December 19

By an Anonymous USAF Brat

It was cold. Not the New England kind of cold but the bitter, biting, wind-driven cold on an overcast day that fit what we were doing.

As I stood there on the crest of the hill, I surveyed the terrain, looking at avenues of approach, natural lanes of egress, positions for plunging fire, ways to get air support in and out. Just the things you do when you grew up like I did.

I noticed the three guys in coveralls, standing by the white van holding shovels and quietly talking.

As I looked further on, I saw them. Row after row, in perfect separation, keeping station like some well-trained infantry unit or tank battalion. The white-gray color of the headstones stood out against the brown color of dead grass in December.

December 19th. Fitting. Thank you, Air Force. You couldn’t have done it on the 20th or the 18th, no, you bastards picked the 19th…on their 60th wedding anniversary. That was the day you picked for us to come out to the national cemetery at Grand Prairie, Texas, to take the final steps at the end of my mother’s life. Typical.

Some mortuary officer sitting somewhere looked down at the schedule, took a sip of coffee and penciled her in at the next open slot. Probably never bothered to read the surrounding documentation.

But what the hell. We were (still are) an Air Force family through and through. I hate to admit it, but when the PJs went out of the 130 in the movie Air Force One with Harrison Ford, someone with a command tone sang out, “Let’s go Air Force!” Never knew who THAT was.

As they brought the casket out of the hearse and onto the mobile platform, I steeled myself for what I knew was coming. The last moments on earth that I would be close to my mother.

Mom had left us about five years before when dementia started to take away her mind. In the end, we had to hand-feed her with a small bolus of food placed on the back of the tongue, close her mouth and gently massage her throat to get her to swallow. When she began actively dying about a week prior to the funeral, it was almost a relief.

I knew she wasn’t in the casket but had gone on to be with Jesus, but as her only son, indeed her only surviving child, this was it.

The minister from the hospice company said a few words and quoted some scriptures. Dad had stopped going to church when he had to care for Mom full time, so their pastor wasn’t there.

My older sister had died young, so it was just my dad, my wife, son and daughter and myself. Well, one of Dad’s nieces was there, but that’s a weird relationship for another time.

The minister stepped back, and Dad got the courage to walk up, place his hand on the casket and say his goodbyes to his wife of 59 years.

They met when he was stationed in Germany in the late 1950s after the war. She married him when he was a young airman without a pot to piss in. Mom was seven years older than Dad and basically raised him, taught him how to be a husband, stood by him, guided him with his career and…loved him.

He never wanted for anything. She stretched every dollar, starched and ironed his uniforms to razor sharpness back when the USAF wore khakis (1505s), made sure there were no ropes (aka Irish pennants), no smudges, and every ribbon and device was exactly placed.

She had a hot breakfast on the table before he left, he went out the door with a lunch in his hands and a kiss goodbye, and came home to a hot meal ready 15-20 minutes after he hit the door. He was served first, and when he was ready to talk, that’s when the conversation started. He read the paper while Mom cleaned up after dinner, and then they watched TV until bedtime.

As I placed my hand on that smooth wood casket, I thought about all the things you remember about your mother. Her scent, her voice, her hands, sometimes soft and consoling, other times meting out punishment when you acted up in the cereal aisle, her laugh…and her tears.

Standing there at the casket, and for some time after, even today, I marvel at a life well lived…

This is the initial part of a series of articles covering my experiences growing up as an Air Force dependent during the 1970s. My hope is that the readers get a glimpse into the day-to-day life of the old (pre-1980) Air Force through the eyes of a dependent who lived it.

Aim High…

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As the Voice of the Veteran Community, The Havok Journal seeks to publish a variety of perspectives on a number of sensitive subjects. Unless specifically noted otherwise, nothing we publish is an official point of view of The Havok Journal or any part of the U.S. government.