Dustin sees Homecoming from new perspective

There are two sides to everything, and each side has its own mix of emotions, reasoning, feeling and perception. Last night, Dustin saw a military homecoming from the perspective of a wife.

To the average bystander, the experiences (that of a wife who has been at home, and that of a husband who has been deployed, reuniting after months apart) should be nearly the same. But the quizzical smile on Dustin's face, in the background of one of the pictures from that night, proves that after being a military service member for the past 15, he was seeing a homecoming for the first time.

First, he witnessed the many anxious phone calls from my friend (the wife) when she was unsure if her husband was coming home "this day" or "that day."

Will it be today? she wondered. Will it be morning or night? Should I put the kids to bed? Keep them awake? What if his homecoming is postponed until tomorrow? How will I ever sleep tonight?

Dustin heard about my friend's trips to the hairdresser, her appointments to get a manicure, pedicure, facial and bronzing. Indeed, about four months prior, he saw her exciting post on Facebook: I bought my homecoming dress today!

"Already?" Dustin asked. (This from the man who only chooses what to wear based on what's reasonably clean.)

My friend talked about her stomach being in knots. She mentioned feeling restless, unable to sleep, and so incredibly anxious about the upcoming homecoming that she was "going out of my mind."

I imagine Dustin went through many of the same things (minus the pedicure, manicure, facial and bronzing) before his homecomings. But a key difference is that the returning service member is busy traveling. He has processing and debriefs to do. He has clothes to pack and work to complete. He is like a person closing up shop before heading home for dinner. He is, in a word, busy. But more importantly, every minute, he is making his way home.

The wife is perhaps equally busy (I called my friend about an hour before the homecoming; she was bathing the kids, getting dressed, and trying to make dinner) but she is going nowhere. She is waiting in a holding pattern. Thus the anxiety and restlessness.

There is an enormous build up of excitement, and it lasts for as long as the service member is en route but not yet home. Or worse, from the time he is en route but without an official homecoming date and time. It could be tomorrow; it could be a week. How does one carry on with something as mundane as laundry under such circumstances?

When we got to the airport that night--the night my friend had been waiting for since the moment her husband landed in Norfolk for "processing"--Dustin held back with obvious distance between himself and the waiting family. It was as if he didn't know his place.

I knew mine. I am a military wife. I have been in my friend's shoes. I knew she wanted me to take pictures, wave flags and basically meet her level of excitement (mission impossible, really).

Dustin was stuck in limbo. I was reminded of what one my female-service-member friends once said: I don't belong in the kitchen with the women, but I don't really belong in the den with the guys either.

My friend's cell phone rang. The plane had landed. He would be coming through the door any minute. My friend began to tear up. He kids were jumping up and down and chanting "Daddy, Daddy!" There was a moment when I thought my friend might pass out because it looked like she wasn't breathing. Her eyes were fixed on the door.

And then he walked through. She jumped in her heels, wrung her hands and smiled with tears in her eyes.

This was the part that Dustin knows. He has been there for this part. The father gathered up his children and hugged them. Then he reached for his wife and pulled her into the huddle. They kissed while children hung from their dad's shoulders.

No one in the "audience" said a word.

When I got home and uploaded the pictures, I came across one of my friend just moments before her husband came through the door. She is clutching her hands together in front of her, and she is smiling so big that veins are visible in her neck. Her skin is glowing.

Dustin is in the background. On his face is the most genuine, excited smile I have ever seen from him in a photograph. It was as if he was watching a homecoming for the first time. And in many ways, he truly was.

Get Healthy with Sarah

Beginning March 3, 2010, the Bangor Daily News will follow my progress every Wednesday (Lifestyle section) as I work toward a goal of losing 30 pounds by August 17. You can read the first installment of this series here.

Eggo Waffles for Breakfast? Maybe Not.

Mornings -- especially school mornings -- are a particularly chaotic time when you have three young children. Much of the chaos centers around breakfast. And by "breakfast," I mean "frozen waffles," because in our house, there is no distinction. By the time my children are grown, I will have prepared an absurd amount of frozen waffles. If only my boys could gain an appetite for a different kind of breakfast, one that doesn't involve standing at the toaster oven for three minutes, three times in a row, and then buttering six waffles and making three bowls of syrup for dipping.

Six years ago, I thought the emerging waffles-for-breakfast routine was just a phase. I figured it would disappear and then come again like the boys' cyclical taste for tacos or peanut butter sandwiches. I was wrong. At this point, if you take into account the rare instances in which we have temporarily run out of frozen waffles (an emergency situation to be discussed below), I figure that I have prepared approximately 10,220 waffles.

What is cyclical, however, is the boys' preference for waffle type and preparation, so we have developed our own code words to differentiate. "Regular waffles" are the standard variety. Owen likes these with butter only and syrup on the side for dipping. Ford likes them buttered but prefers to add his own syrup, which is always too much. Owen likes his cut into two; Ford not at all.

"Square waffles" are the miniature waffles that are technically cinnamon toast. They can be broken apart into 4 separate squares and that's the way Ford likes them. But if you dare break apart Owen's serving, he will flop onto the ground like a seal who has underestimated the jump onto a rock.

"Waffle sticks" are actually french toast that can be broken into 4 sticks. Both Ford and Owen like them served whole so that they can break them and dip them in a bowl of syrup.

You probably noticed that I didn't mentioned Lindell, our youngest, and his preferences. That's because Lindell will eat anything, in any presentation, and therefore he usually receives all the cut up, mashed up, broken apart waffles that were unsuitable to his brothers.

Now, if the wrong waffle presentation is enough to make Owen flop on the ground, you can imagine the calamity of not having any waffles at all. Ford and Lindell, who are usually pretty understanding about waffle mistakes, can be reduced to fits of rage on the mornings that we discover we have run out of frozen waffles. Because Owen has previously been so dramatic about ill-prepared waffles, he has but one last resort in these crises: not eat at all. In fact, he will hardly speak if he can not have waffles.

So you can see the predicament Dustin and I faced Wednesday morning when we opened the freezer and realized that there were only two servings of "waffle sticks" left. Three boys. Two servings. Lindell had already spotted the box and was dancing around the kitchen singing, "waffle sticks, waffle sticks, we eat waffle sticks," which effectively laid his claim to at least one of the servings. Ford and Owen were both upstairs, completely unaware of the waffle dilemma unfolding in the kitchen.

Dustin and I knew what we had to do, and we knew it wouldn't be easy. It would, in fact, be one of those difficult decisions all parents dread. We'd have to choose between our two children. One would get waffle sticks, the other would not.

We weighed our options. Owen probably could not handle the heartbreak of watching his brothers eat waffles while he had none. We feared that he would slide off his seat, onto the floor, and perhaps curl up into a ball and never eat again. Ford would be disappointed, sure, but he usually is able to grasp the larger picture. And he never chooses not to eat.

Dustin put the waffle sticks in the toaster oven and began making a different breakfast for Ford. Lindell was still singing, "waffle sticks, waffle sticks, we eat waffle sticks."

The older boys came downstairs to eat. Dustin decided to overcompensate for the impending tragedy by being super cheerful and accommodating. "Do you want some milk, Ford? How about orange juice, Owen?"

The children sat down at the table. No one noticed anything astray. Not even Ford, who was devouring his meal. Then Lindell started singing again. "Waffle sticks, waffle sticks, we eat waffle sticks." Ford looked at his brothers' plates and dropped his fork.

"Hey, that's not fair!" he said. "They have waffle sticks."

"And there aren't any more," Dustin said. "There were only two servings."

"So why didn't you ask me if I wanted waffle sticks instead of them?"

And Dustin said, "Because we were afraid that you would say yes."

Military Care Packages: Do's and Don'ts

Sending a care package to your loved one deployed overseas seems so easy, doesn't it? You just box up some cookies, attach a sweet card, and it's ready to go, right?

If only it were that easy.

Sending mail to ships/units overseas is tricky for many reasons (slow processing, mail limitations, etc.) but one of the most confounding is this: unless you've been deployed yourself, it's hard to know exactly what a Soldier or Sailor might want.

After two deployments (and a picky husband), here's what I've learned about military care packages.

Try Not to Embarrass:

You might think sending a life-size portrait of your toy poodle dressed in a ballet skirt is hilarious, but chances are your husband won't be laughing when he has to carry the cumbersome "pooch" back to his room and past all his friends. You never know where your spouse will open his package, or whom he'll be with. If you think he'll be humiliated for anyone to know you sent him pink boxer shorts, either don't send them or give him a heads up about the contents of the box. Similarly, if you're sending something that might embarrass YOU (uhmmm....pictures), make sure you don't surprise your beloved, or he might unknowingly cast your photos to a group of nosey friends peering over his shoulder as he opens the box.

Don't Douse the Box/Envelope with Perfume:

Women think this is wonderful, to spray perfume all over a man's gift or letter. And honestly, our men probably like to receive the smelly treasures too. But when your husband has to carry that letter through three hallways and up four ladders back to his room, he may not be thrilled dragging a cloud of feminine perfume behind him. Remember, the military is notorious for issuing its members "call signs" or "nicknames" at their weakest, most embarrassing moment. If you don't want your husband to be called "Christian Dior" for the rest of his career, go easy on the scents.

Steer Clear of Chocolate:

When you send something via an FPO address, you never know where it will wait in transit before it gets to its destination. Your carefully prepared box of chocolates may wait onboard a ship in the Persian Gulf before being delivered to your military spouse -- if you don't want that package to be a big, melted, gooey mess, don't send chocolate (or anything else that can melt).

But if you simply MUST send food, go through a company--such as The Popcorn Factory--who has experience packaging and sending perishable items.

Keep it Small:

Keep in mind your loved one may not have much personal space in his overseas accommodations. Chances are good he has no place to store the giant smiley face pinata the kids made for him, and it will end up being a

burden rather than a pleasure. Things that can be stored easily (small drawings and pictures, travel game sets) and things that can be consumed (food, toiletry items) rate high on most Soldier's and Sailor's lists.

Keep it Personal:

Remember your military spouse/loved one has not been home for a really long time -- what might seem silly or boring to you (an audio tape of the children fighting over the Nintendo) will be like a little piece of home for your spouse. Send things to remind your Soldier/Sailor of the things he loves (his children, family, favorite foods, taped reruns of his favorite TV shows).

Make it Fun:

Deployed Soldiers and Sailors are working almost non-stop and with little new scenery or change of pace. They don't have the option to go to Barnes and Noble for awhile to "get out" and see something new. So bring the fun and the new to them. My husband always likes getting DVDs, CDs, books, and sports magazines. He's also pointed out that it is hard to get a "real" American newspaper when he is deployed, so the local paper from home is always appreciated (especially the Sports section). Remember these Soldiers and Sailors are living without many of the comforts and conveniences of home. Therefore, mail call is a welcomed opportunity to receive something new and different to look at....things they can't get on the ship.

Make it Frequent:

Mail Call can be the highlight of the day for any deployed man or woman. Even something as small as a crayon drawing from a two-year old can bring joy to your loved one! Make it a point to send something....even if it's just a letter....as frequently as you can!

Military Romance.... Or an Arranged Marriage?

Normally, I wouldn’t bore you with another how-we-met story, except mine speaks to the “small world” of the military. Plus, I feel obligated to forewarn unsuspecting families who jokingly “set up” their young children.

Before I tell you how I met my husband, however, let me tell you how he met my dad.

Twenty-seven years ago, a one-year-old Dustin flew overseas with his mom to meet the USS Franklin Roosevelt and see his dad (“PT”), who was deployed with VF-111, an F-14 squadron based out of NAS Miramar in San Diego, Ca.

Failing memories and nostalgia have blurred the subsequent details, but during that time, somewhere in France, Dustin’s dad introduced his wife and son to a new friend and fellow squadron mate, Lin “Yank” Rutherford.

“Yank” told the young Dustin, “When you get back to San Diego, you should go meet my new daughter, Sarah.”

Upon returning to the states, Dustin and his mom did just that. And they didn’t have to walk far. Our families lived only a few blocks away from each other.

Several months later, both Dustin and I watched VF-111 fly-in to Miramar, and it was there that I met my dad for the first time. I was seven months old. So, as fate would have it, I met my husband before I met my dad, and Dustin met his father-in-law before he met his wife.

By now you’re probably gushing with “awe’s” and wondering if we were sweethearts from the start, but don’t get excited yet. Our romance had a rocky start.

First, when I was three-years old, Dustin teasingly persuaded me to throw away my baby blanket. That night, afraid to go to sleep without the favored piece of flannel, I made my mom go over to the Smiley’s and dig i t out of the trash. Typically, love connections don’t flourish when someone’s mom is leaning over the garbage fetching a blankey for a crying toddler.

Next, Dustin and I attended elementary school together, and because he was the school safety patrol officer, wore fluorescent “jam” shorts, and had buckteeth, I would have rather banged my head against a brick wall than talk to Dustin Smiley. Family and squadron gatherings were spent with me trying desperately to avoid Dustin, and Dustin trying to recapture the magic of a moment shared over a trash can in San Diego.

When I was in fifth grade, Dustin moved away, and then I only heard of him through the yearly Christmas cards our parents exchanged. But in 1997, after Dustin graduated from the Naval Academy, and after 10 years apart, we met again. Dustin’s version of the story is that he called and asked me out. The truth is, his dad called and set us up. Either way, all I remember is saying, “Dustin who?” as I stared at a faded childhood picture in my baby-book.

“Just go and be nice,” my mom told me. “He’s a family friend, and it’s not like you have to marry him!”

I was not enthusiastic about my “blind” date, and put very little care into getting ready. I lazily applied make-up while chatting on the phone with a friend about how much I dreaded the date.

I was stunned, however, when I went downstairs and saw this gorgeous grown man standing in the kitchen talking to my mom. I didn’t even say hello. I ran back upstairs, put on more make-up and changed my clothes.

At dinner that night, Dustin and I realized we had more in common than a shared military history, and our bond was deeper than a faded photograph could reveal. Before the night was over, I knew eventually we’d be married.

Almost two years later, we got engaged with our families watching. After the ring was on my finger and the hugs and tears subsided, my dad was found wandering aimlessly through the room mumbling, “I can’t believe PT is going to be my in-law. I can’t believe PT is going to be my in-law.”

Moral of the story: Next time you jokingly tell your buddy, “hey, wouldn’t that be funny if our kids ended up together,” remember….it may not be a joke after all.

(Author's Note: Next time you're in the National Museum of Naval Aviation in Pensacola, Florida, check out the squadron plaque from the VF-111 Sundowners. The names of Dustin and Sarah's dads are listed right next to each other!)

PHOTO: Dustin and Sarah Smiley on pier at NAS North Island in San Diego, Ca, waiting for their dads to return home with the VF-111 Sundownders on the USS Franklin Roosevelt. 1979.

Making Peace with Old Man Winter

When I first arrived in Bangor in August, it was hard to imagine this city as anything but sunny, pleasantly warm and full of lush greenery, shady trees and colorful flowers.

“Oh, but just you wait,” my neighbors said. “Winter will come.” They always said this with a playful smile, like I was about to sit on a whoopie cushion or something.

But never mind that, I thought. After spending a decade in Florida — where the ground is so parched you can imagine your front lawn actually catching fire from the sun, and blooms shrivel up and die horrible, crusty deaths — I was in awe at the mild climate of my new home.

By October, the shady green trees had turned vibrant variations of red, orange and yellow. Fallen leaves looked like little drops of sunlight on the concrete. The vision was so lovely, I nearly had a fender-bender driving my boys to school one morning because I couldn’t stop staring at the trees.

By November, the boys had finally accepted the fact that there are no fire ants or snakes in our backyard. They spent hours wrestling in the fallen leaves, enjoying this newfound thing called “autumn.”

“They won’t be playing outside much longer,” people said, with that same playful smile.

“Just wait until the trees are bare,” my friend Bill said. “There’s no turning back then.”

In December, the days grew shorter, the wind got colder, and I felt a creeping sense of doom. I watched neighbors put out stakes to outline the perimeter of their driveways and yards.

“Strange,” I thought. “Are they getting ready for a parade or something?” I noticed people covering their bushes with wooden tents. My friend Tony’s woodpile grew so tall, I could hardly see past it to his garage.

In my mind, Old Man Winter had become this ominous giant looming on the outskirts of the city, waiting to strike. I had no idea what to expect. And judging by my neighbors’ preparations, I knew that I wasn’t ready, either.

Yet, I noticed that friends and neighbors did not make their preparations with any visible resentment or anger. In fact, they seemed to have an adrenaline-fueled eagerness. It would be another round of Man vs. Winter. This healthy balance of respect mixed with fear is not unlike that of Floridians waiting for hurricane season.

Winter storms and hurricanes have been around longer than we have. We are merely trying to make a go at it in their territory. But Floridians can go years, even decades, without a major storm. Mainers go up against their rival every year, like clockwork, once the trees are bare. Just like Bill said.

Except, it isn’t entirely fair to call winter a “rival.” Because, again, I sense that Mainers have a respect for the climate, even if it is sometimes a love-hate relationship. When Dustin and I venture outside after a storm to clear the driveway and sidewalk, passers-by and neighbors usually greet us with that playful smile again. It’s as if we are all saying, “Well, winter might have won that round, but we’ll try again next time.” Their smile is not resigned. It’s competitive, but jovial.

You see this same kind of good-spiritedness at the hill off Union Street in Bangor that kids use for sledding. As people struggle to climb the slippery slope with their sleds and tubes in tow, you get the idea that winter is somewhere off in the distance chuckling. But we’re hanging in there, making the most of all the white stuff piled up like marshmallow Fluff. We may have leaks in our roofs, ice dams in our gutters and melted snow in the basement, but by golly, we’re still standing for another round with Old Man Winter! Like a boxer who is bloodied and bruised, we come to the hill on Union Street and try to conquer the elements again with our cheap plastic sleds. Meanwhile, Old Man Winter is back in his corner, getting toweled off and saving his energy for the next round.

Every day on my way home from doing errands, I pass Mount Pleasant Cemetery on Ohio Street. At the stop light there, I look over at what I can see of the graves and marvel at the thick blanket of snow on top of them. The people buried there spent their whole lives battling the snow. They shoveled it, raked it off the roofs, brushed it off their cars, cleaned it off their floors. In fact, many of them probably died with a snow shovel in hand. And now, there they lie, their last resting place clobbered with snow.

For a moment I feel sad. I am temporarily filled with the urge to go shovel the snow off all of the graves. Then I realize the Mainers lying there know Old Man Winter far better than I do. They have battled him many times, and now he has gently blanketed them with snow, like a football player patting a rival’s back after a game. The Mainers, I suspect, wouldn’t have it any other way.

Military Goodbyes are Painfully Ordinary

A scene in the movie “The Way We Get By,” about the troop greeters at the Bangor International Airport, haunted me for days after I saw it. Like waking up with residual feelings from a strange dream the night before, I couldn’t shake a case of elusive, emotional deja vu. For a while there, it was like I was living in the previous decade, when Dustin was deploying at a rigorous pace out of Jacksonville, Fla.

The scene that threw me back to this point in my life was the one where Joan, one of three main “characters” in “The Way We Get By,” is saying goodbye to her granddaughter Amy before Amy leaves for a yearlong deployment in Iraq. Like my husband, Dustin, Amy is a helicopter pilot. Also like Dustin, Amy wears a flight suit. And just like so many of our own farewells, Amy’s goodbye scene takes place in a hangar. Her family surrounds her, and although there are tears and worried expressions, there is also a surprising amount of normalcy. It’s mundane, even. Just like Dustin’s departures always have been.

This might surprise people who have never said goodbye to their spouse for an extended period of time. What “The Way We Get By” captures so poignantly and translucently, however, is how relatively ordinary a farewell can be. In the movie, Amy makes small talk with her family while keeping a watchful eye on the rest of her fellow pilots to judge when it is time for the real thing: the real, final goodbye. At times, Amy and her well-wishers even seem bored. They watch the clock with the impatience of someone ready to “get it over with.” (I’ve always likened this to ripping off a Band-Aid: You know it’s going to hurt, but you just want to be done with it. Tearing it off slowly seems like a mild form of torture.)

Indeed, as is characteristic of other things in the military, there is plenty of “hurry up and wait” time at these farewells. The service member is required to arrive for muster at the departure site at a specified time (sometimes called “Show Time”). The Show Time, however, is not when the service member will actually leave for deployment. It could be an hour or more before the final goodbye. What happens between Show Time and departure is not unlike waiting for any other commercial airline flight that is delayed. You sit. You wait. You look at your watch. You say, “Well, let me give you another hug real quick because we’ll probably be leaving soon.” Then you wait some more. You feel like you should be hugging nonstop because you know goodbye is coming, but then there is more waiting. And you start to feel kind of bored. Yes, bored. You are ready to rip the Band-Aid off and get on with your life so that the homecoming will be that much sooner.

Compounding the issue is the fact that most service members have been trained against excessive public displays of affection while in uniform. In general, once these men and women have passed through the doors of the hangar, they are in full military mode. Except they also are painfully aware that they are about to say goodbye to their family for a long time. They are torn between feeling just as sad but also obligated to maintain a level of professionalism. It wasn’t unusual for Dustin to give me quick shoulder pats and other one-arm hugs while we waited at the terminal.

Some military wives opt to drop off their spouse at the curb outside the terminal to avoid all of the awkwardness.

I suspect that civilians imagine these scenes quite differently. You’d expect a dramatic breakdown, people wailing and clawing at their loved one’s sleeve, begging them to stay. The reality is much different. And ironically, that is exactly what makes departures so heartbreaking. There you are, waiting together in a hangar, watching the clock and making small talk, a situation that ordinarily would be the picture of total boredom, such as waiting for your car at the auto shop. It feels so normal, like doing chores together on a Sunday afternoon.

Then, suddenly, your husband notices that his co-workers are gathering with their green sea bags at the door leading to the tarmac. “Looks like it’s time,” he says. Your heart is beating faster. All this time, you were just sitting there waiting. Now everything is set into motion at a quick pace. You’ve already hugged each other a hundred times; how do you make this one different? Longer? It doesn’t matter, because now there is no time. Your husband is rushed. He quickly pecks you on the cheek. You start to cry. You hug each other one last time. Then he walks away, falls into the crowd of flight suits and sea bags.

And just like that, he is gone.

You wonder, why didn’t we hold each other and not let go that entire time we were waiting and watching the clock. Even as you know that the next time it will be no different.