Plucky Letters to US soldiers in Iraq

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