My parents split when I was young. I could not explain what had changed, but I could feel it. After the divorce, I stayed with my father in Neoga, Illinois, in the cornfields forever. He remarried, but lived with my aunt for a while, and I spent most days with my grandfather fishing. I remember Sharon and Homer more than any other at that time. We went out early in the morning to get the nightcrawlers with a flashlight and an empty coffee can. He taught me stillness. He taught me how to clean and cook the fish, which we did, out there. He did not speak unless he had something to say. That time gave me something I could not name. But family drama cuts clean, and when it did, I ended up in Chicago with my mother.
Chicago was not one place. I lived in Lincoln Park in 1973, then Uptown, and then Norwood Park by 1976–five schools in three grades. Each move left a seam, and I went through twelve schools before I dropped out. That many restarts teach you how to become invisible. That many classrooms make you question what you are supposed to be learning. I waited until I was old enough to take the GED. I passed it, but I did not celebrate. I bought a one-way ticket to Sandpoint, Idaho, where my Godmother lived. I needed distance, a place that did not remind me of anything. I planned to hike. That was the whole plan: walk, breathe, and let the trees absorb something I could not carry anymore.
Before I left, I went through every Army surplus store in Chicago. I bought jump boots. I bought tiger stripe camo pants. I found a Vietnam-era rucksack that had already survived someone else’s war. That gear became my armor. I packed it like it mattered. I packed it like I had a mission.
Somewhere outside of Sandpoint, deep in the Bitterroots—I was “hiking to Canada,” and I did not even have a passport—I floundered for water and was scooped up by some Air Force Combat Controllers who let me camp with them for the night. The next day, I walked with them to a town where I called for a ride back to Sandpoint. I had planned that trip for months. Anybody who knew me then could verify that. People said it was crazy. My mother had a hard time even dropping me off at Union Station. That whole story does sound like it comes out of a movie, but I lived it. That was my truth.
The next day was the Fourth of July. I went down to the main street to watch the parade… and there it was. U.S. Army Recruiting. A table. A man. Standing there like it had been waiting for me the whole time. I walked through the parade, introduced myself, and said I wanted to join the Army. He said, “Good. We are closed. Come back tomorrow.” So I did.
The day after that, I was gone. Just me, my wallet, and a life I would never see again. They flew me to Fort Riley, then Seattle, then Hartsfield, and I rode a bus to Fort Benning. That was July 1985. I was eighteen years and eight months old.
I made it through basic. That is all that needs to be said. After a weekend in Columbus, Georgia and Victory Drive, I entered Infantry School. I turned nineteen in November. While my friends were packing for college, I was learning how to fight with a bayonet and blow you up with a Claymore mine.
I did not go home after graduation. I went straight to Fort Riley. I took a couple of days for Christmas. New Year’s belonged to the Army.
We were preparing for something big. We did not understand its scope, but it was REFORGER 86. Germany. A Cold War chessboard. We spent weeks putting our gear together. Then came the alert. Everything was packed and it was off to the C-130s. Black leather boots—spit-shined. M16A1s. Helmet full of cold water. Razor in numb hands we were an hour out from landing.
We landed in Stuttgart. Cold and gray. Then into the Bavarian Forest. Snow. Mud. Diesel in the trees. Formations in silence between pine trunks. And somehow in all of it—stillness again.
This is not a story, every bit of it is just memory now. I do not plan to write about my time in the Army, it would only add to the mystery at this point. Look for a book to bridge this time with This is How it Feels to Heal, about my 17 years in the online community in the mid-1990s.
The beginning of my remote work, which I still do today. As of writing this, I am living in Pereira, Colombia. A little over three years after this, I was immersed in the Grateful Dead where I kind of still remain, though a lot has also taken place. I followed them all through the 1991 year, including the JGB shows. Other than that, those years between 89-95 I did random tours, or just a nearby city at times towards the end. The last full tour I did, was Spring, 1995. It how I first entered the dot.com word as well, in 1995 and AOL and tape trading lists.
Just for fun, in the photo at the top. I am second row from the top, second in from the right. To my left is Billy Guess, he introduced me to Grateful Dead music, over his shoulder is Brian Weise. He and I were both married, and both had kids while living in the same off post place in Manhattan, Kansas. In the front row, behind the guidon, is Raul Gonzalez–the famous “Speedy.” Everyone liked Speedy. Below is a patch made for Reforger 86 that I own.
