On Moms and Dads

It's been a work week and a weekend of writer's block. There is so much to write about that I don't where to start. Add in that so many topics are interconnected in some way, piecing them together has actually caused my brain to lock up. Somehow this has brought me to a point where I am sitting here in retrospect of my relationship with my parents over the years. Don't ask me how I got to this subject, I don't really know. Well, OK that's not really true. The reality is that when you want to write but can't seem to coherently put some big, grand idea in print, you fall back on "Let's make fun of mom and dad". Sorry mom and dad but it was only a matter of time.



So let's start with dad. My father is a rather quiet man. At least he is when my mother is around because when my mother is around, no one can get a word in edgewise anyway. Get dad alone and he will talk. We have had many a conversation lasting hours about all different things, especially now that I am older. I say now that I am older because it is a conversation, give and take on whatever subject comes up. When I was younger it had the appearance of a conversation but was, in fact, more of a lecture and learning exercise on logic with me on the receiving end. During those years of my late teens and early twenties, when I knew everything and had the answers to all the world's problems, nothing could be more frustrating and aggravating than to mention them to my father. He sent many a great idea to the trash heap of great ideas not by simply dismissing them; "Get lost kid. It will never work". Nooo, not my dad. He actually listened to the idea and then asked questions. Questions I hadn't thought of and therefore had no answers to. In the end, I would stomp away angry and mumbling about how he just didn't understand but inside thinking "Damn it! He's right again". See dad was my Devil's advocate, my Red Cell in a way and he was very efficient in that capacity. But I owe him for that because he taught me how to think.



My father is also a font of historical knowledge, especially military history. Get into a conversation with dad and you will walk away with some trivial knowledge about some obscure, British regiment serving under Wellington during the Napoleonic Wars. Mind you, it's not simply confined to the Napoleonic Wars, it can be about any period in military history. "Hey dad, traffic's really bad today on the highway". An hour later, you are walking away with some quote from some guy who fought in the Boer War, along with a background of his unit and why they were where they were that somehow relates to the cause of traffic jams. Go figure, who knew? Of course, not all of these lessons in history were delivered straight forward. Some were imparted subliminally. To this day, the song "Waltzing Matilda" will periodically pop into my head. Why? Because dad would hum or sing it while shaving and my bedroom was across the hall from the bathroom so I would hear it. Over and over and over. For years I wondered who Matilda was and why dad was singing about her. Was she someone dad knew before mom? Did he dance with her? Why would anyone want to even waltz with a girl named Matilda? Does mom even know about Matilda? I learned later that the song was like the National Anthem of Australia or something and was, of course, sung by some obscure Australian unit during some war a long time ago. Regardless, THE DAMN SONG IS STILL STUCK IN MY HEAD! Thanks dad.



My father is not big on mystical or supernatural things. This goes down to even having a distrust of organized religion. Despite that, he has still found a way to put a hex on me that has followed me throughout my adult life. Let me explain. Dad's entire career was with the Army and this had a profound effect on his children. As I mentioned before, he was big on military history so myself and my sisters were exposed to military history. Somehow, the Army creeped into everything. It was so bad that it led to fights with my sister. Nothing was so infuriating, so humiliating and demeaning to a young boy as finding G.I. Joe in the toy box naked because my sister had taken his fatigues and put them on her Barbie. She even took his rifle! Score one for Women's Lib. Of course, I got the last laugh when the fatigues ended up on the floor and naked G.I. Joe was in bed with naked Barbie. Score one for the guys! Unfortunately, mom found that one which triggered the "Maybe it's time to talk about the birds and the bees" alarm. But I digress so back to dad's curse.



Since we played army, we played with little plastic green army men. The problem was I always thought big. See, it wasn't enough to just have ten little American army guys against ten little German army guys. Oh no, it had to be, say, the Battle of the Bulge or the Normandy invasion. Not a part of those battles but the whole damn battle. That meant tons of little plastic army guys. So instead of going to the local drug store and getting a bag of the generic "big" little plastic army guys, I went to the hobby shop and got the small, HO scale guys. These guys were perfect. They were small enough that you could have hundreds of them, whole battalions could be formed. Plus, because they were mainly for dioramas and war gamers, they were historically accurate. The drug store army men were the same mold just a different color plastic; Americans were green, Germans were gray. BORING! With the HO scale guys, Germans were Germans right down to their helmets and weapons. The same for Americans. Even better, there were British, Italian, Japanese. You name the country and they were represented. Even better, there were tons of vehicles to go along with them. It was an arsenal that any young lad with dreams of world domination would drool over. And, the vehicles were historically accurate. I know, I know, what's up with the fixation on historical accuracy? I couldn't tell you except that even at the ages of 6, 7 or 8 years old, attention to detail was important.

So anyway, on some holiday or birthday, I don't remember which, dad gets me a little gift. I kind of know what it is by the package; it's a little pre-built vehicle that they sold at the hobby shop. I'm hoping it's a tank or something because tanks are cool and they fight and that's what we are doing when we play, we're fighting a war. So I open it up and what do I see? A little HO scale 2 1/2 ton truck. What used to be called a "Deuce and a half". A TRUCK, DAD? No tank? What am I supposed to do with this? You can only guess at the little lesson old Sarge imparted. "Your troops need to move son. They also need supplies. How do you think those supplies get there? An army travels on it's stomach... logistics is the key to winning the war son...logistics is the key". Mind you, that truck was one of the first things to get blown up whenever there was a battle.

Now fast forward to my late twenties. I've been working in the trucking industry since eighteen and am now in management at a regional company, dispatching freight all over the Northeast. At one point I'm contemplating going to school to get a degree in supply chain management, aka LOGISTICS! That's when it hit me; "Logistics is the key, son". How the hell did I end up here? All those boring lectures that I had no interest in about logistics and what industry do I end up working in? Fast forward again to the age of 38. I decide to go back in the Army and this time specifically pick a combat arms job, tanker. I go through all my training and get assigned to a unit. Where do I end up? The 101st Airborne Division (AASLT). AASLT stands for Air Assault. It's a light infantry division whose main mode of transport is by helicopter. NO TANKS! I end up in the division headquarters and deploy to Afghanistan. What is my job in Afghanistan? I manage a country's worth of ammunition for training. Basically, a LOGISTICS JOB!

"Logistics is the key, son... logistics is the key". Thanks dad.

There's more to tell about dad but it's in relation to mom. I haven't even begun to talk about mom yet. I'll save that for part two. Thought you were off the hook mom, didn't you?