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My wildly entertaining letters to my son and other American Soldiers suffering in Iraq and elsewhere...posted in no particular chronological order.

Wednesday, October 12, 2005

Thursday, March 10, 2005

Dear Robby,

Stacey says you had a great vacation together in Savannah. I’m so glad! I am, however, disappointed in the Day’s Inn employee, Myrna. I sent her explicit instructions to arrange the box of stuff in an artful and appealing way. Stacey said the box was just sort of left on a table. That justifies my policy of avoiding hotels that don’t offer room service. That’s the test. If the hotel has room service, it’s probably okay. If not, enter at your own risk and don’t bother stealing the ashtray.

You won’t believe this, but I think I’m coming down with yet another traumatic illness. I’m not entirely certain, but I think I’ve got either a thoracic aneurism or the deadly 1918 Influenza. We won’t know for sure until I drop dead on the spot or turn blue and bleed profusely from all available orifices. All we know right now is that I feel a little bit crappy and I had a strange pain just below my breast-bone in the diaphragmal area this morning. The pain persisted all morning, and then seemed to fade away after lunch. My guess is that its one of those tricky, hard-to-pin-down aneurisms, the symptoms of which is masked by my potential case of Influenza. (Hemagglutinin5, Neuraminidase1 or “H5N1” as those of us “in the know” about deadly viruses like to call it.)

Also, (and this is PROOF!) I have a temp ranging from 99.1-99.8 on the many cheap-assed unreliable digital thermometers I have purchased at Walgreen’s every time somebody- usually me- is sick around here. I have to buy new thermometers all the time because I never believe they work. Every single time I test my own healthy temp, the damned things read me at 97 degrees. The last time I was able to get an accurate temp from anyone in our household was the morning in 1997 when Dylan clamped his feverish jaws on the last working mercury thermometer in America and broke it. (I am still trying to forgive him for that.)

Anyway, I may or may not still be alive when you read this. It’s pretty much touch-and-go at this point. I will possibly get up and go about my business tomorrow morning, or I’ll fall over dead from the explosive hemorrhage of the aneurism, or I’ll turn an ugly shade of cyanotic blue and die of plague. You just can’t tell at this stage.

Oh, and I also have a new phobia about falling down the stairs. I’m going to need to look that up and find out the actual name of the phobia if I live long enough to need to worry about it. The way it works is that I have a small but persistent dread of walking down the stairs, but I’m not at all fearful while actually ON the stairs. It’s just the pre-stair stage at which I am affected. So far it only requires that I not try to carry things in both hands while preparing to descend. Otherwise, everything on the stair-route is routine and non-problematic. Although I do wish we did not have that ceramic tile in the front hall. Heads could so easily be cracked open on a surface such as that! Arms and legs could be broken beyond repair!

Also, the stairs at Bent School are a safety hazard if I ever saw one. I can’t believe small children are expected to negotiate stairs such as those. What are people THINKING to design a school with rock-hard staircases? It’s insane, and probably a legal nightmare of liability, too.

Here’s something else you’re not going to believe: Dylan only got a B- on the Balloon Car Report! I know, it’s outrageous, I knew you’d agree. Mrs. L. clearly misunderstood the role of Newton’s Second Law of Motion in the balloon car’s design. She also didn’t give full credit for listing the materials used. That’s ridiculous- everything that went into that balloon car is mentioned in the report. Dylan and I took great pains to insure this report met all assignment criteria. SOME people (Mrs. L) just can’t see what’s right in front of them, can’t see the forest for the trees. Or, as in this case, the cars for the balloons.

I thought about mounting a defense and trying to win back some points, but Rudy won’t let me. He says Mrs. L must have expected the materials to be listed as an actual LIST. Well how boring is THAT? My god, any second grader can make a simple list. This is sixth grade!

It seems obvious to me that Dylan’s method of interspersing the materials used at logical points within the body of the report is a superior way of working them in. A list is dull, tedious, and mentally exhausting for the reader. Dylan’s clever means of introducing the balloon car parts exhibited a subtle panache, a certain je nes c’est quoi. I suppose SOME people (Mrs. L) don’t have sufficient sense of literary style to appreciate the finer quality of Dylan’s scientific writing style. SOME people (Mrs. L) probably still think the earth is flat and Galileo is a heretic.

I tell you, I am VERY tempted to go through the report and highlight all the materials used and send it back to Mrs. L. Rudy says this would embarrass Dylan. So what? Nobody ever won the Nobel Prize for Science by letting the small minds (Mrs. L’s) of the world walk all over them. And besides, having an embarrassing mother is a tradition this family has handed down from one generation to the next for hundreds of years. Who am I to break the chain?

Enclosed you will find a copy of Dylan’s Balloon Car Report and grading sheet. YOU be the judge.

Much Love,

--Mom

Saturday, October 08, 2005

Thursday, August 18, 2005


Dear Army Guys,


I have returned to the land of the living. I have emerged from my cocoon of late-summer entropy and I have begun acting like a productive citizen again.

On Monday I reported for lunch lady duty and unpacked and reorganized our school kitchen. I did this nearly single-handedly since Ann had a doctor’s appointment and Ethel, our boss, is a wizened old lady of indeterminate age. (We think she must be about 75.) Ethel is about 4 feet tall and looks almost exactly like the grandmother character on the 1970’s TV show “The Waltons.” No doubt you guys are mostly too young to have frittered away any prime time hours on Walton’s Mountain.
(G’night, Jim Bob! G’night, Mary Ellen! G’night, John Boy!)

Just think of a bespectacled woolly-headed white mouse scurrying around getting underfoot and occasionally waving a wooden spoon in somebody’s face. That’s Ethel. I have to physically restrain the old broad from lifting heavy boxes of frozen chicken nuggets into the freezers. I feel like I need to be everywhere at once to prevent her doing something that will result in a memorial service.

Over the past two years Ethel has lost all sense of reality. She thinks she’s as graceful as an athlete on steroids. On Monday I caught her trying to heft a 40lb case of canned peaches onto a shelf well above her tiny blue-permed head. I had to pry her arthritis-gnarled fingers off the thing and wrestle it away from her. I gave her an industrial food service lecture about the foolish logic of trying to lift things that exceed one’s own body weight. I invoked both common sense and physics. I reminded her that she is not going to win any lumberjack contests and nobody is liable to start calling her “Bruiser” anytime soon.

She just cackled at me and scampered off to do something else, like maybe lift fully-loaded railroad cafe cars overhead to inspect their undercarriages for illegal health department violations. Honest to god, that woman makes me a nervous wreck.

Today I attended a useless District 87 food service meeting, supposedly in preparation for school starting on Monday. Four score and seven Lunch Ladies gathered together to do stupid things like take a stupid personality test designed to make me look like a bossy know-it-all who can’t possibly play nice and work well with others.

I was identified by this test as an Introvert/Intuitive/Thinking/Judge. This, as opposed to Ann’s being an Extrovert/Processing/Perceiving/Compromiser.

On the next test I was exposed as a “Competitor,” which was represented by a cartoon shark. Ann was an “Avoider,” as expressed by a cute little ostrich character. Ethel refused to show us her results. I’ll bet hers was: Sociopath/Maniacal/Plotting/Butcher or something like that. I’ll bet she was a “Backstabber” as symbolized by a cartoon Chuckie doll.

The whole thing was a waste of time and tax dollars. Our fearless Food Service Director babbled on and on about “customer service” which, in our line of work, is a joke in itself. At the school where I work the “customers” are mostly juvenile delinquents under the age of 12.

I cannot for the life of me imagine a way to say,
“SIT DOWN, BE QUIET, AND IF YOU DON’T QUIT STICKING YOUR DIRTY FINGERS INTO OTHER KIDS’ MASHED POTATOES I’M COMING OVER THERE, DE’QUON!” and make it sound like,
“Thank you for dining with us! Y’all come back now!”

It’s a silly job, but somebody’s got to do it.

Much Love,
--An Army Mom

Sunday, October 02, 2005

July 6, 2005


Dear Army Guys,

July 4th was FANTASTIC! Dylan and I marched in the Champaign-Urbana Independence Day parade on behalf of families of deployed soldiers. My lovely and charming daughter-in-law, Stacey, did a wonderful job organizing the 2-130th FRG parade contingent. She secured our spot in the parade, organized our members, and made sure I understood that I would not be allowed to toss candy or “JIHAD SUCKS!” buttons into the crowd.

Stacey designed matching T-shirts for all of us with the National Guard emblem and your unit number on the front and the “PROUD OF MY SOLDIER” logo on the back. I knew that most family members would receive their shirts at our parade staging area, so I brought an old sheet to use as a portable dressing room.

I figured we could simply hold the sheet around a person and they’d be able to put on their parade shirts in relative privacy. That way, I reasoned, nobody would have to endure the hot day in multiple layers of clothing. I thought this was a capital idea on my part, an indication of my scout-like preparedness and outside-the-box thinking skills. On the drive to Champaign from Bloomington I entertained myself by imagining the modest way I would react when everyone praised me for my resourcefulness. “Oh, it’s nothing,” I would joke, “just a little trick I picked up after my last public indecency arrest, ha ha!”

Nikki R. was the only person collegial enough to let me talk her into using it, though. Everyone else simply strolled over to the conveniently located Subway sandwich shop across the street and changed in the restrooms. (Gabby R., having observed her mother’s awkward flailings under my sheet, opted to continue wearing the shirt she had on.)

We were very lucky our staging area was a shady spot under a couple of trees. Some of the surrounding parade entries, such as the fire truck that was to precede us and the horse-drawn coach ahead of them, had to wait for hours in the hot July sun. Everyone kept saying, “This is nothing compared to what our guys are dealing with in the 110 degree heat of Baghdad!” Still, you had to feel sorry for those poor horses.

I was also somewhat worried about the elderly Knights of Columbus gathering a block ahead of us in another unshady area. I kept an eye on those old Knights, thinking I’d run across the street and alert the fire truck crew at the first sign of a heart grabber. Still, it annoyed me that the old farts weren’t smart enough to take off their velvet capes and spread them over their collection of aluminum walkers to create a spot of shade within which to arthritically crouch.

That line of speculation naturally led me to wonder how the old geezers planned to negotiate the three mile parade route in any case. Not a one of them was under the age of 75; did they plan to shove one another along with furious cane beatings and frequent cortisone injections? Would we end up having to step over their broken hips and wave to the onlookers as if this were simply a part of the show? Or would we be forced by honor and compassion to pick them up and carry them piggy-back style until we, too, collapsed under the weighty burden of their Depends Adult Undergarments? I was grateful when a few of their descendants arrived and loaded them onto a flatbed truck.

The 1544th Transportation Company out of Paris, IL had a float not far ahead of us. It was a bit solemn because the float was in part a memorial to the four soldiers that unit lost during their deployment last year. Their float, which was very patriotic and included a gigantic “WE SUPPORT OUR TROOPS” banner, also included four white crosses at the back symbolizing the loss of those heroic soldiers. I wanted to go look at it, but I also did not want to go look at it. I think that while all of us fully appreciated that display, it also made us edgy in an odd way. None of us went over there to look at it closely. We talked about it, but kept our distance, as if it might curse us to get too close. I really felt I should go over there and say something to them, but I just couldn’t make myself do it. I was afraid it might trigger one of those emotional episodes requiring Xanax and/or Kleenex, neither of which I had on hand. I finally decided it would be best for all concerned that I not risk falling apart. After all, nobody goes to a July 4th parade to watch a blubbering Army Mom stumble down the street blowing her nose on the American flag.

Both of Stacey’s parents were there to help, and Rudy took up a station along the parade route to take photos. Dylan was drafted to help carry the banner. He was really proud to get to do that job and, although several times on the route people asked him if he wanted to hand the job off to someone else, he always refused, saying, “Nope, I’m fine.” The boy assigned to the other end of the banner also refused to give up his duty. Those boys were so proud to be carrying that banner for you guys I don’t think anything in the world could have torn them away from it. Dylan stood straight and followed any directions given to him with complete attention.

There was a contingent of anti-war demonstrators in the parade not far behind us. Apparently they didn’t get the memo that it’s a little too late to demand we not go to war in Iraq. One of our guys mentioned that when he passed them on the way to our staging area they said something to him about “blood for oil” or some such tired old poppycock. He said he looked the grey-haired old pot-smoker right in the eye and told him, “My son has proven his willingness to put his life on the line for your freedom of speech, so go ahead and speak.” (or something like that.) He said the guy shut right up then and just looked away. I wish he’d have asked the old hippy if he’d ever been willing to put HIS life on the line to ensure someone else’s freedom.

When the parade finally started we were stunned and amazed by the reaction of the crowd of onlookers. When we came around the first corner the people literally STOOD UP and clapped for us as we went by. It was amazing and humbling and made us all realize how much America loves her soldiers. People would yell, “Thank you!” and, “God bless you!” at us and we didn’t know what to say except to thank them back. All along the parade route this continued to happen. As soon as our banner would come into view people would rise from their comfortable lawn chairs and applaud us, as if we had done something great. Of course, we knew they were really applauding for YOU and we all wished you were there to see the outpouring of support from your fellow Americans.

I saw many people along the route holding up homemade “WE SUPPORT OUR TROOPS” posters. I wish I could have seen them proudly holding those posters aloft as the anti-victory demonstrators went by with their ludicrous “WHERE IS THE MONEY FOR MORE LIBRARIES?” banner.

The fire truck ahead of us thrilled the children in the crowd by spraying them with water from hoses ingeniously attached to the front bumper in such a way as to create a sideways surprise attack into the crowd. Many of the kids along the route were apparently prepared for this and had armed themselves with enormous Super Soaker squirt guns. The fire truck crew, also armed with Super Soakers, would engage in water battle with these kids, much to the delight of everyone involved.

This ongoing water fight was delightful in every way except that the fire truck crew had to keep moving and was thus unable to exhaust any particular group of children’s supply of ammunition. The result was that every over-excited group of kids along the parade route then felt obliged to turn their weapons on us, the first targets in sight after the fire truck. The first time it happened someone yelled, “INCOMING!” and we all laughed and ducked good naturedly.

Perhaps I’m a poor sport, but after the sixth or seventh time getting blasted in the face by an eight-year-old terrorist wielding a weapon of mass saturation, I got a little pissed off at the lack of parental supervision. What part of “Don’t let your bratty kid shoot the un-armed non-combatant parade marchers” do these parents not understand? The parents, however, seemed completely clueless. They would stand there watching their obnoxious kid empty his tank of uncomfortably wet warm water all over us with a look of indulgent pride on their faces, as if to say, “Isn’t it cute how Little Johnny just sprayed that cringing middle-aged lady right in the face with his new squirt gun?”

Overall though, the Independence Day parade experience was really quite wonderful. When you guys come home next summer you have GOT to march in that parade yourselves. You will be greeted as heroes and you will get to see how grateful and proud your fellow Americans truly are. And I can hardly wait for the epic moment when you draw your Super Soakers in unison and take aim right over the heads of those obnoxious kids and thoroughly drench their negligent parents. Remind me to arm you with a bag of grenade-shaped water balloons.

In the meantime, please be safe and know that YOUR COUNTRY LOVES YOU VERY MUCH!! Trust me, you are NOT forgotten. Your countrymen are genuinely proud of you and grateful for your service.

Much Love and a belated HAPPY FOURTH OF JULY!!!!!


--An Army Mom

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