One of the benefits of being a military family is that you get to move to a new locale every couple of years. That’s an average amount, couple, at first it’s more like every six months to a year. But later, when it matters the most--when your children are in high school for instance--it might only be once ever three years.
At least this was how the Marine Corps handled its personnel back twenty-five years and more ago. Maybe things are more stable now, what with all the separations. But the result of all those moves was that on our final move, to Camp Pendleton in Southern California, I announced as we entered our new and now house—“You’ll have to buy a coffin to get me to move again.”
I was tired; tired in my bones, weary in my heart at leaving good friends, exhausted with trying to start a career over and over again. And I was losing children along the way.
By then we were down to one child, having dropped off the eldest at college in North Carolina.
We were still hauling a dog and a cat, however, and even grandma Miller. Wither we went, went grandma. As it should be. She didn’t live with us, but she needed to be near us. I needed her near us, too, if for no other reason than she was a familiar bring-your-own friend and volunteer baby-sitter for all the wonderful trips my wanderlust husband and I took. She kept away the lonelies that happened whenever my Marine deployed.
But I’m way ahead of myself. Why I’m writing this post is to begin sharing some of my experiences as a “camp-follower”. To begin with, I’ll just list our moves and their approximate dates to give you a flavor of why this activity so profoundly defines a military family’s life. The second most powerful element, separations for special duty assignments, also adds to this constant uprooting. My heart goes out to the military folks today. I have no idea how they cope with the amount of separation they are dealing with now.
Our first move was from our home towns, of course, to Pensacola, FL, in 1962. While there, my young and handsome Marine was sent to three different area bases for flight training, and of course we moved each time. We rented furnished in those days, so moving was a matter of packing up pots and pans and clothes for the most part.
Our fourth move was across the country, however, to Southern California, and an air base that doesn’t even exist anymore, Santa Ana, Marine Air Station, Tustin. Here Michael trained for war, the Vietnam War. Of course, all of his training was for war, but this training was more specific, and after two years and three more moves (mostly because we’d begun our family and we needed a second bedroom), Lt. Michael Victor Sullivan left for the most hated American war in history. It was February of 1966. He didn’t return until March of 1967.
To be continued.
