Viva Las Vegas

Whoosh. I find that word is apt for many moments in my life.
Well, we did it. Out of the Army and out of Washington, at long last. Essentially, we hit every obstacle available to man in our day by day struggle to get away, from lost paperwork to snow days shutting down Fort Lewis to our power getting shut off a day early (since the 2nd of December was our last day in our apartment, obviously the power company took that to mean that we would be GONE from the apartment by the 2nd, so the power was out by the night of the 30th, for some reason. Nice.) to having issues with our Uhaul and our pickup truck, to additional snow storms that halted our progress in Baker City, Oregon. However, once we were on the road, we were ON THE ROAD. And I tell you what, there is nothing in Idaho or northern Nevada worth mentioning.

The closest we came to something interesting was a tiny dusty roadhouse about 150 miles outside of Las Vegas that seriously looked like something out of a movie. Two old guys, a gas pump that didn't work, a few tumbleweeds, a blind dog, and "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" playing on a tiny TV above a ranch-style bar.
But 150 miles outside of Las Vegas... hours after sunset... a slight glow begins to gild the blackened clouds... and 20 miles outside of Las Vegas, suddenly the city appears before your eyes like a great cascade of melted gold.

I've never been an "ooooh Vegas must be amazing and fairyland and its my dreeeam to go there!" type person. Frankly, both Andrew and I were kinda dubious about the whole "Sin City" connotation. But now, we're actually here, and our sentiments are 100% changed. (Credit to Caitlin Foreman and Cael Foreman for the following happy picture:)

I love it here. The thing is, the "Vegas" ideal is solely reflected in the Las Vegas Strip, the 1/2 mile where all the big shiny, shiny casinos live. But outside of that, this big city is just a big city, albeit a shiny one. Sure, occasional gas stations have 40-foot-high flourescent cowboys on their roofs, but besides that, there's nothing Vegasy about it. See that cowboy? He's about a mile from our apartment and we drive by him every day :)

Our apartment here is over twice the size of and twice as nice as our Washington apartment, and it costs the same amount, to the dollar. I've already applied for a few jobs, and Andrew's looking into schools (EMT or ER nursing of some sort).
Life is pretty awesome. Maybe things will calm down enough for me to actually finally get some marriage announcements printed up and get my name changed and all that!
More later. I intend to be a better blogger from now on!

But here we are, and the world is ahead of us now.

August 7th, 2010

Priceless

Last night, I returned to North Carolina, after nearly 5 days in Seattle. I had nothing more than my purse, an extra teeshirt and my cellphone charger, because that's all I took with me when I got on a plane at 4:45pm on Tuesday the 13th.

That morning, I had gone to work with Dad and Ben, to help paint a cabin at Camp Highlander. Cue sweat and paint and cobwebs and working next door to a cabin full of teenage male campers whose conversations consisted of little more than rapid-fire successions of "No, you're gay!" "No, YOU'RE gay!"-- and when we stopped around noon for lunch, I checked my voicemail, hoping rather vainly for a message from Andrew (though I knew he wouldn't nearly be home yet), because he had flown out of Kyrgyzstan 20 hours before. I knew there were surely stops to be made in his journey, as usually he has a day or so in Germany before he would even start towards America.
I had a voicemail, but it was not from Andrew. It was from a private from the 1-17, informing me that Andrew would land at 1 and the homecoming ceremony would be at 3.
I immediately started hyperventilating, and all through lunch I tried to figure out some earthly way that I could get to Washington in time. All in vain. I had less than 6 hours. There was no way. So, I stopped hyperventilating and decided to be very sad instead.But once the indomitable men and I returned to the job site, Pvt. Wilkinson called again, to make sure I had gotten the message. Apparently, they are very efficient and attentive in the army. SNORT.
But I digress--the good private told me that the impending arrival was in fact to be at 1 in the morning, rather than in the afternoon. With this heartening knowledge, I thanked him, promised him that I would abuse his phone number if I needed more information or help, and hung up with renewed excitement in my lungs.
But that was not the end of it. Moments after I swore to my good brother that as long as the plane ticket were less than a thousand dollars, I would find a way to make it to Washington in time, Pvt. Wilkinson called yet again. The men were arriving sooner than expected. The ceremony was to be at 11pm, instead of 3am.

I rushed to my laptop, fought tooth and nail for a flight--not on time, not on time, can't get to the airport that fast, too expensive, too expensive--aha, $350 out of Asheville, arriving at Seatac airport at 9:41pm, oh but the airline is evil, oh but I'm scary too--and I was on my way. I took the quickest shower of my life, threw on the first teeshirt and jeans I could find, and rushed out of the house with wet hair, no makeup, and only a hundred dollars in cash in my pocket.

But I made it. I ran through Seatac, desperate to find a cab. "How far is it to Fort Lewis?" I asked a cabbie at ten minutes after 10pm.
"Fort Lewis?"
"Yes, how far?"
"That's a 70 or 80 dollar cab ride."
"Very nice. How long will it take to get there?"
"Uh, well, 20 or 30 minutes?"
"Alllllrighty then."
Nearly 40 minutes and over 90 dollars later, we made it to the visitor's center. I demanded that the unbusiness-like cabbie wait a moment, and I leapt from the car and up to the table with the wee little sign said I must sign in and get my pass. The soldier there asked me incredulously, "You took a cab from Seatac?" before I even handed him my ID, and I begged my ignorance of the area as an excuse, and when a couple near me said to the soldier that they came on post all the time and had a regular pass but needed to check in, and then made small conversation with me, I shrewdly eyed them, and then even more shrewdly eyed their SUV, and then asked in a breathless voice, "Can I ride with you, so I can release this bloody cab?"
They agreed, pleasantly, eager to help this excited young lady. I tossed my money at the cabbie, even though he looked at me (once again) like I was a nutter, and dismissed him.

10:55pm. We drive.
"Are we near the gym yet?" I asked Josh, the pleasant though rather portly man.
"It's right there," he replied, pleasantly, indicating the gym-shaped building on our left that was swarming with soldiers in ACUs and berets as well as a few jolly and meandering civilians, "We just have to find a place to park."
Oh. Private Wilkinson had advised me hours before that I should arrive at least 45 minutes early, for parking would be disastrous.
"Heh, well, if you can forgive my rudeness, I think I'll just make a run for it right now," I said, gathering my wits and my purse.
The pleasant couple laughed and said goodbye, and I was away. Across a narrow street, onto the sidewalk, into the chilly starlit air and sounds of excited activity. People were spilling out of the doors of the gym, overflowing into a small crowd of soldiers who gathered to peer into the jungles of people. The soldiers parted as I approached, unconsciously forming equal rows on either side of my path, and, much like a nutter, I giggled and trotted through with a smiling "ooh, fancy!"

I stepped through the doors at 11pm precisely. The crowd inside was ecstatic. Wives and little children, sisters, brothers, parents, husbands--noisy with homemade signs waving and anxious grins bursting out left and right. Banners proclaiming the names of the returning regiments and companies spanned the back walls, and a brass band played reverberating and patriotic songs in the front corner. Chairs and bleachers were full, people were crammed against each other, up against walls, up against the band, but nobody could bear to stand still.
And then there was the curtain. The great blue curtain that shielded an entire half of the gym away from prying eyes, the curtain behind which our men would gather in formation, the horrible, heavy, unkind curtain which was the sole enemy left in anyone's mind.

My hands are shaking even now to remember it. The band played song after song, and in every interlude, the whole assembly held its breath--is it time? is it time? is it time? But no... song after song. It felt like an hour, though perhaps it was 15 minutes, when finally a soldier came forward to a podium and said something. I'm not sure what. But was it time? Not quite yet. First, some country singer in the corner had to perform a song about men coming home from battle--they really think they need to remind us that this moment is significant and emotional????---
But at the crescendo of the song, that curtain began to lift, and we all started screaming and weeping already. Inch, inch, inch, and there were the boots of several hundred men, in perfect formation. Inch, inch, inch, knees, bodies, shoulders--
---Faces---and there he was, in the second row, a head taller than the man in front of him, and I was less than five yards away from him, standing in the front of the crowds, my arms clenched around me.


But we aren't to have our men yet. First they go at ease, and I caught my breath at the precision and discipline of every man there, who are just as desperate to rejoin their families, but who aren't to have us yet either. I'm sure a few of those stoic men are making the most secret of glances towards the crowd, searching out their beloveds.

But my soldier has no idea that I even know that he's home. As far as he knows, I'm still waiting for him to get back, get settled, get a cellphone, and call me. As far as he knows, even if I know that he was landing today, there was no way I'd know when the ceremony was. As far as he knows, even if I did know when the ceremony was, there was no way I could be there. As far as he knows, no one is at this ceremony to welcome him. As Andrew stands in formation, his mind flickers back and forth between two tired thoughts--I wish Chelsea could be here--and--this is so dumb. I don't even need to be here for this.
Still in formation, he glances to the side for a moment, and I think he sees me, but in fact, that is him trying not to roll his eyes. At last, the sergeant releases them, and Andrew turns with a bit of a sigh to leave the gym, because of course there is no one there for him. His fiance is in North Carolina, and his brother is all the way back in Afghanistan.
But then a blond woman in a royal blue tee shirt and jeans pops up a few yards in front of him, and though his mind is elsewhere, there is a slight registering of she's cute she looks like Chelsea oh well... in his head, and he keeps his path.
"Andrew," says the girl, and for a solid three seconds, he stares straight at her, almost unrecognizing, because of course Chelsea isn't here--
but then she is here and there's no way in hell that this is real---
but here she is and here his hands are touching her face---
and here he's kissing her and the rest of the raucous rejoicing crowd has disappeared because--- she's here, she's here, she's here, it's impossible but she's here---
and he's home.

I got myself a journalist friend

Hey peeps, read this new article from The News Tribune of Seattle WA---Chelsea got herself quoted about the return of the Stryker Brigades :)

"The impact of the Joint Base Lewis-McChord troops coming back"

Enjoy :)

Happy Birthday!!!!!

Happy birthday to my sweetheart :) Andrew is 23 years old today, and just 12 days til he comes home! yay! Andrew and our dear friend Jeremy (droll and braw husband of the lovely Caitlin)

To the best

Happy Father's Day, Granddaddy! I miss you.

Reasons

You know, the reason I don't write here often is simple. I pull up Blogger, I write a few sentences about how overwhelmed I am by everything, and then, because I AM so overwhelmed, I'm just too exhausted to dive into it all.
It's pretty pitiable, if I do say so myself. Poor me, eh? Yeahh.

The situation with Andrew and me, well, it frankly still sucks right now. I've not spoken to him in a week, and haven't had a proper conversation in two weeks, and haven't had a pleasant conversation in almost 3 weeks. We're not arguing, we're just... really struggling. I'm struggling to muster any strength at all, he's struggling to muster any good feeling at all. The last time I got an email from him, he remarked with a sigh that it seemed like someone up in the government genuinely wanted all of the 1-17 men to die. It just gets harder and busier and more dangerous for them. You'd think it would be getting easier. Most of them are coming home in a week and a half, and yet, it seems like the military is squeezing every last drop of effort and life and use out of them before they leave.

I've gotta set that aside for now. It's too exhausting even to think on.
On another note, today marks the one-year anniversary of my beloved granddaddy's homecoming. I miss him alot. He was the best man I knew. And, in the same few weeks leading up to his heavenbound journey, I was falling in love with the other best man I'd ever know--my love Andrew. I only wish Granddaddy could have met Andrew. But at least, I did have the chance to tell him about my new romance, so Granddaddy knew that I had found the other half of my heart, just like he had, over six decades earlier.

In memoriam, here is the first bit of my senior thesis, which was inspired directly by Granddaddy's wonderful stories. Just substitute "Warren" and "Betty June" for Henry and Annie May, and you've almost got a biography instead of a piece of fiction.
Love you, Granddaddy.


Henry had two weeks of shore leave and a girl at home to propose to. When Hughes, Greene, and Berger told him they had scrounged up a Ford and did he want to drive across country with them, all he could see was her in that green dress standing on her mother’s porch. He stepped on land, it was early June, and her name was Annie May. Annie May Mills. There had never been such a beautiful name on such a beautiful girl. Fourteen months on the destroyer, and his mind was just as drenched with her—the high lashes, the typists’ fingers, the well-made linen dresses, the gardenia cologne. They had written letters, and though sometimes his letters were sentimental, she always wrote so calmly. So cool, so clever, so old-family South, just what he liked about her. She wrote about her sisters, and about her painting, and her job, and he could tell that she always wrote exactly what she meant. He wrote about seeing the Polynesian islands and all the pungent sweat-and-flowers smells he’d never forget, when he wanted to write about how he remembered the scent of her hair. He wrote about his Catholic bunkmate, when he was really thinking about the times she’d let him escort her to the Presbyterian Church. He wrote about hard-as-shoe-leather Navy biscuits, when he was yearning to recall the light-as-a-cloud meringue pie she made for Easter last year. He wasn’t a shy fellow, but something about her and the thought of how she’d read his letters knocked him to pieces.

When he wrote her about his two weeks in June, he told her he loved her, terrifically, and that she’d better watch out or he might ask her to marry him. He had shoved that letter directly into the hands of the petty officer and ran off again before he could change his mind, and then he had cold sweats for the rest of the morning. He drank a lemonade, paced on about on deck, and told Hughes to physically restrain him if he attempted to go steal it back. They both got shouted at for brawling, but back in their quarters that night, Henry shook his Hughes’ hand and called him a good friend.

The Washington port was thick with rain, but a little damp didn’t bother the four young seamen. It was not yet dawn. They laughed and pushed as they climbed over each other into the faded ‘36 Fordor Sedan, as the little wiper worked madly over a cracked windshield. Greene ridiculed the prickly holes in the upholstery and the coughing engine, but Berger thumped him in the head and asked if he thought he could have done any better. He kicked on the low beams, and waited with a temper as the doors were shut the door.
“I’ll leave you all here to go moldy,” he growled as the car nosed its way out of town, but when Henry offered him two dollars for gasoline, he shut up quick.

Henry didn’t see or hear much of the first day of the drive. He stared out the window at the gray landscape, cut with distant black forests, and thought about Annie, and how well she’d look on a Scottish moor or by an Irish garden. When he squinted, he could almost see flashes of red hair among the trees. Oh, perhaps he just thought she was perfect because he loved her, and perhaps every man would claim such things, but Annie truly was the loveliest creature he’d ever seen. That red hair, how it haunted all of his smiles and all his frowns. Most girls needed some treatment from the beauty parlor to get what Annie had naturally. Pristine dark red curls, set just so, like a movie actress. When she said yes, and he got out of the Navy, one day he’d watch her wake up and brush those curls, and do the tricks ladies do to make themselves so pretty every morning.

September 5th, 2007. Mimi and Granddaddy, with my wee sister Anna.