“Home is
where the Army sends you.”
I heard the saying with
Al just out of basic training
headed out to our first venture.
Growing up in North Mississippi,
he had crossed one state line;
I had crossed two.
New Jersey bound
in an old stick shift Chevy,
he helped close down
the last six months of Camp Kilmer,
long time overseas deployment station,
and moved on to New York
where he appointed himself
sidewalk superintendent
of the Verazzano Narrows Bridge construction
while we awaited the birth of our first child.
NATO next, just outside Paris,
where they frowned on French
spoken with a drawl,
and De Gaulle,
tired of Americans,
sent us away.
To Belgium, where
the French slowed
and green grocers
in the village
introduced me
to their entire family.
On to Fort Knox, Kentucky
where home from the
commissary took
me past the
gold depository.
A year of home – hard to feel –
Al to Korea,
with me back to Mississippi
and the birth of our second child.
The Army forgot
and left us
nine years in San Antonio,
a year sandwich for him
in Vietnam
returning to the
same job
at Fort Sam Houston,
the birth of the third child.
A home supreme!
Willkomen!
Three years in
Kaiserslautern, West Germany –
Schnitzels, volksmarches,
Christkindlmarkts,
a longer home we wanted.
But the Army said
Fort Polk, Louisiana –
small town community,
rewarding teaching job,
friends, and Friday night football,
a good fit – home.
Retirement and
now the Army
no longer makes
the choice.
Al chose Mississippi.
I chose Hattiesburg.
Home.