Blogging On The Bayou
The following is a series of blogs from a recent trip to southern Louisiana.
She gets on the small plane headed for Alexandria, Louisiana. As I deposit my carry-on in the overhead, I notice her in the seat next to mine, straight posture, fresh face, camo uniform. She is a soldier coming home from Iraq.
Her blond hair is pulled tight and she smiles easily but wearily, tired in a way that only people who have traveled a long distance and are near home can look. She stares out the window as the engines start and the plane began to move. She is no stranger to this routine.
“Sorry if I stink,” she says bluntly with a hint of a Southern accent polished off by years of being in places other than the South. “I have sweated and dried more times than I can remember in the last three days.” I assure her she does not stink but I would never convince her of that.
“How long are you home?” I ask.
“Two weeks. Been gone since Katrina hit. Seven months. I have four more. I just want to get a shower and sleep. My husband asked what I wanted to do and I said I wanted to do nothing for a while. Just be home.”
She tries to stretch her legs, and rubs her neck and pinches her temples. She is muscled like a swimmer, broad shoulders and no fat. She never takes off her sunglasses. We climb into the azure sky and the green hills of Georgia spread out beneath us in rolling patches like a lush Southern quilt of every shade of green. We fly southwest toward the bayous.
“It was 136 degrees when I left Iraq,” she says. She looks down at the earth. “I miss green trees and grass and rain. All I’ve seen since I got there is brown sand and dirt and camo and dust. It’s good to be home.”
“Your family is in Louisiana?” I ask.
“My husband and daughter. She’s twelve.”
“Must be hard for her with you gone.”
“Hard for me, too. Today is a surprise. She doesn’t know I’m coming.”
There are at least seven soldiers on the plane. She is the only woman, the only mom. She gets up for the second time to use the restroom.
“We have to overhydrate in the desert because we sweat so much,” she laughs. “Guess I shouldn’t have drank so much water.”
She goes and returns and talks about the heat over there, “Like a hair dryer constantly blowing in your face.” She mentions the heavy armor they have to wear during attacks and how the terrorists chuck mortars into their camp for $100 in pay. She sleeps for a few minutes but can’t stay down. Her legs are hurting and she is anxious.
“I want to sleep in a real bed on a mattress thick enough where you don’t feel the springs digging into your back. I want it to rain the whole time I’m here. I may get out and just walk in the grass barefooted. I just want to be a mom again.”
We land and she makes no excess movements in her determined attempt to get into the small airport. She knows who will be waiting. The last time I see her, she is bear-hugging a 12-year-old girl and her husband is grinning with pride and joy and the mom/soldier has finally taken her sunglasses off. Her eyes are beautiful and filled with tears. She embraces her husband and her little girl and I think about how many moms are fighting a war that takes three days to get to. I pass her husband, shake his hand and say thank you.
It is not enough.
