Daily Dicky

I remember only feint images of the processing station. My mother sitting next to me on her birthday, both of us mostly silent. Happy Feet had played about three times that day and I still had no idea what the plot was, though I was hardly paying attention. My mother was being very strong as she has always been, but I could tell she was holding back. I remember raising my right hand and swearing in without hesitation as my family watched. They told me they were proud and that I would do well, but somehow I knew that wasn't going to be a problem. The next thing I know is I am being handed a package that contained all of the medical records of everyone that was going with me, and was given charge of making sure everyone made it to the first plane. This made me anxious and slightly paranoid, but I suppose that was the quality they were looking for.

I was sat next to a young girl on my first flight who was on my list. She was sweet and nervous, and somehow that calmed me down as I was now trying to calm her. I told her that my brother was also in the military and how proud I was of him, I also told her that my brother said basic training was easy. Somehow having someone frightened next to me made me strong, I wasn't my only responsibility so I had no time to be concerned with me. The flight attendant was a familiarly scrawny young man, who took an interest in our endeavors while overhearing the two of us converse. He was genuine, kind, and grateful, he then gave us candy and wished us well. We arrived safe and sound, I handed off the package, said goodbye to my travel companion, and was placed on a buss with one other boy.

Basic Training.
(I do not intend to go into detail, only briefly explain some significant people and minor events).
My new acquaintance on the buss, Mr. Jessup, and myself arrived a few days late and near midnight. We were handed off to a couple of military folk who proceeded to call me Spanky (I assumed it was a regular favorite for the scrawny type, and I took no offense). We were handed ham sandwiches in air tight sealed plastic bags, and a Capri-Sun (the last sugar other than syrup that I would have for five weeks). We were then loaded on another buss, told to sit in the back, and were driven no more than two minutes to our destination.

Staff Sergeant Devourney.
Standing on the drill pad of the 326 Training Squadron "Bulldogs", was a five foot five hulk of intimidation. His height was barely noticeable though, as the very ground he walked on cringed at his step, his energy could not be contained within the strongest of contingency shelters. He was an example of a warrior, and one of the only men I have ever feared and admired. He stomped onto the bus and roared an incoherent tangle of instructions. We followed as best we could, until we realized we had run about half way across the drill pad. I looked back to see our Military Training Instructor raise his arms to shrug in disbelief, then walk inside mentally defeated by our stupidity. A victory that wouldn't last long. when we returned we were made to point at a locker and yell the number, then point to our bed several times over. We were told to get a shower that lasted all of seven seconds, I returned drenched and freezing. The Sergeant turned to me, noticing my shivering figure, and said "You look like a chiwawa the way you shiver, that's your name! Chiwawa!". I wanted to remain nameless as long as possible, but my fluttering spark of a dream, an easy ride, was stomped to dust in less than 20 minutes time.

I became known very quickly among the flight, but it wasn't until I proved myself that things improved drastically. I was on Latrine crew (bathroom clean up duty) and the trainee in charge decided to take a break along with the rest of the crew, I however continued to work diligently. Sergeant Devourney entered like a Juggernaut waltzing through a wall. The look of horror on my peers faces was priceless. We were all put on our faces (made to do push-ups) while he ridiculed them. Then he spoke about me, not as Chiwawa but as Trainee Wilcox, and how my work ethic was an example to follow. I was dubbed the Latrine Queen (a less than honorable title, but better than Chiwawa). The Sergeant pulled me into his office and said "Wilcox you are the smallest guy here with the exception of Simone, but I want you to be the meanest, most frightening sun of a bitch the world has ever seen. So you yell, you intimidate and don't be afraid to get in peoples faces. I hold you to a higher standard now". I had a mission, I had something to occupy my mind, a goal of taking a rather timid boy and becoming a beast, a Bulldog.

The next month was a yelling and screaming parade of meticulous attention to detail. Every spec of lime deposit had been scrapped clean, every floor tile shined like marble and was clean enough to eat off of. The metal plate at the base of the entry door reflected as well as the cleanest mirror, and I had been the tip of the spear. I have never been so proud of a place to take a poop (eloquent, I know).

I didn't get through basic alone, we were a team. I remember one man in particular, Trainee Fitzgerald. He was our flight leader, and a good guy. He sacrificed sleep to make sure other peoples uniforms were in good order, he helped clean my latrine when we were short on time, and he would listen to peoples problems like a best friend. A lot of the flight owes him for what he did, and I am grateful he was there.

By the end my nickname had changed from Chiwawa to Bulldog, and I was crowned Latrine King (To this day the title is still my only claim to nobility).

Today I stood in my backyard in Weilerbach Germany, looking out over the ducks in the pond. The air was warm with a cool breeze, The sun gently touching the back of my shoulders, The grass was green and moist like a spring morning but the trees were still bare as in the dead of winter.

I, like my Weenie dog Cecily, love my backyard. It is spacious enough to throw a Frisbee, but not so large as to be overwhelming, it has a beautiful little cottage near the back, where I often sit to contemplate whatever is on my mind. That cottage porch has felt more like a home to me than my apartment ever has.

As I stood looking over the pond I am faced with a terrible truth, less than a month from now I will gaze upon that pond for the last time. My things will be gone, my apartment once so full of gadgets and friends and good memories will have empty floors and echos. My life will change again, and it will never be the same. I do welcome change, but I cannot say that this time will be less difficult than the last.

Leaving home the first time.
The night I left the home of my parents in Orange Park Florida, some of my friends came over to see me off. I had great friends and I was sad to leave them and my wonderful family, but only one thing hurt me. It was the voice of my niece, whom I believe was no more than two years at the time. "Where is uncle Reed going?", my heart sank. She had never asked that before. Just two years old and she knew something was changing forever. She didn't know where or why, but she knew I was going away. The look of concern on her face is imprinted in my mind better than any picture I have ever seen, and it is the primary image that haunts me whenever I question if I made the right choice.

The following posts are a small summation of my early adult life.