"Veterans Day"

           “Is that Daddy?” queried four-year-old Lizzy as she pointed her finger at a man dressed in green fatigues.
         The young mother squeezed her daughter’s hand tighter as she answered, “No. I’ll tell you what you need to do. Look at the caps the men are wearing. Your daddy’s cap is dirty.”

         Ten-year-old Paula nodded in affirmation. “Dad needs a new hat.”

         Restlessly, the two children watched as airmen purposefully strode across the tarmac. Suddenly, Lizzy tugged free of her mother’s grasp and dashed toward a man wearing a dirty hat. She wrapped her arms tightly around his legs in the tightest bear hug her little arms could muster. The young man attempted to disengage himself from the small child, his face growing red as he scanned the area.
         “Elizabeth Anne,” the girl’s mother dashed forward. “This man isn’t your daddy!”
         “But his cap is really dirty!” Lizzy exclaimed earnestly.

         The airman pulled his cap into his hands, embarrassed by the child’s observation and confusion.

         “My husband’s been on a long TDY,” the mother explained.
         “I understand completely,” the man said as he sidestepped the little family and continued on his way.

         Hand on hip and head shaking in disapproval of her little sister’s faux pas, Paula pointed to another cluster of men approaching the fence line. “There he is!”
And there he was! Dad with a brand new cap cocked on his head. He jogged away from the other men and scooped his girls into his arms.

Karl F. Abrams--circa 1948

         For years, my family teased me about the time I flung my arms around the man with the dirtiest cap, converting the story into a running joke that I threw myself at men. As an adult, though, I realize how much that childish mistake must have stung both of my parents. My mother did her best to talk about Dad when he left on long trips, but keeping his image strong in the mind of a four-year-old proved an almost impossible task. Tight on money, my parents didn’t have many photographs of each other around the house. After my mistake, my father gave me dashing picture of himself from when he first joined the Air Force to keep in my room.

         For Veterans Day, we pause to honor the men and women who serve in our military, but we should also reflect upon the sacrifice the families make. When a young man or woman decides to serve our country, his or her entire family becomes a military member. The soldier misses birthdays, Christmases, and anniversaries. The soldier misses that first step, the lost front tooth, the touchdown, and the first broken heart. Every moment of every day, the families of these men and women ache for the lost moments. Our tributes to these veterans must recognize the full scope of their sacrifices.

copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Veterans Day"

           “Is that Daddy?” queried four-year-old Lizzy as she pointed her finger at a man dressed in green fatigues.
         The young mother squeezed her daughter’s hand tighter as she answered, “No. I’ll tell you what you need to do. Look at the caps the men are wearing. Your daddy’s cap is dirty.”

         Ten-year-old Paula nodded in affirmation. “Dad needs a new hat.”

         Restlessly, the two children watched as airmen purposefully strode across the tarmac. Suddenly, Lizzy tugged free of her mother’s grasp and dashed toward a man wearing a dirty hat. She wrapped her arms tightly around his legs in the tightest bear hug her little arms could muster. The young man attempted to disengage himself from the small child, his face growing red as he scanned the area.
         “Elizabeth Anne,” the girl’s mother dashed forward. “This man isn’t your daddy!”
         “But his cap is really dirty!” Lizzy exclaimed earnestly.

         The airman pulled his cap into his hands, embarrassed by the child’s observation and confusion.

         “My husband’s been on a long TDY,” the mother explained.
         “I understand completely,” the man said as he sidestepped the little family and continued on his way.

         Hand on hip and head shaking in disapproval of her little sister’s faux pas, Paula pointed to another cluster of men approaching the fence line. “There he is!”
And there he was! Dad with a brand new cap cocked on his head. He jogged away from the other men and scooped his girls into his arms.

Karl F. Abrams--circa 1948

         For years, my family teased me about the time I flung my arms around the man with the dirtiest cap, converting the story into a running joke that I threw myself at men. As an adult, though, I realize how much that childish mistake must have stung both of my parents. My mother did her best to talk about Dad when he left on long trips, but keeping his image strong in the mind of a four-year-old proved an almost impossible task. Tight on money, my parents didn’t have many photographs of each other around the house. After my mistake, my father gave me dashing picture of himself from when he first joined the Air Force to keep in my room.

         For Veterans Day, we pause to honor the men and women who serve in our military, but we should also reflect upon the sacrifice the families make. When a young man or woman decides to serve our country, his or her entire family becomes a military member. The soldier misses birthdays, Christmases, and anniversaries. The soldier misses that first step, the lost front tooth, the touchdown, and the first broken heart. Every moment of every day, the families of these men and women ache for the lost moments. Our tributes to these veterans must recognize the full scope of their sacrifices.

copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Call of Duty”

         Just short of midnight, we entered the line that stretched from GameStop to beyond Old Navy. Ahead of us, clusters of teenagers waited patiently as laughter exploded over the antics of one youth. He’d commandeered a shopping cart to use as an impromptu chair and comedy prop. Every time the store’s rep called out a number for a prize, he bellowed a whooping, “What?” and dissolved into girly giggles when the rep repeated the number even louder into the PA. Directly ahead of us stood a man in his forties, mutely engrossed in a texting conversation.

         Behind us grouped an assortment of young men, strangers chatting about their hopes for the newly released game. I missed the transitional phrases that led these men to discover that they shared a link other than their common passion for a game, but in seconds they began swapping tales of their own duties and responsibilities during their tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. One man, cherub faced and clean cut, revealed his rank as a Tech Sergeant. A taught-wired man, with tattoos covering his dark arms, piped in that he’d left the military on disability. He constantly danced from foot to foot as he regaled his captured audience with his wartime experiences.

         Heaviness filled me as I listened to these very young men rattle off places like Baghdad and Fallujah, or Kabul and Kandahar. They spoke of first, second, and third tours. They bonded immediately over memories of welding metal plates onto the Humvees for extra protection, and they discussed the merits of different guns with almost comical descriptions. The sergeant revealed that he did his tours as a medic. Another link, it seemed, to the young veteran. The conversation shifted subtly at first to more personal stories. The veteran told of trying to aid soldiers cut in two, of picking up severed arms and legs, of ministering to a toddler who’d pulled boiling oil over herself. He talked about his hidden disability, PTSD. He mused that the military recommended he leave because he’d become too desensitized.

         The words and worlds of these young men hung over me as I leaned against the wall, listening to their tales. I felt ashamed that my generation pulled these men out of innocence and into a lifetime of nightmares. I looked ahead of me, at the teenagers laughing so carelessly and realized that many of them will enlist into the military out of duty or necessity. The comedian with the shopping cart may end up carrying unseen scars within a few years. His youth and jubilation could fade; his soul become damaged.

 Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman