Gene Hampton

                                      

The cars entered the double gates one by one, circling around the drive, and then coming to a stop beside the shelter. Passengers exited their cars with gloved hands shoved in coat pockets, scarves wrapped tightly around their necks beneath their heavy coats, and speaking to one another with hushed words. The sky was overcast and the temperature a chilly thirty-two degrees; the kind of cold that people refer to as “chilled to the bone.” The wind blew steadily, snapping the cloth of the two flags positioned beside each other. Family and friends took their seats on the hard, wooden benches while others remained standing in the back row, creating a protective wall. A few people looked over their programs which served as a temporary distraction from the event taking place, while others looked straight ahead.

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William Eugene “Gene” Hampton (known as “Papa” to his family) was born in Pryor, Oklahoma on July 31, 1919. When Pearl Harbor was bombed on December 7, 1941, he was a twenty-two year old man, strong and in good condition. His draft card had the letter “A” on it, which meant he would be one of the first to be drafted. He spoke about the pocket watch that his Father gave to him before he went off to war. His Father was proud of him and although he didn’t allow himself to show emotion when saying goodbye, the watch would serve as a reminder of the love and pride he had for his son. Papa vividly recalled his early days of training before going off to fight in the South Pacific, describing it as vigorous,  very strict, and it included military courtesy and discipline. He spoke about being able to climb a rope, dig a foxhole and jumping into it while machine gun fire shot a few feet over his head, and said, “It didn’t bother me. Some of the guys went haywire, though.”

He recalled that as soldiers in the Army they were trained and told, “There is the right way, the wrong way, and the Army way and you will do it by the Army way, and so we did. We were fighting for a cause. Japan attacked America.  We were fighting for our freedom. We were to be patriotic Americans and give our life for the government. We were not our own now and belonged to Uncle Sam.” When he spoke about being a soldier and the war, it was like he was recalling details from the day before even though it was sixty years later.

 In 2005, at the age of eighty-six, he was interviewed, along with other WWII veterans about his time in the war. One of the questions asked was about how he earned the Bronze Star. He humbly said, “I’m not a hero. Like I said before, the heroes are dead.” It was at this point that you could hear the catch in his voice as he tried to maintain composure while answering the interviewer. He then went on to say, “We had some guys that gave their lives for their buddies. But I was in combat and I have a combat infantryman’s badge…I don’t know of any special mission, except I tried to do my duty and be a good soldier and I did what I thought was right…and so I have a Bronze Star. I thank the Lord for it, but I know there are other men who probably deserve it more.” This type of response was typical of Papa as he was a humble man willing to give credit to others.

While being interviewed, he wore his Infantry uniform, which still fit like the day it was issued. The jacket was a muddy brownish-green with a cloth belt buckled around the waist. Near the edge of the sleeves gold stitching was sewn all the way around and matched the brassy-gold buttons that vertically buttoned in the center of the jacket. Each lapel displayed the letters “U.S.”  Slightly below was a pin on each lapel of two crisscrossed rifles and Captain Bars were placed on each shoulder. Two pockets were located at the bottom of the jacket and two more on each side of the chest with the same brass colored buttons centered on the flaps. Above the left pocket flap, four campaign ribbons were lined up horizontally. On the pocket flap below, the Purple Heart, Bronze Star, and Expert Rifle Marksmanship badge were pinned on tightly.

When asked about the Purple Heart, he recalled the story of having his machine guns (which he explained were water-cooled machine guns) and that his platoon was on the last hill, which he called Coconut Hill. The Japanese were shooting mortars on him and his platoon. He described how the Japanese would lob them up in the air and then the mortars would fall down and bombard the platoon. The mortars would shatter into tiny little pieces of fragments and go in every direction. Some of those fragments hit his shoulder and remained there the rest of his life. He said, “It wasn’t a real severe injury, it wasn’t real bad. I was very fortunate.” Nevertheless, he earned the Purple Heart.

At one point, the interviewer asked, “What did you do for good luck?” Papa questioned, “Good luck? I didn’t believe in good luck. I believe the Lord is my shepherd, my protector. 91^st Psalm is my favorite Psalm…so I trust the Lord to be with me and I went through a lot of narrow escapes.”

One of those narrow escapes was when he and his platoon were on a hill in the Philippines and they were taking heavy fire. He told his men to pull back. They couldn’t see their enemy, because the Japanese were so well hidden. While Papa was trying to spot a sniper through his field glasses, he heard the snapping and crack of a bullet whizzing by him. He has just moved a little bit to the right when the bullet rushed by, and when he looked down he saw several bullet holes in the wrinkles of his left sleeve. He said that the sniper had a “bead on my heart” and it was a near escape.

Papa spent two long years in combat when “VJ Day” took place. VJ Day was the day of the allies victory over Japan on September 2, 1945. He spent two long years away from his family, away from his baby girl that was ten days old when he deployed, and two long years not knowing when and if he was going home. He vividly recalls that day saying, “We’d been training and we’d been fighting, of course, in the Philippines, and we were getting ready to invade south Japan…all of a sudden we heard horns blowing down in the company area. Guys are hollering, shouting, and something was going on. So someone came running up and said ‘Japan surrendered’ and boy we just rejoiced. I mean, that’s the day you’re waiting for,” as he put his arms up over his head showing victory.

What would surprise so many people is the fact that Papa held no malice towards the Japanese people. He would always say, “You know they’re people just like us. They’re human beings and my heart went out for them…and when I saw those little farms (while riding around the farmland in his Jeep one day), you know, in my heart, I’m a farmer (as he chuckles) and I’m a human being and I respect other human beings.” 

“If you could share one piece of wisdom with future generations, what would it be?” the interviewer asked as his final question.

Papa responded, “Appreciate your freedom and thank the Lord every day for America, and for your freedom, and the privilege we have to accept or reject Christianity.” He spoke these words ten years ago, yet they’re still relevant today. So many citizens forget about the sacrifices of our veterans and that those sacrifices allow us to speak freely, vote in a Democratic country, move about the country freely, and practice whatever faith we choose if we choose to do so.

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The wind blew steadily, snapping the cloth of the two flags, which stood across from one another. The American flag and the VFW (Veterans of Foreign Wars) flag each stood on one side of the casket, while a Specialist and First Lieutenant stood at attention beside each flag. A pair of combat boots sat on the grass, with an M1 Garand rifle and fixed bayonet stuck into the ground between the boots, with a helmet resting on top of the rifle symbolizing a fallen hero. Papa was a ninety-five year old combat veteran who served his country with honor. On December 21, 2014, he passed away in hospice, while surrounded by his children.

He was a man of unshakeable faith, sharing his love for God with anyone he met, speaking from his heart, and sharing scripture. He had blue eyes that twinkled; showed kindness when he smiled, and his hands were soft from decades of gardening. Papa loved gardening and had several raised beds in his backyard along with a greenhouse full of plants. He was well versed in homeopathic remedies, growing herbs and vegetables, and the concept of “clean eating” well before it became popular to those who practice healthy lifestyles. He had silver-white hair which he wore combed neatly back, framing his prominent cheek bones, and he wore wire-rimmed glasses to read his Bible and the numerous books that surrounded him at home.

Reverend Darren Rogers was the officiator at the funeral service and knew Papa well from church. He spoke thoughtful words and shared memories of times he spent with Papa.  He told a story about visiting the VA hospital with Papa and how the two of them would make their rounds to comfort the veterans. He recalled how at the age of seventy-seven Papa would always take the stairs instead of the elevator because he had boundless energy. Reverend Rogers joked about the fact that he, at a much younger age than Papa, would be winded by the time they reached the top of the stairs. He would try to hide his exertion from Papa, who was not winded at all and still able to hold a conversation! He spoke about Papa writing scripture on a yellow 5x7 index card with black lettering, inserted into his jacket pocket, just peeking out of the top so that others could read it voluntarily. Written on the card was the scripture: “Jesus said I am the way, the truth, the life. No man comes to the Father except through me”. Apparently, in the past, a VA employee had complained about Papa sharing scripture, but being a strong-willed and somewhat stubborn man, he wasn’t going to let that stop him. So, the card peeking out of his pocket was his way of sharing his strong conviction without upsetting the VA employee.

Seven veterans from the VFW stood across from the enclosure on the grassy area. With rifles in their hands, they lifted them, and fired three shots each for a “twenty-one gun salute.” Even for those that are familiar with a “full military honor” funeral, the loud shots caught them off-guard. Then, as tradition requires, the American flag (which had cloaked the casket) was carefully and properly folded into a tight triangle, with the stars facing outward. It was then presented to Papa’s daughter, Sonya, on behalf of a grateful nation and its citizens.

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 After the funeral service, the family went to the church to spend time together. Papa’s grandson, Aaron, was present that day. Aaron had followed in Papa’s footsteps by joining the Army infantry. The two of them had a connection that only soldiers’ understand due to their experiences in the military, and since they had both had been in combat, that connection was even stronger.

Uncle David stood up and gathered everyone’s attention. He held Papa’s Infantry “dress greens” uniform in his hands. It was in immaculate condition, just like it looked in the 2005 interview. The top of the left arm sleeve displayed Papa’s unit patch showing that he served in the 1^st Battalion 182^nd Infantry (Americal Division) under General Douglas McArthur. Papa wore his uniform to any military function he attended because he was so proud to be an American. Papa’s uniform had been willed to Uncle David and he respected Papa’s service, but knew that it would end up in a closet where no one else would see it.

Uncle David then spoke about the advocacy work that Aaron does for wounded soldiers and how he frequently invites soldiers to visit his home, “Lost Creek Ranch,” for respite and mentorship. In Aaron’s home, Papa’s uniform would be seen by others that could appreciate it and understand the sacrifices it represents. It was at this point that Aaron began to realize that his Uncle was honoring him with his grandfather’s uniform. The emotion was evident on Aaron’s face even though he was trying to be stoic. As Aaron was handed the uniform he started speaking and it was captured on video:

“I was very fortunate to talk to Papa and he talked to me about how proud he was…I was kind of worried because Papa was very concerned. I could have gone into any branch I wanted. When I went in the service, they tried to talk me out of going into the infantry. The recruiters tried to talk me out of it, but I said my Grandfather was in the infantry and I want to go into the infantry. I knew Papa didn’t want me to go into the infantry, he really didn’t, but it was something I wanted to do… I was fortunate to be able to do it. Papa did a lot of very tough things. He kept a lot of people alive and he brought a lot of people home and he lost a lot of people…I had a lot of respect for him. When I was in the service I always pushed a little bit harder too, because I always wanted to honor my Grandfather. I never wanted to bring dishonor on him and he was a good man. If I could have been half the man he was, then that would be good. He was good.”

Later that afternoon, we started the five-hour drive home and Aaron shared many memories about his Grandfather. He told me about the time Papa taught him how to hunt. Like so many soldiers from WWII, Papa struggled with PTSD (known as “shell shock” in that era) and the last thing he wanted to do was shoot a gun to kill, but he knew how much Aaron wanted to learn how to hunt. Aaron shared this story:

“My Grandparents owned a small farm in Billings, Missouri and in the past had to hunt for food out of necessity. The day Papa taught me how to hunt there was a thick layer of snow on the ground and the brush along the fence was dense, which made it a good hiding place for rabbits. We walked along the fence line tracking the rabbits and shaking the brush to make them run out. I had a Ruger 22 rifle and Papa wanted to make sure that I understood how important it was to use the safety and keep my finger off the trigger if I wasn’t ready to fire the rifle. So he told me to put the safety on and aim the rifle in a safe direction towards the power lines. I thought I had pushed the safety switch hard enough to engage it, but when he told me to fire the rifle it actually shot a round. It scared me. I thought for sure that I was going to get smacked and yelled at and that the lesson would be over. Instead Papa remained calm and told me that the safety on a weapon can fail and that this was why you never, ever put your finger on the trigger until you’re ready to shoot. Papa was the positive male role model that I never had in my life and that lesson stayed with me throughout my military career.”

Once we arrived home, we were looking over Papa’s uniform and it was then that I felt something in the left pocket. I put my hand inside and pulled out a handkerchief. Then I felt something else and pulled out a piece of binder paper which was folded in half twice. I carefully unfolded it and the writing, written with an elderly person’s shaky hand, was without a doubt Papa’s handwriting. Although the writing was hard to decipher, after careful review, we realized that it was his notes for a presentation given to an elementary school class in Springdale, Arkansas on Monday, November 28, 2013.

The following is what was written on the paper:

“It is a great privilege to speak a few words to such a fine looking group of smart students. You look good and intelligent. A beautiful school, best teacher, you are the best in Arkansas.

What a privilege to live in America.  A land of freedom.

As a private citizen & a veteran of WWII in South Pacific as a combat infantry officer in the Americal Division under General Douglas McArthur.

It is an honor & privilege to voluntarily recite the Pledge of Allegiance.

The pledge has been around a long time in public gatherings. Not compulsory until 1942. The 1954 Act of Congress added the words “under God.”

Thanks for inviting me. I am expecting great things from you. God bless you & God bless America.”

It was so fitting to find the school presentation, the handkerchief, and then having the ability to watch the interview from 2005. Everything I knew about Papa was from stories I’d heard my husband tell. While watching Papa speaking on camera, in uniform and wiping his eyes with his handkerchief, I was able to put all the pieces of the puzzle together. I was able to hear his voice, the emotions displayed on camera when speaking about the war, and his words, which I have shared here. Now that interview on DVD is safely stored for later viewing. As for Papa’s uniform, it will be displayed in a shadow box, along with documents and photos, for visitors to enjoy and remember the great man Papa Hampton was.

The Power of One

      

Walking down the trail this morning, with our Labrador and Rottweiler in tow, I looked down at the various shades of leaves on the ground. Brown, mahogany, yellow and green scattered beneath my feet and some floating from the trees as I walked. The dogs ran across them making crunching sounds, while I stopped on the dirt trail and reflected on the past nine days. My mind was still processing the previous day’s events and everything that transpired, from what I thought was a chance encounter that cascaded beginning with one action.

I believe that I’m positioned by God to influence. As a Christian, I believe that my decisions matter and with those decisions I make an impact. It makes sense that our actions affect those around us whether positively or negatively.  I also believe that if one person makes a difference, then it’s possible that the person they impacted may then affect the next person and it cascades from there. I read somewhere that 97% of people operate in a comfort zone while the other 3% operate in the growth zone. How often do you step out of your comfort zone to make a difference?

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“We need to leave by 10:30am. The construction traffic in Dallas was a mess on Monday and your appointment is at 1pm.” I said knowingly. I’d driven the same route earlier in the week and barely made my own appointment.

Two hours later we breezed out of the elevators and into the Dr.’s office, shocked by the fact that we blazed through Dallas morning traffic without construction or accident delays. That had never happened before and the chances were slim that it would happen again. We checked in, took a seat in the lobby, and waited for Aaron’s name to be called.

Moments later, a petite, young, red-headed woman stepped out of the Dr.’s office, but we didn’t pay much attention to her until she said, “This may seem inappropriate, but my partner’s in a wheelchair and I was wondering if I could ask you a question?”

 “Yes,” my husband replied without hesitation. For him, being approached by a complete stranger isn’t uncommon. People are curious or sometimes rudely think that they have the right to know what happened to him, but in this case you could hear the desperate need for knowledge in her voice.

“Do you have an ileal conduit?” she asked.

“No” he answered and then proceeded to explain why.

While my mind was trying to process what an ileal conduit was, a young man rolled out into the lobby and stopped beside her. He had shaggy, blonde hair, like a California surfer, and his eyes were steel blue. He wore a grey beanie on his head for warmth since the temperatures had dipped into the 30’s that morning. His face had a gentleness to it that hid all too well the pain he was dealing with. As the conversation continued over the next 30 minutes, I discovered that he, like my husband, experienced severe nerve pain 24/7, which is a condition that affects less than 2% of spinal cord injured people. That was the “I get it” moment when my heart felt connected to them and made me want to reach out somehow.

A nurse walked out and called our name, so Gentrie and I hurriedly exchanged phone numbers. In the past I’d given out my number, thinking that I’d made a connection with someone, only to never hear from them again. I don’t take it personally, but in this case there was a strong pull on my heart to make the first move. Whenever I meet another caregiver, I feel a need to connect. Sometimes it’s because I see that I’m further along in the journey and I may be able to shed light on their situation. Sometimes, it’s because I think I can learn from them, and on occasion we have something in common other than our spouse's disability. So, I sent her a text, knowing they were probably loading into their car, but she sent back a short reply. 

That Friday night, we became Facebook friends. Gentrie was a member in a FB group, in which members or their spouses are living with paralysis, and she had posted a question about getting a new wheelchair covered. She wrote: 

How do you get your wheelchair paid for? I just called my insurance company and was told that I have a $3000 deductible which I already knew… And that durable medical equipment was limited to $2000 a year…On paper, Medicaid pays for wheelchairs, but he keeps being denied. His wheelchair is from 2004.

As the wife of a paralyzed veteran, I’m familiar with the VA system and Tricare. My husband’s allowed two wheelchairs at a time so that he has a backup chair if one should need repairs. When I read her post, I couldn’t understand how her partner didn’t have the same. If his main mode of transportation is broken and there’s no backup then he’s stranded.  What would you do if were paralyzed and your power chair or vehicle broke down and no one was around to help you? Stop and think about it. What would you do? 

I wanted to help Gentrie, but we had only met in passing. I wondered how she would perceive it if someone she had just met offered help. Would she think I was being nosey, stalking her on Facebook, or too much in her personal business? My heart kept tugging at me as I struggled with whether or not to reach out. I even asked my husband if he thought it would be appropriate. Finally, I sent this Facebook message to her on Saturday:

Hello. I know we barely got to know one another the other day, but I want you to know that my heart goes out to you. As a veteran's spouse, I'm immersed in a community that battles the VA for our spouses’ healthcare regularly. Although the VA is less than ideal, I am learning from your posts that we have so much to be thankful for. When Aaron was first injured, he was incorrectly fitted for two different wheelchairs and the VA wouldn't take them back. We ended up donating both of those wheelchairs to others with paralysis. With this in mind, I'm reaching out to several of my friends, whose husbands are also paralyzed, in hopes that they may have an unused chair. If I'm successful at getting someone to donate a chair, would you be open to receiving it on behalf of Matt?

Gentrie told me that she was hesitant to approach Matt about the chair, as he had just been released from the hospital a few days prior and was still not feeling well, but she replied with the following:

You are so sweet! Chance encounters are really just blessings. Matt’s chair has to be a power chair and if you come across one his size that someone isn't using, well it will definitely be a God thing. Which I completely believe can happen. He has a push chair, but since he doesn't have enough trunk support to use it unsupervised (he falls out of it too easily) while I'm at work... he can't drive from it. Regardless, it warms my heart that you would even make the request.

So, I immediately messaged three of my peers to include Stacy, whose veteran husband is paralyzed and needs a power chair just like Matt. I asked:

Odd question, but does Chris have a wheelchair he doesn't use anymore? We met a young man the other day that was injured when he was a minor. He doesn't qualify for Medicare because of that. Anyway, he's in a ten year old wheelchair that’s so broken down that he's continually getting pressure sores. I'm trying to find anyone that may have a chair they're not using anymore. Any help would be appreciated.

Stacy wrote back:

Wouldn't it be great if we could get them a new chair? Chris has two power chairs. His new one is in for repairs as the airlines damaged it. After he gets it back he won't "need" a "back up" chair. He went six  years and functioned JUST fine with only one power chair! I’m going to work my wifely mojo on him. Then we would be able to give him a new chair and tank chair to get him back to good.  

Over the next six days, the three of us messaged back and forth gathering information from one another regarding chair features, measurements, weight, cushion sizing, pictures of the wheelchair, etc. At this point, I didn’t want to share their names due to privacy reasons which made me the common denominator! So, when Stacy would ask me a question, I’d ask Gentrie and then I’d respond back to Stacy. I toggled back and forth on personal messaging trying not to mix up all three of our conversations. I was so excited to make this happen, but I also knew that there was the chance that Matt may not want any part of our conspiring. I was trying to not get ahead of myself, although I’ll admit that I did have some of my ego involved in making this happen. If it did take place, then I would get to witness the power of my actions and the generosity of my peers.

Then the following message came from Gentrie, one week later, on Friday evening:

"Guess what!? I actually decided to go ahead and mention it to Matt. He immediately said yes. I can't believe it. He never makes decisions quickly. I mean I can believe it b/c he needs it. It makes me simultaneously happy that he agreed and sad b/c that further tells me how much he is in need. I'm overwhelmed...by your spirit, Stacy and Chris' and then Matts' immediate response. Stacy friended me on FB yesterday so I can let her know BUT I'm sure it will bring you joy to let her know first since this is a direct impact of YOUR sweet actions...let me know."

I was ecstatic. I read her message twice and then I read it aloud to my husband. I think at this point he was tired of hearing me talk about the power chair, because I had read every Facebook conversation to him over the course of the week along with every single thought I had surrounding it.  I felt in my heart that meeting Gentrie and Matt was not a chance encounter, but an encounter orchestrated by God. As a Christian, I felt my actions were meant to make a difference in whatever capacity. Delivery still had to be arranged and I lived two hours away, which meant I wouldn’t be present for the hand-off. I really wanted to be a part of it, but I reminded myself that this event wasn’t about me.

Sunday afternoon, Stacy and Chris delivered the chairs and had the opportunity to meet Gentrie and Matt for the first time.  Not only was Chris donating his gently-used power chair, but he was also donating a tank chair that would get around outdoors for things like hunting and fishing. It’s relevant to point out that a power chair typically cost fifty thousand dollars or more depending on different features. A tank chair can cost anywhere from fifteen thousand up to twenty-five thousand, so this was a huge blessing that lifted a financial burden off of Gentrie and Matt, while at the same time giving both of them some much needed hope.

This is where my actions cascaded to Stacy, who over the course of the afternoon realized Matt didn’t have a reliable vehicle. He’s been fighting the government system for over two years to get his unsafe truck repaired. This leaves him virtually housebound when Gentrie is working or traveling for business, which she has done twenty-eight times in the past ten months. Stacy had experience in fundraising so she quickly jumped into action by starting a “Go Fund Me” campaign, which is based on the premise of crowd-funding.  The goal was originally to raise at least thirty thousand dollars to buy Matt an adapted van among other things. Stacy not only started the fundraising, but she also called the local FOX news television station and spoke to a reporter about airing the story.

So, Tuesday morning, all six of us met at Gentrie’s home to be interviewed by FOX channel 4. It was surreal to be sitting in her home when we had only met nine days prior and spoke on the phone one time since meeting. Everything was happening so fast and yet here all of us were in her living room getting ready to be interviewed for that evening’s five o’clock news. Although Gentrie and Matt weren’t part of our wounded veteran community, they still had similar struggles in common. Those struggles united us and made them part of our family.  All of this was happening, because I chose to listen to my heart and move beyond my comfort zone, which lead to Stacy doing the same. The power of one now turned into the power of two people making an impact.

The power of two people has currently led to close to two-hundred people making a difference. Twenty-three days into the “Go Fund Me” campaign and the donations total $18,325 which was funded by one hundred and seventy-three people, many of them virtual strangers. Those strangers were making a difference by being part of a bigger movement, stepping out of their comfort zone. Over time, more and more people will decide to make a  donation, which will eventually lead to the purchase of a safe vehicle for Matt.

So often, it's easier to look at the world and only see the negatives. We see the darkness that surrounds us and wonder how we could possibly do anything to impact the majority. But if we believe that notion, then we might as well give up, and if we give up then we’re part of the darkness. I challenge you to be the light. I challenge you to be the person who smiles at a stranger and possibly alters their mood, or buys your co-worker a cup of coffee, donate to a local charity or volunteer in your community. If you do any of those things, I believe that you'll see the power of one person making a difference. It starts with you.

*To see the Dallas news interview go to: FOX 4 News interview
*To donate to Matthew go to:  http://www.gofundme.com/hpacds

In Two Places

She sits on the burgundy, leather sofa with her reading glasses on while immersed in a Dean Koontz novel. Her head is tilted in the way that older people do when wearing bifocals. I ask her a question, but she doesn’t hear me. I ask again with more volume to my voice. “What?” she answers. It’s the first time I realize that her hearing isn’t what it was when I saw her two years ago.

I watch him casting the fishing line across our pond, while I stand at the front window inside our home. He fractured his right arm 4 weeks before this visit and it’s the first time he’s taken a chance to cast the line in hopes of catching “the big one.” When he came to visit last year, a big catfish broke his line and swam away! His original plan was to help us with numerous projects around the property, but due to doctor’s orders, he’s restricted to lifting no more than 2 pounds. I’m fairly certain that the catfish’ in our pond are more than 2 pounds. As far as the projects are concerned, I can get them done later with someone else's help and the reality is that having his company is more important.

She’s organized, structured and analytical, not leaving anything to chance. She’s a perfectionist to the end, not missing any details. He’s enjoys being outdoors working on a project or in the garden. He struggles with staying away from snack foods like ice cream, baked goods and hot tamales candy. They’re both compassionate, generous and love their family. Also, I have to mention that although they’re not from the south, they love sweet tea! I forget that I have all these traits in common, until they are both in my presence.

These two people are my parents. I have the pleasure of visiting with them only once every year or two. I hope they’ll forgive me for saying that when they arrived this time, I was reminded of their age. For me, seeing them so rarely, I keep them safe in my mind as I saw them last. It’s easy for me to stay in my denial about the fact that they’re aging and with that comes health concerns. A year or two makes a big difference, especially now that they’re in their late 60’s. In the past year, two of my friends had a parent pass away and I don’t take for granted that mine are still alive. I can still call them and ask for their advice or simply call to say “I love you and miss you.”

Like so many military families, whether active duty or retired, our families are far away. We spend too many holidays without them and although neighbors or friends may invite us to their homes, it’s not the same. Of course we appreciate the offer and the companionship, but our families are being missed in our heart. At a friend’s house, I don’t think I’d get away with talking loud, bickering or eating the last piece of dessert. When we spend holidays with our families we can get away with leaving dishes in the sink or letting the dogs lick the plates, but don’t think for a minute that your friends would appreciate it!

This morning my parents and I said our goodbye’s before they headed off for a 5 day drive home. As I have done so many times in the past, when I would say goodbye to friends from a military move or when I had the rare chance to go home for a visit, I said my goodbye as quickly as possible. No sense in delaying the inevitable since it’s the last thing I want to be doing. Although we got on each others nerves a few times over the three week period (what family wouldn’t?) I start to get teary as I hug them and wonder when I’ll see them again. I think of how much I miss those hugs and wish I could have that safe place more often,  like I did when I was a kid. 

Unfortunately, they won’t be with me for this year’s holidays, but I’ll cherish the time I spent with them and the memories we created: great meals together,  exploring new places around town to include the new bakery and walks around our ranch. As my dad so eloquently said to me years ago, when I was leaving my childhood home and going back to my adult home to be with my husband, he said “You’re heart is in two places.”  He was so right with that statement, because my heart IS always in two places.