Military Life bookended

“Where are the trees?” Long before I could write, much less started writing, I began collecting memories. The trees were the memory of the first home I could remember, 61 Southfield Park, London suburb — the fourth home I’d had between birth in a military hospital and the age when memory kicked in. My reason for wondering about trees was my then-location under a cloudless August sky in a baking hot sandbox on the South Dakota prairie. Where were my trees and the soft shushing of car tires in the rain of London? That homesick moment was the first of many, all for different former homes, all for homes that became former because of military orders.

Between then and now, as a Brat, a WAC, a soldier/DoD civilian’s wife, I’ve had a total of fifty changes of address in fifty years. During those fifty years I did nothing that was nationally noticeable as passing all the white glove inspections for clearing military quarters when you leave is expected, not lauded. Since I landed in this home, twenty years ago (which still counts only as one move), I have blogged, managed a web site, and scored a gig as the News and Commentary editor for (the now out-of-print) Home Education Magazine. 

Educationally, I have what questionnaires term “some college” (overseas with the University of Maryland). Those courses augmented distance learning courses I’d done while living overseas: writing and photography. When not studying, I stayed busy with four children, Cub Scouts, Daisy Scouts, religious activities, home day care, (minimal) Tupperware sales, freelance photography, Civil Service positions either in a civilian personnel office or as a playground supervisor with a DODDS school. I managed a Wedgwood concession and spent my paycheck on bone china. I’m not useful as a salesperson. I volunteered at Army Community Services. I was the secretary for a military community women’s club. I homeschooled three of my kids for eight years.

I am now still in the house where I landed after our final PCS. This house, strangely enough, is just down the street and around the corner from the quarters my dad was assigned when we returned to the States on his final PCS. The base closed; the enlisted quarter were sold to a developer; my parents bought half of a duplex; I live there, now. Life bookended by military contract buildings.

Valarie Bonham Moon, MAMF 2021-2023 Writer in Residence