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After dropping the kids off at school, I stopped to speak to another mom. I casually mentioned I was due in May.
Her eyes bugged out and her mouth dropped. "I didn't know you were pregnant!"
So the verdict is in.....
I don't look pregnant. I just look FAT. WHAAAAA
The following is a narrative from Danny*, an Army E-3 Private who served in Iraq. I enjoyed it so much I wanted to share. The events are from his perspective and I've only reworked his words to help the story flow. I am in no-way wishing to disparage any Arm of our Military Forces. The opinions felt by Danny are his own.
Danny and his platoon had just spent 6 days touring the deep deserts of Iraq,
outside of any cities or villages. Their mission was to search for Al Qaeda
camps and insurgents. Sleep was found in small tents pitched on sand and dirt.
Food consisted of MRE rations, untasty supplements but nutritious to keep the
body going. Water was scarce, only for drinking. There were no showers or
toilets.
After their small tour, Danny and his fellow soldiers arrived at a local Air Force Base and were given the privilege to use the facilities. Danny's platoon was eager for real food, showers, and those other comforts denied them while in the open desert.
Danny and a few others decided food was first on the agenda. They were starving. The doors to the D-Fac (Dining Facility) opened and a draft of cool, air-conditioned air hit them. They breathed in with sighs of relief. The heat of the Iraqi summer outside had punished their bodies.
Danny admits he stunk. He hadn't showered in over a week. His clothes were
filthy - sand, dirt, and sweat permeated every pore of his body. But he was
hungry. He unloaded his gear at an available table and together with his fellow
Army soldiers they wolfed down the food. It was the best meal he had eaten in weeks.
As the ebb of hunger began to fade, Danny took a good look at the people in the tables around him. Faces were fresh and clean-shaven; uniforms pressed and boots shiny. The eyes that looked back at him stared. Noses were turned to avoid smelling his stinky group. Annoyance built up as he realized he was getting the shaft. Here was another group of soldiers being treated well. They weren't being exposed to the same conditions. Danny was out in the desert, risking life and limb, eating and breathing the sand daily, while this group sat in their air conditioned units and enjoyed small comforts.
An agreement swept across Danny's group. They all felt the stares and murmurs from the rest of the D-Fac occupants. They were ragtag, dirty, and smelly. They were considered the grunts of the military forces.
Then at the table behind them, one of the young Air Force privates spoke loudly, complaining to his table mate. "I don't believe it. They don't have any nuts at the Sundae Bar. This place sucks."
Danny just shook his head in disbelief. This boy was complaining about
nuts?
For some reason that statement brought out a feeling in Danny he
hadn't felt for a long time. He was proud to be an Army Soldier. Proud to be
out fighting and serving. Proud to be the one spending days in the desert
without any amenities. No, he didn't get nuts on his Sundae Bar, but he got
something else. He had become a man in Iraq.
As he left the tent, Danny walked with his head even higher. Pride in a job well done. Pride in serving his country.
*Of Course, Danny is not his real name.
**Click on the picture to be taken to its owner, Mat. Thanks Mat - even though you don't know I used your picture!
Read all about this Red-Breasted Sapsucker HERE
While sorting through the bills and junk mail, my eyes immediately lit up at the letter. The printed address was blackened out and my current address quickly handwritten off to the side. The return address was unfamiliar to me: Nite from Smalltown USA.
I didn't know any Nite, but I did know someone who used to live in Smalltown USA; One of my husband's friends, his bestman from our wedding. But, his last name was not Nite, and he was currently living in Southern California, enjoying the sunshine. Well, he was 6 months ago last time Dave spoke with him.
I quickly opened the card. Inside was a very belated Christmas card signed Seasons Wings.
"Seasons Wings?" I pondered, wondering if this was some sort of joke.
But, there on the inside cover was a written message
Moved back to Smalltown USA. LONG Story. Changed my name. Nite
It had to be from my husband's friend. Changed his name to Nite? Then, the business card fell out
.
Printed on the back was an address. Nothing more.
When Dave came home he seized upon the card and examined it. "What? Neil changed his name and moved back to Smalltown USA?"
I nodded. Dave looked for a phone number. He quickly sat at the computer and googled "Nite Smith".
"Um, Dave." I pointed out, "He didn't change his name from Neil Smith* to Nite Smith. He changed his name to just Nite. There is no last name. It looks like he pulled a 'Prince' on us."
Dave sat and looked at the screen. "So how am I suppose to get hold of my friend, formerly known as Neil? His e-mail account doesn't work anymore."
I pointed to the paper, "Write him a letter. We'll send it the old fashioned way."
Now I sit and wonder what happened to Neil Smith* and what brought about the name change? I can't wait for Dave to send his letter and for the phone call that may come. Why Nite? Why a Raven on a calling card? Why move back to Smalltown USA? Questions that need answers.
*not his former real name, whereas Nite is his real new name.
GOING
GOING
GONE
Hey, Buttercup, What are you doing?
Playin' in the mud.
Are you making mud Pies?
No, Mom. I'm making Mud Poop.
* I need to learn not to ask so many questions.
Last weekend, Dave and I attended The Beard of Avon - a play based on the assumption that Shakespeare was NOT the real author of his plays, but a front-man for other various writers who wished to remain anonymous. (we enjoyed the play - witty, humorous, thought-provoking).
After the play, Dave and I had the following discussion:
Dave - Well, if you really think about it, there is NO way one man could have written all those plays and sonnets.
Me - Why not? Look at Mozart and what he accomplished in his short lifetime. Shakespeare was a genius and very talented. It is totally possible.
Dave - Composing music is totally different than writing literature. Writing comes from experiences and there is NO WAY that one man experienced all those different scenarios.
Me - WHAT?!? Writing comes from imagination. Do you think that all those Sci-Fi and Fantasy authors experienced what they've written about?
Dave - (laughing) I bet Isaac Asimov was abducted by aliens, several times.
Me - Seriously, Dave. Fiction comes from imagination. Did Shakespeare need to kill a man to write about it? No. Did he have to be stranded on an island to write about it? No.
Dave - Sure an author writes from imagination - but no matter what, all writing has basis on what they've experienced.
Me - Come on. I can tell you right now that when I wrote in my book about a demon ripping apart one of my characters, I have NEVER experienced that in my lifetime.
Dave - No, but the settings, the surroundings, and some of the characters are all from your experience.
Me - So, what are you saying then? Shakespeare couldn't have written about Vernonia because he had never been there?
Dave - Yes...and it's Verona. Vernonia is a town in Oregon.
Me - oh....well, I could write about Africa not having ever been there.
Dave - You have access to the internet, tv, and books that show you what Africa looks like. Thus, that is your experience. That is what you draw from.
Me - Shakespeare could have met people from Verona who told him about it.
Dave - Maybe. But I agree with the theory. I doubt one man wrote all those plays. They are masterpieces, every single one. How many can one person come up with?
Me - Look at Stephen King. He has written a TON of books.
Dave - Stephen King's books are NOT masterpieces. They are general fiction for the masses.
Me - Okay, you are right about that. Actually, I doubt Shakespeare wrote it all. I was just playing Devil's Advocate....but I still think it is possible. Imagination is an incredible thing.
So, what is your opinion on this? Was Shakespeare the author of the material? Can an author write strictly from imagination without including their own experiences? Inquiring minds want to know (actually, just mine).
sigh
In the past, I occasionally received e-mails from the dubious, informing me I've won various lotteries or befriended a generous benefactor.
But now my yahoo e-mail account has become overrun. I've won the Irish Lottery, UK Camelot Lottery, Euro Lottery, Butt-crack Lottery, AND many Siamese orphans wish my generous nature to help them unload their billions of dollars.
What's a girl to do? Shut down her account or wait it out?
sigh
