Military families are a special breed.
.My dad got orders to Command and General Staff College at Ft.
Leavenworth in 1969. We moved cross country in a Ford 150 with a camper
and a 1963 VW and discovered our off-post government housing was a
converted basement about a mile from 'the projects'. Directly in front
of our new abode was a KFC and a Taco Grande, a toxic combo that
compounded with the Leavenworth City Dump, which was across the busy
highway. It was a slice of heaven to me--chicken and tacos in the front
yard.
Pop ordered a big bait of tacos from the Taco Grande, which my brother, sister, and I tore into with reckless abandon. These were the real deal; good greasy double tortillas that are all the rage now. (My favorite menu item became their famous 'taco burger' basically taco meat on a hamburger bun. Yeah I've always eaten junky food.) I just couldn't understand why my mom was crying as we were eating these tacos in our camper. My dad was fresh off a tour from Vietnam, we were beginning an 11 month tour in a new strange land, Leavenworth KS, living in a basement, and we were eating greasy tacos! What could be better than this? While I didn't get her demeanor, I did get that something wasn't right.
I attended 8th grade in a large city school where the students met in mass after school at a burger joint or in an alley to watch fights. These were old fashioned fist fights. Guns and knives were not the rage...at least not in 1969. My red Schwinn Typhoon bike was stolen and recovered a few times, so we decided it was best for me to take the city bus to school. I have never forgotten the bitter Kansas winds in the winter and the involuntary shaking I had waiting on that bus. Not whining, believe me, the sledding down snow covered hills on Post were well worth the chill. I loved showing off to Faith Ann Farmer, whose dad was also attending the school at Ft. Leavenworth.
The year went by quickly. I ran track in the spring and became close friends with my relay team, guys that lived in the projects just above our home. A self proclaimed tough guy tried to pick a fight with me in art class one day and my boys from the projects near 'bout killed him. Clint, Jerome, and Willie were my boys. The art teacher, Mr. Wattenburg, sent the perpetrator to the office for his protection and we all went back to drawing futuristic cars.
I remember this kid from Columbia named Carlos, who in broken English, let my 3 black friends know that he liked them from 'best to worst' due to the pigment of their skin. Clint the lightest was first, Jerome was second, and Willie was third. All 3 of my friends laughed out loud, and Clint and Jerome teased Willie unmercifully. I laughed too, because I thought just how stupid this kid was. I asked Willie later if Carlos had hurt his feelings. He just shrugged and rolled his eyes. I thought Carlos was a spoiled, flabby, soft, little jerk.
It seemed we left as we arrived; like the wind. I said my goodbyes to the guys in the hood, the kids from foreign countries (even that jerk Carlos) living nearby whose dads were liaison officers at the school, and we headed back to Ft. Rucker AL., the home of Army Aviation, the final destination of my dad's career that started as a MASH pilot in Korea. The small town of New Brockton, AL where my 86 year old parents still live, eventually became my folks' permanent homestead after decades of living like gypsies across the landscape of America.
Life as a military family is a challenge, to say the least. My mom had a particularly hard year in Kansas. I didn't know it at the time; I was simply rolling with the punches and enjoying life as a 13 year old kid eating tacos and exploring the city dump. I was constantly bringing home jars of critters, mostly tadpoles and crawdads, that I found in the pools of water. But my mom on the verge of a breakdown, pined to be back at Ft. Rucker. Somehow my dad, the great man that he is, made it happen.
We returned to the Army Post of my birth (I am the only Alabama native in my family, born at Ft. Rucker in 1956) in 1970 and I was able to attend Enterprise City Schools from 9th-12th grades. The local kids embraced me as one of their own. It is my adopted hometown. My folks live about 8 miles from Enterprise and do all their shopping, banking, and business there. My dad is no longer Col. Vosel, he is Mr. Don. And at 60 years old, I am an adopted son of Enterprise AL. It is as close to a hometown as an Army Brat can ever hope to have. The local kids loved me like I had been there all my life. And many of them still provide a solidity to my life and for that, I am very thankful.
.My dad got orders to Command and General Staff College at Ft.
Leavenworth in 1969. We moved cross country in a Ford 150 with a camper
and a 1963 VW and discovered our off-post government housing was a
converted basement about a mile from 'the projects'. Directly in front
of our new abode was a KFC and a Taco Grande, a toxic combo that
compounded with the Leavenworth City Dump, which was across the busy
highway. It was a slice of heaven to me--chicken and tacos in the front
yard. Pop ordered a big bait of tacos from the Taco Grande, which my brother, sister, and I tore into with reckless abandon. These were the real deal; good greasy double tortillas that are all the rage now. (My favorite menu item became their famous 'taco burger' basically taco meat on a hamburger bun. Yeah I've always eaten junky food.) I just couldn't understand why my mom was crying as we were eating these tacos in our camper. My dad was fresh off a tour from Vietnam, we were beginning an 11 month tour in a new strange land, Leavenworth KS, living in a basement, and we were eating greasy tacos! What could be better than this? While I didn't get her demeanor, I did get that something wasn't right.
I attended 8th grade in a large city school where the students met in mass after school at a burger joint or in an alley to watch fights. These were old fashioned fist fights. Guns and knives were not the rage...at least not in 1969. My red Schwinn Typhoon bike was stolen and recovered a few times, so we decided it was best for me to take the city bus to school. I have never forgotten the bitter Kansas winds in the winter and the involuntary shaking I had waiting on that bus. Not whining, believe me, the sledding down snow covered hills on Post were well worth the chill. I loved showing off to Faith Ann Farmer, whose dad was also attending the school at Ft. Leavenworth.
The year went by quickly. I ran track in the spring and became close friends with my relay team, guys that lived in the projects just above our home. A self proclaimed tough guy tried to pick a fight with me in art class one day and my boys from the projects near 'bout killed him. Clint, Jerome, and Willie were my boys. The art teacher, Mr. Wattenburg, sent the perpetrator to the office for his protection and we all went back to drawing futuristic cars.
I remember this kid from Columbia named Carlos, who in broken English, let my 3 black friends know that he liked them from 'best to worst' due to the pigment of their skin. Clint the lightest was first, Jerome was second, and Willie was third. All 3 of my friends laughed out loud, and Clint and Jerome teased Willie unmercifully. I laughed too, because I thought just how stupid this kid was. I asked Willie later if Carlos had hurt his feelings. He just shrugged and rolled his eyes. I thought Carlos was a spoiled, flabby, soft, little jerk.
It seemed we left as we arrived; like the wind. I said my goodbyes to the guys in the hood, the kids from foreign countries (even that jerk Carlos) living nearby whose dads were liaison officers at the school, and we headed back to Ft. Rucker AL., the home of Army Aviation, the final destination of my dad's career that started as a MASH pilot in Korea. The small town of New Brockton, AL where my 86 year old parents still live, eventually became my folks' permanent homestead after decades of living like gypsies across the landscape of America.
Life as a military family is a challenge, to say the least. My mom had a particularly hard year in Kansas. I didn't know it at the time; I was simply rolling with the punches and enjoying life as a 13 year old kid eating tacos and exploring the city dump. I was constantly bringing home jars of critters, mostly tadpoles and crawdads, that I found in the pools of water. But my mom on the verge of a breakdown, pined to be back at Ft. Rucker. Somehow my dad, the great man that he is, made it happen.
We returned to the Army Post of my birth (I am the only Alabama native in my family, born at Ft. Rucker in 1956) in 1970 and I was able to attend Enterprise City Schools from 9th-12th grades. The local kids embraced me as one of their own. It is my adopted hometown. My folks live about 8 miles from Enterprise and do all their shopping, banking, and business there. My dad is no longer Col. Vosel, he is Mr. Don. And at 60 years old, I am an adopted son of Enterprise AL. It is as close to a hometown as an Army Brat can ever hope to have. The local kids loved me like I had been there all my life. And many of them still provide a solidity to my life and for that, I am very thankful.
No comments:
Post a Comment