COMING HOME

I intend not to go into too much detail about my relationship with my first wife. Connie is the mother of my only son, in whom, I’m very pleased (Matthew 3:17), and will always be so.

Since it is possible that she and her husband, as well as my son, read these posts, I will not embarrass them with much detail about the relationship that went asunder. We both were at fault, giving in to pride mostly, but we have long since put that behind us and have actually grown to be good friends, sharing the fence at little league games, seats at graduations, the funeral of her second husband, and now pictures of our grandchild.

Any mention of Corey’s mother will be done in the light of today’s relationship.

Suffice it to say, that if my parents had not brought her to the airport when they picked me up upon my returned from Vietnam, and had not insisted I take the keys to the '64 Pontiac and take her home afterwards, we may not have ever married.

There is no doubt that I was a different person after the experience of Vietnam. She too had changed a lot in the pictures and letters she sent me while I was away, and we really did not know each other at all. The relationship began as it did that first night in March of 1966, a slow growing fondness for being in each others company.

Coming home was wonderful. It was like being born again. There was a sense of freedom to it; liberation from the fear that stalked me for a year was over, at least between times of being surprised by loud noises and being reminded! I began to sleep soundly and rarely woke in a cold-sweat or in a startled jerk to sounds near me. Never again did I slug anyone who mistakenly touched me while I was asleep, although I have postured a time or two!

The first thing I really wanted was a glass of cold milk and a hot shower, both of which I had that first night at Connie’s parents.

My taste and appetite returned with a vengeance and soon I had packed back on the 30 plus pounds I had lost. I had a year and a half left to serve upon arriving back in the States, and I struggled, almost to the end of my enlistment to make my uniforms last. In the pictures of me I will post during that time, you will see tight shirts and pants whose seams were widened and darker in color from the rest of the material!

Everyone seemed proud to have me home, but no one ever sat down with me and asked me to “tell me all about it!” I was alone with my thoughts and memories, and the anxiousness I still held inside. There was no one who had a similar experience, not even at my new Air Force assignment.

My absence had a profound effect on my dad, who was moved to start attending church, and was subsequently “saved.” Mom said it was because he was so afraid of losing me. He put a “damn payment” on a new 1966 Falcon and proudly presented it to me just before I left for my new assignment. Although it was not the Mustang I had been dreaming about, I took it and drove it with pride for three years. I would not have hurt his feelings for anything.

My brother had also, at the tender age of nine, been hospitalized, for a time, with what the doctor described as a “nervous stomach.” Apparently, he understood more than my mother knew about what was going on in Southeast Asia and what could happen to his “Bubby!”

My personal fears only surfaced at fireworks shows, thunder storms, and when someone surprised me by slamming a car trunk shut (If you want to know what a mortar sounds like, jump in the back seat and let someone close the trunk lid hard!). The sight of me picking myself up off the ground or out of the floorboard of a car was comical to others; embarrassing and infuriating to me.

My mother took it upon herself to “fatten” her baby back to health, and I enjoyed every one of my favorites for thirty days before moving on to my last assignment. She believed for a long time that I had actually been in a POW camp, and in some ways I had!

My luck seemed to change with the new base assignment when I left Da Nang. I could not believe I would be stationed just two hours from home – Sewart Air Force Base in Smyrna, Tennessee, which was decommissioned in 1970! It meant that I could come home every weekend, IF I wanted to. What a change!

I sort of made a promise to myself back then, to never leave home again. It was hard for me to be away from “home base” and my family and extended family in Alabama had a hard time understanding. However, over the years I have let myself be persuaded into venturing farther and farther away, for longer and longer periods of time, but there is still nothing like coming home again for a veteran of a war zone.

Truth be known, I am very insecure out of my little world. It is a cross I will always suffer for having been in Vietnam.