Things I Love About the Military
Succinct, sage advice
My favorite atticism so far is, "Grow roots fast." This from a crusty, middle-aged woman, who had spent half her life packing, unpacking, and then totalling her damaged goods, as a military spouse. Practical, specific, and oh-so-true. You can't afford to wait for the perfect group, or luxurious levels of compatibility, to connect and engage around here; you'll sink. Fortunately, this life of shifting social circles breeds exceptionally good neighbors and friends - because they're being just as constantly displaced as you, and they're eager to meet you, too.
Constant comraderie
Granted, the military IS like a small town sometimes; neighbors overhear your arguments, your overgrown backyard is reported to your boss, your co-workers sit next to you in church. It's intense. But, this closeness also offers gems like Fred, a silver-haired lifeguard who works the 5:00am shift. He is the ultimate morning person, thanks to years of his own service in the Air Force. He greets each weary swimmer with concentrated chipperness, encouraging us individually. He watches our progress, offers technique tips, advises us about budgetting, and smiles on our young marriage. A deserved retiree, he could simply sit through his shift. But, no. He notices when we arrive late, and uncannily senses when it was because of an early-morning quarrel, instead of a malfunctioning alarm clock. I know he notices, because he always gives the perfect, subtle, unsolicited encouragement. The world needs more Fred's. And the military seems to cultivate lots of them.
Familiar Things
Wait. Weren't you just complaining about all the transition and change and lack of familiarity in the military? Why yes, I was - thanks for listening! BUT, as much as the military creates havoc in my pre-planned psyche, it's also wonderfully standardized. This is ironically comforting. Reville invokes each sunrise; dinner preparations pause for our National Anthem; the concluding notes of Taps nudge us to bed every night. Commissaries and BX's are (largely) the same. Procedure and protocol are (largely) the same. My ID card never changes its appearance, or leaves my purse. (And I never forget my purse anymore.) And since the movers won't take them in their truck, I always get to transport my own (two) plants. Which, by the way, we've now named. You have to name things, if they're (a) alive and (b) traveling with you for 4000 or more miles.
Excellence
I know every servicemember has a story of how one of their great deeds was unjustly overlooked, but I love that (generally) honesty is assumed, physical fitness is expected, hard work is rewarded, and a tidy yard is required. Sure, I too laughed at the multi-page, obsessively-detailed description of how to manicure my (itsy-bitsy!) lawn during the month of May - but what lovely neighborhoods we share, no? And what an admired military we are, thanks to those expectations of strength and diligence.
I mean, really... who'd want to trade that?
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