My mother came from a tobacco farm in the hills of Kentucky with a High School education. She was a clean slate and had to learn everything. Her first meal to my Dad at Lackland was a hamburger, raw it turned out. My dad choked it down while she cried. He left and came back with a cook book.
She learned, moving, packing going overseas, having us kids. However she became my Superhero at Offutt. Dad had left to go to Germany to find us housing for our next PCS so she and my younger brother and I were staying in a small cheap apartment that had a pool. I invited my friends from Wherry housing, two brothers and my best friend a Black teenager. We changed into our swim suits and jumped in. A young girl about our age leaped out and ran off.
Later that evening the manager came by and told me that all guests had to be approved in advance. I was puzzled, not so my mother, rising up like a grizzly protecting her cubs she stalked over to the manager and told him in no uncertain terms that we were going to invite whoever we wanted be they black, brown, or purple! Furthermore if he tried to pull any of this racist crap on us she’d be happy to call the Base Legal Office, as she picked up the phone, She said, “I’d be happy to put not only this run-down apartment off limits but every property the owner has be it housing, entertainment, or retail”. “So what will it be?” As she brandished the phone. The manager apologized and backed away. My friends and I enjoyed the pool almost every day.
The final steps in joining my Dad overseas strained my superhero. She had to sell the car, arrange for us to get to the airport, send the rest of our stuff overseas. My Dad has arranged our flight, but God laughs at well-made plans.
The flight from Omaha to Chicago was fine. However, there was a strike in London so our flight to Philly and then to London and Frankfurt was out. The help desk arranged us to fly Lufthansa from New York to Frankfurt, and we had to change airports in NY. My mother, clearly at the end of her rope turned to me and cried, “John, What’s a Lufthansa!!” She had visions of WWI biplanes. I explained what it was, gathered up Davey, and our luggage and followed her. We arrived at JFK late, she sent me off on a food run, I found one hot dog stand, bought his last two hot dogs and predictably she went without, we two boys inhaled the dogs. The plane ride was yet more stress for her, we all were separated.
They woke us up for breakfast, my brother is a terrible traveler, worse at waking up, after being fed OJ, he promptly threw up all over the man and the empty seat next to him. As it was a full flight the gentleman, a well-dressed German was stuck smelling OJ and hot dog My mom silently chuckled that she wasn’t next to Davey for once.
Surprisingly, Dad was there waiting for us despite the air mixup.
As Dad drove us to our new house on the autobahn, we just stared, seriously jet-lagged. Once home, he proudly showed off our washer and drier, after informing that the drainage tube needed to go into the bathtub, he showed mom his large pile of dirty clothes and headed out to work. Davey hit the sack, Mom started on Dad’s laundry, putting the hose in the bathtub, I tried to get my room in order. Soon we heard a frenzied banging on our door, both Mom and I rushed to it only to find ourselves wading in dirty water. The hose had of course flipped out of the bathtub without being secured, something my Dad forgot to mention. Our Landlord was screaming “Was ist los!” Apparently he was in the bathroom when the water started dripping on his head.
Not the best first meeting for my Mom but she managed, like always, she managed.
John Paul Jones
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Life is a bit funny, and sometimes, in the here and now we wonder how we got here. We’ve been told we should not dwell on the past, but we should not forget it either. Things that take me back into my childhood, are memories of food and playthings—things that are a big part of any child’s life. I don’t remember much about my early years. But, I do remember that while in Okinawa, my brother got caught outside during a typhoon and was hanging on for dear life to the screen door… I remember that I had learned to tie my shoes at around then, and I went to my first sleep over…and I’d left it early. The one thing I remember about TV programs was the opening to the horror shows. What it showed was from the knees down… a Japanese solider from WWII stumbling into the TV station at night, walking around and coming upon a lone station employee– the employee jumped with fright– and that’s where it had cut off. Any other memories from that time period, I need to use pictures and family stories to remind me..
Moving to Berlin on Pan-Am…I do remember the flight being empty, because I got to sleep in the middle aisle; at that age, I don’t know if it was a normal civilian flight or one chartered for the military. When we finally got to Berlin, and our father got us to our apartment, he did have some little gifts for us. I got some comics. My bedroom was bare– I only had a desk, a nightstand, a bed with a bookcase-type headboard.
This was the first time I didn’t have to share a room with my brother and I was a bit happy with that.
The thing about that little headboard: I kept my radio and a few other items there, like these little glo- in the-dark plaques. I would charge those plaques and any other glow-in-the-dark items I had, just before bed time and then set them up to be my little night light. My radio was tuned to the only radio station I could understand—AFN. Around my bed time, they would play songs from the 50’s and 60’s.
The thing about living in certain places as a child, is you don’t realize the history of the place, or the importance it played during history. All I knew is that the East Germans had built a wall and that the Allies had to fight to hold on to the west. To me, it really didn’t make much of an impact. I was still going to school, I was still making friends and playing.
The playground had this circular sandbox; I remember me and my friends would dig as far down as we could, and then we would build these little landscapes for our matchbox cars. Then there were the swing set– it was placed right in front of this huge tree, and as kid do, we’d see who could get the highest, then we would see who could jump out of the swing and go the furthest, and if you were brave enough, you would take the swing right in front of the tree and jump. I guess as a kid we were using physics and did not know it. Because, as we learned, if you jumped at a certain point of the arc of the swing, you could get more height and distance (funny how we learn something early in life through play, but when we get older, we forget that we had used the things we were learning in high school as a child.)
There was an ice cream truck, but the difference it was a German-run truck, so we would have to go ask for Deutsch Marks. My favorite ice cream was kind of a soft serve in a cookie type-shell shaped like a clam. We had a convenience store that was run by the PX. I would be sent there, for things like bread, eggs and milk. Yes, one time my dad sent me there to get some cigarettes, and when I couldn’t get them, I got disappointed. So to try to make it up, I attempted to buy him a six pack.
Sticking with the food theme, at the ball fields, there was a snack stand that served different snacks, and what I remember most was the cooking of the hamburgers and the way they tasted. When I am around snack stands like that, I always wish I could recapture that smell and taste from my childhood, but no such luck. I also remember getting treats that seemed to be uniquely German, such things like Nutella, Capri Sonne juice pouches. When we got back to the states, I was a bit sad that those products had not made it to the states. To this day, I cannot replicate the taste of Nutella spread on a brotchen; having it on white bread just cannot compare.
The one thing that I was introduced to was the volksfest, a carnival, with the rides, games and food. Bratwurst made in America just can’t compare to those in Germany. The one taste that didn’t stick with me was that of frog’s legs. We went to a volksfest in the French section and some of the stuff was the same, but when it came to the food, well it was all new to me. I remember I was asked if I wanted to try frog’s legs and I did. I think I liked it, but it was a onetime thing, so only the memory of eating them stuck with me, along with my first taste of crepes. I had those a couple times and I remember them being sweet.
The mid to late 70’s was kind of a breakout year for certain things, and the big one was soft bubble gum, I think it was either Hubba Bubba or Bubblicious. I remember going to the little PX store that was located within the main PX complex and buying 4 or 5 packs because it always seemed to be sold out. My parents thought I was old enough to ride the bus to and from the PX, and so I would go every so often. I had a radio that I would carry with me. I had this strap, and one thing I did was to collect key chains and attach them to the strap, I even put the pins I got while in the Webelo’s ( and I still have that sling) and sling it over my shoulder and so when I waited for the bus, I would turn the radio on and listen–no I didn’t have headphones, so everyone got to enjoy the music. I remember sitting at the PX bus stop and these soldiers walked and they made positive comments about me carrying the radio.
So, while Berlin was a walled city in the middle of Soviet controlled lands, life just went on as normal. So normal, that I learned impatient drivers are the same, no matter where in the world you went. Once, I was getting off the school bus, and like we had been told, we had to walk in front of the bus. One day I was just didn’t do it and bam, a German lady who just didn’t want to wait, slipped around the bus. That was the first and only time I was hit by a car while walking. (I have been in a few accidents while in a car though.) Nothing was broken in that long-ago accident, but unlike in America, I don’t think we sued the driver or got any kind of compensation for the injury.
Now one of the sad things that kind of happened, my dad got promoted (that part was not sad), and with that promotion came new living quarters– a two-story house with our own back yard. The downside was that I went back to sharing a room with my brother, but at least I got the top bunk. So, we had to move to another part of the American controlled part of the city. I had to leave my friends behind, and yes, I saw them at school, but other than, that I had to make new friends. I don’t think I really made new friends. This new housing area didn’t have a playground, so I had to do other things, mostly I just rode my 3-speed bike around the area. Now the thing about this area, was that it was largely a regular German neighborhood, and so really, we didn’t interact with the kids there.
One of the things the military tried to keep things normal for American kids was to have American sports, and so I played baseball. My dad coached T-ball. I was not an outstanding player, but I kept trying, even when we got back to the States. I played a couple years of soccer, and that I was pretty good at that. I played fullback. My coach said I was pretty aggressive at that spot, but since it was not that much of a sport in the States, I never played it again once we left Berlin.
The problem I had as a student is that I kept getting into trouble at school, so I spent a lot of time in the vice-principal’s office. The reason this was a problem for me was that my father was the community health nurse and he worked with the school nurses. He knew when I got into trouble, but I never learned my lesson and kept getting into trouble.
As for the toys in my life, only a few stood out. One of my hobbies was collecting Smurf figures. As a kid, I did not know that this was at the time a European thing. I remember going to a toy store just to see what new ones they got in. I know I also collected matchbox cars early on, when we moved to the new house, I really didn’t have anyone to play with, so I stopped collecting those.
I remember going shopping with my mom in stores that sold general merchandise. They would keep their doors open, and when we walked in, there was a strong flow of air, in the summer it was cooled and in winter, it was heated. I don’t remember the grocery stores having that feature. I do know that when we went to a German grocery store, it was a special treat, so we would always bug mom to get things we didn’t get at the commissary.
Now being an army brat was both a blessing and a curse. The curse is I didn’t have a hometown there was no place with roots that I could go back to. I never made lifelong friends, and the friends I did make, would change every couple years as their parents were reassigned. When asked where I am from, I tell them I grew up as a brat living around the world. The person asking would say that had to be cool, and it was, but I’d explain that I never had that hometown and lifelong friends they have.
The blessing is that I counted myself a citizen of the world. I could adjust to new environments easily, but making friends– that’s another story.
The thing about being in Berlin, my dad would take three weeks of leave and we would travel to new and different places, some that have faded from memory and others just because of what they stood for stand out in my memory. Today, a few of those places just wouldn’t be safe for an American to visit. As a kid some of those places were cool to say, hey I got to go there, but I really didn’t appreciate the significance of these places and would love to go back and revisit, and now with the internet, I can research some of these places and just realize how special some of these places were.
One thing I learned, when we were getting close to the time for my dad to be reassigned and when he got his new orders, was that new people just didn’t make the effort to get to know you, because you would be leaving shortly. In Berlin, 7thgrade was at Berlin American High school, and that was about the time we were getting ready to leave, so no one outside of a few teachers and the friends I already had, really tried to get to know me, so I kind of went through those few months in school like a ghost.
Leaving one place just as the school year started was a bit hard, but the hardest thing was arriving at school a few months into the school year. Being the new kid was tough, and if your family decided to live off post, it was even harder because friendships had already been formed, so not only were you the new kid, you were an outsider as well. Such is the life of an army brat.
by Lauren Mosher, MAMF 2019 Writer-in-Residence
My mother tells a story where, at six years old, I walked into a room with bare windows, and exclaimed, “I don’t want to move again!” The curtains were in the washing machine.
Although my father retired from the military three years prior to the curtain incident, military moving memories remained. Military memories will always remain. Military memories continued to be made. “Once a Marine, always a Marine.” The mantra applies to us kids, too, doesn’t it?
For, even after the end of formal military life, even after only officially knowing it as a toddler, the military blood was passed from father to daughter. He was in the Corps, and it’s in my core, right?
To me and my brother, a military life meant traveling all over the country with Dad (“Head ‘em up, and move ‘em out!” “Let’s go, Troops!”), visiting places at ages too delicate and naive to comprehend their events’ depth, or their meaning(s) on our history. Places like Pearl Harbor and the Alamo were vacationed by us with a bored, restless, preoccupied air.
It’s only been in my adult life, after becoming infatuated with World War II, by way of “Band of Brothers,” “Saving Private Ryan,” and books like, “Goodbye, Darkness,” that I have come to appreciate my father’s drive to enliven us with military history, and to appreciate his passion for the Corps, and ultimately to respect that I share the blood of Marine.
by Circe Olson Woessner
This time of year, New Mexico is cloaked in a shroud of hazy wood smoke from hundreds of fireplaces. As I walk by certain houses, I smell creosote, or uncured wood, or the wonderful piñon—this is the smell of winter.
Cocooned under my thick down comforter, the smell of freshly brewed coffee wafting down the hallway is the thing that rousts me out of bed.
Smell is something that can transport us back to a particular space and time—to bad times and good.
When my son was six, we took him to see Jurassic Park at the post movie theater. Later that night, he came screaming into our bed; he was sweaty and trembling—and for the first time, I smelled terror. His entire body oozed it from every pore.
Veterans tell me that they remember vividly the odors of war—even 50 years back. Vietnam had its distinct smell. Read the rest of this entry »
by Misty Corrales
When my father was stationed at RAF Greenham Common in England, we were fortunate to be able to attend the International Air Tattoo (IAT) several times. Two of the years we were there, the IAT was hosted at RAF Greenham Common. Our last year there, it was hosted at RAF Fairfield (and there is a story behind that). This was a great opportunity for the squadrons to raise money, and rather than outsourcing the food to different vendors, the base allowed the squadrons to provide the dining options. My dad’s squadron usually did hamburgers. The way this worked was that a morning crew would come in and start grilling the burgers, so that by lunch time, they were ready to start service.
My dad signed up for the early crew so that we’d have the rest of the day to enjoy the air show. Mom and I also were there to help. What my father’s squadron did not count on was me. I figured that we were there and we were supposed to be selling. But how DO you sell hamburgers at 9 in the morning? It’s simple really. This was a time when the base was opened up to the public. There were several British people on base, as well as a few people from other countries as well. This was 1983. They were not *quite* as familiar with our food then as they are now. I came up with a jingle to sell Breakfast Burgers. We were the ONLY unit offering a breakfast option! And people were hungry. We sold out. When the lunch shift came on, they were surprised to find that there were no burgers ready for service.
By Jim Eddy
Memorial Day, it’s always a difficult weekend for me. I sometimes don’t know why really, I wasn’t in the service; I wasn’t a member of the armed forces, so why does it hit me so hard?
I was born into the U.S. Navy in 1952; it’s the only life I knew until I was 25. My dad was a US Naval Academy 1939 graduate and a Pearl Harbor survivor.
Through those 25 years I met WWII survivors, navy pilots, admirals, navy divers, generals, sailors, marines, army personnel, Air Force personnel, Viet Nam vets, Blue Angels, and GI’s who had seen the worst battles ever. I lived in Washington, D.C. and stood solemnly at the tomb of the Unknown Soldier as a young boy. My father took me to the rusty and submerged remains of the USS Arizona prior to the existence of the memorial when I was in the first grade.
To be the son of a U.S. Navy Captain was an experience that is an honor. I visited aircraft carriers, cruisers, destroyers, and battleships. During those visits the members and crew of the ships treated me with dignity and respect, not to mention the ice cream in the mess hall. I will never forget those days I had as a child and teenager.
When my parents had cocktail parties, the visiting Admirals or Generals asked especially to view my ship and airplane models. They were honestly interested in my model building interests. A returning Viet Nam Marine corporal helped me to build my first car. And last, but by no means least, my father was a survivor, a skipper, and my personal navy veteran.
His passing included a 21-gun salute and military funeral. So Memorial Day to me is all of these wonderful memories and the wonderful military personnel I had the pleasure to meet in my younger years. It is so much more than one can ever imagine, military life–it’s a life of its own, and for U.S. military brats we feel it deep, even years after our folks are gone, we still feel that feeling.
Happy Memorial Day to all of the veterans and my fellow and current military BRATS, who willingly went/go where we are told to go and always keep/kept our fear at bay when our mom or dad is/was deployed.
In1948 the NCO and Officer’s clubs offered opportunities to learn and practice military protocol. Meetings such as this one, sought to reduce the pressures of living within the structures of rank and of maintaining poise and a sense of purpose.
Every spouse is aware that even slight mistakes, such as not cutting one’s lawn, can effect an efficiency report. These women have made an effort to wear ‘just the right clothes’ and not make social mistakes. The ‘career ladder’ is on everyone’s minds and it effects where they are sent and how they live.
After years of looking, the Museum of the American Military Family has found a great building in a perfect location in Albuquerque, NM.
It will cost around $220,000 to buy. With your support, we can create a physical museum and library dedicated to our unique culture.
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