Searching for old friends

When you're an army brat, or any kind of Global Nomad, it's difficult to maintain your relationships. I mean, we never had the luxury of going to school with the same bunch of kids and grew to maturity with them.

I had to reinvent myself every three years. Who am I in this new place? What kind of smile do I need to put on? My Girl Scout Smile, or my Mysterious Smile? What do they wear in this new school? Peter Pan collars? In or out? What if I make a mistake and don't get in with a good crowd?

Pat Conroy said it best: "We had no one to compare ourselves to, to measure our growth," or words to that effect. So why do I persist in trying to find my former classmates? I'm a more than grown woman, for goodness sakes. I have "civilian" friends in my "civilian" life. I've lived in Fort Worth for 30 years and have built up a network of good friends who did not live the nomadic life I grew up in. I am constantly amazed at one friend who forgets I didn't grow up here. She asks, "You remember the Cox family, don't you?" And I have to admit, that no, I don't remember that family. I gently remind her that I didn't grow up here, didn't get to see the people grow and change along the way. I arrived, full-blown, in this city and had no experience with its social life.

What I am looking for, I suppose, is someone who remembers the same things I remember. Who was with me the night we all walked home from a screening of "The Thing" at the Gugelhof Officers Club at age 14 and scared ourselves to death imagining The Thing falling out of a wood box in the park we had to traverse to get to our homes --- er, quarters? Who rode the bus with me on the day we got new, sleek olive drab colored school buses? Who was in the spelling bee where we had to drive to Vienna for the finals, and make sure our drive through the Russian Occupation Zone was swift, lest we be arrested as spies?

There are times I wonder if those scenarios actually happened. I have no one to confirm those memories as being true. Not the imaginings of a woman receiving Social Security benefits as a reward for a long life.

If anyone out there can relate to this recurring theme, please let me know. I would like some company as I stroll down memory lane.....While I'm still able to remember.

Tags: Once a Brat, military brats, army brats, global nomad, girl scout, Peter Pan, Pat Conroy, Fort Worth, Russian Occupation Zone, social security

Clearing Quarters

I was reading my emails the other day when somebody posted that she was moving into a new apartment that the former occupants had left uncleaned. So she had to go over and clean the apartment before she moved in.....
That would have never happened if she were a military wife. I don't know if that's still in force or not, but when my mother was a young officer's wife -- sometime between 1938 and 1958 -- she would sweat bullets working on clearing quarters before we left for another assignment.
No cobwebs allowed in corners or window sills. Holes in the walls had to be filled in with putty and painted over. Most of the time, we didn't hang things on the walls, just because of that restriction.
Which might explain my current attitude about hanging things on the walls.....I love it when I move to a new house/apartment and I can put my stuff on new walls. Unlike some people I have known and lived with, I don't strategically plot exactly where to put the nail in the wall. One anal-retentive type I was married to for far too long insisted on measuring precisely from floor to ceiling, from one point in the wall to another, considering the studs behind the sheet rock before even considering tapping a small nail into the wall.
Now here's where my rebellion comes in: I eyeball the space and gleefully pound the nail into the sheet rock, mostly. So when I hang the picture, if it's heavy, it pulls the nail out and I'm left with a painting on the floor and a hole in the wall.
So what? I think. I can do anything I want in my own house.
After all, I'm not getting a Quarters Inspection.
Once a Brat, not always a brat when I want to rebel.....

Tags: Once a Brat, military brats, army brats

Once a Brat, Always a Brat

Why do I call myself a Brat? Well, I wear the title, Army Brat proudly. This does not mean I behave in a bratty way (although a couple of ex-husbands would disagree with this!) but this is a term for a child born into the military life. Somebody once said "B.R.A.T" means "Born, Raised and Trained" in the English military manner. Other thoughts have been on the term, "bratling" meaning a swaddling cloth of some kind. And, of course, the inevitable use of the term to describe a child. Any child.
But in the military community, this is considered a term of endearment. Of recognition amongst our peers.
Years after losing my Army Brat active status, I continue to amaze myself at how much my life was influenced by my first 20 years following my army officer father all over the globe. To this day, I find myself being subservient to such mundane things as speed limit signs (obey them, always) and displays in the grocery store (used to be "commissary" but I quit using that term long ago.) I was shopping with my son one day, and he grabbed up an item that said 10 for $10.00. I protested that I neither wanted nor needed 10 of whatever the item was. He looked at me and patiently explained, "Mom, you don't have to buy 10 of them. Get only one for one dollar."
Oh.
I promise to post more on this site about my life as an army brat, and how it affects me to this day. Some good, some not so good, but all experiences contributed to the person I am today.

If you want to read more about my life as an army brat between 1938 and 1958, be sure to read Once a Brat, part travelogue, part therapy session, available on Amazon.com. or your bookstore may order it for you.

Once a Brat by Marilyn Celeste Morris (Paperback - Jul 22, 2002)
Buy new: $19.95 25 Used & new from $16.95

Tags: Once a Brat, military brats, army brats