Air Force.  I dutifully sent them care packages when they were gone.  I watered their plants.  I picked them up in the middle of the night when they came home.  We never talked about where they were, or what they were doing, or what it meant.  My political views started to change a little.  I became more interested in the news.  I supported my friends and began to understand a little bit about military life.  That was what America meant to me.

Then I met my husband.  We moved to Hawaii.  In August 2001 he left for Ranger School.  We had no contact for three months.  On September 11, 2001 our world changed forever.  I sat on my couch for two days and wept.  I prayed for the families of those who had been killed.  I donated money to a fund for New York City firefighters and police officers.  I put up an American flag in our window.  I waited anxiously for my husband to come home to me - knowing that it wouldn't be for long.  That we were at war.  That was what America meant to me.

I have sent my husband off to war four* times since we've been married.  I have received hundreds of cards from school children to send to his men because they would be far away from home at Christmas.  I have prayed every night to just see his face or hear his voice one more time.  I have walked to the other side of the street when I have seen protestors downtown.  I have shipped care packages from men and women at a Senior Center who wanted to do something for the troops.  I have argued with people I love about the need for this war.  I have received emails from strangers to thank me for my sacrifice and my husband for his bravery.  I have wept at the feeling of his arms around me after so many months of being apart.  I have taken photographs of signs and yellow ribbons all over town.  I have held my husband as we've mourned the loss of one of his soldiers.  I have thanked God that I live in a country where I am free - where we are all free - to do and say and feel all of these things without fear.  THAT is what America means to me.

*note - that number is now nine.

Defining Fred

Over the last 15 years or so I have had the honor of being surrounded by veterans.  I used to say that I didn't really understand or appreciate America until I married one, but looking back, the seeds of patriotism and devotion to this country were planted in me many years before.  This Veteran's Day weekend, while I honor those who have served and remember those who have fallen,  I wanted to share my feelings about two veterans specifically.  So tomorrow, my husband, but today...Fred.

(text from layout) It has always been hard to "define" Fred. Although he and Grandma never married, they lived together for almost 40 years as husband and wife.  Although he wasn't really my grandfather, I wasn't very close to my biological grandfather, so Fred seemed pretty "real" to me.  Everyone else in our family, it seemed, saw Fred as the resident grouch.  According to them - he never wanted to be in our photos.  When the whole family came to visit he spent most of his time in his workshop.  Didn't have too many kind words to say.  Didn't really seem to care about us.  Drove my grandmother crazy.  Wasn't even close to his own children.  But that isn't the Fred I remember.

Somewhere in one of my mother's scrapbooks there is a picture of Fred and I at the house some Christmas when I was small.  It is a rarity to be sure.  Fred is holding me in his arms, and we are both smiling.  Touching and smiling were not things Fred did often.  When we look at that photo my mother tells me that I was Fred's favorite because I was the oldest grandchild and a girl.  But I don't think that was the reason.  I think it was because when I would come to visit in the summers, I would sit with him at the table after dinner and listen to his war stories.  I think it was because I would go on car rides with him to visit his brother and sister-in-law.  I think it was because he was able to convince me that mustard tastes good.   I can remember so clearly the faded military tattoos on his arms, the smell of his tobacco, how he talked to the cat, the way he made me laugh when he wasn't trying to be funny.  That is the Fred I remember.

The last time I saw Fred was a few months before he died.  I had been in Denver visiting and Fred was helping me load my luggage in to the car.  We had gone through this routine dozens of times over the years, but this time - although I didn't know it would be the last time - something told me to hug him.  It was awkward.  It was short, and afterwards I thought it was probably silly and that he didn't like it.  But now I think that hug encompassed an entire lifetime of what we were never able to say to each other.  That I loved him - and in his own way - he loved me too.

After Fred died I specifically asked Grandma for his picture (left), his ID and his dog tags.  They had been hanging in his workshop for as long as I could remember so I knew they had to mean a great deal to him - but strangely enough no one else had wanted them.  These little things define for me the man he was, the memories he shared, the life he led.  And I think he would be proud that I have found my own brave soldier to grow old with, to sit around the table with and listen to stories, while eating lots and lots of mustard.