Mother's Day

Boot Camp at the U.S. Naval Training Center, San Diego,  wasn't bad. I was too busy to be homesick even though I swore my allegiance to the Constitution and Arleigh Burke at the age of 17 years and 22 days. The Boy Scouts and a thousand days of free-lance tramping with rifle and a backpack helped the skills come easily.

A bad attitude toward chickenshit rules gave me some trouble and, eventually, cost me my squad leader spot. Still, I was largely with the program and comfortable with the Cold War patriotism of the era. The godless hordes of Mao and Bulganin would not rape my sisters nor send Dad to die agonizingly in the mines of Siberia, so I accepted the inconvenience of learning to become a sea warrior.

But what boy, in his heart of hearts, doesn't miss Mom? It was good to see her over my post-boot leave which coincided with Christmas. All was pleasant until time to board the train and she was not quite able to prevent tears. I was not quite able to block the guilt of a million missed opportunities to be a better son.

Three days later, just before taps, the haze gray shuttle bus deposited me at the Electronic Class A school barracks on Treasure Island in San Francisco Bay. The quarters petty officer showed me where I lived. I heaved the sea bag on to the bunk and began transferring possessions to the locker. About half-way down, under the dungarees, under the bell-bottomed blues and whites, were my skivvy shirts and shorts. Mom-laundered, Mom-folded, and Mom-ironed.

I stood tall, left the barracks and nonchalantly wandered the halls until I found an absolutely private place, a closet where the Navy stored brooms and swabs. I closed the door. I sat down on a bucket and bawled like a baby.

Happy Mothers Day, Mom.
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