Happy Veterans' Day

Shhhh. Quiet in the peanut gallery.

Dedicated to Todd

Todd and I were in the Army together and we hit it off immediately -- he was a print journalist at the post newspaper, I was a TV/radio broadcaster. Our offices were in the post Public Affairs Office and we spent many hours together between work and our homes in the barracks, which were just one floor apart.

Todd is insanely smart -- probably to this day the most brilliant person I've ever met. He is snarky, funny, judgmental as hell, and professes to have only one moral. I know the truth, though. He is principled and strong, he fights for his idea of what is right, he is doggedly determined and relentless in his perfectionism.

Todd grew up in a major urban center in a nuclear family like mine -- mom and dad who are still married, a son and a daughter, a dog, a station wagon. His dad was a union organizer and had risen to a high position by the time we met.

I was a die-hard liberal even then. We argued politics a LOT. See, despite his union upbringing, Todd was a Republican. I know. Odd. But he and I talked about it. We talked about fiscal policy, about social issues (which he was slightly more liberal on), about political history, about strategy, about EVERYTHING. Much to the dismay of most of our friends, who would leave the room protesting when we got into a discussion. We argued passionately.

Every single thought I had, every position I held, every fact I spouted in those arguments was held to the highest standard -- his. I lost a lot of arguments. But I won a lot too. We would concede, grudgingly, when the other had emerged from the battle as the victor, often saying, "But I still hate you with the burning intensity of a thousand suns."

We watched L.A. Law together every week. We traveled together. We spent so much time together that at one point we had our entire office convinced we were engaged. Which was a problem for me, as my social calendar was pretty full of military hotties at the time. LOL

Todd was my best friend in the Army. When the Marine Who Must Not Be Named dumped me, I went straight to Todd's room. His bewildered roommate let me in even though Todd was nowhere to be found. As I sobbed, I could hear him talking to all the other guys on the floor (also my friends) and telling them he had no idea when Todd would be back and no idea what to do about the girl crying in there. When he finally got back (much to the relief of Skippy, the roommate) Todd listened to me asking, "Why?" for hours. He walked around Gordon Field after dark (against regs) with me for more hours. He let me pound on his chest and drip snot on his shirt and never once told me to knock it off or that he was tired of listening to me.

I tell this story because we never came to an agreement on politics. He is still a Conservative whose idols are Ronald Reagan and Margaret Thatcher. I still identify as a Liberal and I have volunteered for the Democratic Party for years. But we had tremendous respect for each other. We held each other to our own high standards for ourselves. We both have spent hours explaining why we feel and think the way we do to each other, listening to criticism and delighting in the back-and-forth of our exchanges.

I am a better Democrat because of him. I suspect he would credit me with making him a better Republican. We challenged each other and never lost sight of the fact that we were friends. Neither of us resorted to name calling or meanness. We didn't have to; we used facts. We read voraciously, we watched as much news as was available in the age before the internet, and we talked. We had mutual respect and that was why it worked. We were respectful, even in our most violent disagreements.

So if you disagree with me, fine. I am okay with that. But be respectful. This is MY blog. If you really don't like what I have to say, don't read it. I don't watch Jimmy Kimmel because I hate him. I don't listen to Howard Stern because ... ewwww. If you don't like what I say and you cannot avoid bitchy, snarky comments that demean and belittle me and anyone who agrees with me, then go away. I do not have to justify my beliefs to anyone who comes here insinuating that I am an idiot or who attacks people solely on the basis of personality, looks, or media stereotypes and perceptions.

I got my Liberal label from the school of Todd. He kicked my ass regularly while I was earning that distinction, and somehow we remained friends through it all.

I have strong beliefs. I back them up every day as one of those much-maligned "Community Organizers." I contribute to my community EVERY DAY. I believe in the "It takes a village" philosophy. We are all responsible for each other. I work hard to make a difference. This isn't a new thing for me; I have been a volunteer for years -- since I was a teenager. I didn't do it so it would go on my college applications, I did it because there were causes I believed in and I knew if you believed in something you had to work to make it work. I joined the Army for the educational benefits, but it was not a decision I made easily. I knew the potential costs. I also knew I believed in the values of this country and that I was willing to die so that others could have the same freedoms I treasure, particularly the right of free speech. So you're welcome. My sacrifice (and believe me, it was one) and that of countless others gives you the right to shoot off your mouth indiscriminately. Isn't that Bill of Rights great?

Every day I am working to make the changes I want to see happen in my community. You may disagree with me as to what those changes should be, but you had goddamn well better respect the fact that I am out there, boots on the ground, working hard BECAUSE I BELIEVE IN IT. While you -- in your smugness and omniscience -- sit at the computer and type pathetic little messages to someone you have never met. Seriously, isn't there a better use of YOUR time?

July 32nd ...

That is my preferred way of stating the date. I just can't go into August yet, okay? Work with me here.

Just wanted to pop in and add a couple of pix from last night's game.




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And Wednesday night I was granted a reprieve from the baseball game and I drove up to the Twin Cities to pick up an old Army pal. We'll call her "M."

M was the big sister I never had -- she taught me to be confident in myself, to demand the best from the men I dated because I deserved nothing less, to be strong in myself so that I could choose to be vulnerable when I wanted to. Good lessons, all.

She also nursed me through many a breakup, letting me lie on her couch in a terrycloth bathrobe for weeks on end.

Thanks, M. It was great to see you. We're still pretty cute, aren't we? LOL

Tradition

I've written here before about my dad's service in Vietnam. I often mention my old Army buddy Teresa.

I don't think I have talked about how far back the military tradition goes in my family.

My brother served in the Navy.
My grandfathers served in the Army and Navy.
My great-uncle served in the Army.
At least 2 of my great-great-great grandfathers served during the Civil War. One volunteered in his 50s. He was born in Prussia and was an immigrant to this country, he joined up with a Wisconsin unit and ended up in General Sherman's march to the sea.
Way back there, some 13 generations ago, one of my ancestors served during the Revolutionary War.

That service is one of the most fascinating aspects of the genealogy research that I do. Where the units traveled, the battles fought -- all of that information, usually so dry and factual, becomes interesting and rich when you realize an actual person in your family was there.

I am grateful to have heard some of the stories straight from my dad. Thanks, Dad, for your service. Thanks to my brother "the swabbie", also, for his service in the Gulf. Thanks to Teresa --- Type type type to kill! --- and thanks to all the current and former military servicemembers for their dedication, their courage, their sacrifice.

Nineteen years

Since I left for boot camp. It almost doesn't feel real. I watched an episode of "Leave it to Beaver" (my favorite old show EVER) the other day where Beaver's school assignment was to write an essay about what his mom did before she was a mom. Beaver's mom did not have enough exciting things to suit him, so he made stuff up.

It got me thinking: do my kids know all the cool stuff I did when I was just Jennifer? That I went to Brazil at 17 as an exchange student? That I worked in Washington, DC for a Senator for a summer? That I met Sens. Teddy Kennedy, Paul Wellstone, Paul Simon, Bob Graham, and many more? That I served in the Army as a broadcaster? That I was an optician, a grocery clerk, a customer service rep, a file clerk, a cleaning lady, a news anchor, a babysitter, a disk jockey, a librarian?

Some of it they know. And most of it, I suspect, is completely uninteresting to them. I guess it's a good thing it was interesting to me.

For a look back at Army life, check out this entry here from 2 years ago. Hoo-rah.

Happy 4th of July!

I was going to post a photo of me in my Army uniform but I don't have one stored on the computer and I am too lazy to dig it out of a box/closet/wherever and scan it.

We are off to a friend's pool party with a giant bowl of Roasted Potato Salad in tow. I got up this morning and my darling husband already had the eggs cooked, the bacon cooking, and the potatoes roasting. Yum.

Have a good day, everyone!

War stories

Almost everyone I know has a story they have been told since they were small; the story of how a child drank his mother's perfume, or the traumatic story of when they got lost at the zoo, you know, that kind of thing. Somehow those stories become touchstones in a way. We return to them, or at least I do, when I am trying to find meaning in my life, make a decision, or reconcile an issue in my own mind.

Stories are important. My story, the one that has defined me since my earliest days, the one that I have heard so many times, is a war story. It is a story that really hasn't ended yet, but the beginning is etched in my mind. I have heard it a thousand times: "You were born on the tenth, baptized on the 15th, and your dad left for Vietnam the 17th."

That's me.

I am the first child of two first children. The first grandchild on both sides, the first girl in 2 generations on my dad's side. The only thing regarded as universally wonderful to come out of a marriage which was grudgingly accepted on both sides.

It was 1970. My parents had been married just over a year and a half. They were 23 and 22 when I was born. My dad was home on leave when I came (almost 3 weeks late, my mom reminds me) and a week later, he was on a plane to the jungles of Southeast Asia.

My dad isn't a political guy. He wasn't concerned with the war protesters or whether or not Vietnam was a just or moral war. He was drafted, and he knew one thing: his country needed him, and he was going to do the job it required of him. Period. I don't think he harbors any resentment toward the guys who skipped out to Canada (although maybe he does, we don't talk about this a lot). He just knew that for him, this came down to the fact that his country had called on him, and he was going to answer the call as so many generations of his family had, all the way back to the American Revolution.

At 23 he was the old guy on his firebase. He worked 12 on, 12 off and lived with the bedbugs, the C-rats, and the monsoons for almost a year.

Back home, my mom and I moved into her parents' house. Not exactly a harmonious household, but a cheap roof over our heads and days in the house to ourselves while her parents and siblings were at work and school. She cooked and kept house while my grandmother taught school and worked on her Master's degree. I had my grandpa and grandma, an aunt and uncle around, and my paternal grandparents and 2 uncles lived not far away. I was surrounded by love, and I had everything I needed.

On January 1, 1971, my dad came home. I will be forever grateful that he benefited from Nixon's "early drop" program and that he made it home alive and ahead of schedule.

My parents had spoken on the radio phone only a couple of times, each saying a sentence and ending with "Over," before the other responded. My mom had no idea he was back in the States until he called from SeaTac on New Year's Eve.

I was afraid of him for a while -- cried every time he went near my mom. Who was this stranger in my house?

Once home, he had many issues Vietnam veterans reported -- insomnia, nightmares, physically debilitating illness. He was diagnosed with Rheumatoid Arthritis and I remember being told he couldn't carry me when I was only 3. He was just not strong enough, and it hurt to hold even his little girl.

When I was 12 or so he went to some training where he talked for the first time about his experiences there, with other guys who had been in 'Nam as well. The nightmares finally stopped.

He took me to see "Platoon" when I was 17. I was astonished. Speechless. Horrified. He told me stories of things that happened "over there." Another time, another place, but these were not fairy tales. They were gruesome, gut-wrenching, tremendously sad.

And when I was 18, I joined the Army. For college money, I said. To see the world, I said.

But I've thought about it for a while now, and I think it was because my dad came home and a lot of dads didn't. And how do you pay back the universe and your country for somebody NOT dying?

Go live your own war stories, I guess.