Over at Cassandra's place, we got into a nostalgia-fest in the comments following Cassie's post where she bitch-slaps a self-absorbed whiny Army wife who can't see the big picture because she's surrounded by mirrors... it's all about her. We got into what life was like as a member of a military community - whether a warrior, a spouse, or a "brat."
I was a brat. My sister will no doubt aver that I am using the term in an overly narrow sense, that of "Army Brat" vice the more generic and expansive meaning - which I reject utterly, of course.
The recent discussion on assimilation caused me to have some epiphanies on the subject that are related to being a military child who spent a lot of time overseas, and which will be the subject of a later post. It also caused some serious reminiscing about life on post over the years. Interestingly, during my father's career, if we were stationed near a military installation, we lived on it. We were only on the "local economy" when Dad was doing ROTC assignments and the year-plus he spent in Vietnam.
By contrast, during my career, I never once lived in quarters. I was always "off post." By choice, as well as a result of being *really* tired of moving. Back in the 80's and 90's there was usually a long wait for quarters which would have you waiting over a year to get on post (another pack and ship move) and then you get reassigned about two years later to restart the process. The other reason would be for much the same reason that SWWBO and I refused to buy a house in a neighborhood governed by a Neighborhood Association - I really hate neighbors who take it upon themselves to essentially ensure that you live as they think is proper to live, which is often wrapped up in a insufferable "busybody-ness" that impels them to be nosy and intrusive. If you like that sort of order, fine, live that way, and have a good time. We don't.
But one thing that having that viewpoint has caused me to miss was a certain background noise that made me feel at home because it was always in the background as I grew up. I missed... living by the bugle. I still miss it, if not to the point that I’m going to set up a loudspeaker to play the calls at Castle Argghhh!.
It used to be that military life was governed by the bugle. The bugler woke you up, called you to formation, sent you to chow and church, announced sick call, told you when to start shutting down your work details and get ready for retreat and retiring the colors for the day. It told you to get your butt in barracks and when to turn out the lights.
We don't use nearly as many of those calls as we did in my youth, but we still routinely blow Reveille, Retreat, To The Color, and Taps. And, of course, you hear Taps in the cemeteries, as warriors are laid to their final rest. And when I'm on the Fort or out TDY, those calls drifting across the cantonment are a little sign of home, in that way you remember your youth.
I remember back in the day, when Retreat sounded, people pulled over their cars and stopped. Military personnel would get out of their vehicles and assume Parade Rest, facing in the direction of the Main Post flag pole. Then, when the salute gun fired and To The Color started as the flag was lowered, they would render the hand salute, then everyone would get back in their cars and continue their business. If you were walking, where-ever you were (assuming it was safe to do so) you stopped whatever you were doing and did the same – Parade Rest facing the flag (even if you couldn’t see it) during Retreat, and rendering the hand salute (or Presenting Arms, if armed) when the gun fired and To The Color sounded.
The stopping of cars is a lost tradition here at Fort Leavenworth, which makes it unsafe to try to execute it today, as people get confused (especially visiting civilians) or, worse, people (military *and* civilian) angry at being impeded on their way home.
As late as 1995 at Fort Sill, the MPs would stop traffic around Post Headquarters when the flag was raised or lowered. I don’t know if they still do that down there or not. Around here, you’ll occasionally see people, especially gray-haired people, pull over if they’re in a spot where it’s safe to do so, and get out of their cars.
And, sadly, (and these hosers have always been around) – you’ll find that small group of small people who hover near the exit of their buildings, waiting for it all to be over, rather than stand still and render honors to the Color and the nation it represents – the Color that fellow warriors have died wearing, and make their final journeys covered by. Those people make me sad. I don’t go out of my way to be walking to my car at 5PM, but wherever I am on post at that time of day, I have a sense of where the flagpole is.
And I see I'm not the only one who notices.]]>