Home.

Home:  A loaded word with so many meanings for this Army family.

Home:  A structure to live in.  I mentioned in my previous post that there is quite a difference in military housing from installation to installation.  We just moved from Fort Riley, Kansas which in my opinion has the best of the best housing for the lieutenant colonel and up crowd. 

 

 

Enormous, historic homes filled with character and stories.  Hardwood floors, 10 foot ceilings, beautiful moulding, multiple fireplaces, storage galore, beautiful old oak trees, and a neighborhood that rivals Mayberry.  I could go on for days.  We were spoiled and we knew it.  I was reminded of that fact even more so when we arrived at Naval Station Newport, Rhode Island.  We wanted to come here.  We chose to come here.  We didn’t anticipate this type of "unique" military housing. 

 

Hey, post-battalion command, lieutenant colonel families!  This too could be yours if you are stationed at beautiful Naval Station Newport.  Dream big, folks.  Dream big.   A structure to live in: home.

Home:  Our household goods.   Along with our family of 4, this is what makes a house our home.  Mostly collected during our nearly 14 years of marriage, they help to tell the story of our family.  They bring a sense of familiarity to what sometimes feels like outer space when we first move to a new duty station.  Some would probably say I have an unhealthy attachment to my “stuff”.   To those folks I say, “Let’s go shopping!”.  I love a pretty table, a leopard print ottoman, some beautiful lamps, and framed photos of our kids.  I like seasonal décor, dishes, craft supplies, heavy furniture, and big rugs.  What I don’t like is a bill from the government because someone, somewhere in Ikea furniture land, decided on how many pounds of stuff is appropriate to transport based on Tony’s rank.  Give me a damn break.  Right now those household goods are on two semis bound for Rhode Island.  Well, one semi is bound for Rhode Island.  The other one, carrying the majority of our HHGs, is broken down in Indiana and should be headed straight into an east coast snow storm tomorrow morning.   Our household goods:  home.

 

(The parlor is packed.)

 

 

 

(Row after row, column after column.  Fit together like a puzzle.)

 

Home:  Hooah.  Today I pulled up to the gate checkpoint at the Navy base here in Newport.  I was by myself and the young Sailor who checked my military ID card saluted me.  That hasn’t happened since we were stationed at Fort Campbell, KY when MPs used to salute officers’ spouses. (Why did they do that?!)  It made me uncomfortable then as it did today but it reminded me of Fort Campbell, my favorite duty station.  I thought to myself “HOOAH!”.  And then I remembered that had I said it aloud, the young Sailor might not have known what the hell "hooah" meant.  While I am sure Sailors have another word for yes/affirmative/got it/wilco/great/well done, etc., it’s definitely not hooah.  Hooah is an Army thing and Army things, as much as they drive me crazy sometimes, are home.  Hooah:  home.

Home:  Family.  Whether in a beautiful, historic home on Fort Riley or a small, overpriced, and outdated home here in the Newport, RI area, the three people who I share my day to day life with are the “home” that keeps me going.  While they sometimes drive me batty with their constant chatter, workaholic tendencies, with the mysterious spilled milk that makes my new car stink (MUST shampoo soon), their sleeplessness in the hotel we are calling home for now, and their need for food/bathroom/Frozen at the most inopportune times, they are home to me.  They are the reason I worry about the semis carrying their special toys, baby furniture, fishing/hunting gear, and wood working tools.  They are the reason I search high and low for the perfect curtains and bedding for the kids’ rooms so they can have a special, pretty place that is their own.  They are the reason we have an excess of chaffing dishes, drink dispensers, and serving platters to entertain Soldiers and their family members.   They are the reason we stress ourselves out looking for the best house we can afford in the best school district with the best opportunity for playmates and friends.  They are the reason I agree to yet another move to the ends of the earth so Tony can keep doing what he loves and does best.  Family:  home.    

 

 

I know there will be a time in the not so distant future when we will hang up the Army hat.  We will choose a place somewhere in this great country of ours to call our forever home and we will hopefully stop moving every 1-3 years.  We will look back at these PCSs (job relocation) and laugh at the madness.  We will remember mostly the good—the houses that we turned into homes, the places where we brought our babies home from the hospital, some of the greatest friends and people we have ever known, and the sense of adventure that comes with exploring a new hometown.  I doubt we will ever forget that PCSing is nearly as painful as preparing for a deployment or the very special breed of folks in the moving/civilian transportation industry.  Until then I need to get my box cutter ready and sharpen my furniture arranging skills because we are about to have a whole lot of boxes that need our attention.    And we are just about ready to put move number 9 in 13 years in the books.  Can I get a HOOAH?!