“I’m calling for another truck, they have too much stuff!”

Here we were in the midst of yet another military move and I could not believe what I was hearing.

For those of you who don’t know – all active duty are held to a weight limit according to rank. Surpass that weight limit and you pay a fee per pound with fees varying depending on the carrier and state.

I had failed to properly unload what my husband likes to call stuff.

 How could we possibly have too much?

I had purged and donated and purged and thrown away so many things – and then purged again! I heeded the advice of the moving counselor, but to no avail.

Too much stuff? I don’t think so! And guess what? I don’t want to get rid of my stuff!

Why don’t you get rid of your stuff U.S. Government?  Aren’t you the one with excess cheese to give away? What do you want me to leave behind Uncle Sam? One of our eight beds? One of our nine bicycles? My grandmother’s quilt? Or maybe a child would satisfy your blood lust?

No sooner had my thoughts of anger and dismay begun to dissipate; a smaller moving truck rounded the corner. The team filled the truck up and I thought to myself, “what’s done is done and I will deal with it on the other end”.

Standing on my lawn with a child on each hip I watched with great interest as the smaller truck circled around, backed up and made contact with the back of the 18 wheeler.  “Wait!,” I screamed throwing both children to the side as I ran towards the truck”.  “What are you doing?”  “Well Ma’am, we can’t seem to get the door closed on the big truck so we are going to back up the little truck until they make contact and then throw the latch down.”  While distracted by our conversation I heard what can only be described as a hideous melding of metal, steel, china and furniture.  I suspect it may be similar to what the sad souls heard that night on the ill fated Titanic as the iceberg made contact with the ship’s hull.

Again, what’s done is done. The trucks pulled away and I prepared for what would be one of our 7 cross country trips.

On that particular trip, we planned a stop in Truckee, California to visit the location of the Donner Party at Donner Memorial State Park located in the beautiful yet unforgiving Sierra Nevada.  Between 1846 and 1847 a group of pioneers set off on a journey from Illinois to California and unwittingly became players in a tragic tale of American Pioneer history.

The plaque on the rear of the Pioneer Statue reads:

NEAR THIS SPOT STOOD THE BREEN CABIN OF THE PARTY OF EMIGRANTS WHO STARTED FOR CALIFORNIA FROM SPRINGFIELD, ILLINOIS, IN APRIL 1846, UNDER THE LEADERSHIP OF CAPTAIN GEORGE DONNER. DELAYS OCCURRED AND WHEN THE PARTY REACHED THIS LOCALITY, ON OCTOBER 29, THE TRUCKEE PASS EMIGRANT ROAD WAS CONCEALED BY SNOW. THE HEIGHT OF THE SHAFT OF THE MONUMENT INDICATES THE DEPTH OF THE SNOW, WHICH WAS TWENTY-TWO FEET. AFTER FUTILE EFFORTS TO CROSS THE SUMMIT THE PARTY WAS COMPELLED TO ENCAMP FOR THE WINTER. THE GRAVES CABIN WAS SITUATED ABOUT THREE-QUARTERS OF A MILE TO THE EASTWARD, THE MURPHY CABIN ABOUT TWO HUNDRED YARDS SOUTHWEST OF THE MONUMENT, AND THE DONNER TENTS WERE AT THE HEAD OF ALDER CREEK. NINETY PEOPLE WERE IN THE PARTY AND FORTY-TWO PERISHED, MOST OF THEM FROM STARVATION AND EXPOSURE.
IN COMMEMORATION OF THE PIONEERS WHO CROSSED THE PLAINS TO SETTLE IN CALIFORNIA. MONUMENT ERECTED UNDER THE AUSPICES OF THE NATIVE SONS AND THE NATIVE DAUGHTERS OF THE GOLDEN WEST. MONUMENT DEDICATED JUNE 6, 1918.

While the site is both moving and emotionally charged, as a military wife I was touched by the story of Mrs. Donner a military spouse in her own right being married to Captain Donner. She started her journey in Illinois with a full wagon of china, fine clothing a piano and many other household items she felt dear to her. By the time they became stranded, all that was left were the clothes on their backs and their very lives. Patty Reed, one of the young daughters of the Reed family, in an act of youthful defiance, hid a very tiny porcelain doll in the folds of her dress and hand carried it all the way to California. It is on display at Sutter’s Fort in California.

I had a true moment of clarity that day. The stuff doesn’t matter. A wise man once said, “for we brought nothing into the world, and we can take nothing out of it. But if we have food and clothing, we will be content with that.” Family matters. Your Sailor, Soldier, Airman and Marine coming home matters.

As we throw ourselves into yet another PCS season, stay calm, do your best to prepare and remember that you really don’t need all that stuff.

But with that, let’s end on a high note! Tell me your moves over years ( I have 16 moves in 28 years – 16/28) and let’s see who wins the title of worst moving experience!

Entertainingly Yours,

Cassie

Ode to Ripped Jeans

I love you ripped jeans, you make me happy.

You look so good it ought to be illegal, but that still does not get you an invite to the home of the Sergeant Major.

You’re not welcome at the Exchange either and we will both get kicked out of the ID office.

Please understand…

We will always have the beach.

 ***

By now, you should have realized that all of my posts have a few pieces of helpful information – and a really scary backstory in support of said information (compliments of me). I have engaged in the buffoonery so you don’t have to!

Now this is not about being  judgey. It’s about digging just a little deeper into the military culture you married into. If you are reading my post then you have some sort of affiliation with the United States military and therefore need to understand what is expected of you. Yes – I said what is expected of you. Spouse, guest, aunt or uncle – it doesn’t matter. Once we step foot on a military installation, we are all bound by the base rules and walk at the behest of the Commanding General.

Believe it.

It is part of our culture that we have strict dress codes and longstanding traditions. To try and rebuff said traditions is a slap in the face to those who came before us both active duty and spouse. Are you proud of your spouse in uniform? Of course you are! So familiarize yourself with your branch’s traditions and have fun!

But back to ripped jeans… I am a lady from the 80’s and we perfected the strategically ripped clothing so when I see people wearing them today, it’s no big deal. It is a big deal however, when we as spouses try to buck the dress codes implemented on all military installations both foreign and domestic. The military has high standards and we as spouses should embrace those standards. Iron sharpens iron people.

The next time you go shopping at the exchange, take a look at the dress code posters near the entrance doors. They are hysterical. Think a cross between The Jersey Shore and a thug weightlifting contest attended by super-hot NASCAR girls.  The posters exist out of necessity.

As new military spouses, we receive so much information all at once it’s as if we are drinking water from a firehouse.

Here is the problem – you don’t know what you don’t know.

Case in point:

It’s 1989 and a young Marine wife who has obtained vertical lift with her bangs and ripped her acid washed jeans to perfection is entering the Navy Exchange in Pensacola, Florida. She is met by the ID checker (yes that was a thing) checking…you guessed it… identification cards. She is also inspecting clothing. She took one look at the young wife (ok it was me) and pulled a stapler from behind her podium. She handed me the stapler and said, “you have two choices.  Staple every hole in your jeans shut or go home and change.” I immediately took the stapler and stapled every single rip shut, tears stinging my eyes and obscenity laden thoughts running through my brain. How could this be? I thought I looked fine!

Well I did not and the dress code is the dress code like it or not. I considered myself schooled that day.

(On a side note, what did I need so badly that I would subject myself to such humiliation?  It had to be a Coach sale).

I encourage newer spouses to remove emotion from some of the rules and regulations you encounter on your military-life journey. Take them for what they are: part of the greater equation that makes the American fighting forces the undisputed power house they are – dress codes and all.

On that note, will someone please pass the stapler?

Entertainingly Yours,

Cassie