by Jody Pardo
My mother waited patiently with her own mug in her hands as I dressed my coffee and raised my mug to my lips to take the first sip. The fresh farm cream was at room temperature and no doubt from that morning’s milking so it neither watered down the coffee nor chilled it. The smooth hot liquid coated my tongue like liquid fire then warmed my throat on the way down. It was better than anything Starbucks had to offer—Mom’s rocket fuel, fresh cream, and old-fashioned sugar cubes, not those little packets of cancer, for the perfect balance of warmth, strength, and sweetness.
My moan of delight returned my mother’s smile to her face, and she took a sip of her own coffee before the barrage of questions began.
“So, tell me everything. Are you okay? Are you done? How long are you home for? You didn’t get hurt, did you? Were you with those guys who caught Bin Laden?”
Her rapid fire questions left me dizzy, and I waited for her to take a breath before attempting to answer any of them or try and get a word in edgewise. My dad leaned back in his chair and watched. I’m sure the conversation was amusing to him not being in the hot seat for once.
“I’m fine, Mom. I’ve been blessed.”
“Yes, you have, son. So, tell us, where have you been?” my dad asked.
“A little bit of everywhere, really.”
“But you have been gone so long, Peter.” My mom was getting herself worked up.
“I wasn’t overseas the whole time, just the last few years consistently.”
“So, start at the beginning, son.”
“After you guys came to see me at Fort Sill for graduation, they sent me to Iowa for a little while and everything was a whirlwind after that. I was just a Reservist but they sure didn’t treat me as one. After AIT, I did some drills on the weekends and took a few more classes at the local college to get some food inspection certificates. The Army paid for all that, then boom—they sent me overseas.”
“Where did you go?”
“Where didn’t they send me? I can’t even pronounce some of the names, and I don’t even know if I am allowed to say half of them if I could. In three years, I saw four continents including Europe, Africa, and Asia, and places like Kazakhstan, Qatar, and Germany.”
“Oh, Daddy, I always wanted to go to Europe.”
“He wasn’t sightseeing, dear; he was defending our country. Did you get to see anything besides airports and barracks?”
"I got to see different countries, ate a lot of different foods. The local markets were great. You just have to be careful; it's hot, and they don't have the best food handling practices."
My father chuckled. "That's all you have to say is don't get food poisoning?"
"Well, the toilets aren't exactly the best, either, so it's a vicious cycle that is best avoided. Let's just leave it at that."
“You’re not Reserves anymore. What happened?”
“War happened. I had been deployed already, so they didn’t have to train me for much except a new job. I came back stateside and changed jobs and went active duty.”
“So, you’re not cooking? I thought you loved to cook?” my mom pleaded.
“Anyone can pour liquid eggs and check expiration dates, Mom. They needed people to operate and maintain Patriot missiles. That’s what I do.”
“That sounds dangerous.” Her hands grasped the rooster dishtowel to her face as sheer terror overtook her face.
“So then what? Where did you go next?”
“I stayed stateside for a little while at Fort Bliss, Texas, Fort Hood, Texas, went back to Fort Sill, Oklahoma since I am artillery, and then I have been back and forth from Kuwait for the last five years or so. Now they have me attached to Fort Sill again. I’m on leave for a little while. I have some decisions to make as to whether I re-up or not. I have a month or so to sleep on it.”
"What happens in a month? You never had so much leave before."
"I came back before most of my unit to set things up back here for when everyone comes back. Once that task was done, I was able to extend my leave a little bit while the rest of my unit returns back stateside. It will give the other guys their downtime as well."
“Well, I’m just glad you are home, son.” My father sighed heavily, letting out the breath he was holding waiting for the other shoe to drop. My cliff notes version of my military career was over, and mom’s coffee was waning. My father picked up on my exhaustion.
“I’m sure you could probably sleep for the whole month and then some by the looks of you. Anna, let the boy rest before supper. He is exhausted. We have plenty of time.”
My father wasn’t a big talker, but when he did, mom listened.
“Okay then. Supper will be ready at six thirty. You go rest, sweetheart. I set fresh towels on your bed and freshened up your room and opened up the windows this week. You go on upstairs and holler if you need anything.” She stood and held my face in her hands. “I’m so happy you came home to me.” Before she started crying, she turned away to tidy up the coffee mugs and start on the dishes. My father placed his hand on my shoulder, and before guiding me to the door, I saw my mother dab her face with the length of her apron.
“I’m not sure I can lift that bag of yours, but I will try.”
“I got it, Dad, thanks. You didn’t turn my room into some man cave nekkid sitting room did you?”
“Nah. Your mother wouldn’t let me. My man cave is still out in the garage. She wouldn’t let me touch one thing if I tried.”
“So much for wearing the pants,” I joked.
“Pick your battles, son, pick your battles. I've been married to that woman for forty years. You think the Iraqis were a tough bunch? Try being married to your mother.” He gave me a hearty slap on the back and walked in the opposite direction to the end of the hall to my parents’ bedroom leaving me standing in front of the door to mine.
I turned the knob, and the door squeaked open to my childhood bedroom. Nothing had changed, just like dad said. It was clean and all, but everything was exactly as I had left it.
I threw my bag down on the bed, and it squeaked in protest. It was the same queen-size bed I’d had since I was about thirteen years old and had a serious growth spurt that left my feet hanging off the bed of my twin. Now, it seemed huge and luxurious compared to the cots and racks I had grown accustomed to sleeping in. As I pulled my stuff from my sack, it was like a Mexican clown car—I managed to fit everything I owned in one sack and my backpack.
First, my sleeping bag expanded to its full potential but I left it for the moment. I would roll it up as soon as I got squared away. My PTs were right on top for easy access, then in tight layers, my ACUs—one winter weight and one summer weight—undershirts, unit t-shirts, boxers, socks sat on top of my Alice belt, my helmet, tactical gloves, body armor, ESAPI plates with the locked box that held my personal sidearm all the way at the bottom. I stopped at the clothing layers leaving my equipment and my weapon in the sack and walked over to my small walk-in closet.
My old high school jerseys and dress shirts hung on one rack and my everyday clothes on the other side with jeans neatly folded on the shelf above. I didn’t even know if the stuff still fit or not. I put my sack in the corner of my closet and moved all the old clothes to one rack leaving one free for use, and then I fished out any empty hangers so I could hang my clothes.
I kept the wooden hangers that were issued with my blues so those were able to get hung right away. The rest I neatly fit on the hangers and placed in the closet. One side was my past, the other my present. I looked at the shelves stacked high with memory-filled boxes and sports memorabilia.
Those things seemed so trivial. I didn’t even remember what was in them anymore. I didn’t miss it while I was gone. It was moments like this that made me question myself and why those things were important.
Looking at the cluster of hangers, it bothered me, so I spaced out the hangers until they were equally spread. Ready for inspection. How ridiculous was I being? I shook my head. No one was going to inspect my roo
m. While I was tempted to scramble the clothes again, the soldier in me couldn’t bring myself to do it; I simply closed the door.
The top drawer of my dresser contained some old things. I simply pushed them to the back of the drawer, scooped up my boxers and socks and placed them neatly inside.
I sat down on my bed and took my boots off placing them at the end of the bed. Despite the warm temperature, I grabbed my sleeping bag and used it as a blanket lying on top of the quilt. The fresh scent of my mom's fabric softener and the familiar musk of my sleeping bag was a sweet sleep tonic and I was fast asleep.
My dad banged on the door, and the harsh sound had me jump to attention next to my bed.
"You awake, son?" he called through the door.
“Yes, Sir.”
"Your mother said to wake you. Dinner is ready and the Smiths should be here any minute. Come down when you are ready."
"Yes, Sir." I shook my head at myself still standing next to my bed.
Old habits die hard.
For the last sixteen years, I had gotten dressed in three minutes flat, ready for inspection. Now, I stood in front of my closet and stared at the clothes in bewilderment. What to wear? Since I had been deployed for the last six years of my enlistment, I rarely dressed in civilian clothes. I had some, but they consisted of lounge pants for sleeping and lying about or gym clothes. Neither of which I thought would be appropriate for dinner with the Smiths and my parents. I settled on a pair of blue jeans and a navy and white button-down shirt. It was a safe medium.
I had a few pair of shoes and boots at the bottom of my closet but Lord only knew if they even fit anymore, so I tugged on and laced my service boots. They were dark-tan, well-worn, and at least my feet would be comfortable during dinner. It felt like Halloween and I was off to a costume party. Like a little kid in a Superman costume and the only thing that would give him away would be his light up sneakers that glowed in the dark with each step.
I looked in the mirror on the back of my door and didn't recognize the guy staring back at me. I didn’t know who he was. When I left, I was a lanky college graduate whose biggest aspiration was hanging at the drive-in burger spot with my friends in Dad’s pickup eating onion rings on the back of the tailgate. I tried to get a job with my engineering degree but I didn’t even know what I wanted to engineer. My tan undershirt poked out through the V of my button down, and it grounded me. Underneath, I was me. A soldier. I just didn’t know what the costume was, and it made me itchy and fidgety.
“Peter,” my dad called to me from the stairway.
“Be right there, Dad.”
I scrubbed my short hair with my hand. It was still a fresh cut and didn’t need any product to keep it under control. There wasn't much hair there to fuss with. Just the way I liked it.
As I descended the steps, the Smiths had just arrived and my mother was greeting them at the door as they hung their light jackets on the bench hooks in the foyer.
Mr. Smith spotted me first as my mother hugged Mrs. Smith in greeting. “Peter, look at you. All grown up. Come here, man.”
I extended my hand for a shake. “Nice to see you again, Sir.” He grasped my hand tightly and then pulled me in for a hug.
“Oh, come on, I have known you since you were in diapers. We are family. You are how old now? I think you can call me Lance.”
“Yes, Sir.” He looked at me with one raised brow until I corrected myself. “Good to be home, um, Lance.”
“That’s better. Glad to see you back home and healthy. Now, let’s put some food in our bellies. Let’s see what your momma cooked up. It smells delicious in here.”
“It’s nothing special. Just some of Peter’s favorites. I made some beef stew, cornbread dressing, and a cherry pie for dessert.”
“Well, I'm glad I wore my eating pants then. You see, Kim. You wanted me to put on those pressed Wranglers. I would have never been able to enjoy dinner in those. These got room for pie.” Mrs. Smith just shook her head as Mr. Smith ran his thumbs around the waistband of his jeans demonstrating the available room and followed my mom into the kitchen to help her serve.
Most nights, if it was just the family, we would eat in the kitchen, but we had guests and Mom brought out her rooster china and we sat in the formal dining room. It wasn’t huge, but most of the year it sat idle and became a place for Mom to work on her sewing projects where she could spread her stuff across the table.
Dad took his place at the head of the table with Mr. Smith—um, Lance—seated to his right. Mrs. Smith sat beside him, and I sat to my dad’s left. With my mom at the other end of the table, it left one empty chair.
“Where is Beth?” I asked, looking between my mom and dad.
“She is on her way. That girl is always late. Sometimes I think she does it just to upset me.” My mother sighed. I wasn’t quite sure what happened while I was gone, but apparently everything Beth did was some passive aggressive act of rebellion.
“Send her to boot. It will straighten her right out,” I joked.
“Your sister? In the military? Can you just imagine? That will be the day.”
“You're right. She would be court marshaled before too long.”
“That girl is gonna be the death of me.”
The door slammed, and Beth came bounding into the dining room with a grocery bag on her arm.
“Who’s dying?”
“Beth, is that any way to greet our guests?”
“Hey, Lance, Kim, how are you guys?” Apparently, Beth was on a first name basis with them, but Mrs. Smith flinched at the use of her first name. Beth was on a roll. “I brought ice cream for the pie. I’m gonna go put it up. Great, just in time for dinner.”
She bounded into the kitchen, and my mom sighed heavily as her head slumped down.
“Lance, would you bless our table?” my mom asked quietly.
“I would be honored.” Lance grasped his wife’s hand and extended the other to my dad. My dad placed his hand over mine on the table and Beth plopped down beside me and held my other hand. My mom closed the circle with Mrs. Smith and Beth and Lance began to say grace.
“Oh, Heavenly Father, please bless this family and table of your children and bless the food that is laid before you. We thank you for all your generous gifts and bringing Peter home safe and sound. We know that it is only under your guidance and grace we are protected. Let this meal nourish our bodies and our spirits as we are whole again in your loving light. In Jesus name we pray, Amen.” A round of Amens sounded the table, and my Dad initiated the meal by dishing the first scoop of my mom’s beef stew onto my dish.
“Eat up, son.”
“Beef stew? Of course, Peter’s favorite. I should have known.” My sister rolled her eyes as she served herself. I was starting to see a pattern.
“What? You don’t like it? You eat MREs for more than a day and you will give your left arm for some of Mom’s beef stew.”
“I’m just sick of beef. Variety is the spice of life.”
“Beth. Bite your tongue. Beef keeps food on our table and a roof over our heads.”
“Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like chicken parmigiana every once in a while.” She pouted.
Some things never changed. My sister had rebel blood in her. Reminiscent of our youth, I couldn’t help but razz her. I finished chewing the butter soft morsel of beef that had no doubt simmered all day in the pot, moaned loudly, and smiled widely at my mom.
“Mom, this is awesome. Thank you.”
Mom dabbed at her mouth with her napkin before responding, but her blush was the answer. “You're welcome, Peter. I know how much you like beef stew.”
“I don’t just like beef stew it’s my favorite. I love it. Tell Beth who’s number one.”
“Really, jerk, you’re gonna pull the firstborn card?”
“Go ahead, Mom, tell her.”
“You are, of course, Peter. Now, eat your stew before it gets cold.”
I winked at my sister who, if I didn’t know any bette
r, had steam emanating from her ears. She stabbed at her plate and glared at me as she shoved a large forkful in her mouth.
Lance chuckled at the display and redirected the conversation to my father and the newest calves that had recently arrived.
The rest of dinner was a blur of conversation and mild questioning. I was used to people’s curiosities, and I had pre-canned responses that were politically correct and not too gory or descript that could be acceptable for dinner conversation. While I had a stomach of steel and had seen more than my fair share of destruction and death, it was just not polite conversation over dinner nor something I wanted to get into some political debate over.
As we indulged in Mom’s pies, I was thankful for my own loose blue jeans. I totally related to Lance’s comment about eating pants. I was going to need bigger pants soon if Mom kept feeding me like this. Beth scooped her ice cream contribution onto everyone's pie and Mom served her rocket fuel coffee ensuring the night would continue in the living room for more conversation as they visited a while longer.
After devouring two pieces of pie a la mode, I excused myself and got some fresh air on the front porch. The night air was crisp, but I was full-bellied and warm with coffee so the chill didn’t bother me. The screen door banged behind me, and Lance joined me at my side for his after dinner mint of dip. He tapped his can of Skoal and pinched a bit in his fingers, gingerly placing it in the crook of his gum on the side of his cheek.
“Your mom sure does know how to cook.”
“Yeah, I missed it. I’m so full right now, if I sit, I may not get up again.”
“Need to find yourself a good woman that can cook. I love my wife to death, but good thing I’m a simple man and have plenty of beef around. Can't mess up a steak too bad, you hear me?”
“Mrs. Smith always threw nice parties.”
“Anyone can boil an egg and make little finger sandwiches. I’m telling you, find a woman that can cook, and you will be a happy man. Looks fade, but if she can keep your belly full, you are a blessed man.”