'Tis the Season [for stereotypes?]

As we're shopping for gifts and making holiday plans, we're also saying goodbye to quite a few friends. This is a busy time of year for Fort Wainwright as a lot of people are leaving. They're either getting a Permanent Change of Station (PCS) or leaving the Army entirely (Expiration of Term of Service--ETS).

Goodbyes. I guess this is a huge part of military life. Our friends built a semblance of life in the arctic and now they're headed elsewhere. Most of them are welcoming that change. I can't blame them. Fairbanks can be a difficult place to live.

Unlike all my military acquaintances thus far, I'm the only born and raised Alaskan. I'm proudly representing the "9-0-7" (this is the area code for the whole state and it has become a call sign of sorts).

Since my marriage to the military, I'm captivated by the strain I sometimes see between the military and civilian communities. The stereotypes are the most disheartening...on both sides. So, I've created a list to clear the air:

1. Soldiers are not alcholics.
2. Alaska Natives are not alcoholics.
3. Soldiers and their families are not bad drivers.
4. Alaska is not dirty (while there are definitely towns that could benefit from a litter program, you can't judge a whole state by one town/street/neighbor).
5. Military families are not rich.
6. Alaska is cold, yes, but Fairbanks is especially cold. The state is big and diverse in climate.
7. Soldiers do not mistreat their pets (this is ridiculous to have to mention, but you have no idea how hard it is to adopt when you're military).
8. Alaska, and Fairbanks especially, doesn't offer a lot of places to shop. But, really, what did you expect?
9. Not all military spouses are a stay-at-home parents.
10. Not all Alaskans and not all military are on the same page as Sarah Palin. And it doesn't matter anymore, either.

Of course, the list doesn't encompass all the ridiculous stereotypes I've encountered (as an Alaskan, an Alaska Native and a military spouse). But these are the most prevalent. Maybe, as a gift to each other during the holiday season, we could all grow up a bit and stop making generalizations.

'Tis the Season.

Northern Driving Etiquette for Thanksgiving

Our alarm went off at 6 a.m. on Thanksgiving. We had a long trek to turkeydom and I didn't want to drive the 320 miles of rural, snowy highway while it was dark. Somewhere between Fairbanks and where my parents live, Thomas and I had a few debates about driving etiquette.

The moose I spotted at mile 255 could care less about traffic (since there is very, very little of it) and it continued munching on willow trees. I slowed down in case the moose decided to bolt in front of us and I put my hazards on so the semi behind us was warned.

Where he's from, you only do that if you broke down on an interstate. Thomas also laughed at my use of "semi." Apparently, they're called tractor trailers in Virginia. That seems ridiculous to me. Tractors are farm equipment and trailers pull snowmachines. Don't even get us debating about "snowmachines," though.

The sun quickly disappeared around 1 p.m. and the mountains looked like shadows in the dark sky. An oncoming car didn't have headlights on so I flashed mine a few times to let them know they were difficult to see. They immediately turned their lights on.

Thomas, of course, had a different theory behind that "warning." In the Lower '48, you see, flashing your lights means there's a cop behind you. If caught warning others you can get a ticket. Speeding, apparently, is a more relevant reason to flash your lights in the South.

I've made this trip a gazillion times when I was a college student in Fairbanks and when Thomas and I dated long distance. A common question to a fellow Fairbanksan on a long weekend is, "are you headed down? How long are you staying?" Our town boasts a lot of city-like amenities, but many will take a trip to the larger city of Anchorage.

After battling the snow, ice and wind for a few hundred miles, I was happy to see a car headed in the same direction. We followed for a while before they turned their hazard lights on. Naturally, I slowed down and looked for a moose on the side of the road. Nope! A herd of caribou came rushing across both lanes. 

On our way back home yesterday, a similar flash of the hazards let us know to slow down and I'm thankful for the warning. A car was overturned in our lane around the corner. The drive is definitely dangerous, but with others looking out for you, it's such a beautiful and uniquely Alaskan experience. And, apparently, we have uniquely Alaskan driving etiquette to boot.

Veterans Day

The woman in the news story had a 6-month-old baby and was getting ready to deploy for a year. Her sister was going to care for her baby while she went to war. I was heartbroken. By the time she would, God willing, come home safely, her son would be walking and talking.

The image of the soldier holding her chubby, smiling infant is incredibly powerful. Her story is a testament to the sacrifices our service men, women, and families make for our country. I watched her story a few years ago and it wasn't until then that I actually considered what it meant to wear a uniform. Of course, that all became clearer once I moved to Fairbanks, met Thomas, and built a life with him (thereby going through our own yearlong deployment).

You might argue that this soldier chose her life; our military is a volunteer one and she didn't have to wear that uniform. You might not have empathy for her situation because, as the saying goes, she "made her own bed." But what if she didn't make that sacrifice? What if no one made these sacrifices? There are hardships in every situation. Let's spend today recognizing what our soldiers do for us every day.

Quickly, I'll list a few things that I know I couldn't do and am therefore extremely thankful:

• Wear extremely heavy gear and walk/run/march in extremes of 110 degrees and -50 degrees
• Leave my loved ones for extended periods of time, often without knowing a return date
• PT (especially when PT involves running up mountains, running down mountains or running long distances in general)
• Ride a helicopter/plane with intent to jump
• Get up at 4:30 a.m.
• Operate a variety of weapons without adequate sleep
• Basic Training
• Walk the streets of a war torn country
• Sleep outside on the ground in sub zero temperatures
• Wear hideous Gore-Tex
• Be held responsible for the lives of other people

What could you add to the list?
THANK YOU VETERANS.

Lazy Army Schedule & Horse Names for Cars

"I have tomorrow off," he says. "I'm off work," he texts me at noon. It's nice that he has lots of time off. Sharing a car, on the other hand, makes his chillax work schedule not so chillax for me (not to mention the jealousy...why can't I work a two-hour day?).

The Golden Stallion--our '99 Grand Prix--has a cracked radiator and a bummpity transmission (very technical terms). Its days are numbered. The back and forth from Ft. Wainwright, home and my work is definitely running it ragged. Thomas is convinced the Golden Stallion is waiting heroically for our new car to arrive before dying.

We purchased a brand new vehicle during deployment through the AAFES program. Thomas is already referring to the 2010 Ford Escape as "Black Beauty." Why horse names? I have no idea. Every beastly hunk of junk we drove in my family was called "Bessie." Mom would pump the gas telling Bessie to "c'mon, c'mon" before the engine finally va-BOOMed to life. She'd affectionately pet the dash once it started and let it "warm up" (a necessary thing to do when it's 40 below zero and you have a van full of kids). 

Black Beauty arrives sometime before Nov. 2nd. I was hoping that meant something closer to Oct. 2nd, but I find that like everything else related to the Army, this is a very, very soft date. "Before" could easily mean exactly 30 minutes before Nov. 2nd. Army life is especially hard on someone who's not blessed with patience and has no intention of getting any.

Meanwhile, Thomas spends every free moment watching informational videos about the Escape. When he came home from Iraq I thought that photos of us, the dogs or even Virginia would cover his laptop wall, but it was actually a tribute to Black Beauty. It's almost sexual, the way its curvy chrome details are highlighted.

At any moment while he's driving there's the possibility that we'll end up at the local Ford. While there, we'll slowly drive around and gawk at the other-colored "beauties," dreaming of the day we'll no longer chunk around in the smoking Stallion.

I have to say that I feel bad though. His obsession is heartbreaking. When is it appropriate to remind him that the new vehicle is actually mine?

Homecoming: The Hardest Part of Deployment

There's something incredibly different about him. I'm sure he thinks the same of me. "That's to be expected," says my sisters, mom, friends. I'm inclined to begin every conversation about his homecoming with the words, "I thought [fill in the blank]." And it doesn't matter what I thought. Not at all. My husband was in Iraq for a year. There's no way to have reasonable expectations.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

He's coming home! Suddenly the agonizing months, days, hours and seconds since he stepped onto that blue bus are swept from my memory. The way a child loses time anticipating Christmas morning, so have I for an entire year. Sure, I've lived well and made new friends and I've enjoyed a career change since he left. But the years' events are not unlike those leading to Christmas. When you're baking, shopping, and decorating a tree--and Christmas wouldn't be the same without those--it's all about the moment. That one moment. I live for homecoming.

Parks Highway and My Acceptance of a Home Without a Husband

Blogger's note: I'm time travelling again. As the snow falls, we're looking forward to a holiday season together. Here's a note from last year shortly after he deployed.

Hoisting a humidifier on my shoulder and trudging through a pile snow at 8 a.m. is where I find myself three days after Thanksgiving. The humidifier is something for which I'm extremely thankful. The dry desert air of the frigid north can make a Mary Kay customer out of a Fred Meyer frequenter. I'm heading back to Fairbanks after a weekend with my family in Houston (a 350 mile stretch of beautiful Alaskan nothingness).

I tromp towards the "golden stallion" (the name my husband gave the Pontiac) and Daisy is quite curious…her big Boston Terrier ears can be seen tilting sideways through the window of the parked car ahead. Everything is new to her. Lily, the long-drive veteran pit bull, must be lying in the passenger seat. I prefer parking in my parent's driveway, but the golden stallion must not have been built for the occasional two-footer. After a full morning of battling my brother's driveway I wasn't about to repeat the mistake. I realize I'm running late if I want all four hours of sunshine heading north.

This drive is unlike any other. Well, I'm sure it's like other drives in Alaska, but it's special to me. Thomas and I have been together for two years (exactly, as of today) and a year and a half of our relationship was long distance – separated by this stretch of highway. I remember long Friday nights of anticipation as we'd lose cell reception once he drove through "the pass." I also remember excitement as I, too, would battle the weather in my little Saturn. We've seen our share of storms, caribou herds, avalanches, moose and shitty gas stations. But this particular drive is difficult for me.

The Feeling: What Two Weeks of "Leave" Really Means

Blogger's Note: Since I can't travel back in time and talk about deployment, here's a post about Thomas' leave. I wrote this to my sister in February. During a year long tour in Iraq the Army is kind enough to give us two weeks together.

The feeling is familiar and unique. We're lounging on the couch and I'm avoiding the scratchy feel of his ever-present five o'clock shadow and it happens. "I leave tomorrow night," he says. I know. The feeling isn't sudden or stabbing. It's like growing waves that slowly, steadily lap at the emotional vacation known as "leave."

We managed to ignore the erosion of our time together (though two weeks does fly by). We did everything together. We took the dogs to the park. We went sledding. He beat me at bowling and Yahtzee and I returned the favor at Scrabble. He bought a massive TV. We cooked together and even bickered about who does the dishes. "Leave" is like a honeymoon that molds into a Utopian routine of togetherness.

Yes, you go back to Iraq tomorrow. The feeling can't be summed up in words. Anxiety, depression, fear, sadness, worry, loneliness, anger--I've attempted, but the feeling is much heavier. We employ optimism to soothe the effects of the feeling. "We've done this before. It's so much easier this time. We know what it's like apart. There's nothing unexpected." Optimism, in this situation, works like NyQuil. We can sleep, but it doesn't really change what happens tomorrow.

My head bobbles with the bumps on South Cushman as I slowly drive home from the airport. Alone. Driving never took so much effort. My eyes are burning from not crying and my mind is in survival mode--avoidance. I'm thinking about buying a blender as I pull into the driveway, open the garage door and a final wave of reality washes away the remnants of the married life we built in two weeks.

I still have the feeling as I settle back into my routine. There will be a Rockstar can or a Toblerone tinfoil stashed somewhere and I'll be reminded that at one point we were together and it will be seven months until I can be in his arms, smelling the warm nape of his neck, avoiding the whiskers of his five o'clock shadow.