Christmas

It is currently about 3:15 pm on December 23, 2009. I sit in Kabul, Afghanistan, pondering the past, present, and the future. Two years have come to pass since I left home in October of 2007. It has been a bumpy road, one filled with triumph, sadness, joy, and sometimes depression. We received a suicide awareness briefing a few weeks ago, with the Battalion chaplain coming in and stressing the need to watch over each other during the holiday season and keep each other in good joy. As I sit here and ponder my current situation, I feel no sadness at missing Christmas, I just feel a sort of longing. Longing to hold my wife in my arms, to watch the joy on my four year old nephew's face as he opens gifts from "Calvin." He made a comment the other day, one that touched me very deeply. As he and his mother were driving down the road, he told his mom that he was going to buy an airplane so he could fly "Calvin" back and forth so he can see him. I am glad for his sake that he does not understand the reasoning for me being here. Missing the cutting of the ham, the drinking of the egg nog, and the warmth of a house full of family, love and cheer. I take great pride in the fact that I will be surrounded by my brothers and sisters in arms. I will be surrounded by Brits, Aussies, Canadians, Hungarians, French, Czechs, Spaniards, and others. We are all just ordinary people taken away from our loved ones in ways that we did not ask for, but knew that it was a possibility. We will sit around the table on Christmas, blessed by each others company, but all knowing that we are missing one thing, and that is the warmth and love that only your family can provide. I signed my name to a piece of paper four years ago not knowing where the path would lead me. I do not regret my decision for one moment, and have been blessed by those who not only know and love me, but those who have never met me, have merely seen my name on Facebook and taken me under their wings with words of encouragement and love. I thank you all for those words. I take comfort in the knowledge that in two months I will be home with my family again and am fully ready to come home. I know that this post was rambling and slightly incoherent, but I simply wish you all a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Years. I beg you as you sit at the table for dinner on Friday, to look your loved ones in the eyes, tell them you love them, and do not take simple freedoms for granted. God Bless and protect.

SPC Hatfield
Kabul, Afghanistan

Memories of my Father

My father is going into heart surgery tomorrow, on 21 October 2009. We are not sure what the outcome will be, but hopefully everything will be kosher and he will make it through. I figured I would write a piece about him as my way of coping with the situation. I feel vulnerable writing this and posting it on here, but at the same time, I have always found writing to be therapeutic. So, here goes.

I always remember my father as a strong man, a hero in my eyes. A former racing jockey, rodeo clown, and bull rider, he was not a big man by any means. But he was always strong enough to lift us onto the 55 gallon barrel chained to the tree in the back yard. Strong enough to help me steer the old Chevy in the pasture; strong enough to move what seemed like entire trees with me helping. He was always trying to teach me things, showing me the value of a hard day’s work. The man who helped build Air Force One, the man who was in the Navy during the Vietnam era, the man who rode bulls, the man who has two scars on his chest from being speared by a bull. The man I always looked up to. He seemed to be indestructible, an immortal put on this earth to show me, a mere mortal, the truths of life. To show me how to become productive member of society. I will always remember him as that man, not the frail man he has become today. He has continually earned my respect and admiration. He has never given up, even in times and circumstances where others would have done so easily. Two major heart attacks, a leg amputation due to a broken leg, diabetes, heart clogs, and trouble breathing, he has continued to push forward, to be there for his children and grandchildren. I ask myself, if in his position, would I have the courage, the will to carry on as he does? The answer I hope is yes, that he has instilled the courage and the values to carry on in such a manner, to never give up, to always keep fighting, to be an honorable man in an unhonorable world. To continue to better myself, to strive for perfection, to set the standard, not just meet it. I fail in some of these categories, but in others, I excel. My father has only told me he was proud of me one time, just a few days before I left for Iraq. I am not ashamed to admit that a tear or two streamed down my face. As I sit here facing the realization that I may never see him alive again, I once again want to cry. I cried tonight for the second time in two years, the first time being after I lost a soldier. I tell you this, knowing that it is the value of honesty that my father has instilled in me, the value of shamelessness, the value of courage, and of honor. I pray that after he has passed, whether that be tomorrow or ten years from now, that I can continue to carry on his legacy, to be half the man he was, and to maybe instill in my future son the same values, that he be a man of honor as much as mine was. I can only pray for my father’s safety, that he may make it out of the operating room tomorrow, but if he doesn’t, I know that he will have gone to a better place, free of the pain and the suffering that he is going through right now. In closing, I am most saddened by the fact that my father will probably never see this, never know my true feelings of him. Tears currently blur my vision at this thought, and it is becoming difficult to typ. I love you, Dad

Exhaustion

I apologize to all for not posting for two months… Some of you guys are crazy enough to actually follow this, and for that, I apologize. As most of you know, I will have been deployed for two years this October. As I sit here and I reflect upon the choices leading up to these deployments and the decision to continue my deployment voluntarily, I ask myself why I continue to do so. The honest answer is unknown to me. I have my excuses that I throw out when I get the “are you crazy look” when I tell people how long I have been deployed. The answers are as follows: my main goal is to get 36 months active duty time to be able to receive 100% of the new GI bill. Granted, I have a scholarship, but the GI Bill pays better. The second is that I am trying to get all my bills paid off. My debt to income ratio would blow most people’s minds, as it is well below the national average. The third is that I am trying to save up as much money as I can. I find this last one to be difficult due to the fact that I am supporting my wife and also that we are trying to pay down all our bills. Lastly, I have a debt to my brethren that I be here supporting them, helping them out in any way that I can. All of these reasons are valid points, but I increasingly am asking myself if they are enough. I am concerned that the prolonged separation from my wife is taking a toll on our marriage. That my separation from reality and society is going to change me in ways that I never intended. I do not know how my deployments have changed; me only that they have. I do not believe any single person could tell me what those changes are, but I increasingly hear that I am not the boy, not the man, that left home two years ago. I am worried as to how these changes will affect me once I return home for good. I wonder if I will be able to reintegrate myself into the life that I once had, if anything that I can have from here on out will ever be the same. I do not know the answer to these questions, as only time will tell. I only hope that I can become a productive part of society and return to that which was before. Lastly, I feel the need to end this post with a quote, one which I find very fitting. I have never doubted my service to country, as it is what I have always wanted to do. Nor do I doubt that upon returning home that I will continue my military service. I cannot see myself doing anything else. “I don’t know what your destiny will be, but one thing I do know- the only ones among you who will be really happy are those who have sought and found how to serve” Albert Schweitzer, M.D., Nobel Peace Prize, 1952.

Saying Goodbye

How do you say goodbye to those you love, those you care about? Saying goodbye is one of the hardest things we can do. I have had to bid fair adieu to far too many people whom I have loved and cared for. Putting on a false face of bravery when looking forward into the unknown is one of the most difficult things one can do. Alas, I have perfected the art. Hoping that he doesn’t spy the tears beginning to brim; hoping that she doesn’t see through your falsities; hoping that they do not question your strength, that they do not question your courage, your bravery. When saying goodbye there is always the lingering question that no one wishes to ask, will you return as you leave me. Will it be in a wooden box while you are dressed up in your Greens, looking pristine, with a soldier handing your wife a flag “on behalf of a grateful nation.” These fears are always present. I do not fear for my own death, as there is no greater calling than mine. I fear that my family will be lost without me, that they may not be able to be whole again. I have made many great friends over the years, some I will see again, but most that I will not. Day, Keener, Caldwell, Pettit, the list could go on forever. Saying goodbye to them has never been easy. I have been having weekly meetings with one of the Chaplains here on post, and tonight was our last get together. As the evening wound down, I began to reflect, to relive the goodbyes to my wife, my father, my mother, my family and friends. They have never been easy, and they will never get any easier. The knowledge that you may never see them again is a heavy burden to carry, so we all put on our masquerades, some with humor and others with solemnity. No matter the mask that one puts over it, down deep, the pain is still there. It always has been and always will be. The pain may fade, but in times of weakness, they creep to the top of your mind. These times are necessary, as they allow time to contemplate those you truly love and care for, and remind you that what you do is honorable, that there is nobility in your suffering. Chaplain G, you are a gentleman and a scholar, and have impacted my life in ways that you may never truly realize. It has been a privilege knowing you. I wish you the best of luck in your endeavors.

Soul Searching

First all, I have an announcement for all of you, some may have already heard, others, this may be news to you... I have volunteered for another tour over here, so I will most likely not be coming home until next May or June. My wife and I discussed this, and came to the conclusion that financially, it is the responsible thing to do. Granted, I had to make a few concessions, as we both did. Now, on to my actual blog post for today. I was recently chatting with a friend on Facebook, and he asked me some question that I really, deep down inside, do not want to answer, but I shall make an attempt to do such. He asked me if I truly knew myself, knew what I truly wanted in life. The answer, realistically, is no, I do not know myself or what I want in life. I am a painter, painting my life stroke by stroke, each stroke adding to the beauty of what we call our future. Some strokes end up as blemishes in the painting, and they should be admired for their inherent beauty, as each decision we make in life, whether good or bad, is a choice that we cannot change. I cannot take the mistakes I have made in life back, I can only try to learn from them and change the future, shape it in ways as to try to avoid those mistakes again. I do not regret the choices I have made, for that only festers the wounds that they leave, and at some point you will have to realize that there is nothing you can do about it. I feel as if in the past year and a half that I have learned more about myself than I ever thought I would know. I have come to realize that I can endure the sweltering heat of a Baghdad summer, and I can take the grueling demands of war, and I can walk away unscathed. I am not trying to make it sound as if I have done more than I have, for I have never shot my rifle in anger. There is an inherent nobility to what I do, but I am not noble. I am just like every other soldier here. We joined the army to become something more, to be more than just another kid in a town where everyone knows each other, where no one make a good living, where you grow up, grow old, and die. We wanted to be the guy or gal who made it out, and we have succeeded beyond our wildest expectations. No one in the military at this point in the war joined without the knowledge that they may someday go to war. On the contrary, we joined or re-enlisted with the hope that someday we would get our chance. I have had mine, and from what I have seen, war is a terrible thing. Not neccisarily speaking of the obvious loss of life from enemy engagements, but the unseen strains that war puts upon people. My greatest sacrifice has not been putting my life on the line, but rather leaving my wife home alone and coming over here to try to provide a life for her, to try to give her the things that I would not be able to provide to her if I were home. Alas, I digress from my original thought, but this is all leading back to that. War has changed me, my wife has told me. She is not yet quite sure if it is in a good way or a bad way, but she says it has. Some of the things I have noticed are that I have matured years since I have been here, have stopped acting so much like a teenager, and more like a man. A dear friend once told me that she has watched me transform from an "awkward teenager" into a man. I hope that as I continue on this journey, that I learn more about myself, that one day I can truly know who I am and what I want in life. I have a rough draft in the back of my mind right now, and hopefully, one day, it will be as beautiful a painting as the Mona Lisa. Only time will tell...

Comments

The following writing is not mine, it was a comment left on my previous post. It was an anonymous post, but I believe I know the culprit, but the investigation is still ongoing... It moved me, as I hope it also moves you...

"The ultimate sacrifice," in our vernacular, reflects a noble, voluntary gift of one's life to death for others--a gift which only the Narcissus's among us, without success, attempt to diminish. Others make sacrifices, similarly noble, which do not involve giving up the ghost. Perhaps, if we perceive our dead heros as having achieved rest in the afterlife, we may also see, through the looking glass, some of our living heros and their families walking an even more difficult, equally noble, but oft forgotten path: living for untold decades, incessantly persecuted by the abdominal hauntings of their experiences; missing limbs, and faces; damaged brains, or sanity; life as a quadraplegic from a 7.62 x 39 to the neck? Even Jesus told his followers that they would achieve greater things than he did--perhaps he intended, at least in part, their years of struggle in this life contrasted with the restful peace of his death, and their own. As for you, my friend, you're just as much of a hero to me, for you put on a uniform and offered yourself just as they did, and would have died had it been your lot. Heroic nobility roots itself in the gift as much as in the death, or life, of the giver. You portray sincere humility, so, you do not count yourself a hero, which is as it should be, making you even more heroic. It is my job to call you "hero," which, also, is as it should be. In any event, let us honor the sacrificial dead, without forgetting the sacrificial living.

Experiences

So I have been wanting to post a new blog for a few days, but have been uncertain as to how to go about it, as every time I proofread it I just exit the window because it seems to be gibberish. Mrs. Stausing once told me that only I shall know the truth of my penning, but when I looked at them they seemed like lies, that I could not put my feelings down on the proverbial piece of paper. I have been having quite a few mixed emotions lately, as milestones come and pass, as memories resurrect themselves then fade away again, to float to the top of my mind yet once again in the future. Some of these memories are pleasing, others not so much. I have been reflecting upon the decisions I have made in life, giving up a full ride scholarship to the University of Oklahoma to take a deployment based upon the fact that I was probably going to fail out the semester, but also based upon a feeling of loyalty, that if I said that I did not want to go (which I had the option to do due to my scholarship) that I would never be able to look myself in the mirror again without feeling disdain, seeing the disgust in my eyes at myself for being, not necessarily afraid, but hesitant to do my duty, my part in this period of history. The experiences that I have had over the past sixteen or so months will be with me for the rest of my life, the good and bad, the memories of life and death, of times of happiness and times of sadness, of the feelings of loneliness and the feeling of being surrounded by those who love you, who would lay down their lives for you. I do not claim to be well acquainted with death, but we are friends of friends, as the names of the fallen continue to get longer, there are a few on that list that I knew. When I am in the airport or at home and in uniform and someone comes up to thank me, I feel embarrassed, as if I do not deserve their thanks, as I have done nothing, that the people they really should be thanking are in a box that once had a flag draped over it. That my sacrifices pale in comparison to theirs. My sacrifices involved parting with my loved ones for a year and a half. Their sacrifices are more permanent, the scars that they left are deep, and can never be healed. I can go home and start my life again, they can't. I do not feel as if there is anything else I can say that would have any impact on this post, so for now I shall leave it at this.

Stocks

So I recently put a little money into the stock market, and by little, I mean there are people who trade stock that would laugh at me if I told them the value of my portfolio. They may stop laughing after I told them how much I have made as to what I put in (I have had a 50% increase in value in month and a half...) I have been doing all of my own trades through my bank. There are three or four of us over here who trade actively, and we help each other out with picks. I currently own Fannie Mae, Freddie Mac, TXCO Resources, AIG, and Sirius Radio. I also own 16,000 shares of a company that trades for less than a tenth of a cent, and am losing on (don't worry, I only have $12 invested into that stock...) But, allow me to rant for a few minutes here. I owned 20 shares of a company called Las Vegas Sands. They are a casino company that owns the Sands in Vegas among other casinos. They plan on opening two more casinos worldwide in a few years. I bought them at about $4 and sold at $4.50. My guys here that share stock tips all followed suit, as we saw it stuck in a rut. Since then, the stock has passed $11 and has no foreseeable roof. Analysts are predicting between $20-40... Does anyone else here feel like I killed some very nice profits? I am not too worried about it, but wish I had not sold. This is the largest bain of the investor, when to buy and when to sell. One can always wait for it to go higher, but the only way to assure your profit is to sell when you KNOW you have one. The market is a very volatile thing, and can drop and rise very quickly. If anyone wants the symbols for these stocks or my reasonings for buying them, drop me an email at loranh2000@gmail.com... Until next time, here is to hoping my stock continues to rise...

Time waster

As one sits at his computer and attempts to write a blog to update the world (or maybe just the three people who read his blog,) thoughts take their toll on his young mind. So much to do, so little time. In a few weeks I will turn the milestone, and become 21. The issue here is that I will be turning 21 in a dry country where you are ordered by the military not to drink. Dry counties are cool, just drive across county line. But dry countries? What the hell is wrong with you guys??? Next up we have the $900 to pull four teeth bill coming up. It is one of those things were you just have to grin and bear it. You don't want to do it, but you know sooner or later you are going to have to, so just get it out of the way... I received a phone call the other day telling me I needed to do paperwork that was due five days ago, so I have been busting my ass trying to get that done. Tracking these people down and getting the information from them is not an easy task. Next, I have good news, and that is the fact that I am short timed. That is an army term meaning that I am about to GTFOH, which is another army term that I will translate on a case by case basis upon request. A ballpark figure is something around three months, which is a relatively short time, considering I have been overseas for 15 months now, and on active duty orders for over 18, I shall be excited to come home. I have submitted an active duty packet and hope that gets approved. If it is, I shall be off again as soon as I come home. Hopefully they will give me a little down time before I deploy again, but we all know it is part of the job... This was really a rant session and not anything of substance, and I apologize for making you waste your time and reading it. Until next time...

Waxing Philosophical

So lately, I have been looking back and reflecting upon the choices in my life. Are they true to myself as well as true to others? Remaining true to oneself is the single most important thing that you can ever do. You can lie to others as much as you want, but the minute you begin lying to yourself you have just set yourself down a road which there is no turning back. I guess after that statement I should stop telling myself I am sexy... Dang it... Alas, I digress and need to get back to the actual subject. I have noticed that over the past two years in a combat zone that my typing skills have greatly improved. I guess wars cannot go on without cooks who can type and do admin jobs. I digress yet once more. Have I been true to myself in all my choices, telling myself that my decisions in life have been the correct ones? It seems as if everyday things come to light that make me believe I have been misleading myself, trying to make everything seem as if it is ok, when in reality it isn't. I realize that there isn't much I can do with all of this stuff whilst being 8000 miles away, but it still does nothing to help the absolute sense of helplesness. My mothers water heater went out, and I offered to get her a new one, but she is too stubborn, too resilient to be offered a handout and accept it. That is not the true issue at hand, but it is one of the smaller issues that compound and seem to make the larger issue worse. The world is spinning out of control and I don't know how to fix it. Maybe I never did, but at least once I thought I did. All of those false imaginings are now gone and I see the world for what it is. Something that I have no control over. We cannot correct the choices we have made in life, we can only try to make better ones in the future. Am I going to make a better choice off of the lessons I have learned? History shows us that most likely, the answer is no. History seems to have a way of repeating itself with consequences that reach far beyond anything we might be able to imagine. The impact of man on the world amazes me, as we have become a civilization who at one time revered the earth, for it was the provider of life and sustainment, but now it appears to be an object of disdain. I am learning more and more life lessons everyday, but my question is will my next decision be the right one? What if it isn't? What happens next?

Stroll Down Memory Lane

I took a stoll down memory lane last night. As I was trying to fall asleep, a song by AFI came on. The song was a live rendition of "God Called in Sick Today." An excellent song, it brought back some rather fond memories. Mikka, my first girlfriend, introduced them to me. One day while we were hanging out, my parents decided it would be cool to go to some crazy restaraunt in Oklahoma. It was about an hour and a half drive, and Mikka had just gotten a new AFI CD and was wanting me to take a listen to them. We listened to them on the drive down, and I became fond of a few of their songs. It just took me back to the choices that I have made in life, and wonder if they have been the right ones. In retrospect, I feel that they have been correct. Even if they haven't been, I have no control over the choices I have already made. They are what they are, and I have to make the best of them. I dated Mikka for about nine months or so, and ended up breaking up with her to go out with Jennifer. I realize now that I broke up with her for all the wrong reasons, but realize now that it was probably one of my better choices in life. I broke up with Jennifer to go out with Melony, who is now the love of my life, and also my wife. Anyways, back to Mikka. Mikka's mother, Nickla, is a wonderful lady, and I still am very close to her and the rest of the family. I called Nic last night on a whim, and for once she actually answered. We talked about some of the memories that the song brought up, and we were talking about some of our memories. The music flooded me with memories and thoughts that I did not know that it would do. The memories were very mixed, with sadness and happiness. I am not sure that I loved Mikka, but I do know that at the time I loved her as much as a sixteen year old could love anyone. Nic made the comment that I was a peach and that she would give anything she had to have two just like me, one for each of her daughters. I realize that had I stayed with Mikka, I would not be where I am today, in the military and chasing dreams that I have had for as long as I can remember. When I was six, I told my parents I wanted to be a firefighter. I have always wanted to serve and help others, and I fell that I am doing that now. Mikka was always fun to hang out with, and we could talk for hours and never run out of things to talk about. Melony is the same way. When we started dating, we would talk for hours on the phone, and we are still that way. We average about 3000 minutes a month, so we are definately chatterboxes. I realize that even the smallest things can trigger memories, some fond, others not so fond. Until next time...

Music

So, I am currently listening to "Hallelujah" by Jeff Buckley. Strange thought, I don't think I have any studio recordings of Jeff Buckley. Anyone else have that problem? After reading a "friend's" blog, I decided I would write about music and how integral a part of my life it is. I have over 240GB of music, and if anyone knows how much that is, you know I have a lot of music. I have about 80GB on my Zune and that is over 16,000 songs, so mutliply that by 3, about 50,000 songs, give or take a few 1000... Music has always been a coping mechanism for as long as I can remember, from living with Barbara and listening to music as I fell asleep. To this day, I still have issues falling asleep without listening to music. It has a calming influence on me, I am not sure why, but I feel that it has something to do with my "comfort zone." So, I listen to all kinds of stuff, from Alabama to ZZ Top, you name it, I probably have it. I am relatively certain it drives my wife crazy, as I begged her for six months to let me get a system in the truck. Now, she wants to upgrade it! I love her so much... I still need to get a radio or something in our room so I can drive her crazy listening to music as I fall asleep. Anyways, I find that as Eminem says, music can alter moods. It also goes on to say "can it load a gun and cock it, too?" I do not feel that music or anything else can make people go out and shoot other people. I am sick and tired of parents saying that their kid went out and shot someone because they played too much Resident Evil as a kid. I played it, and I have never shot someone just because I played the game. People bitching about sex and violence on TV makes me sick, too. If you don't like it, watch something else. Quit complaining about stuff you have control over. While you are at it, stop complaining about the stuff you can't change, too. Let life roll as it is. I digress, however. Music has been something that can change my mood from depressed to happy, happy to sad, sad to thoughtful. It all depends on what I wish to mull my head on at the time. My favorite band, Counting Crows, is one of the most amazing bands I have ever heard. Adam Duritz, the lead singer, has the most soulful, deppressing, uplifting, and thoughtful voice I have ever heard. I think you should check them out. Amazing band. Music can touch you in ways you have never thought possible. Maybe you should listen to some more music...

Dogs

So, I currently have a Chihuahua, and in the same household we have a English Bulldog and a mutt. All females, so my house is overran by females. Four women, three female dogs, and myself. Boy, am I in trouble when I get home. So, currently at the pet store, they have an Akita on sale for $400... I want it so there will be another male in the house. Few problems here... House is already full, with small dogs and women. Second problem- Akitas are big dogs, about the size of a husky, same characteristics and whatnot of a husky. Third- Akitas are very intelligient dogs, so something tells me I would go play fetch with the dog and somehow the Akita would make me look like an idiot. Third problem- Janelle won't let me get another dog... Dang it... So, this blog is for you Janelle, in the hopes you change your mind. Tara is very well trained, cleaning the boogers out of your nose, the wax out of your ear, and just generally licking you... So, you should let me get an Akita so I can train it to wash the laundry, vacuum, sweep and mop the kitchen, and make dinner. Would that not make life entirely easier for you? Just think, if you had a smart dog in the house the things it could do for you. Maybe even train it to mow the lawn when I am not home... Which is most of the time... Please...

Love

So, going off on a wild tangent, I have posted of a picture of my lovely wife and I. This was taken Christmas before last, about a month before heading for Iraq. I was home on Christmas exodus and we decided we needed to get our pictures taken. What is the definition of a newly wed? My wife and I must qualify, even though we have been married a year and a half, we have only seen each other about 45 days out of that. I believe the actual number is 41 days. This pains me, as I miss my wife terribly, but it also makes me realize that if she can put up with my crap from 8000 miles away and go through the worrying and fears that she has, nothing at this point in time can break our relationship. We have known each other since the summer between sophomore and junior year of high school. It was her freshman-sophomore summer, and we met at a JROTC summer camp. I recall making fun of her for her name being Beaver, and we hit it off, talked a few times when we got home, and decided to start dating. Our relationship has been full of ups and downs, from me not having a phone to call her, to her getting in trouble for talking to me too much. I recently had a conversation with my father-in-law while I was on leave. We talked for about two hours, and the thing that has stuck with me most about our conversation was that he said he was proud of me. Not for what I do, but what I have become. He told me I had transformed over the past four years from an immature teenager into a responsible young man. I figure he must have a very loose definition of responsible. Alas, I digress. I am amazed at how many people say I have changed. My good friend Debbie says I have transformed from an "awkward" teen into a "wonderful" young man. I may be using author's liberty when I use the phrase "wonderful," but I recall it being along those lines. I called Debbie at about 0700 CST on Christmas morning, and frankly, think I scared the crap out of her. She may or may not have started crying, depending on whom is telling the story. I made the comment that my wife could not cry, so, therefore, neither could she. I am, however, digressing again. I guess the moral of this post is that my wife is one of the strongest women that I have ever known, and I am blessed beyond all imagination to have such a wonderful woman in my life, and I wonder what ever I have done to deserve such a woman. I know that He created her for me, and I am eternally grateful for His blessings. In ending, I would just like to confess my love for my beautiful wife...

Learning experiences

The past year and a half has been a time of great learning and growth for myself. I have come to realize how much I took for granted at home. I have taken my wife, family and friends for granted, have always expected them to be there, just a phone call away. They are no longer a phone call away. Half a world away, obstacles are intruding upon my freedom and ability to communicate with those I love and care for. Obstacles such as time zones, sleep and work schedules, and the simple price of a phone call. A phone call can range anywhere from 6 to 42 cents a minute. Those prices have a tendancy to hit the pocket book hard. Since I have been here, I have gone through almost $1000 worth of phone cards, out of my pocket. I currently am stocked on phone cards, as I received a stack of 300 minute phone cards from the USO. Other things, like waking up next to my wife, had been taken for granted. There were times when I wish she would just leave me alone for five minutes, but, now, I would give anything just to be alone with her for five minutes. The freedom to be able to jump in your car, run down to Wal-Mart and grab a few things. Things that you do in everyday life are excruciatingly difficult to do here (or at least get away with.) I do not have the option of answering my phone at three in the morning, I am required to. As part of my job, if an emergency arises, I am the third person to be notified. You know how difficult it is to get up at three, go to your office, take care of something, then try to go back to sleep? Alas, I am complaining, and I should not be, so, with that, I shall sign off. Until next time, I am Loran Hatfield and I approve this message.

Truth

A wise kindred spirit once told me that only I shall know the truth of my pennings. This moved me in ways unexpected. I realized I write not for others, but for myself. It is my hope that others enjoy my writings and wish to read them. I believe I have one faithful follower (thanks, Deb...) and hope that there are many more out there standing by, eagerly awaiting my emails warning them of a new blog post... So, I have decided that I shall write as I deem, of experiences, lessons learned, and mistakes made. I shall start off with the first mistake... Starting a blog...

Random Quote of the Day

If there are no stupid questions, then what kind of questions do stupid people ask? Do they get smart just in time to ask questions? ~~Scott Adams~~

Random Quote of the Day

Because I have loved life, I shall have no sorrow to die. ~~Amelia Burr~~

Random Quote of the Day

Use your imagination not to scare yourself to death but to inspire yourself to life. ~~Adele Brookman~~

Random Quote of the Day

A life spent making mistakes is not only more honorable, but more useful than a life spent doing nothing. ~~George Bernard Shaw~~

Writings of a Deranged Man

I feel that there is an expectation of bloggers to post regular updates. I do not feel the need to write of the daily tediums that encompass my life. I feel that people try to write too often, resulting in sub-par items that are of little or no value to anyone except themselves, not that there is no honor in that. It is an honorable thing to be able to share your life, beliefs and views with the world. However, I feel that in order to write a good piece, you must not set out to write. You must conconct an idea and allow the paper to write itself. Take my essay, "Meeting Mom and Dad." It started out as an assignment for school, but it turned into something larger than myself. It turned into a tribute, a homage to those who took me in under their wings when no one else wanted to. It took me back to being six and scared shitless that I would never find a real home, someplace that I could stay for more than a few months. Someone that I could call Mom and Dad. Others before had told me that I could call them Mom and Dad, but I never believed them, because I knew in six months we would be moved someplace else and another family would say the same thing. A child in foster care feels as if he is one of the most unloved children in the world. I know, I was there. That is a horrible feeling for an adult, let alone a child. Alas, I digress, and need to get back to the subject at hand. When I feel that a piece worth posting has arrived, I shall send all an email and you shall feel free to read it, comment, or critique it. Be brutally honest, as that is the only way for a writer to increase his skills. Tell me if it sucks, tell me if it is fantastic, but, by all means, tell me the truth. I am loved, and that is the greatest feeling in the world.

Near beer

Never drink and drive after four beers. Unless they are near beers... Then you realize about thirteen seconds into the trip that you should have used the Porto John... So... Ya... Woohoo... Won a $10 AAFES gift card... Wish I could have stayed longer

Random Quote of the Day

I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable, I sound my barbaric YAWP over the roofs of the world. ~~Walt Whitman~~

Meeting Mom and Dad

On a lovely day in early spring, Barbara loaded my sister, Christy, and me into her car. Our foster parent of eight months, Barbara was in her late sixties or early seventies, with short, silver hair. Lean and standing tall, she constantly dangled a cigarette between her dainty fingers. Always clad in tan khakis and a turtleneck, she had the look of the stereotypical librarian. A career librarian, now retired, she donated time at the local library on a weekly basis.
“Where are we going, Barbara,” I queried from the backseat. “We’re going to meet Della and David,” she said. Who could these people be, I pondered to myself. I’d heard very little about these people, just that they were related to my father, something that later turned out to be a very cloudy subject. They lived in Wichita, Kansas, and had driven over three hours to come see us. My mind began to race. Trembling with excitement to meet these people, I could barely contain myself. Maybe they could tell me about my father, a man I had never met. The two-mile drive from Barbara’s house on BJ Tunnel to the Department of Human Services building on Main Street turned out to be one of the most confusing rides of my life. Are these people going to like me? Are they going to be nice? A more important question remained-- would they bring me any toys? Pulling into the parking lot, we looked around for their car, not realizing we didn’t know what they drove.
Entering the building, we saw Darryl Ingram, who had been our caseworker for as long as I could remember. Strolling into Darryl’s office, I saw two people sitting in her chairs. One of them, Della, a well- rounded woman in her forties with shoulder-length brown hair and giant Coke bottle glasses held a dollar store Barbie in her hand. An older man, David, probably in his fifties, with salt and pepper, shoulder length, unkempt hair sat next to her. He wore a blue hat that read “Boeing” along with a matching blue and white jacket. In his hand, stained yellow from many years of smoking, he held a NASCAR die-cast car. I, being outgoing person, immediately stated: “Hi, my name is Loran Calvin Edward McLean Jr. Is that car mine?” Much to my delight, it was!
Soon, Darryl led us into a playroom, complete with a table of oversized Legos and trucks. One particular truck, a three-foot-long replica of a Wal-Mart truck, immediately caught my attention. The white cab, trimmed in chrome exhaust pipes -a beautiful item- had Wal-Mart scrawled across the cab in a navy blue. I instantly saw the potential for hours of endless fun, and before long I took off, in my six-year-old mind, driving the truck around the blue and grey speckled carpet. Navigating through the obstacles, I narrowly avoided a collision with the fridge, veering right only to see an even larger obstacle looming in the way, David. He asked if he could join me on my drive, and soon we both drove off, navigating our way through obstacles and narrowly avoiding collisions.
In another corner, piled high, I saw dolls galore, dolls of all sizes and colors. In the middle of the room there sat a table with chairs. On one side of the wall loomed a fridge, which, much to my delight, I soon found out was filled with pop. Three of the walls had been painted a crème white, while the fourth I discovered was a one-way mirror Darryl used to observe us.
Now, I’m not sure if you know it, but driving a truck can make a little boy very hungry, and soon Darryl came in and asked if we would like to go to lunch. We decided to go to McDonald’s and get a bite to eat. Naturally wanting to make a good impression upon these new people, I got the huge Cheeseburger Happy Meal, amazing Della and David by eating every last bite of the cheeseburger and fries. After performing this amazing feat, we decided to go to Rocket Park.
Rocket Park was so named because of the humongous, bigger-than-life thirty-foot rocket that towered over the park. Once a beautiful blue, was now faded with a weathered red cap on top of it. It sat in the middle of a large pit filled with shredded tires. It had monkey bars on it, a pole that you could slide down, and a giant slide coming down from the top of the rocket. In the distance, you could see children swinging on the swing set in the park. As Christy and I played on the rocket, Darryl, Della, and David sat on a bench about sixty feet away, watching us enjoy ourselves as they had an “adult” conversation. After a while, Darryl called us over and asked if we would like to go and live with Della and David in Kansas. Wait a minute, my mind said. Is this a trick? All of the other times we’d moved, someone in a suit just showed up and said we had to move to a new house. Millions of thoughts began to cycle through my mind. Would we finally have a place to call home? When would we have to move? Can we say goodbye to all of our friends? Would they be our new parents? Would we be able to call them mom and dad? All of the events of the day were confusing and jumbled up.
A few weeks later, our things packed in fruit boxes and black trash bags, the house tingled with excitement and anticipation. David and Della were coming to pick us up. A depressing drizzle fell outside and it was starting to get late David and Della should have arrived here hours ago. All of the what-ifs and maybes began to rush through my mind. What if their car had broken down? Maybe they’ve forgotten about us. Maybe they got lost. What if they’ve gotten in to a car wreck? What if they don’t want us anymore? Have we gotten our hopes up just one more time to just to have them crushed again? The dreary drizzle that continued to fall outside reflected upon the ominous 9mood of my heart. Barabara, finding me curled up in the gray Lay-Z-Boy, gently took me into her arms, soothing my fears. “Don’t cry, baby,” she cooed, “go to bed and I’ll wake you when they get here.” “Do you promise?” I asked between sobs. “I promise. Now go get some sleep.” As I crawled between the sheets, I reluctantly slipped into oblivion. Still unnerved from thoughts of disaster, I slept restlessly, tossing left only to turn right all through the night.
Awakening the next morning to the scent of fresh coffee, I heard voices coming from the kitchen. Gingerly traipsing into the kitchen, I spied David and Della sitting at the table, drinking coffee with Barbara. “Where have you been,” I asked. David was the first to speak. “We got a flat tire just outside of Coffeeville and it took a long time to get it changed. By the time it was, it was late and we figured you’d already gone to bed. We didn’t want to wake you up, so we waited until this morning to come pick you up.” “Oh,” I mumbled in acceptance. All of the fears of the evening before forgotten, I began to quiz David and Della about my new home and family.
As I climbed into the car, I spied a single tear spill from Barbara’s tired green eyes, betraying the fact that we were not the first set of children that she had said goodbye to, even though she had not wanted to. Driving away, I watched her faux smile slowly disappear.

Charlie

So, as everyone knows, I am currently stationed in Kuwait. A few weeks ago, a stray dog shows up at our area, and he starts to stick around, most likely because people decided to start feeding him. Just a guess... Anyways, right after people started feeding him, the higher ups decided to tell them not to feed the dog. Note, I did not get this order, so I am still feeding him. I gave him a bowl of water the other day, and my buddy got mad at me. Ok, so maybe I did use his bowl for noodles to water the dog, but hey, the germs from the dog can't be any worse than the crap they serve us in the DFAC. It happens... So, pictures of Charlie will soon follow... as soon as I can find a camera...