The Surge in Action

Blackfive's post reminded me of what has been sitting in the back of my brain while the front was preoccupied with the impending interview:

Many of you know that General Petraeus has announced the beginnings of combat operations in Iraq now that the surge forces are in place.

"Kinetic" doesn't do justice to the description of what is now happening.

On Sunday, a friend of mine brought the chaplain to his area to speak to his men. There's only one reason to "bring in" the chaplain. The @#$% is about to hit the @#$%ing fan and the leaders know it.

It's always time to pray for, send positive thoughts to, and actively support the troops. But now, more than ever.

As Blackfive reminds us, the work of various military support organizations is going to be needed in coming months. I suspect we'll be fielding a surge of requests for Valour-IT laptops in a couple of weeks...

USO
Soldiers' Angels
Sew Much Comfort
AnySoldier
Semper Fi Injured Marine Fund
Operation Gratitude
Wounded Warrior Project
Fisher House

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The Interview

The second interview is tomorrow morning. I think I'm ready, and I hope it goes as well as the first. I'm a bit concerned that it's by telephone, but hopefully the face-to-face in DC will have mitigated any inherent disadvantage. I am thoroughly prepared and all I can do is just put all that work into action tomorrow.

Friends who have seen the job description invariably tell me, "This is perfect for you. You are exactly the right person for this job." I hope they're right, 'cause I know I can do it and I think I would absolutely love it.

I'm not usually a big optimist about these kinds of things, but I've been feeling upbeat about this since I walked out of their office in DC six weeks ago.

If you're the praying type, please do so. Fingers crossed...

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Army Wives Get Wounded Too

Entwined in Josie Salzman's discussion of the Army's recent increase in mental health workers for wounded and returning veterans (it's not enough) is a story of PTSD and the aftermath of combat wounds from the loved one's perspective.

It's an absolute must-read (I've reproduced the bulk of it below because I don't want you to miss this, so keep reading or visit her blog for the rest of the story). I'll let her speak for herself. There's nothing I could add:

One of the first nights I had with my husband after the injury will forever be burned into my mind. He had been in an excruciating amount of pain the entire evening. It was still early in his hospital stay so the doctors had yet to find a pain cocktail that his body responded to. Just like the evening before, the nurse entered the room and handed J.R. a cup filled to the top of pills. Desperate to make the pain subside for a few hours, J.R. swallowed them in one giant mouthful. An hour later he was drifting off to sleep.

I started making my bed for the night after I was sure he was sleeping. This would be my second night of sleeping in the fold out chair that I would soon learn to hate. I had no more than crawled under the covers when J.R. sat bolt upright in bed. "Get them off me. Get them off me now. The bugs they're all over me get them off. They're in the bed. Make them go away." Unsure of what he was talking about, I jumped out of bed and rushed to calm him down. After a grueling twenty minutes he was able to once again close his eyes. It didn't last. Again his mind took over in his sleep. This time he felt as if someone was in the room and he was under attack. He awoke panicked and sweat soaked. I sat on his bed and held him in my arms. I promised him that if he just close his eyes he would be able to sleep and that everything would be fine. I was in the room and I was going nowhere. But everything wasn't fine. No more than an hour after he closed his eyes the terror began. On this night J.R. would relive the entire accident.

"Are you ready? Hey, I'm talking to you. Are you ready to go? We have to get on the road. It's time to head back south." J.R. was mumbling in his sleep.

"J.R. what are you talking about. We aren't going anywhere. Go back to sleep."

We went back in forth for a while before I realized what was going on. He was prepping his truck for convoy and in his mind it was December 19th. His nurse assured me that this was normal and to just keep an eye on him. I listened as he spoke to his men as the convoy went down the road. He mumbled so much I had a hard time understanding. That is... until they hit the EFP.

"Hey. Hey guys... guys I can't feel my arm. Guys my arm. My arm. My arm is gone. Guys help me. My arm is gone. Help. Help. I need a tourniquet . I'm bleeding out. It's gone. Holy shit my arm is gone."

By this point J.R. was screaming at the top of his lungs. He was sitting upright in bed. I bolted out the door and yelled for the nurse. Together we muscled J.R. back down on the bed. He was thrashing. At this point more nurses were filling the room. His screams could be heard throughout all of Ward 57. I retreated to my bed and allowed the nurses to help my husband. I pulled my legs up to my chest and tried to ignore my husbands screams.

"Stop stepping on my arm. It hurts. Give me pain killers. Your stepping on my arm. Get off of it. My hand. My hand. My hand is gone. God damn it I told you get off my arm."

The nurses were calm as they helped him fight through the night terror. They played the roll of the army medics, telling him that he was going to be fine. Helping him fight through the pain. Then all of a sudden came relief. It came in the form of a shot. The medicine entered his body and within minutes the terror was over. He lay in his bed. Calm. I sat on the chair and cried. I cried for my husband, for the pain that he was in. I cried for our dreams that were now garbage. I cried out of exhaustion.

The next morning J.R. remembered nothing. He didn't understand why my eyes were so puffy and I was so tired.

[...]

We were fine for a few weeks. And then the dreams returned. Constantly waking up in the middle of the night in fear that an IED had exploded outside the window. For weeks he was permanently attached to me at night. And although I usually don't mind to snuggle up at night, it is very different when your husband has the death grip on you while you're trying to sleep. I was exhausted. I no longer had the help of the nurses to care for my husband. His memory was non existent with the meds he was taking so it was almost as if I was taking care of a small child. A very stubborn small child with a lot of needs. He couldn't dress himself, could barely feed himself, and still needed help taking a shower. I was so wrapped up in taking care of him that I completely forgot to take care of myself. Then the fights began.

Once again I started asking for a therapist. This time, it only took a week. We saw him twice. Things didn't go so well. After our second and final appointment I returned to our room feeling defeated. Not once had any member of the staff here asked if I was ok. If there was anything that I needed. How I was handling my husband's injury. I was realizing that I was no longer able to handle the stress of taking care of J.R. For months I had been bottling up every concern, every fear, and every frustration inside. I had a break down. Two weeks later family arrived and I was able to leave and go home for a week of alone time.

Since that week things have been a million times better. J.R. has been able to cut back on his meds which has made a world of difference. I now see the man I married shining through the drug haze. The fights are less often and less intense. And we are able to realize when a little time apart is needed. It's amazing what taking care of yourself for a while can do for your mental health.

It is also important to remember that even though my husband may be the one that lives with the memory of the explosion, we all live with the memory of the healing process. This war has taken it's toll on me as well.

[More here.]

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Did Somebody Say "Surge?"

News from Iraq this morning...

The U.S. military, which just days ago completed its latest troop buildup in Iraq, has launched a large offensive operation in several al-Qaida strongholds around Baghdad, the top U.S. commander said Saturday.

Gen. David Petraeus said the operation began in the last 24 hours... [emphasis added]

Casts the timing of statements by certain congressional "leaders" this week in an interesting light, doesn't it?

Top US congressional Democrats bluntly told President George W. Bush Wednesday that his Iraq troop "surge" policy was a failure.

Senate Majority leader Harry Reid and House of Representatives Speaker Nancy Pelosi challenged the president over Iraq by sending him a letter, ahead of a White House meeting later on Wednesday.

"As many had forseen, the escalation has failed to produce the intended results," the two leaders wrote. [emphasis added]

The words "pre-emptive strike" come to mind. I'm not going to type anymore, as I don't trust myself to be civil.

Update: The surge is already bearing fruit. Sounds like they're hot on the terrorists' trail.

Update II: The link in the first update used to go to an article headlined "Kidnapped Soldiers' IDs Found." It discussed in great detail what was found along with the IDs and the families' reactions. It's since been significantly rewritten (as of about 4:30 p.m., eastern).

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Walter Reed and the Mail

Sadly this bit of news shouldn't shock anyone. But the way it's being dealt with is a refreshing change from the recent past...

The Army said Friday that it has opened an investigation into the recent discovery of 4,500 letters and parcels — some dating to May 2006 — at Walter Reed that were never delivered to soldiers.

And it fired the contract employee who ran the mailroom.

Hats off to MG Schoomaker, who I'm sure is still digging his way through the problems at Walter Reed. He obviously knows the importance of mail to a soldier. And shame, shame, shame on the contract employee who let a situation like that develop.

Sadly, it's not surprising to discover another case of mail-related incompetence at Walter Reed. As has been widely reported among the milblogs, around the time the living-conditions scandal at Walter Reed erupted last February and March, "Any Wounded Soldier" mail to the hospital was being restricted and returned to sender because there was "too much of it to deliver." In a despicable bit of irony, wounded-but-mobile outpatients were tasked with writing "return to sender" on cards, letters and packages.

But it sounds like the newly-installed MG Schoomaker is on top of things, with the right priorities and a willingness to do what needs to be done. Here's how he's dealing with the 4,500-piece mail backlog:

[He] said he ordered a team of 20 to 40 soldiers and civilians to launch an around-the-clock operation to screen, survey and forward all the letters and parcels. Items addressed to soldiers still at Walter Reed were being hand-delivered Friday night, he said.

"This delay is completely and absolutely unsatisfactory," Schoomaker said.

In some ways it's a "small" thing, but it's another indicator of proper, soldier-focused priorities. Glad you're there, Sir.

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Amazing

[THREE UPDATES BELOW]

If you do nothing else today, watch this video of a stereotypical Welsh salesman who has a glorious secret. I am deadly serious. 300,000 more people have watched it just in the 30 minutes since I first saw it.

After you click the video, please click "read more." AFTER, please--don't spoil the surprise for yourself.

Take it from a professional: he is once-in-a-generation, at least. Remember that name... Paul Potts.

UPDATE: That was obviously from a British talent show. He made it into the finals this evening. Here's his semi-final performance. The sound mixing is a bit unbalanced (the music covers his voice at times), so listen to it on as high-quality speakers as you can.

By the way, he's only in his twenties. That means he hasn't yet reached his peak as a singer--my ear tells me there are aspects of his voice (particularly in terms of projection in the low range, as is typical in a tenor) that he probably hasn't fully developed yet. He's going to be indescribably extraordinary...

UPDATE II: I thought he looked a bit older than twenty-something and it turns out I was right. He's 36. But still, a gorgeous voice, and what sets him apart is his ability to sing with such natural emotion that doesn't feel like he's really "performing." He's still a once-in-a-generation performer with a tremendous gift.

UPDATE III: There's been a lot of confusion about his performing background. He has been singing in the British equivalent of community theatre (pay to play). He also paid for a summer of vocal study that included lessons and putting on performances. The "studied with Pavarotti" meme is a bit misleading. He attended a masterclass with Pavarotti; a masterclass is a one-time event (sometimes paid) in which singers can sit in on lessons of a master teacher and perhaps even be selected as a demonstration singer to whom the master will give a "mini-lesson" while the rest of the attendees watch. He has never made a living as a singer or been paid to perform in a concert setting. In a nutshell, he's a particularly devoted amateur who has never had a big break.

I think he just got that "break" he's been looking for... Bravo to him for his perseverance!

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I'm taking a break...

To go read a book.

It was recommended (and given) by a sweet friend who was kind enough to say he thought I'd understand something of the spirit of the women therein. Should be interesting, at least. Perhaps at best it will inspire me...

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....A Thousand Words

Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Gen. Peter Pace, U.S. Marine Corps, tours the Faces of the Fallen exhibit in Arlington, Va., on June 7, 2007. The exhibition opened in 2005 and consists of 1,319 painted portraits of U.S. service members killed in Afghanistan and Iraq. DoD photo by Staff Sgt. D. Myles Cullen, U.S. Air Force

Click the photo for source and a larger version.

[h/t HFS]

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Blogging: Anonymity, Life, and Writer's Block

I've had this sitting in draft form for four days, trying to decide if it was worth publishing. But I've got nothing else, so here goes...

I've been fighting writer's block for maybe two months now, but it's gotten worse since the MilBlog Conference. Anything I've written in the last month has been like pulling teeth and it hasn't come from the place of authenticity that has powered some of the better stuff I've written here (see "Other Notable Posts" in the sidebar for proof that I used to be a good blogger, haha).

I wish I knew why this was, but I only have a bunch of theories. Part of me really wants to just shut down the blog, but part of me also says I'd regret it.

For those who care, a list of what's going on inside my head (and is, I suspect, causing this block) is found below...

1. Pressure. After winning the MilBloggie (much to my surprise), I feel like I have to maintain a standard to justify the win and not reduce the credibility of a MilBloggie for the next winner. But blogging is something that comes from my heart, not an intellectual exercise. So instead, I've done very little of the kind of blogging that got me that award in the first place (going from repeated links by all the conservative heavy hitters to the kind of personal drivel I've written recently is hard on the ego).

2. Life. As I've said repeatedly lately, there's a lot going on inside my head, and I feel suspended between two worlds--excited by the possibilities and fearful that they'll never come to be. And that's apparently eating my brain. And beyond that, the 12-hour split-shift schedule of work makes wasting those open hours between the split very easy. Add to it that the schedule has obliterated my volunteer opportunities, which were a rich source of quality blogging.

3. Anonymity. The MilBLog Conference and SpouseBUZZ (and some recent stupidity by a reporter) have linked my blogging and non-blogging lives--both personal and professional. And having someone you've never met walk up to you amongst your coworkers and say, "So this is where you hang out!" because she saw you at SpouseBUZZ when you were addressed from the stage is a bit disconcerting, especially when you've been told to keep a low profile at work for the sake of coworker harmony.

4. Merging. This is a continuation of #3. My career used to be a part of my offline life, completely separate from online activities and blogging. Now, I'm using my online activities in an attempt to forge the kind of career and offline life I want. For example, my prospective employer is aware of this blog (yes, it'll go right out the window if asked). It's also a bit disconcerting to have a philanthropist at Walter Reed say after someone mentions your blog, "Oh yes, we all know exactly who you are and what you do." And this year's MilBlog Conference continued to cement "online relationships" that I now see have had an even more profound shaping effect on my life than I previously thought--in everything from job prospects to how I view myself to who my mentors are in areas both personal and professional. If I get that job in DC, the merge will be complete; if I don't, I think I'll continue to feel suspended between two worlds (with the more "substantial" world being the least-desired at this point).

Numbers 3 & 4 particularly bother me. When I started this blog, I was a music teacher in an isolated town in Arizona and I expected to be there for the forseeable future. It seemed it would be easy to keep my "real life" and blogging separate. I tried to be my real self online, but told no one offline of the blog and I wanted to avoid any possibility of my name, location, etc., being public knowledge in either sphere. I kept my town name secret because there were only a handful of schools in that town, so it wouldn't have been hard to figure out which one had a single music teacher (which was the extent of my blog identity). And as Valour-IT developed, I tried so hard to stay in the background (that worked out well, huh? LOL!).

The topper was when I realized a fellow blogger and I are now working at the same location. We had lunch together and he later advised me on a significant purchase. He was so kind and made the decision so much easier. I wanted to blog about it and give him due credit for being such a prince, but realized that since he makes no pretense of hiding as a blogger, I would be revealing my exact working location, down to the building level (And yes, a regular reader probably knows exactly where I work, but the random reader isn't going to know it from any single post at this point).

I can't help but think about things like how Matt of Blackfive and his family were threatened, with his correct home address posted online. I don't have his stature, of course, but all it takes is one whackjob. I fear I wouldn't be hard to find if someone really wanted to. That's another reason to hope I get the DC job, I guess; it'll give me the chance to make sure everything is unlisted (and I don't have any relatives there that share my last name).

Maybe it comes down to the idea that blogging used to be a place where I could be emotionally and physically safe to be completely myself without worrying how it might affect my job or peoples' opinions of me, or whether some troll might find out he lives in the same neighborhood I work in; I could be myself and if people didn't like it, so what? They were essentially just "figments of my imagination"--to take a cold-hearted view. But now I have to worry about how what I say reflects on me to potential employers, and most of my true friends these days are "online friends" (even ones I haven't "met" yet). The increasing significance of online friends in my life is further propelled by the fact that the only people I've gotten to know here are my co-workers, and with the exception of one new person, we don't seem to be compatible outside of work.

So weird to find myself in this hybrid position: to close this blog would be cutting out a huge part of my life and who I have become. But if that's true, why should continuing it in a manner I can be proud of be so difficult?

CLARIFICATION: I'm very proud of what I've been a part of as an adopted milblogger, and beyond grateful for the online relationships I've developed (and for the attendant opportunities). On the personal front, I've grown in ways I never expected, and on the professional/charity front I've been blessed to be a part of amazing things. I'm just finding this time in my life very difficult to navigate with style and aplomb. I suspect that if I end up in that DC job, a lot of the "blockage" will break. Hopefully.

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Innocence Revisited

In mention of a veteran of WWII today, John Donovan writes:

No one comes out of combat innocent.

And many of the people who decry war in any and all it's forms - live in an innocent world *bought* by the loss of innocence of others.

That idea has always "pushed a button with me." I replied:

Andi and I were just talking about that yesterday. That realization hit me like a ton of bricks when I knew we had people on the ground in Afghanistan post-9/11, and it is a significant part of what has propelled me in my troop support activities. In so many ways, warfighters do/live things that I don't want to or can't do myself. I live innocent (ignorant) of the darkest parts of the world and of myself... because they don't.

I've expanded on this here several times, most recently about six ten weeks ago in a post that coincidentally ties in with another recent post of John's--one touching on attitudes about guns. I've reproduced my post below the fold.

[First published 3/24/07; you may find the comments on the original post also worth a read.]

There are many reasons I'm so serious about supporting our military men and women, why I feel it's a moral obligation. It's not just a sense of "they have suffered for me," though that is certainly part of it. What really pulls on me and compels a response is the warfighter's loss of innocence due to actions taken on my behalf. In a powerful essay, former soldier Brian Mockenhaupt explains:

But war twists and shifts the landmarks by which we navigate our lives, casting light on darkened areas that for many people remain forever unexplored. And once those darkened spaces are lit, they become part of us.

One former Marine friend has told me that he still habitually runs mental threat assessments (and plans countermeasures) on every person he encounters. He also once described his training and wartime experience as discovering, harnessing and ultimately mastering the beast inside him that we all have, one that lies dormant unless awakened by experience or intent. And Lex has written of the obsession a pilot finds in the violence of bombing runs. More recently, a soldier still on the ground in Iraq wrote of "war cocaine."

Mockenhaupt continues:

At a party several years ago, long before the Army, I listened to a friend who had served several years in the Marines tell a woman that if she carried a pistol for a day, just tucked in her waistband and out of sight, she would feel different. She would see the world differently, for better or worse. Guns empower. She disagreed and he shrugged. No use arguing the point; he was just offering a little piece of truth. He was right, of course. And that's just the beginning.

That reminds me of my first (and so far, only) experience with a loaded weapon. It was a lot of fun, especially since I seem to have a bit of natural skill with it. It packed a certain frisson, but so deadly serious. My instructor-friend talked as if I would someday carry a weapon of my own, but I'm not eager to do so. It's not only a tremendous responsibility that I doubt I'm up to, but I also think I'm afraid of liking that sense of power a little too much. Apparently that's only a pale shadow of what the soldier feels:

But I also peered through the scope waiting for someone to do something wrong, so I could shoot him. When you pick up a weapon with the intent of killing, you step onto a very strange and serious playing field. Every morning someone wakes wanting to kill you. When you walk down the street, they are waiting, and you want to kill them, too. That's not bloodthirsty; that's just the trade you've learned.

That's a trade and a playing field, and a part of myself I don't think I have it in me to face. And if I do, I'd rather not be forced to acknowledge its existence. And so I am beyond grateful there are those who willingly search it out. One reason I feel compelled to support our veterans is the gift they give of themselves; in many ways, they lose their innocence so that I can keep mine.

UPDATE: After email discussions with Grim, I see I may not have been clear. Here I am using innocence in it's fundamental sense: a lack of knowledge. Perhaps ignorance would've been a better choice of word.

Grim wrote to me, in part:

You don't have any innocence to lose; what you describe is not learned but natural behavior... The instinct to kill and to war is as natural a behavior as resides in mankind...

What you have is the illusion of innocence. That is to say, the evil itself is embedded in you. The sense that you are "clean" because you go about from day to day neither killing nor thinking of killing is an illusion; you simply haven't hit the right stimuli.

I agree. He also pointed out a post of his on related aspects of the subject at Winds of Change.

[If you're still reading this far, you might be interested in my discussion of the response to this gift of innocence (from July 2006).]

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Army Wife Stumps GEN Pace*

[8 June, 2007: Welcome, WSJ Readers. This post refers to the experience of a friend of mine who met GEN Pace at the recent "townhall" forum in Hawaii.]

Yeah, you read that title right. Homefront Six stumped General Peter Pace, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. I'm proud of you, HFS!

UPDATE: *Just to clarify, "Stumping the general" is meant to be half tongue-in-cheek, as far as I am concerned; I'm attempting to celebrate that HFS has asked a superb question that (hopefully) helps raise an important issue at the highest levels, and that she'd conducted herself with such poise/aplomb overall (I know GEN Pace doesn't control the Army's budget, but it my theory is that it can't hurt to increase his awareness).

And I celebrate her drawing attention to Soldiers' Angels (and thus Valour-IT) because SA has at times been blocked from offering assistance (such as at most VA hospitals, until very recently). So, increasing SA's visibility increases its opportunities to "support the troops."

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Doing Good...

Does the doer good, too.

[An additional report in "read more."]

From someone intimately involved in the event:

Operation Fresh Air took place on June 2nd, 2007 at Leesylvania State Park in Prince William Co., VA. It was hatched in early March as the absolutely brilliant idea of a Marine wife, Cyndi Juarez, in response to the breaking scandal at Walter Reed. She was casting about for a way to do something for our wounded heroes at Walter Reed and Bethesda.

Cyndi, who works for the Prince William Co. Park System, realized that she was looking out her office window at the solution. Fishing!! Beautiful scenic trails and views!! A perfect tonic for what ails the spirits of our wounded heroes. Fresh air and relaxation.

Op Fresh Air was supported by Injured Marine Semper Fi Fund. Semper Fi most graciously sponsored the food and drink for the event. Dixie Bones was hired to cater the event with their delicious Pulled Pork and BBQ Chicken as well as equally yummy sides.

On the morning of June 2nd, over 20 volunteers descended on Area 4 of the park and began setting up the pavillion. Round tables topped with red, white or blue tablecloths and a star centerpiece with an American flag were set up. Two banners were put up (one at the front of the park and one in the Pavillion) that read Simply.."Welcome Heroes".

The park is located on the banks of the Potomac and several pop up tents were placed at the dock along with coolers of water and soda. 10 fishermen volunteers stood by ready to assist the guests with their every fishing need. Two were young Marines from The Basic School at Quantico.

Cyndi's nephew, Kyle, came up from Alabama to play his guitar and mandolin as long as we wanted. He has won several musical competitions and really only started playing 3 years ago. A very gifted young 15 year old.

The bus was late. When they finally arrived ( about an hour later than we expected), our volunteers clapped and cheered to welcome them. The ages of our guests went from a 2 month old infant son to an over 50 native of Kansas who was wounded providing security for convoys in Iraq.

All of our guests were starving as they hadn't had breakfast. They tucked into the BBQ with an appetite that only the great outdoors can inspire.

Immediately after lunch, the fishing started. I mean that entire pavilion emptied out. Even though it was very warm down at the dock, nobody came back up until it was time to go back to Walter Reed.

I had one young wife tell me that she didn't even know how stressed out she was until she got to the park and truly began to relax. Others wanted to know when we were doing it again. They wanted to come back!!!

One young hero, in a wheelchair, got the opportunity to teach his little boy how to fish. A normal Daddy thing to do on a Saturday but not if you're living at the Mologne House.

They all stayed an hour later than planned to make up for the hour they missed that morning. When they arrived at the park, they were a little unsure of what to expect. When they left, they were all smiling broadly and hugging and shaking hands.

The fishing volunteers, who were mostly military or retired military, stuck around after the bus left and also wanted to know when we were doing it again.

I think every single person who was at that event on Saturday received something. Some got a chance to breath fresh air, relax, fish. Some made a new friend, some found inspiration, and some found a renewed desire to make a difference.

In addition to Semper Fi sponsoring the food and drinks for the day, the following groups supported the effort: Soldiers' Angels graciously fundraised for sunscreen and rec equipment (like a badminton set, bubbles, and balls). Military.com provided hats, t-shirts and their publication on Active duty/VA benefits and rights. Leesylvania State Park provided the banners, the facility, little lunch coolers, water bottles, maps and their newsletter.

**************

[I have some excellent pics, but am waiting to find out if they are okay to publicize.]

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As if there were any doubt...

FbL -- [noun]: A real life muppet 'How will you be defined in the dictionary?'

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Milblog Conference and Valour-IT: Walter Reed, part II

[Part I here]

People who visit major military hospitals like Walter Reed often talk about how inspiring it is. It is, but it's not all inspiring. It's real and it's painful and joyous, hopeful and hopeless, and discouraging and inspiring... all at once. And every bit of that was on display the day Soldiers' Angels brought the 1,000th laptop.

Many angels brought small gifts with them: individually-wrapped cigars, SA pins, blankets, chocolates and more. They quickly spread out, shaking hands and sharing the gifts with the cross-section of wounded there--some looked perfectly "normal" because their wounds were hidden, while others walked slowly with a cane as if they were old men or sat in wheelchairs. One was blind and had to be led around. Their expressions and demeanor varied, but most seemed to at least be cautiously enjoying themselves.

The catered BBQ for everyone was absolutely wonderful and surely a welcome change from institutional food. Well fed and fellowshipped, everyone was eventually called to gather around one of the benches lining the fish pond outside Mologne House. LTC(ret) Riley, who runs procurement/logistics for Valour-IT, announced that we would be giving out the 1,000th laptop and then turned things over to me after a brief comment from Patti Bader.

Standing on a bench (which made me just about as tall as most of the soldiers gathered around, haha!), I had my first-ever chance to address a large group of warfighters whose sacrificial service protected me. However, I refused to think along those lines for fear of emotional overload. Half hoarse from having been sick the week before and from lack of sleep, I told them the following, shouting as loudly as I could:

Valour-IT stands for Voice-Activated Laptops for Our Injured Troops. It was inspired by a soldier, Captain (now Major) Chuck Ziegenfuss, who two years ago was exactly where you are today and who remains in the Army--he was a tank company commander whose hands were severely damaged by an IED. He had been writing a blog during his deployment and used his two functional fingers to ask for help getting voice-to-text software after he was wounded. The response was huge and we realized there was both a need and a desire to fill that need. We've now given out nearly 1,000 laptops in the last 20 months.

This program did not develop because a big donor dropped a lot of money that made all this possible. Rather, it came from individual donations of thousands and thousands of people--from literally five dollars to 5,000, adding up to over a million dollars in twenty months... all because they love and appreciate you and want to help you during this difficult time. They want to make sure that if you have injuries that prevent you from using a keyboard, you can still stay connected to your deployed buddies and the family members who couldn't come here to be with you, so you can use the computer just like anyone else does. And if you will be transitioning out, we want to be sure you have the opportunity to take classes and develop the skills that you will need to be successful in your new career.

So each laptop is more than just a computer. It's a physical representation of the incredible amounts of love, support and gratitude people have for all you have done. Please remember that whenever you see it. Thank you for everything.

And then Chuck stood up to address them himself...

[Much of the following is paraphrased.] I like standing here talking to you; there's nothing I like more than talking to soldiers... feels like old times when I was driving a tank instead of a desk.

And then he held up his mangled hands with their nine remaining fingers.
I didn't plan to be here. Getting my ass blown up in Iraq was not part of my 20 year plan for my Army career. I wasn't supposed to have 35 surgeries with more to come, I wasn't supposed to lose a finger, have two thumbs that don't work and a hand I can't feel--plus the nasty scars on my legs, butt and back from the burns and skin grafts.

But I did. It happened, and I can't change that. But I can change the future, I can determine what happens next.

I know what it's like to be here, how hard it is, how much this all sucks.... the pain, the drugs they hook you on and the haziness it all causes... I know about the bureaucrats and the stupid regulations and the med boards and the doctors that don't listen to you. It seems it'll never end. But I'm here to tell you, this is not permanent. It's temporary. This is your present, but it's not your future.

I could feel the crowd start to warm to him.

You have to have an attitude, that refuses to be eaten up by this place. Changing your perspective changes your ability to deal with this. Losing the use of your hands, or losing a leg or any other body part forces you to realize that you are more than your parts, that it's your mind that ultimately determines your future. You may get your arm amputated, but what makes you you is still there in your mind.

And besides, we have to look at the bright side! I mean, I get 10% off on all glove purchases, now.

He held up his hands again, and there was nervous laughter. A sergeant in a wheelchair because he had only one leg piped up, "Yeah, and I get 50% off on my shoes!" The laughter increased as others mentioned the "benefits" of amputation and injury. Chuck continued in the style of black humor welcome among those who have been wounded. I could feel the magic in the air and wished desperately I had brought the video recorder I'd been awarded Friday night. He was in his element, and the audience was eating it up.

Chuck likes to play the tough guy and he doesn't write much on his blog about the psychological aspects of his recovery. But he talked about them that day. Using himself as an example, he practically begged the assembled soldiers to hope, to see beyond their current situation and believe they would recover. He tried to will them into their future, into fighting for their recoveries.

Nothing has really changed for you--you still are who you were on the inside; it's just the packaging that is damaged. It took me awhile to understand that, but it doesn't have to take so long for you. It will be the hardest fight of your life, but the essence of who you are can still fight. Your body is just the bag that holds that essence. So do that ****ing painful PT, fight to get off the dope as soon as you can, don't let the bastards win. There are people here and in places like Soldiers' Angels who can help you. You didn't choose this present, but you get to choose whether it wins.

[Coming Up: the 1,000th laptop recipient]

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Another Milblog Conference AAR: Falling Off the Barstool*

*The following is simply a light-hearted snark on a couple respected friends. And yeah, the conference was a month ago, but I'm way behind in blogging... so sue me.

Those who know me well know I don't drink.

Those who attended the MilBlog Conference won't believe that for a moment. Here's why...

It started at the Friday night reception. Frankly, I was too excited (and busy) to eat. After forcing down a small soft taco, I was done. But as the reception moved into full swing, my blogpapa kindly offered to buy me a drink. I initially declined. But in a gracious and extremely subtle (hah!) attempt to balance the scales for a vaguely-remembered time past in which there was a wallet on one side of a military gate and its owner on the other, I accepted, with the caveat that I didn't really like alcohol. End result, Lex ordered me a glass of lovely white wine that I was surprised to find enjoyable. Oh! And I shared the half-remembered story with an appreciative audience, too (I blame it on the wine, of course...).

Over an hour later a bunch of us are hanging out at an offsite bar and I'm enjoying conversation with Lex and V5. Ankles hooked in my barstool's crossbars, I lean forward to better hear Lex's bon mot... and my off-balance stool pitches me nose-first toward the floor. Fortunately, the quite-forgiving solidness of Lex was there to literally catch me before I connected with a the quite unforgiving solidness on which he stood. Certain persons who reportedly couldn't hold their liquor have made snarky comments, but we know what really happened...

That was just the beginning.

Saturday after the conference, a number of attendees retired to the hotel bar and I was again encouraged to avail myself of the options. I again declined. But upon observing Lex (notice a recurring theme?) enjoying something clear in a martini glass accented with a strip of citrus peel, my curiosity was piqued.

FbL: "Whatcha drinkin'?"

Lex: Vodka Martini.

FbL: What's in it besides vodka?

Lex: Lemon.

FbL: Just vodka and lemon?? Actually, that sounds kinda good...

Lex: *somewhat surprised grin* It's very good. Try it.

FbL: *sip* [replacing the glass on the bar by feel] *choke, wheeze*

Lex: *smirk*

FbL [shaking head]: Tasty, but that's some serious stuff! Whoooh!

Lex [gleam in his eye]: The second sip is 10 times better than the first.

FbL [eyeing the glass suspiciously]: It is, hunh?

Lex: *grin* Definitely.

FbL [disbelieving, but rarely one to decline an unspoken challenge]: *sip... pause* Ooh! It is! All smooth and citrus-y...

Lex: Told ya! Would you like one?

Well, to make a long story only slightly shorter, I ended up drinking half a vodka martini before I was hurried out the door by other friends for dinner and a movie. At that point I was exhausted and had eaten almost nothing that day. I aver that the fact I was sleepy and my usual clumsy self all evening had absolutely nothing to do with vodka martinis!

But the coup de grâce was yet to be--and it wasn't my fault! Properly fed, post-movie, post-conversation, I found that sitting out in the garden at midnight made one quite chilly. A return to the bar led to the discovery that the party was still in swing, and being that Lex had proven himself of such discerning taste in beverage selection, it seemed quite reasonable to call out when I was offered a drink, "Hey Lex, I'm cold from sitting outside. What should I get to warm me up a bit?"

A lilting Irish accent with a hint of Virginia was heard from down the bar, "Why, an Irish Coffee, me lass!" After thoughtful consideration, in which I decided there couldn't be that much alcohol in a cup of coffee, I agreed.

It turns out I may have erred.

Someone soon passes me a lovely tall drink topped with a straw and a big dollop of thick cream. It's delicious, with only a hint of alcohol content. After a few sips, I discover Lex is trying to get my attention again as he holds out a glass containing a bit of what looks like coffee with milk. "Here, this wouldn't fit in your drink; it was too full. Just pour it in."

Heh. I'm among friends, so I do as I'm told. My next sip leaves me with a mouthful of something very strong, but after a stir it thins out and I think, "I guess the bartender didn't stir my drink enough, or the alcohol settled in the bottom." I think nothing more of it.

Thirty minutes and much humor and superb companionship later, I find I've warmed up quite nicely. I also notice something surprising: my face is numb... interesting feeling for someone who's never even been the slightest bit tipsy. I ask the assembled group, "Is a single Irish Coffee supposed to make your face numb?" I am advised that no, it is not, amid much laughter.

I am also reminded that Lex had handed me a little something "extra" for my drink...

Lex's fellow naval officer SMASH (who kindly offered his arm) had the line of the night on that topic. "Fighter pilots... they're all the same," he began.

"But Lex doesn't fly anymore," I interjected.

"Doesn't matter. Put a female in front of them and they revert to habit: try and get her drunk."

I about fell off the stool again--this time, from laughter. But Lex got what he deserved in the end: a hangover. ;)

**************

Snarkage aside, Lex is a gentlemanly friend whom I know I can trust. In fact, he was following in some excellent footsteps in playing such a joke on me...

At the post-conference bash in 2006, Chuck talked me into a mixed drink and told the waitress to make it a double. A "double?" Being the non-drinker I was (am), I figured that meant the entire drink was twice as large as a regular. Let's just say I knocked the last half of it in my lap with a clumsy wave of my hand.

The postscript to that story is that Chuck ordered (in his brook-no-argument command voice) that we unaccompanied ladies who had hardly drank would either take a cab back to the hotel or allow him to escort us on the DC Metro. For our protection, of course...

What actually happened was that we ladies talked and laughed our way through the Metro at 0200 while Chuck, who was still recovering from IED wounds, laid on the concrete benches at every stop and groaned, "Oooo... I can't remember the last time I drank so much... oooh."

Men. Gotta love 'em.

I think... ;)

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Another Kind of "Waiting"

John wrote a lovely post about when a loved one is deployed and the homefront is waiting for the casualty notifications they know are imminent, and how the pain and suffering of the homefront should figure in prosecution of a war. But even more powerful and poignant were the comments it inspired, especially as the discussion veered toward "waiting" when a loved one is deployed.

A number of wives and girlfriends spoke up, including Maggie, who is about to send her beloved to war again (as a sailor on the ground):

[...]He is more alive than any ten other men. He has a purpose. He will execute the mission and return with every sailor.

And I will wait. I don't choose to wait. I don't choose to breathe. I don't choose for my heart to beat in this rhythm.

When he returns, he will be white-f#%^ing-hot. He will not knock my socks off....he will melt them.

And if, heaven's forfend, this is the time he does not return..........I would celebrate what we had. Because we will have had more in our time together than most people I know will have in their lifetime. My love for M&Ms doesn't reflect it, but I am actually a *quality* not a *quantity* girl. Not that it matters, I could not more choose not to "wait" than I could choose not to breathe. This is who he is. This is who he was born to be. [...]

I am paraphrasing (and I may not have it right) here, but I believe John Adams said, "There are two kinds of people of any worth in this world, those with a purpose and those who acquire the purpose of others." SB has a purpose. It makes him more alive, more valuable, more everything than any other man I know.

Having him is a gift. Fulfilling the mission is who he is. So how can waiting be a burden?

What an extraordinary attitude and what a lucky man! God forbid I have to find out for myself, but I like to think I'd have the same perspective were I in such a situation...

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Apology

I'm so sorry for the blogging of intermittant quality and frequency lately. I realized how bad it's been when I saw the opening on the Watcher's Council and thought it might be fun, but after looking at what it entailed, I realized I haven't written anything of an intellectual quality that would be worth a nomination in at least the last four weeks. Figured committing myself to nominating a post a week would be rather presumptuous in that case...

Anyway, next week should be much better, and I hope to catch up on things I've started such as:

1. The rest of WR and the 1000th laptop
2. My thoughts on SpouseBuzz Live
3. Final post(s) on the MilBlog Conference
4. Privacy and blogging
5. More military-related posts and fewer "pedestrian personal blog" types of posts like the one below

Thanks for putting up with me these last couple months. Someone I respect commented to me in early March that she thought I had recently hit my "stride" as a blogger (in terms of the quality of my output and the level of attention/linkage I was getting). Well, so much for that... ;)

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Interview Update

I had hoped to know either way by this week, but they have had to push things down the road a bit.

However, I've had some more interaction and I came away even more encouraged about the possibilities (what the position entails, my ability to fill it, and the prospective employer's thoughts on me). I've obviously made a good impression, and one of the bigwigs wants to interview me again around the middle of June (when the rest of the applicants will be interviewed for the first time, I believe).

I've never been in a situation where a second interview was required during the application process, so any advice or "inside" info offered would be gratefully received.

In the meantime, I'm back to being sky-high in optimism and enthusiasm... of course you never know until it's said and done, but I still have a very good feeling about this. Please keep up the good thoughts, etc.--this would be such a tremendous opportunity for me, in so many ways.

I'm torn between the two pics in this post, but taken together, they seem to encapsulate my state of mind these days. [Sorry about the cat, Casca. More hairballs, I suppose...]

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The Dog Didn't Eat Your Homework...

...the cat did.

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Memorial Day

At the MilBlog Conference earlier this month, there was an extremely poignant moment at the close of events when John led us in paying our respects to those who have fallen in service to our country. Due to technical problems, he had to stand in the middle of the crowd (next to me), holding his laptop high so that we could hear Taps sounding through the suddenly-silent room.


And that was the first time all weekend I knew I didn't belong. I felt that wave of emotion begin with John and roll through the room, I was once again reminded of my own indebtedness, and I knew exactly where the thoughts of some of my friends in that room were going... but I also knew that most of those I stood with had a soul-deep understanding of this that I was lucky enough to only know from a distance. I don't carry the burden of a comrade or loved one lost to war; I have remained fundamentally unscarred by that kind of pain, personally unconnected to those who have gone ahead, outside a lineage of those who know freedom's cost at that wrenching level. I felt like a strangely untouched island in a sea of sacrifice, separate from those to whom I owe so much. Sympathy, empathy and appreciation are not the same as experience and memory...

So, I don't have words of great poignancy or power to share with you today. I only ask that you join me in acknowledging the staggering gift of lives laid down for us, and in vowing to live that our own lives may be worthy of such a gift.

For better words than mine...

John of Argghhh! - Who we are remembering
Blackfive - How to spend Memorial Day
Badger 6- Now it's personal
Neptunus Lex- The historical perspective
Robert Stokely - Father of a fallen soldier
Mudville Gazette - Mrs. G's Dawn Patrol
Jules Crittenden - Memorial Day on the Ground
Sgt. Hook - Detailed to a Military Funeral

Update: I humbly offer up the words I wrote when I visited Arlington two winters ago.

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Best Buy are Good Guys

Best Buy Electronics has a program through July 4th in support of Fisher Houses.

Fisher House™ Foundation donates "comfort homes," built on the grounds of major military and VA medical centers. These homes enable family members to be close to a loved one at the most stressful times - during the hospitalization for an unexpected illness, disease, or injury.

Beginning today, you can donate through any register at a Best Buy store or on their website. Vendors are also pitching in:

Best Buy vendor partners, including Nintendo, Samsung, Sony and Toshiba are donating lap top computers, flat screen televisions, Wii gaming systems and other technology to the Campaign. Best Buy employees will volunteer at Fisher Houses and help install and service the new systems. All is part of an effort by Best Buy to provide the Fisher Houses with the most modern technology so the families can remain connected to their loved ones.

Kudos to Best Buy and associated vendors!

[H/T to commenter Jeff Nitzberg at Life in a Cracker Box (a blog you should definitely have on your reading list).]

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Fighter Jet Base-Jumping*

As long as we're talking pilots...

*Title inspired by a YouTube commenter

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More Padres and Patriotism

At age 19: Combat Air Support in WWII (mostly Pacific theatre), 1942-46.

Three years later: .275 batting average for the NY Yankees; World Series; Rookie of the Year.

The following year: American League All-Star team, Most Valuable Player in the World Series.

Korean War: attack pilot; final total of two Distinguished Flying Crosses, 13 Air Medals and three Navy Citations.

He soon returned to baseball and played with the Yankee greats for a couple years, but was never the same.

This year? Nominee to the National Radio Hall of Fame at age 82 (after other awards); currently in his 33rd year broadcasting Padres baseball games.

His thoughts on the sacrifice of a blossoming baseball career cut short by military service?

"The best thing that ever happened to me was my time in the service," Coleman said. "I have said this over and over again, but there's only two things that are more important to me -- the people who love me and that I love my country. Period."

In typical humility, his sympathies lie with others:

"The people I feel sorry for are the [Joe] DiMaggio's, the [Hank] Greenberg's, the [Bob] Feller's," Coleman said. "These guys had a chance to get all-time records. They were out three or four years and never got it back.

"For me ... I was a Minor League player at the time, and I would have never missed any records anyway. But some of these guys, they lost records. Feller won 266 games, but he would have won over 300. DiMaggio was never the same. Greenberg gave up four years. Those are the people who really lost."

Lt. Col. Jerry Coleman: humble gentleman... baseball player... USMC pilot... patriot.

I imagine he and Brannan will get along just fine.

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Cooper Brannan: Padres and Purple Hearts

I wrote about wounded Iraq Veteran Cooper Brannan when he signed with the very pro-military Padres, then went looking for more info about him this morning and found some great profiles.

But first, the latest news. Brannan has apparently been impressing the Padres enough that they're spending some extra time with him:

...Pitcher Cooper Brannan, the Marine who served two tours in Iraq, will most likely remain in extended spring training along with 30-40 others who won't be assigned to teams to open the season. The camp runs through June 2.

And lest you think this a publicity stunt...

"This is about the military," said San Diego CEO Sandy Alderson, a former first lieutenant in the Marines and the man responsible for Brannan being a Padre. "This is about all Iraq veterans. This is about people who are wounded. This is a story that makes everybody feel good. And it's predicated on the fact that he can actually throw the baseball. [...]

And yet the Padres know Brannan is different, that he slips his ring finger in the glove hole made for the pinky and adjusts the rest of his fingers accordingly, that sometimes he'll go to grip a water bottle and it'll slip out of his hand, that nightmares occasionally stun him awake.

He should be a firefighter. That's what Brannan thinks sometimes. That was the plan upon his discharge. He would serve the public like his father, Linwood, a police officer.

"Your job," said Lindsay Brannan, Cooper's wife, "is playing baseball." [...]

"It's not so much if I make it [to the big leagues]," Brannan said. "It's when I make it."

Yup. As Brannan exchanges one uniform for the other, it's clear he's a typical "former" Marine: USMC through and through.

I was down in the dumps for a little bit [after being injured], I really was. But when I started coming around and working harder at occupational therapy, I saw one of these guys come by in a wheelchair and it about killed me. He had both of his legs missing and he was the happiest guy I've ever met. After that, I couldn't believe how selfish I was acting. I've got four fingers still left, and I lost a pinky--I lost a pinky! I hope that everyone can kind of feed off of that and feel how lucky they are. [...]

For everyone out there who's down in the dumps, whether it's a military man or anybody that's gone through any kind of pain and suffering, I hope they really learn from this, that you can pick up and strive to do better and fulfill your dreams.

[Interviewer]: Now that you're starting your second career, have you ever thought, "What if I'd reached back for that grenade with your right hand?"

Brannan: I would've done what the Marine corps taught me: adapt and overcome. I would've tried working with my left arm to try to become one of those goofy lefties.

The more I hear of this man, the more impressed I am. Read the whole interview; it covers everything from sandlot Wiffleball in Iraq to brothers laid to rest and how the warfighters feel about their mission. And he's inspiring his fellow Marines still in the fight, too.

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A History of Angels

May No Soldier Go Unloved is book one in a series that chronicles the history of Soldiers' Angels. Written by the founder's husband, it centers around how Soldiers' Angels started and the mission it set forth.

The books will revolve around the Soldiers' Angels motto:

May No Soldier Go Unloved
May No Soldier Walk Alone
May No Soldier Be Forgotten
Till They All Come Home
The first 1000 books will be signed by the author and his wife Patti, founder of Soldiers' Angels, and a portion of the proceeds will go to Welcome Packs for our deployed heroes!

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Seen

Update below...

The other day I found myself behind a large SUV at a stoplight on base and noticed a rather interesting license plate holder: "My next plate will be made by Bush and Cheney."

I have to admit that my mouth fell open at the thought that a Service Member or SM's spouse would openly sport something like that (though the sentiment is there among some, I suspect expression in that manner could fall under the UCMJ in terms of disrespect to superiors/government officials or at best be a career drag).

But I was terribly curious, and after the light changed I sped up enough to get ahead and check their base decal in my rearview mirror just to be sure. Yup: civilian base employee. Could make for interesting conversation at their place of employment, though... ;)

UPDATE: Apparently I have wrongly assumed that readers would know where I'm coming from in regards to my thoughts on political ideas/affiliations among military members. I am not making a judgment on the appropriateness of the political sentiments I've described here. Rather, my surprise came from the thought that someone would be gutsy(?) enough to share them so publicly in that environment. For more, please read the exchange with Liberal Army Wife in the comments.

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Fun With Banks and Robbers

How it happened matters not, but yesterday someone got ahold of my ATM/credit card long before I realized it was missing.

End result? over $600 (payday was Friday) in charges at Sears, Walmart and Food 4 Less. Draw your own conclusions... Oh, and nice of them to check IDs, huh?

Phone Teller with a Mouthful of Marbles: Well, the charges are listed but they haven't "gone through" yet. Look at your account online tomorrow morning and call us if they do.

FbL: So the money is still in my account but it's scheduled to be removed and there's nothing you can do about it even though you know I'm claiming fraud?

PTMM: Yes. Call us if it goes through.

FbL: And if it does?

PTMM: You can file an investigation request.

FbL: And how long will it take to get my money back?

PTMM: Four weeks.

FbL: Thanks for nothing. [Not really, but that's what I wanted to say].

Well, my recent good luck had to end sometime, I suppose--karmic balance and all that...

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Man Eater

When Condoleezza Rice became Secretary of State, I remember wondering how that would play with the more chauvinistic of the world leaders she'd be interacting with (especially in the Arab world).

Here's a hint, I think.

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Day in the Life of FbL

Continuing my generous habit of providing friends and readers with the opportunity to laugh at my expense...

Yesterday afternoon after getting a snack of raspberry sorbet, I found myself placing the half-full container in the fridge instead of the freezer. That's nothing new for me, so after quickly remedying the situation, I commented to my mother that no one would ever recognize it if I developed dementia: "Ice cream in the refrigerator and crackers in the freezer? How would that be unusual?"

Fast-forward a few hours. I'm talking on the phone to a friend (married to an MP) about my gate-running adventure this week. My mother walks up and wordlessly holds up a block of cheddar cheese that I had been using that morning. When she finally gets my attention she simply says, "In the cupboard."

Is anybody actually surprised I ran that gate?

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Milblog Conference and Valour-IT: Walter Reed

The MilBlog Conference ended Saturday night, but Sunday was largely dedicated to Soldiers' Angels activities. After enjoying a lovely breakfast courtesy of Patti Bader, a group of angels hopped on a bus and headed to Walter Reed.

The occasion was the monthly BBQ put on by SA during which Valour-IT laptop recipients still at Walter Reed assemble for food, fellowship and the distribution of laptops to new recipients who are well into their rehabilitations. It's held in the atrium and garden next to Mologne House. I was very excited because it would only be the second time I'd be able to distribute laptops in-person to wounded still at a medical facility.

But I was also somewhat apprehensive because the last time I'd been with a large number of wounded I'd maintained my composure, but had a powerful reaction to it that affects me to this day. This time was very different; instead of overwhelmed with emotion, I felt an amazing sense of "rightness" sitting among wounded warriors and their families, a startling sense that I was where I was supposed to be.

Though I'd never visited before, it felt like returning home. My father had served at Walter Reed as a Surgical Tech after a tour in Da Nang around the time I was born. He would meet patients at the helo-pad and assist in surgery. But on his own time he would "follow up" on certain patients, particularly amputees. It was amazing for me to stand in that garden and realize how much I was unconsciously following in his footsteps. It's cliche, but it seemed as if I were somehow closing a circle, returning to the place where everything I am today began.

However, I still felt uncomfortable intruding on the wounded in individual conversation. At events like this, I've been afraid of making them feel like a spectacle or as if they are providing me the opportunity to feel good about myself by "ministering" to them. Many of the Angels have the ability to walk right up to a stranger, un-introduced, but not me. So, I spent a lot of time just watching and listening.

I particularly had the chance to observe Carren Ziegenfuss interacting with the wives there. I was so impressed and proud of her as she mentored spouses of the wounded. She showed amazing strength and leadership: in quiet conversations with individual wives she commiserated, offered advice as one who had been there, challenged them to be advocates for their husbands' care, and handed over her business card, telling "strangers" to call her at anytime for any reason.

Fortunately I had met Mr. Sparling at Mologne House on Friday night (his son was visiting his mom, but he gave me an 82nd Airborne pin when he found out who I was), and he became one of the ways I got to talk to a few of the patients. He introduced me on Sunday to a wounded soldier who wanted to know the history of Valour-IT. After telling it, I met the soldier's wife. She was a tiny little thing with a spine of steel. She told me of missing her three children--showing me their pictures on her cell phone--and about how she wanted to be a good mother and about her background. She hadn't seen them for three months, but hastened to add that she knew her husband needed her. At that, she noticed he had walked away as we talked. "Oh, he's wandered off," she said with an affectionate sigh. "I better go find him. He's really improved a lot with that, but he's got TBI and I'm not supposed to let him wander off from me."

She waded into the sea of people and I was reminded of that awful WaPo article that treated the mixture of luxury and recovery at Mologne House as somehow grotesque rather than triumphal. The ability of her to so casually but affectionately talk of her husband's wounds and life in an out-patient facility in the middle of a top-notch BBQ was somehow "right" and perfectly normal.

Suddenly Mr. Sparling popped up again, "Have you seen Lynette? [SA's Wounded Care director.] When I pointed her out he said, "The general was just here. He was looking for her."

He pointed to two retreating figures outside Mologne House, a very tall white man and a short black woman, "Right there!"

"The general, you said?'"

"Yes! Schoomaker. Run and catch him!"


So I did. I felt like an idiot, but I figured it didn't matter what the general thought of me; I wanted to make sure Lynette and SA had the contact. So I ran down the sidewalk like a maniac. "Sir, General Schoomaker, sir! General Schoomaker, please stop! General, General! Sir, Mr. Sparling sent me to ask you to come back, please!"

He and his companion finally stopped and turned around, obviously wondering who this crazy woman was. I explained and led them back to Mr. Sparling, who introduced Lynette. MG Schoomaker was in a hurry, but was very gracious. As we stood there, I realized that I recognized his companion from news photos--the impressive new CSM of Walter Reed--which finally connected his name in my head: I was standing in front of not only the head of WR, but the Commanding General for the entire NARMC.

At that moment, Lynette introduced me as the "the creator, the force behind Valour-IT, which is distributing its 1000th laptop today." The MG obviously knew about the project, shook my hand and said something complimentary. I tried not to blush and turn shy, responding that there was a huge team of people that made it happen and calling myself the Nag in Chief, which he seemed to appreciate. At one point he reached into his pocket and exchanged a look with the CSM that I didn't understand at the time [see next paragraph], but all recognized he was in a hurry and we collectively cut things short before he and CSM Dixon hurried back down the sidewalk.

About 20 minutes later a tiny black woman suddenly hurried past me in the garden where Lynette, Chuck, Patti and I were gathered for the laptop presentations. It took me a moment to register who it was (the CSM again). She took Lynette's right hand in both of hers and said something barely audible. She then turned to me and did the same thing, saying in a lovely Caribbean accent, "My deepest appreciation for your service to these soldiers," as she closed my fingers around something warm and heavy. I didn't have time to say more than a startled "thank you" before she dashed off. I opened my hand:


I didn't want to miss a moment of the laptop presentation, so after exclamations of surprise I quickly slipped it into my pocket and refocused on Chuck. It was only later that I remembered to inspect and admire it [back view], and realized it was his coin and not hers. Very cool...

Coming Up: Chuck's amazing speech, and photos from the presentations.

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Once Again

Don't mess with a veteran.

Well, I noted, you could get shot.

He kind of smiled.

"I have confidence in my ability to protect myself," he said, "and to me these punks are not going to take my money and my car; and at 81 years old I have had a nice life."

The confidence of self-knowledge and a life well-lived, I suppose...

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You'll Be Happy to Know...

...that my local military base has excellent security. And how would I know that, Dear Reader?

I tested it myself. Unintentionally.

Setting: Early lunchtime, FbL is in the car and munching on what's left of lunch as she returns to work and approaches the least-used gate on the base (a gate where significant security precautions exist but are not readily apparent to the uneducated/naked eye). She's just finished a phone conversation about one of three subjects that have been preoccupying her for two weeks now.

Act I: The guard is firmly ensconced in his little shack, rather than on the road and there are no other cars in front of her. Thus, there are none of the usual visual cues to remind a preoccupied Fuzzybear to pull out her ID and stop. So she doesn't.

Completely oblivious, she soon turns off the main road into a parking lot, stops for a 3-minute errand, then takes the back way (through parking lots) to her employment site's parking lot. Checking the clock, she sees she still has a few minutes, so she pulls down the visor mirror and does some close inspection.

Act II: Relatively soon, a young warrior comes up from behind her vehicle and motions for her to lower her window. Looking up, she sees an MP vehicle blocking the only outlet to her left, another behind it, and a third pulling up across the street. "Huh. Wonder what's happening," she thinks to herself.

Young Warrior: What gate did you enter when you came on base, Ma'am?

FbL: ________ Gate.

YW: When?

FbL (wondering why this matters): About ___________ minutes ago.

YW: Stay in your vehicle.

Having relieved FbL of the burden of her various IDs and paperwork, he goes back behind her vehicle and FbL checks the rearview mirror and realizes his vehicle is blocking her car. They've surrounded me, this can't be good.

Act III: FbL is left to wonder what she did until a sergeant from the vehicle on the left steps up after a while...

Sergeant: Do you remember showing your ID to the guard at the _______ Gate?

FbL (perplexed, as she realizes she doesn't even remember coming through the gate): Umm... I'm not sure. But since you're here, I'm guessing I didn't.

Sergeant struggles to maintain his bearing, but fails as a look of amusement crosses his face. Realization of what she has done dawns on FbL, and in horror she apologizes profusely for causing problems and for making them chase down someone who is not a security threat instead of dealing with the genuine threats out there. She tries to be mature about it but would rather be crawling under the seat in embarrassment for her stupidity and shame for taking up their time.

The sergeant recovers his bearing, and what follows is his account of the seriousness of FbL's transgression (with which she heartily agrees) and of the security mechanisms they had decided NOT to employ against her as things developed. Reference is made to bad things that could have happened to her tires, to which she can't help but reply with resignation, "You might as well have done it, 'cause I need new ones anyway." Sergeant temporarily loses his bearing again.

After more lecturing in which phrases like "Fort Dix" and "extra watchful" and "very serious" and "that's why we have ______ at the gates now" figure prominently, the sergeant informs her the YW will be issuing the citation, then leaves her to ponder her fate after she once again avers her understanding of the awful significance of her transgression.

In the wake of way too much pondering, the YW approaches and informs her she'll be receiving a citation for "failure to stop at a stop sign." At her mild look of distress, he hastens to assure her, "Oh! This is a good thing. What you did was much, much worse!" FbL once again stifles the urge to crawl under the seat and settles for covering her face in shame as she apologizes for the 10th time.

******************

So, that's the story. I can laugh about it a bit now, but I'm absolutely horrified at the stupidity of what I did and of having caused them so much unnecessary trouble by that stupidity. And apparently even though I received a lesser ticket, a major incident report will be filed.

I suppose the upside is that I'll now be well known among a number of handsome warriors who man the gate: "She's the dim bulb who crashed the gate without even knowing it!"

Top my day off with the very serious question of whether or not one of my charges is being abused and you may understand why I think I'll just go to bed now and pull the covers over my head.

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