By this time I was becoming claustrophobic and wanted out of there.
I found myself surrounded by really old veterans wearing hats that said, “Retired Marine—SEMPER FI.” These hats didn’t appear to fit on their heads, but instead seemed to hover over them.
At one point, I mistakenly tried to take the last box of crackers that a veteran also wanted. He started yelling, “I ran away from home at seventeen, lied about my age, and joined the Corps! I fought in World War II, Korea, and NAM! I have no cartilage in my right knee! It’s bone-on-bone, but every morning I run six miles! I did not sacrifice my knee for this country to come here today and have you disrespect me at the commissary. Oooh-RAH!”
I dropped the crackers and walked away.
More bizarreness followed.
Why did everyone have two carts? There were so many children—all under three years old and all screaming. Was there a special? Buy two three-year-olds and get a toddler free.
Then there were all those uniforms. I was going cross-eyed. Why weren’t any of these Marines and Navy service people working?
Really. I was losing it. By the time the checker asked for my ID, I was shaking.
I was sure she was going to want a full body search to make sure I was legit.
I looked around for Jon and spotted him standing at the magazine rack reading
Marine Corps Times.
I handed the clerk my ID, but she barely looked at it before she started scanning my items.
THAT WAS IT? I was still suspicious.
My Grandma’s stories were still playing over in my head. Somehow I had made it through my first trip to the commissary.
MY DAYS
Life for the first few weeks went like this. I stayed home all day unpacking, and my husband brought supplies home each night.
He would then help me move around the big stuff. The house was finally coming together.
During the day I would watch “Lifetime” movies or “Unsolved Mysteries” as I unpacked and cried.
I told Jon I had no one to talk to all day. He was at work and so were all my friends on the East Coast. By the time I called anyone on the East Coast they were already in bed. I was feeling isolated and alone.
My husband was afraid that I thought I had made a mistake.
He encouraged me to explore the base. I refused. I was sure I’d be shot by one of the Marines, get lost, or get run over by a tank.
Jon was patient at first, but became stern when he realized he would be in the field the following week.
He told me I would have to go out by myself because he would not be around to help me.
I became paralyzed by fear. At one point I was so panic-stricken that I wouldn’t even let Jon take an evening jog. I was sure he would fall into a ditch and no one would discover his body. Then I’d be stuck in the house for the rest of my life.
My anxiety was at an all time high.
My first trip past the driveway became a nightmare. I was headed for the commissary again, but all the roads began to look the same.
I panicked and went down the wrong street finding myself on a dirt road, screaming as Hummers and LAVs surrounded my vehicle.
I fully expected to be blown up because I was trespassing. This was it! Any minute now, I was a goner.
Instead, the Marines took pity on me and got me turned around and off in the right direction.
Maybe no one was going to kill me after all. Slowly my anxiety started to subside.
After three weeks on base, I was finally able to drive myself out of the driveway.
GRUNT WORK
Was it just me or were all of you wives really confused when your husband called from work and said he would be home late because he and the guys were going on a five-mile HUMP?
I now knew I had married a Grunt and that he was staying true to the promises he had made. He couldn’t get on my nerves because he was always gone.
When he came home from the field he was totally disgusting and had to be hosed off. I would make him undress in the laundry room, leaving his boots and utilities (camouflage uniform) on the floor.
After a shower he would fall asleep—only to wake up at 4:45 a.m. to go out and do it again the next day. There would be times he’d be gone for an entire week.
I didn’t kids, but was constantly doing laundry.
“Do bankers’ wives have to hose their husbands off when they get home from work?” I wondered. “Do other wives have to guess when or if their husbands are coming home?”
I learned I couldn’t plan to have a warm dinner ready for Jon because I never knew when he would walk through the door. I started adding two hours to when I thought he’d be home. I just figured since he was used to eating all those MREs that my reheated dinners would be just fine.
TAP OUT!
Bombs and explosions aren’t the only strange noises you’ll hear on a base. Revelry woke me up every morning. Retreat was played when they lowered the flag at sundown. Taps was played at night.
The bugle music is blasted on loud speakers throughout the base letting everyone know the American flag is being lowered or raised.
If you are outside during these times, you are required to stop what you are doing and face the flag in respect.
I learned the hard way not to be driving while they are lowering or raising the flag, because you’re not allowed to drive.
My husband and I were coming home around five one evening. Jon had treated me to ice cream at the Cold Stone Creamery—a delicious treat on a hot day.
However, it’s not as special when you’re lactose intolerant. If I look at dairy products, I crap my pants unless I take medicine. On this occasion, I had forgotten to bring my pills.
We were only five minutes from base, so I didn’t think that my IBS would be an issue. I thought we could get home before the emergency struck. Then the chills started, followed by a hot flash and the anus spasms.
I urgently needed to get to the bathroom!
I was still a newlywed and certainly wasn’t to the point where I felt comfortable yelling, “I’m going to shit my pants any second!”
But the sweating had started, which was followed by the tears. “I’m not feeling well, and need to get home,” I told him.
“Ok, but I have to obey the speed limit because of all the kids in the neighborhood,” he replied.
I was pleading with him to hurry up when he came to a complete stop.
I screamed at him, “Why are we stopping?”
He rolled down the window. “Retreat.”
I could see the flag lowering in the distance, the beautiful orange sun setting behind it.
In the opposite direction I could see the roof line of our home—so close, yet so far away.
As Retreat played, I surrendered. I pooped my pants. I took one for the flag.
Now that’s patriotism.
YES, SIR!!!
Rank was something else that really blew my mind. There are two categories of Marines: officers and enlisted.
Officers go to college first and then get their training.
Enlisted men usually do the exact opposite.
But there are also Warrant Officers, Staff NCOs, and Gunnies. The base where we lived also had Navy personnel.
Not only that, housing and clubs are divided by rank.
My husband told me certain people received salutes and were addressed as “Sir,” while others were not entitled to that courtesy.
In the South, everyone is addressed as “Sir” or “Ma’am” even if they are your age or younger.
I found myself wondering why a 37-year-old man was calling my husband “sir"?
I also wondered why the guards would salute me when I drove onto base. Jon explained they were saluting the sticker on my car. Saluting a sticker? Now I was thoroughly confused.
Thank God the wife of my husband’s CO, Trina, called me once a week to invite me to a LINKS class.
I’m glad I finally let her talk me into attending.
That LINKS (Lifestyle Insights Networking Knowledge Skills) class helped me understand the military lifestyle. I seriously think it should be a prerequisite for anyone marrying into the military.
These ladies taught me the differences in rank and the reasons for separating the ranks.
They explained what the various acronyms meant and why as well as the history of some of the silly words.
They even helped me figure out what time it was.
I was finally getting the hang of base housing–military lifestyle. But, I still hadn’t made any friends yet.
I had met a few random women at the “Hail and Farewell” gatherings that my husband had to attend, but that was about it.
And I was suspicious of these women because they would come up to me and ask strange things like, “Who is your husband with?”
I was ready to fight! What were they insinuating? My husband was with me!
I kept clear of most of the women at these formal functions.
At one function I was approached by an older wife who handed me a book and said “Here, read this.”
It was “Roses and Thorns,” a guide to proper behavior for military wives. I flipped it open and looked at the copyright page: 1940.
“This will teach you to be a proper dependent,” she continued.
I stared at her open-mouthed and wondered, “Are you nuts?”
Proper dependent!? With my husband gone all the time and me having to do everything by myself, I am anything but “dependent!” I am my husband’s “Independent!” I knew right then that it was urgent that I make real friends.
MY MARINE MOM
I had been living on base for about a month when I saw my first familiar face outside the commissary. It belonged to Mary, the Colonel’s wife I had met on a trip to Charleston a few months earlier.
Mary had a permanent smile on her face the entire four years we lived at Camp Pendleton. She was petite, had the cutest little dark brown bobbed haircut, and was covered with gold jewelry. She was a classy lady and always made me feel welcome.
Mary also liked everything to be perfect—even if it was not. She believed that if something was not OK, you should just pretend it was. Eventually you would get over it.
Over the next four years, she would become my military mom.
That day as we chatted she asked me how I was getting along. We realized this would not be a quick conversation, so she asked me to come over later.
She had not yet been assigned her base housing, so she invited me to meet her at the BOQ where they were staying.
Much to my horror, I discovered she was staying in the exact room that Jon and I had when I had my breakdown!
Unlike me, this woman, who had made a lifelong career as a military wife, settled into her temporary digs with no complaints, embracing her environment and adapting to all changes.
As a matter of fact, she flourished! She acted as if we were not surrounded by cement walls that smelled of stale mildew.
Watching her, I became ashamed of the way I had acted within these four walls just a month earlier. I knew then that I would learn quite a bit from this seasoned wife. Perhaps the biggest lesson was simply to make the best of every situation.
Mary asked if I had met any friends, joined any of the various clubs, or signed up with any volunteer organizations. I had to admit I had not.
She assured me that in time I would make lifelong friends. In fact, she said, “all it will take is one Bunco party.”
I had no idea what she was talking about. According to Mary, Marine wives went crazy over the game. I figured if this lady had survived twenty years as a military spouse, then I could make it to the next Bunco game.
AUTUMN
As luck would have it, I met Autumn a couple weeks later.
Autumn is also Virginia-born and bred. We soon discovered we could talk and hang out for hours and never get on each other’s nerves. We joked that it was because we were both Aries.
Autumn is petite like me, with shoulder-length, highlighted auburn hair and braces.
Her husband is a First Lieutenant with a “Horseshoe haircut” who had been deployed practically from their wedding day.
She speculated she had spent a grand total of three months with him during their first year of marriage. That thought freaked me out, but her attitude reassured and inspired me.
Her home was beautifully decorated and she began to give me suggestions on what to cook. Autumn was like a gorgeous 24-year-old Betty Crocker.
She also encouraged me to become a volunteer or to find a hobby. In fact, she was working on her Masters’ Degree so she could become a teacher.
She had also just started running marathons.
And here I was, unable to get my fat ass off the couch or stop crying, in the presence of a woman on fire!
She had completely embraced the lifestyle, which helped me change my perspective.
Autumn showed me that as a military wife you can have hobbies and aspirations even when the military is calling all the shots for your family.
I decided I wanted to be like her—happy, thriving, and accepting.
The week after we met, Autumn invited me to a neighborhood Bunco game being hosted by one of the Captains’ wives in Del Mar Housing.
A few days before the party, I received a call from the hostess, who told me I was in charge of table snacks.
In the Bunco etiquette book, each woman must bring an appetizer, table snack, or dessert, while the host provides prizes for the winners and losers.
I worried about bringing the right snack. After all, this would be my first social get together without my husband.
I needed to make a good impression. I didn’t want to blow it by bringing something too “low brow.”
I thought about my Mother’s Bridge games when she would bring out her fine china and serve classy snacks. I decided to call her for advice. She suggested Goldfish, a casual, yet classy snack. Suitable for a lunch box as well as a dining room table.
“Goldfish,” she assured me, “don’t have the ‘low brow’ reputation of a potato chip.”
That first evening was stiff and pretentious.
I recognized a few of the women I had met around the neighborhood. Many of the new wives, however, were nervous and unsure how to act. At first we stood around the kitchen snacking on Brie and sipping red wine.