Growing up, I had no home. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t homeless. But I never had a “home town,” a sense of belonging anywhere in particular. As an Army brat. I learned early on that home was wherever I might be at the moment, and that my address was apt to change at a moment’s notice.
“. . . at a moment’s notice.” That’s a bit of an exaggeration, and I realize I was luckier than some. I was uprooted far less than many of my early friends. Nevertheless, throughout my life I have invariably stammered and stumbled a bit when someone asks where I am from. It wasn’t until sixth grade that I completed an entire year at the same school. I found it hard to introduce myself to new classmates and neighbors, but I finally mastered an answer to the first question — “Where are you from?” I either named the state of my birth without further comment, or I opted to claim the last state I had lived in.
Even though I was fortunate enough to spend six years in Seattle, from sixth grade through my senior year of high school, my time there was spent at three different addresses. It seems somewhat surreal now, looking back over the span of years.
If there has been one constant in my life, it has been moving. Until relatively recently, actually in 2019, I had not lived at a single address for as long as five years. That milestone passed and stretched on to a sixth anniversary. And then, shortly after, my husband and I moved once again across a state line and into a new-to-us home in an established community.
It feels right, somehow, this new address. Now, after two years here, we feel truly at home. I have no intention of moving on. I know that may change but, for now, I am content, and I no longer hesitate when asked where I am from. I am from right here! I have come home, and I plan to stay.
That in no way means I don’t want to travel. In fact, the urge is stronger than ever, and as COVID fears are diminished, I know my husband and I will take to the roadways, the airways and the seas as often as we can.
Ask any military kid where home is, and you’re likely to be greeted either with a blank stare, or a quick laugh before launching into an explanation of where s(he) was born and where she started school, the city where he learned to drive or first kissed, and other similar trivia. Military kids mark time by events and places, or through shared experiences independent of time. That doesn’t mean we don’t make good friends. Those friendships simply are, more often than not, among those who truly understand the concept that “home” is anywhere you unpack for longer than a week.
Those of us who loved the life thought it was entirely normal rather than disruptive. Yes, we collected plenty of stuff to assure that our memories of other places and other times were kept alive. Much of my stuff has traveled with me through the years, only to remain packed away in trunks and footlockers for decades. I regret not having “grandma’s attic” somewhere, where it all might have remained, safe and undisturbed, for decades. Some of my stuff has disappeared along the way. But the memories remain.
Now, after all these years, I am determined to rid my life of all that stuff. It’s difficult, because with every box that I tote up from the basement, or bring home from an overflowing storage unit, a small piece of my former life threatens to unravel. I’m having trouble making sense of it all, and I view everything with different eyes.
Sometimes an old photograph prompts giggles, sometimes grimaces. I snort in disbelief on occasion, sinking deep into half-forgotten memories from my childhood, and reliving what I recall fondly as some of the best of times.
The good times are far more vivid than any other experiences of those growing-up years. I seldom was lonely. My early life (actually my entire life) seems an unending adventure story. Perhaps that is why I pack a bag and board a plane, book a cruise or plan a road trip so readily. It was a habit formed through necessity at an early age, and I still embrace it.
I have to laugh now, every time someone asks where I’m from. I no longer pause or stammer with an answer, but I sometimes have to turn to my husband and wink. When we launch into the explanation of how we met and where we’ve lived, our listeners think we’re “spinning a yarn,” pulling their legs with a well-rehearsed fictional story. Not so, folks — It’s all true. Truth, as is said, is often stranger than fiction.
We recently returned from an extended trip three years in the making — a cruise to the Norwegian fjords and the Arctic Circle. We had postponed the journey twice and rescheduled out of necessity due to COVID. It was a memorable experience, but it’s good to be home.
It feels right, and we look forward to being right here, at home, for the foreseeable future.
for an early-morning Walmart shopping trip, if it makes you feel better and restores your spirit, it’s okay. If such behavior prompts smiles from complete strangers, it’s even better.
Right Off Main 
December 7 . . .
This day has always held unique meaning for me. From early childhood, I knew that the man who would become my father was on a military ship bound for The Philippines in the early morning hours of December 7, 1941. Before I realized the significance of that day, I knew that his ship had received new orders to turn back immediately and return to its West Coast port of embarkation. Had the ship not returned to U.S. waters, who knows how its fate, or mine, might have been different?
That was perhaps the first of the stories that were a part of my upbringing and the proud military traditions of my family. As I have grown older, the day has also grown more meaningful because it represents a time that, I believe, served to rally Americans in a way that few other events have united us. Our nation was thrust suddenly into a war that was not of our making. My father and my uncles served in that war, in Europe and the Pacific. Others of my family served in World War I, and still others wore the uniform proudly both in peacetime and during other campaigns fought by their country.
On a whim, as I thought about the events of Pearl Harbor those many years ago, I checked to see what else had occurred in history on December 7. It was on this date, also in 1941, that Adolf Hitler authorized the secretive “Night and Fog” campaign, aimed to arrest and execute citizens in territories occupied by Nazi Germany.
I was more than surprised to learn that, on December 7, 1917, the U.S. Congress approved a resolution which led to a declaration of war against the Austro-Hungarian Empire. The Senate later approved the resolution 74-0, and the U.S. was officially a player in the “war to end all wars.” That’s a date in history I was never required in memorize in school.
It was also on this date — in 1972 — when NASA launched the last manned flight to the moon, carrying a crew of three — Command Module Pilot Ronald Evan, Lunar Module Pilot Harrison Schmitt, and Commander Eugene Cernan. Schmitt and Cernan landed on the surface on December 11. The crew returned safely to earth December 19, with Schmitt and Cernan still the last human beings to have walked on the moon. That’s an event I cannot forget, although that mission was 50 years ago!
No doubt others have their own memories tied to December 7 — that’s the way it is with dates, whether they have historical impact or only personal significance. Sometimes, we are caught up short by the memories they provoke, and occasionally a date that should be marked in some larger way slips by unrecognized. Either way — whether it’s of lasting import or only a fleeting thought — perhaps there is more to celebrate and think about on this day than on most.
Several years ago, I was privileged to attend a ceremony at the small Veterans Memorial Plaza in Burleson, Texas. It was a moving tribute to those who served in World War II. The speaker was Don Graves, then a 93-year-old Marine Corps veteran who fought at the Battle of Iwo Jima, and was present at the ceremonial flag-raising on Mount Surabachi.
He was lucky. He survived. He noted that he would never forget the words of President Franklin Roosevelt the day following the bombing of Pearl Harbor. He was 16 at the time. He could not enlist for another six months, until he turned 17. “We were just kids,” he said, adding that he and his buddies signed up to fight for their country without thinking of the future or the consequences. “It was just the way we were brought up,” he said.
Now, that’s something to think about, isn’t it?
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