Rites of Passage
I picked my youngest son up from the airport the other night. It was a test of my own nerve since I had to brave a winter storm to get to him. We stayed the night near the airport since we were snowed in, and we had fun catching up with one another.
He has changed. The changes are good and they are changes we were expecting. He stands a little taller. His voice is a little raspy. He is more appreciative of family and friends. When you spend that time in TraDoc away from the creature comforts you once took for granted, you learn fast how much your family did for you.
One of my favorite nights was the night after he came in. We had trudged through the winter wonderland and made it back home (thank God for salt trucks and plows!) Our home was one of the fortunate ones to have power on so Nate stayed here with us instead of his place, and his grandparents came to visit and stay in the heated home too.
After supper that night Nate sat with his dad and grandfather and he got to tell them his Army training stories. This is the third time I have got to sit and listen. I love it. I love to hear the stories and to hear about the bonding that happens in a successful time of training. We heard stories of failure, success, and of the times when Nate didn’t feel like he could go on another minute — but he did.
This is one of the rites in our family. My husband and older son had their moment, and now my youngest son has had his too. It was neat to see three generations of Army soldiers sitting at the table sharing stories, listening to Nate’s boot camp experience, and hearing the changes in the Army since the end of WWII.
This may be the last time I hear stories of BCT, but I am sure more stories from AIT and then onto what he will be doing in his Reserve Unit will still come. We will have another time around the table when Mike comes home from Iraq next year.
The stories keep me connected. They give me thing to ponder, things to imagine and mostly they give me hope of stories to come in the future.
