Army Brat

“When will our eyes meet? When can I touch you? When will this strong yearning end? And when will I hold you again?”

Maybe a little sappy for some, but I was nine years old and it was the most perfect, dramatic expression of my heartache over my father’s absence. He was a Lt. Col in the Army at the time and we were living on the Army base in Ft. Bragg N.C. When soldiers would pass my father they would salute and shout, “Airborne!” He would return the salute and reply, “All the way!”

But Dad was stationed in Korea. He was nine months into a two-year stint that would spare my mother, brother, sister and me from being uprooted yet again. This kept us kids in our schools and my mom in her nursing job.

I would put on Barry Manilow’s “Weekend in New England” and cry my heart out. Of course it's a story about a couple that can’t be together. Maybe it’s an affair? I don’t know. But we take what we need and I needed that “When will I hold you again?” line.

Those few years – fourth, fifth and sixth grade – are my best and worst and most vibrant memories. Army base neighborhoods are ideal playgrounds for children. First of all, there is no shortage of kids to be found. The place is crawling with them. Nobody locked their doors. Kids went out to play and didn't come back for hours. The MP patrolled every day and we felt they were looking out for us.

There were, of course, actual playgrounds spread throughout the neighborhood. And we spent plenty of time almost killing ourselves on the merry-go-rounds and monkey bars. But the real fun was just outside the confines of the housing development: the pine tree covered North Carolina forest.

Fort Bragg pines. "Oh hi! Stand farther away? Ok. Wait, further? Ok.”

We (whatever ragtag band of kids that were available) would spend hours wandering aimlessly through these woods, occasionally stopping to play King of the Hill or debate what was better – Rock or Disco? Rock was the only socially acceptable answer, but oh how we loved Disco.

We discovered mysterious dirt roads that led to nowhere. We figured maybe the soldiers did field exercises there. But there was never anyone around. It felt deserted and therefore like we owned it, like it was ours. Sometimes we would get gloriously lost and fear spending the rest of our lives foraging for berries like Tarzan children. But always by dusk, we would find our way back home. Those days ended with meticulous body checks for ticks. A great deal of pride was taken in having the most.

My brother and sister were busy negotiating high school in the 1970’s era of drugs and rebellion. They were seven and five years older than me and lived in a different universe. I would pass time in my room using my canopy bed finial topper for a pretend microphone, singing along to The Carpenters, or the Grease soundtrack and Barry Manilow.

My mother was always acting in the local Fayetteville Community Theater. I went to most of the rehearsals and shows, running lines with her as she drove to the theater. She was in The Fantasticks, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, The King and I, Carousel, and my favorite, The Man of La Mancha. She played Dulcinea.

Behind the scenes, that world was magical. It looked like just about the most fun you could have on Earth. Costumes, set design, practice and camaraderie, all while feeling so very important – the miracle of it all coming together.

One night, after watching my mom in The Man of La Mancha, I walked backstage just in time to see her kiss Ed, the actor playing Don Quixote. My mother saw me and stepped away from him.

In her dressing room, I asked her, “Why were you kissing him?’

She said,”Oh that was just a theater kiss. The kind that says ‘Good Job.’”

I wanted that to be true so I tried to believe it.

Ed would come over sometimes. He was very charismatic and kind, but had a drinking problem. That would become clear later but for now his party tricks were charming. He could do a pratfall down the stairs with a drink in his hand and never spill a drop. When he gave a “Hello dear” or a “Goodbye darlin” kiss, it was always too wet.

Mom called Dad and asked for a divorce.

Dad was allowed to come home immediately from his stay in Korea.The army considered it an emergency. And the next day Mom moved out.

After a few months she was off to New York City with Ed to pursue her dreams.

And so I began the slow and steady work of drawing my father into a functional relationship with me.

The roles had been very defined in Mom and Dad’s marriage. Dad was the breadwinner, rule enforcer, rough houser and the boss. He did not change diapers or cook meals or nurture.

So now I would stand next to him as he shaved. I’d stand on a stool I pulled up and we would look in the mirror together while I drew conversation from him, gently. It sort of felt like taming a wild animal. Don't get me wrong. My father was very charming and charismatic. But this was new territory for him and his heartache was palpable.

My mom left about a month before Easter. She put a wrapped present on a shelf in my closet, a gift for me to open on Easter Sunday. I would lay awake at night staring at that box on the shelf from my bed, wondering what was in it, feeling the sadness and regret of a mother leaving her child, understanding the desperate hope that it would keep me from being crushed by losing her.

When I finally opened it, I pretended to love it. I wanted to love it, for it to comfort me. But I guess I was too old at nine for a stuffed animal. Maybe it was too scratchy. Maybe it was a painful reminder that she had chosen Ed over me.

Instead I preferred sleeping with my mother’s nightgown. She left it behind and it still smelled like her. It was made out of that sort of silky polyester material. I worried the smell would wear off and considered rationing my nights with it.

About a year later, my brother moved off to college and my dad, sister and I moved to Northern Virginia where my dad would begin the Washington chapter of his career.

Picture the despondent scene in one of my friends' bedrooms: I’m singing “Babe I’m leaving, I must be on my way. The time is drawing near” by Styx, through never ending tears. And my friends, my fellow army brats, well-versed in goodbyes, singing KC and the Sunshine Band’s ”Please Don't Go, don't gooooo away. I’m begging you to stay,” as I headed off to a strange, new, motherless world.