Chapter nine
There’s Nothing Like Coming Home
“We went firm in one of the houses in Uniform sector and set up an OP on the rooftop. About an hour later we heard the automatic gunfire and explosions. We could see the smoke from the explosions about 300 meters away, but we couldn’t get any positive ID, so we did not return fire. We radioed it in and were told to keep eyes on,” our squad leader summed up another one of our patrols during our debriefing.
In a sweaty, smelly semi-circle, some kneeling and some standing with their rifles slung around their backs, our squad offered up all of the details that we could to the Intel Officer about another attack in the city of Hit, Iraq. Jotting down notes here and there, he asked a few more questions and then dismissed us to go rummage through the care packages and mail that finally made it into the city with the resupply convoy.
It had been a few weeks since any mail or care packages had made it into the city, and the buzz of excitement was strong among the rest of the Marines, who were already munching on potato chips, beef jerky, and pouches of tuna as they sat against the wall, or on their cots, while some just stood around in a circle showing off pictures of home, girlfriends and babies. I was more than ready to see something that reminded me of home.
I walked into 3rd Platoon’s room to the laughter and loud voices of stories from home. I pushed through the crowded mess of Marines, gear, and rifles and made it to the back corner where my gear and cot sat lined up with the rest of 3rd squad’s cots. Sitting on my air filled camping pillow were a few letters from my girlfriend, dad, and my brother, Jeremy, who was stationed a few hundred miles south of me guarding some prison in Southern Iraq. Excited to hear from home, but slightly disappointed that I didn’t get a care package, I sat down to forget about this place and read through my mail.
As I bent down to unlace my boots and let my feet air out, I caught a glimpse of a box stuffed behind my flak jacket. Like a kid at Christmas, I yanked it out from under my rack and sat it down on my cot. Looking around, I saw Dirty Phil’s shit eating grin spread across his face two cots down.
“Dude, you’re a dick!” I shouted.
He laughed and threw me granola bar from his care package.
“Here, cry baby,” he joked.
Smiling, I threw it back and hit him square in the chest.
“I don’t want you’re damn gr—”
BOOOOM!!
I was cut off by a loud explosion in the courtyard of our FOB.
“INCOMING!!” Marines echoed the warning down the concrete halls and Hesco barriers of our sandbag reinforced Forward Operating Base.
Some scrambled to throw on their flak jackets and helmets, while others, annoyed, stopped what they were doing, made it back to their cots, found their gear and, only because they had to, put it on half-assed. I reached for my flak and flung it loosely around my body, not bothering to Velcro it together, and not caring to snap the chin strap on my helmet, as dust from 3 more explosions shimmered through the streaks of sunlight that darted across the room from small holes or cracks in the upper portion of the concrete block wall, near the ceiling.
I looked around for my guys, my team; they were all here and accounted for, so I relaxed, returned to my care package and waited for Gunny to burst through the doorway to get accountability. I pulled the knife from my flak jacket and sliced a line down the topside of the tape, hesitating for just a second to read who it was from: Mom, Jason, Grandma, and Grandpa. I smiled, and sliced it open, as the thuds of our outgoing mortars brought cheers to the eerily quiet halls.
I reached in for the photos first and flipped through them as Gunny double checked his numbers and made sure that his platoon was all accounted for. I gave a nonchalant thumbs-up to my squad leader and returned to the pictures of home.
Grandma and Grandpa had sent pictures of the raspberry patch behind their house, where I would often find myself mid-summer, picking and eating as many ripe berries as I could. They sent me a picture of their fresh-coat-of-brown painted house, with their white lettered last name “PATCHEN” painted on an old piece of wood and nailed in front just above their wrapped-around deck. They sent me a picture of the chicken coop, with the brown and tan hens scattered about, some with their beaks frozen at the corn on the ground — the shine of the red in those roosters collars, reminded me briefly of the time that I stood toe-to-toe with Devil and watched the red in his eyes turn to fear as I stomped the devil right out of him.
With the thumps of another volley of outgoing mortars, I smiled at the likeness of stomping the devil back down to Hell.
*****
I slung a little gravel rounding the bend at the top of Mom’s driveway — my heart still thumping from driving past the trash bags at the bottom. I was still getting used to the safety of being home as I watched the dust cloud drifting off into the cool October breeze, some dust making its way into my rolled down jeep windows and re-dirtying the detail job that Dad paid for just before I got home. But hell, I didn’t really care… it just felt good to drive those back roads, again. And looking in the rearview at those fresh tire marks, a smile stretched across my lips as I could hear my mother’s voice in my head “Jacob Paul! Get the rake! You’re going to have to rake the driveway!”
It had been nearly a week since I’ve been home. Nearly a week since my girlfriend of 3 years let me know that, despite her greatest efforts, she, in fact, does not love me anymore and that she has fallen in love with some pencil-necked sissy kid in college. And well, it had been nearly a week since I had made it a daily therapeutic ritual of hiking up to Grandma and Grandpa’s to walk the playground of my youth and visit with those ornery old people. Looking up their way from my driver’s seat, through the bright colored falling leaves, seeing bits of the white (ish) chicken coop poking through the gaps in the trees and hearing the squawks of curious hens, I decided that I was going to do just that.
I climbed out of the Jeep, shut the door, and headed for the back yard. When I got to the bushes that gave witness to so many end-zone dances for all of our back yard football games, I paused, and looked back at Mom’s house. It was at about this spot where I would stop and look back when I was younger, hoping that Mom was still standing in the doorway watching me, waiting until I made it past the oak tree, midpoint, to turn out the back yard lights.
I thought about those days. Back when the only things that I really needed to worry about, didn’t even exist… the monsters that I thought lurked in the woods, are nothing compared to the ones that now lurk in my head and in my heart. Those things that stirred my imagination back then, stand no chance against the torment of how lost I am, right now. The love that had lifted me through combat is gone; the emptiness of not knowing who I am anymore is heavy and pulls at my sanity.
Standing there in between two sanctuaries, I took in a deep breath and blew away those troubling thoughts. I was home now. I was here, in the place where I grew up. Where I had pushed so many limits and climbed so many trees. Where I had laughed until I couldn’t breathe. Where I had ran through the woods chasing my brothers, cousins, and friends. Where I had learned to ride a bike, shoot a gun, raise baby puppies, kittens, and chickens. Where I learned to love, to respect, to give, to share, and to care for others — where I had discovered who I am. And, now, I am here, again… walking these same hills; this same pathway back and forth from my mother’s house to my grandma and grandpa’s, walking and thinking, touching the trees, breathing in the dirt and stench of those chickens, feeling the grass — man, I missed grass — and listening to the wind on the leaves, the familiar barking dogs, and those damned clucking chickens… here I am, once again, stuck trying to figure out just who I am.
I turned back towards Grandma and Grandpa’s house and started walking towards those noisy chickens. I passed the oak tree where I had hid from babysitters and whistled at Grandma when she came to help them regain their sanity. I smirked, remembering how determined I was to do whatever I wanted to do, no matter how many spankings I got, or how long I was grounded from my friends or BB gun.
I stopped at the fire pit, where we had burned so many memories into our hearts with family cookouts, gatherings, birthday celebrations, and sleep-overs. I remembered the times when we would try to camp out at the edge of the woods after these family get-togethers, me, my brothers and cousins. And I laughed out loud trying to count how many times that we actually made it all the way through the night without running back to the house because we heard some terrible monster thrashing through the woods. I reached down and felt the knife that was clipped to my left hip pocket. I thought about how long I’ve had a knife at my side, or under my pillow. And, for a second, I could remember the comfort it brought me as I reached under my pillow on those nights when the monsters came out. Or, how worried I was when I had dropped it in the grass while running from the tent to the house, and how only Jeremy had stopped to shine the flashlight for me to find it.
I kicked at the pile of branches sitting there waiting and ready for the next time that we all come together. Satisfied with the size of one branch, I picked it up, snapped off the extra twigs with my hands and kicked it to the proper length of a good walking stick. It felt good to have a stick in my hand, again. I looked it over real good, testing its strength with my knee, and then, I chuckled, thinking that all it needed now was a few spirals carved out by Grandpa’s grinding wheel in the garage, and then, it would be the perfect magic stick, just like I used to make them.
Trying out my new stick, I headed for the chicken coop, which was not much more than 50 yards further up the hill. The clamoring hens gave warning, stirring up a fury of ruckus. But I didn’t mind. Matter of fact, I grinned at the familiar fussing of feathered dancers prancing their yard with curious head tilts and random cock-a-doodle-doos. I missed this — the comfort of my youth. The happiness that I carry with me in my heart, locked down and filed in the memories of my childhood. This is what I needed, this foul smelling house of fowls, loud and frantic, scared and timid, wild beasts in a cage (if beasts were corner dwellers and chicken shits), they were family; as domesticated (or undomesticated) as my own — they were family.
Standing beside their fence watching them peck at mud, I decided that I would feed them. I opened the door to the coop and walked back to the feed containers, lifting off the lid and grabbing a small bucket full of shelled corn. Reaching my hand into the bucket and feeling the cool, dusty feed, took me back to those years when I would sneak off to the chicken coop, midday, and throw handfuls of corn into the fence, watching them scurry to the piles and beak their bellies full and content. I returned to the fence outside and threw a handful their way. They flocked to it like children to a busted piñata. Amused, I threw in a few more handfuls and stood there observing them with the same awe and wonder as I did as a child.
Without even realizing it, I was healing. Watching those chickens, remembering my childhood, and re-walking the steps of my youth, were like bandages for my soul. I was re-living those memories and re-discovering myself all over again.
Ten minutes later, I was heading around the backside of the house, skirting the wood-line like I always have, making my way up past the garden where I had helped plant, weed, and spread manure throughout the years. I wished that it were a few months earlier so that I could pick the ripe peas and tomatoes from the vine, and then, bite into them, right there, just as naturally as a cheeseburger from the grill, or corn on the cob from the campfire. Instead, I investigated a few of the prickly pods that had fallen from the chestnuts trees, smashing them the rest of the way open with my stick (I had learned that this was the best way to avoid getting poked) and, carefully, I removed a few big chestnuts, unfolded my knife, skinned the shell off, and crunched on them as I headed towards the raspberry patch.
I always stop at the raspberry patch. I always have. In my opinion, there’s just no reason not to, I mean, it’s a raspberry patch… and that’s just what you do to raspberry patches; you stop and pick them. But, it was too late in the season for it to be ripe with berries, yet, instead, it was ripe with memories. Memories like the time that we picked baskets full so that Grandma could try her hand at baking pies; or, how I would always end up there, one way or another, during those summer evenings, tucking my BB gun under my arm and nibbling on the fresh berries until I had my fill. And, come Easter, when the Easter Bunny, naturally, would hide the best Easter eggs among the thorns of those raspberry bushes, it took courage and guts to be the careful hand that reached out for those special eggs. But, I wasn’t afraid of a few thorns when it came to jelly beans and dollar bills.
The dogs finally awoke from the porch, letting the whole neighborhood know that I was around. Grandma opened the sliding deck door as I made my way to the deck.
“Who’s out there?” She said, knowing full well that it was me.
“Oh, just your most favorite grandson ever!!” I proclaimed sarcastically.
“Joel?” She questioned, laughing.
I was nearly to the deck steps by now and the dogs were excitedly waiting by the gate.
“Gee, thanks, Grandma,” I said, matching her laughter.
“You know the berries are all gone by now.” She said. (As if I had no idea when the berry patch had or didn’t have berries on it.)
I chuckled, again, as I came up the steps and gave some wagging tails some loving.
“No, I found some.” I said, convincingly.
“Oh. You did?” She asked, bewildered.
I laughed. “No, I’m just kiddin’.” (She was an easy target).
“Ohhh, you brat! Well, come on inside, we were just about to eat lunch.”
(Somehow, I was always showing up around the time they were making food… and I’m pretty sure that it was an inherited 6th sense.)
She had a place set for me at the table across from Grandpa by the time that I had gotten my boots off. I walked over and checked the stove. Oxtail soup. It was my lucky day.
“Hey, G-pa,” I said as I grabbed my bowl, filled it full of noodles and soup, and then sat down at the table.
“How’s your Jeep running?” He opened with his normal questioning about whatever vehicle I’m driving at the time.
“Still going good, I haven’t broke it yet.” We chuckled. “Soups good. Did you make it, or Grandma?”
“You know she doesn’t ever do anything around here.” He grinned his ornery grin.
Grandma joined us at the table with a warm bowl of soup. “Oh, shut up, Charles! All you do is sleep, fart, and watch Jerry Springer,” she shot back.
We all laughed.
I looked around at the dining room walls where all of Grandma’ knick-knacks, family pictures, antiques, and a couple of the poems that I wrote for her were hanging. It felt so good to be home, back where I belonged, back where I was comfortable and able to be myself. Back where I could show up unannounced, and be invited in for free food and good company. Where we can joke, laugh, and pick on each other with good grace and love. Where we would sit at the table and talk about life, just as we have always done. Laughing at our stupid jokes and sometimes crying at our stupid luck. But, no matter how long I have ever been away, I am always welcomed back home just as if I had never left.
There is nothing like coming home. There is nothing more healing for the heart, mind, and soul, than walking that familiar ground, reminiscing about your childhood, smiling at the innocent trouble you’ve caused, and seeing how much you are still loved and how proud your family is of you. There isn’t a better place on earth to go, when you are not feeling like yourself; just head home. Go back to where you discovered yourself, back to where you were born and raised. Back where love out-powered everything else, and any mistakes that you ever made were just a part of growing up; you were forgiven.
It doesn’t matter how broken you are, or how much life has beaten you down, home will always be a part of you. And, I am lucky enough to call my grandma and grandpa’s land my home: where the eggs and vegetables are fresh, where the spring flowers sometimes smell like chicken poop, and where the woods are full of adventure, spirit, and mystery. (And probably a few lost pocketknives.)