West Point Ring Weekend 2011

The United States Military Academy at West Point is a bastion of many traditions. It has been an incredible learning experience for this West Point mom to learn traditions as I have progressed (and matured!) through this once-in-a-lifetime experience.

The traditions begin early with figuring out how to divide a pie equally into an "odd" number of slices, how to chew food efficiently, and learning a new vocabulary filled with words like: Plebe, Yuk, Cow, Firstie, SAMI, boodle, smoke, hours, the Gray Period, poop deck, and SOSH run. West Point (and the Army) is its own universe with so many unusual terms ... many to which I am not even privy.

HOWEVER... of all this big, gray, stone institution's traditions, my absolute favorite has to be Ring Weekend. Such a happy milestone!

Interesting Facts about West Point Class Rings:

• West Point was the first learning institution to have a class ring (1835).
• Old Grads and their families donate rings back to West Point to be melded into the new metal used for the new class rings. An awesome symbol of the Long Gray Line's continuity.
• Today's cadets design their own rings, but all rings include each year's class crest.
• The cadets save money every month for their rings. It is quite an investment!

A beloved tradition of Ring Weekend is the "Ring Poop". After the ceremony's completion, Firsties (First Class Cadets or seniors) wearing their new, shiny rings are attacked by swarms of Plebes (Lowly Fourth Class Cadets who, under normal circumstances, would not be allowed to approach a Firstie in such an aggressive way). Plebes surrounding the Firsties chant in unison a very obnoxious poem regarding the new rings. Firsties try to run as fast as they are able to avoid all Plebes performing this embarrassing ritual.

I'm sad to have missed Ring Weekend, but, knowing how delighted my cadet was to have his fiance celebrate with him, made me smile

I cheered as my FDIL's (future daughter-in-law) plane landed 3:00 Friday afternoon at LGA. Every one said it would not be possible for her to make the Ring Ceremony by 5:00. Every one except another WP cadet mom who gave me the hottest NYC travel tip... ever. It took a lot of mom- prompting and assurance to my cadet that some things are well-worth the money spent, getting FDIL to the ceremony being one of them.

"Mom, we will just be standing around a lot."

When you are living West Point it is easy to lose perspective.

At last my cadet agreed to arrange for a limo to meet his fiance. She was on the airport curb by 3:20 (Only one hour and forty minutes until the Ring Ceremony!)

"My driver's name is 'Lucky'... that can't hurt my chances." was text received from FDIL (Aren't I all military-like using this new acronym?)

Imagine my delight when I received a very blurry i-Phone pic of cadets crossing the road at Trophy Point on their way to the ceremony. Whew... another Mission Accomplished! Here's to persistence, answered prayer, and a lot of Lucky!

Blurry 'cause she is running to make it!

Class of 2012 Ring Ceremony

My Cadet Fourth From the End (Photo Courtesy of West Point)

Special thanks to husband for his awesome ability to find our son in any photo.

THE Ring!

Beautiful Couple!

Meeting FDIL at the airport, I was delighted that she was delivering a special gift. To me, from my cadet.

Love it... and love the sweet note which accompanied the gift ... a note which made the present all the more special... my own little private Ring Ceremony. Wow.

Added in my note was: P.S. Don't lose this, it was very expensive!

Oh, how the roles begin to reverse... don't worry... it is now one of my most prized possessions.

A Critical Mission - Class 2012 Yearling Winter Weekend

Everyone who know anything about West Point is very familiar with the 'Gloom Period'. It's the time after Winter Leave until spring when everything is gray...the stone walls, the uniforms, the weather, the trees, the river...

the attitudes.

In an institution of higher learning where cadets can major in everything from Engineering to Defense and Strategic Study...

all cadets minor in Complaining.

Enter West Point Class of 2012 Yearling Winter Weekend. A bright, shining jewel of freedom in the sea of gray gloom. Add a hometown GF to the mix and life becomes worth living again...if only for a short while.

Meanwhile...back at Hillcrest Cottage on Thursday p.m....the Kinleystead is gearing up for a good ol' Southern ice storm complete with the frantic grocery store rush to procure standard Velveeta and Rotel provisions.

A text from the University three hours north arrives while I am weaving my grocery cart amidst wild shoppers imagining themselves snowed in for days to come:

Class is canceled

Time to hunker down and prepare because the storm is headed our way. GF from the University 30 miles away is invited to spend the night at Hillcrest Cottage and a promise is made to anxious Cadet that the very important GF will be personally escorted to the airport securely. This is no time for Murphy to rear his ugly head!

0430 The alarm clock announces the day
0455 Road Inspection and all is clear. Parental Escort Mission downgraded from critical to formality. Expedition is ignited for de-icing and heat for the airport run.
0500 GF check.

"Are we awake and on schedule for 515 departure?"

(Enter Murphy, the despised antagonist.)

"My flight has been canceled and rescheduled for 12:30 (1230)"

It will only be worse at 12:30 was my initial feeling, and we scrambled to think of alternative plans. With the weather heading due east toward her Memphis connecting flight, Dallas seemed to be the best city from which to deliver the very important GF package. But, alas, no openings available!

0610 A sudden realization that the Expedition is still running in the driveway! Very de-iced and very warm. An are-you-crazy look from Jeff...oh, well.

0630 The decision is made to go on to the airport before the roads get worse.

0930 Little Rock National is closed for the day...possibly tomorrow, too.

1000 Directives from Kinleystead Headquarters: Book a flight out of Dallas. Against the advisement from the ticket agent, Shreveport (3 1/2 hours south) was suggested as an alternate choice. "Book it!" was the order from Cadet Mom who has determined that nothing is going to stop the GF from getting to the West Point Yearling!

1030 to 1500 An uneventful, but slower-than-usual drive to Louisiana for the 1745 departure to Dallas with a 2400 ETA at LaGuardia.

1146 Cadet Text from West Point: thanks so much mom i love you!!!

Mom Points...YES!

1500 Arrival at Shreveport Regional with a heart-stopping glitch in the agenda when GF is informed her flight is overbooked. An airline change accommodates her with an earlier flight and earlier arrival in NYC...whew. With all found to be well, the Expedition begins the return trip.

1549 GF Text from Shreveport: i just boarded my first plane

Meanwhile, the Expedition tries to make good time while there's daylight and the roads are clear. I look like I rolled out of bed at 0430, complete with bedhead and blood-shot eyes. I've had a cup of coffee and a BK cheeseburger, but knowing the roads ahead are going to be icy makes hunger and vanity fall by the wayside.

And, all goes well. I make good time. My ETA at home is 1900, and while I'm thinking about the cheese dip at Hillcrest Cottage, I'm entertaing myself with a CD found buried beneath the Expedition console's heap of random junk.

1714 GF Text from DFW: just got to my gate! ive got my boarding pass.

Dark comes for the Expedition.

1810 GF Text from DFW: they said well be boarding in ten minutes :)

The closer I get to home, the more the snow and sleet pelts my windshield. It becomes difficult to distinguish between wet pavement and ice, so my 60 mph is reduced to 30 mph. Then, the interstate quickly, like someone drew a line over the road, turns into a sheet of solid ice. Cars have skidded off the road, police lights are flashing, truckers are coming to a standstill. The Expedition is sliding down the road at a zero mph that seems much faster because I have no control at all.

Suddenly, the upcoming exit looks very good to me, and I know I just can't go any further. I should have gotten gas before this event, my phone is down to one bar with no car charger. Everything is closed, and I am picturing a very cold night alone in my car.

I exit very cautiously off the interstate and into the first parking lot. A beacon of hope, lights, and a gathering of cars appears outside a Target store ahead. People are walking in and out. It's the only thing open for miles around, and I am very thankful!

So, I meet some truckers from Canada and Texas. We drink coffee together in the Target Starbucks. I sit at the counter and watch the Target parking lot begin to fill up with 18-wheelers.

With one bar left, I call Kinleystead headquarters.

Before I can even drink my coffee and read the magazines I had just purchased, my heroes in the Jeep have navigated the 30 miles from home and are in the Target parking lot.

I wish my trucker friends a good evening.

2130 I am found eating cheese dip in Hillcrest Cottage's kitchen!

2216 GF text from NYC: I made it! we're in a taxi

With the arrival of the evening's last text message, all the events of the day faded quickly away.

The bright, shining jewel of my cadet's gray existence has appeared for him. I thank God for my I-don't-accept-no-for-an-answer personality, for His making our paths smooth-er all day, for cheese dip in a warm cottage, and for a late night walk in the snow with Davis and Mac the Labradoodle.

R-Day Eve

Our West Point Bound Son at His Going Away Party

One Year Later at Cadet Field Training

Today is R-Day Eve for the West Point New Cadets Class 2013, and many emotions are flooding my mind. It's been a full year since the family delivered our New Cadet to the land of all things gray, and the adrenaline of that 24 hours has become a part of our family history.

An entire auditorium of people gave my son a standing 'O' as he received the certificate stating he had received a West Point appointment. There were several going away parties with cakes, speeches , tributes, toasts, and flag waving. He was a regular hometown hero...

but all that would quickly change.

On R-Day, my son morphed from Hometown Hero to New Cadet and it is was made crystal-clear that New Cadet is the lowest form of life in the strange new world he had entered.

It was a tearful, emotional good-bye, as delivering any child to college would be..

multiplied by a thousand.

And we morphed quickly as well. We changed from tearful parents to...

New Cadet stalkers.

They (the New Cadets) were everywhere, being herded in small groups from one station to the next. We planted ourselves at a strategic crossroad and, with binoculars and video camera in hand...

the stalking began.

Our New Cadet loaded with gear and sporting his new BCGs (BCG = Birth Control Glasses) was
herded by our vantage point into the barber shop and out again. The transformation was...

well...

breathtaking.

Mom's voice can be heard on the family video saying,

"Oh...
my...
goodness..."

Moms everywhere could be seen crying...

especially after seeing the haircuts and glasses.

Soon we were lined along the street waiting for a glimpse of our New Cadet at the R-Day Parade and Oath Ceremony.
Dad spotted him as he was marching away and was so overcome with pride that he gave a "Go, Kinley!" shout-out.
I saw Clayton's trademark 'smirk' as he continued to stare straight ahead. It was the last time I would see him for a long time, and I lived off that smirk for the rest of the summer.

Next, they herded the Class of 2012 into the Mess Hall. The doors were closed with a ceremonial bang....
West Point's way of saying, "Show's over folks. Nothing more to see. They are 'our' New Cadets now."

The summer was full of silence. I wrote him every day, but received little back. Only the fill-in-the blank letters I had composed were returned. Meanwhile, he spent the summer chewing 5 times a bite, doing push-ups for every conceivable offense, and trying to be as invisible as possible. We lived for the three 10 minute phone calls.
And, in the end, purchased two plane tickets to New York in August for his Acceptance Day weekend to witness firsthand his upgrade from New Cadet to Cadet and Plebe.

Once he got settled into the barracks with his own landline, and we could talk to him, a lot of the anxiety began to fade. He didn't fly home for Thanksgiving, so Christmas leave was a joyous homecoming full of friends and non-stop activity.

We flew up again in March for Plebe Parent Weekend, he spent Spring Leave in Colorado skiing with a friend, we prayed all spring for him to pass Calculus, and, the next time we see him...

Dad is pinning his Airborne Wings on his uniform!

This has been a year full of growth both for our Cadet and for us as parents letting go of our first child. He has grown from a boy to a man, independent from us and thriving in an incredible environment.

Tomorrow when a thousand families will be living their R-Day, my Cadet will be shooting from tanks at Fort Knox, Kentucky. He has already had a summer full of jumping out of airplanes, being in the field for days at a time, blowing open buildings, shooting all kinds of guns, and

...well...

preparing to be an Army Officer.

Family Vacation

These are some crazy times for Hillcrest Cottage. We seem to be flying past new mileposts every day at an alarmingly fast pace. Two weeks ago, on a single day I had one son jumping out of airplanes, another was driving the little black Volvo solo on a six hour road trip, and the last seems to grow an inch daily.

Airborne School

Last week we were road tripping toward Georgia to attend Clayton's Airborne School Graduation. Airborne was a three week opportunity for Clayton to experience military life with the regular enlisted 'Joes' outside the West Point bubble. We were able to add him to the Expedition and head north toward Atlanta. The Varsity was our initial destination... a Kinley family tradition which Clayton enjoyed immensely.

Uncle Danny's Farm

We were able to spend Clayton's 5 day leave on Uncle Danny's farm. There was a lot of good food cooked by Granny Kinley (Granny's deluxe family meal includes macaroni and cheese cooked in a crock pot, the saltiest green beans on the planet, creamed corn that melts in your mouth, sweet tea that keeps you up all night because you drink too much, and banana pudding which is the recipe straight off the Nilla Wafers box, but doesn't taste the same if it's made by anyone other than her. Once they took that recipe off the Nilla Wafer box. Granny promptly wrote them a letter of complaint. The recipe soon appeared back... and to this day she claims it was because of her!)

Good Times on the Veranda

There was also lots of cigar smokin' under the veranda... an awesome spot with a cool concrete floor, fans blowing, an outdoor fireplace for chilly nights (just not this trip), a huge dining table for family gatherings and a kitchen. Uncle Danny's farm is our boys' favorite destination. It was Mac the Labradoodle's first vacation, and she had a fun time running around with no restrictions.

A New Hat

Clayton was able to shoot his new rifle, which we had brought with us. He picked out an awesome new 'Clayton' hat at the Mast Country Store in Greenville.
We told stories, reflected on the past year, and laughed... a lot.
It was a great five day vacation for Clayton and an unexpected surprise for our family to have been able to take him to South Carolina. Last year when the family gave Clayton his farewell party, we didn't know when he would be able to be back...if ever.
We will never be able to predict where his military travels will take him.

Three Brothers Together

One of my favorite parts of this family time was seeing all three guys in Danny's attic bedroom on blow-up mattresses laughing, talking, and just being brothers

...again.

The Varsity is one of our favorite family road trip traditions, what's yours?

My New Hat

I have always loved hats...especially funky ones. They can bring so much humor into life without using words. In my younger and wilder days I had a reputation for wearing unique hats. [Disclaimer: Funky hats must be worn responsibly, only when the wearer possesses innate abilities to know when and how.] My college favorite was a moose antler hat found while skiing in Vail. The moose antler hat doesn't sound unique in today's world, but, trust me, in those days it would draw some attention. I loved that hat and wore it like it was the most normal thing I could do. Therein lies the wordless humor.

Stuart has Inherited the Gene

My Stuart is definitely the funniest person in our family. His humor is quiet and does not draw attention to itself. He has inherited the you-can-wear-a-funky-hat gene. During his 18th birthday trip to Las Vegas (with Dad to see Cirque Du Soleil's Beatle performance), he won a crazy hat which he wore with much humor. And, when I see the pics, the laughs just keep on coming.

Mom Hats

I thought I knew what it meant to wear hats but didn't really know until I became a 'mom'. Three guys call me 'Mom', so I have a multitude of hats. Naturally, the hats are added, subtracted and morphed as the seasons change.
Diaper Changer, Bottle Feeder, Nose Wiper, Story Reader were a lifetime ago.
Homework Czar, Carpool Queen, Social Director, Baseball Coach seem distant also.
At one point, it was normal for me to drive two to three hours per day. Taxi Driver Hat will be retired in August on Davis' 16th b-day.
Of course, maid, laundry mistress, and cook are hats I wear wearily. (Btw, did you know that good help is hard to find these days? Even when I am my own help.)

'Unavailable' Calls

'Unavailable' ( Whenever my West Point cadet calls, my caller ID says 'unavailable' for security reasons.) rings me up mid-evening last night. "Mom, can you help me with my taxes?"
"Clayton, the deadline is tonight at midnight." I replied trying to not sound as I-told-you-to-not-wait-until-the-last-minute-to-do-your-taxes as I felt. West Point even had tax professionals that could have assisted Unavailable . Aaarrrgghh.
"Can't you ask an upperclassman to help you? Our taxes are totally different, and are done by a professional."
"Mom, just help me out. I'm using Turbo Tax"
(Oh, great. Isn't that how our dear Treasury Secretary got himself into tax trouble? Maybe, then, if Clayton did anything wrong the IRS will be sure to extend sympathy.Ha.)
Anyway, I helped the best that I could, even added a enlightening and sagely tax-withholding commentary. When I was through with Unavailable, I reflected upon the new hat I had just worn. A new season. A new mom- of- adult- child kind of hat.

More Hats

No time for lots of reflection. More hats to wear. I wearily put a wet load of clothes into the dryer, finished cleaning a kitchen still dirty from the dinner I had cooked and served to 20 teenagers, and walked upstairs to see if youngest son was on his way to bed.

What Hats Do You Wear?
What's Your Fave/Least Fave?

USMA West Point Mom and USMA Plebe Parent Weekend 2009

A friend, who happens to also be a West Point "Old Grad", recently informed me that the term used for those who have everything "West Point" is "Gray Hog". Well...sign my husband up for that club because he practically bought ,not one , but several entire bookstores when we were at West Point for Plebe Parent Weekend 2009!

Grey Hogs

I have to be honest...just call me "Gray Hog2". It is difficult to stop myself because the West Point items are reminders of the son/plebe we have living there. However, I do not have a "West Point Mom" t-shirt or hat. Husband and I made a rule for ourselves that we just wouldn't do the ole "parent" thing in hats, t-shirts, or bumper stickers. Apparently, we perceived ourselves to be "above" that practice...ha...in the beginning...before the Gray Hog fever began.

Maybe...One Little Exception

The one exception to our "No Parent Paraphernalia" rule is my "Proud Parent of West Point Cadet" tote bag. A local bank had given the free tote bags to parents on A-Day Weekend, and I do admit to carrying this item with a great sense of pride. Love it when people ask about my Cadet at West Point.

We Have a 'Disease'

Frankly, we are extremely "gray" and very "hoggish"! On our latest weekend at West Point, as were in yet another gift store, I abruptly stopped Jeff from making a purchase by saying,"Do you really need a West Point Zippo?" To my surprise, he listened...whoa.

Reason why Gray Hog1 was right to listen to Gray Hog2 : as it turned out our West Point Class of 2012 Plebe had planned a gift for Dad.

"Here, Dad, this is your Plebe Parent Weekend favor," our son said handing Jeff a small package.

Your guess is correct...a West Point Zippo engraved with "Class of 2012"on the back.

Hmmmmm.... a bit of divine intervention in the Gray Hog1's spending spree.

Film

I still use "film". Every time I buy a new roll I wonder how long it will be before film passes away like home movie reels and polaroid cameras. If I had digital options, I could pretend that film is uber-cool and superior and artsy but difficult to be plausible when comparing film -produced photos to the digital sisters.

Film Can't Compete

The competitive nature within rises when I know my photos can't compete. Frustration results from the playing field's unevenness. I feel handicapped.
Film is delayed gratification. I remember the day when people had to wait an entire week to get photos back from the drugstore. I also remember taking film to quality developing studios where each photo was hand developed. In today's world, development only takes an hour and even that seems long.
We just returned from an important weekend at West Point. With twenty four pictures on a roll, I took four rolls of film for a total of ninety six photos. Once upon a time, that was considered good documentation. In comparison, a digital photographer would have returned with five hundred pics. Knowing about the luck-factor in photography, the odds are against the film guys.
And another thing: Whenever I say to a random person, "Would you please take our picture?" (and this is done only in the "big" moments), the photo always returns to me with something chopped off or, even with an auto-focus lens, blurry. It's simply a fact on which I can always count.

Always the Photographer

Now I am brought to the present point regarding Plebe Parent Weekend and its photos which returned from Target (and, yes I did wait an entire day for them). Out of the four rolls, there were some keepers. For that I am thankful because I know that is not always the case because there are no re-do's with film. Here's the point: Where am I? Me. The mom part of "parent". Always the photographer, never in the picture. Turns out in the one photo I allowed myself to enter, the ole chopping block syndrome came to visit.

Pictures That Last Forever

When Stuart was small I caught him doing a very strange thing one day. He would put his index finger under his eye and jerk it up and down once at a time very quickly. And, then, he would turn his head slightly and repeat the motion.
"Stuart, what are you doing?" I asked him after observing this several times.
"I'm taking pictures with my mind," was his reply. And he switched to the other eye like it was the most normal thing a kid could do.
"Why did you do that?" I inquired again.
"I ran out of film," he answered with the confidence of a professional photographer.
I believed him then...and I still do. The photographs taken by our minds are superior to both film AND digital.
Guess what? I'm in every one of those pics.

Does anyone else have this problem of never being in the photo?

The Three-Cornered Hat Principle

Clayton was barely six, Stuart was four, and Davis was not quite two when we took a family trip to Williamsburg, Virginia... love the history... top places ever... spent two days of our honeymoon there. Anyway, so we were on this family vacation taking in the history and having a great time walking until our feet hurt. We still had a stroller, and everyone wanted to get in...even me.
As in any tourist destination, there are always "things" that the tourist simply must have. On this particular trip, the "must-have" was the three-cornered hat. Every kid had one! I wanted mine to have one , too.
"It would make the pictures so much cuter," I whined, trying to persuade Jeff to buy one...errr, make that three. Let's just say the ole three-cornered hats times three were going to set us back quite a bit more than had been expected and, so, they did not come to be.
Still,the more we did not have the hats and the more people we saw with the hats, the greater the desire for the hats became. We went about our day. We took tons of pictures. We had lots of fun, but not having the three-cornered hats continued to rear its ugly head.

At the Beach

Fast forward several days to where we were back at our beach house taking in the surf, sand, and shell collecting.
Jeff observed, "You know, the three-cornered hats would really look silly about now." And we laughed at the silliness of how important they had seemed in the "Williamsburg moment".

Plebe Parent Weekend

Fast forward fourteen years into the future. Clayton is only weeks away from being twenty. We are at West Point for Plebe Parent Weekend (PPW).The "must-have" of this trip... the official standard-issue wool parka with the "USMA 12" patch sewn over the heart. It's a parka made by the West Point uniform factory and only Cadets, Old Grads, and parents are allowed to have them. So exclusive.
Jeff had planned in advance to purchase the parka ("Parka" is just not a term we would use in the South. Is it Yankee-ease or traditional WP-ease? I don't know. "Parkas" to a Southern mind are worn only by Eskimos in Alaska, but this one is navy blue thick wool with a zip- down- the- middle hood.), thus, he had not packed a coat knowing that his new official West Point parka would keep him warm. And it was a very cold day to our thin Southern blood.
I simply could not justify the $90.00 X 2, so I unselfishly allowed Jeff to make the parka purchase.

Everyone Had One

However,I still wanted one...REAL badly. When they were stitching on the "USMA 12" patch, I almost caved to the desire. But, I wisely revisited the "Three-Cornered Hat Principle". I pictured both Kinley parents showing up at high school football games both wearing the USMA 12 parkas and I knew it would be like being on the beach with the three-cornered hat and a bathing suit.
On the other hand, I knew if I couldn't wear a USMA 12 parka to an Army football game, then I should probably stay at home. "How many Army football games will you be attending?" I asked myself. (Maybe one...if I am fortunate.)
Many comments throughout the weekend were made by husband as to how warm and toasty he was because of his magical, new parka. Every parent had one...many husbands and wives. They were all I could see.
I held firm.

Parkas Continued to Look Cool at the Airport

At the airport, they still looked awesome as the parkas would distinguish the WP parents from the crowd.
Today, it was 68 degrees in Little Rock. For now, anyway, the parka's magic is fading. But, it looks great in the pictures....

Ballroom Dancing Lessons

Introductory Special Package: Three 30 minute private lessons, two group lessons, one party lesson...all for $25.00. I was sold! Surprisingly, Jeff was easily persuaded to join me for ballroom dancing lessons.

Married to a Non-Dancer

Being married 25 plus years to a non-dancer will oxidize the dancing shoes. Mine were definitely crusty and full of holes. I had closed the ballroom door years ago, but, now, peeking inside made me regret I had done so.

"Clayton, we're taking ballroom dancing lessons," I announced to my W.P. Cadet, "so we can dance at Plebe Parent Weekend!"

"Are you still married to Dad?" asked the now laughing son who knows his father well.

Lesson One:

We were greeted by our instructor, Monika from Germany. Her accent was the female version of Arnold Swartzaneger's. My pop-cultured husband clued into that connection immediately and had to continually bite his lip while the "step, slide, togezah...step, slide, togezah" waltz steps were counted by the Terminator-ess. She was very pleasant, and I thought we progressed well.

Lesson Two:

We didn't actually have time to practice, but remembered well the steps from the week prior. Monika added a twirl, and we were beginning to move forward. We weren't bound for "Dancing with the Stars" but were hopeful we would soon be able to manage the Plebe Parent Weekend Ball. Sadly, between Lesson Two and Three, we experienced a set-back as we attempted a waltz demo before friends and choked. Oops.

Lesson Three:

Despite Monika's strong encouragement to get us to the Group Lesson, our busy schedule kept us away. And thoughts of the Party Lesson, where experienced and beginners mingle, made my palms sweat.

The Bombshell

"So, Monika, if we want to continue with our lessons," I innocently asked at Lesson Three's conclusion," how much might we expect to pay?"

Monika pulled out the binder containing our file with the notes re: our progression (or..."OMG, this couple is hopelessly left-footed, this could take years") and began to share her ten lesson plan. The plan included some type of discount which I did not understand because I was intent on the bottom line of...$1700....

"Make your face show no surprise," I sternly warned myself, "Holy poop, that's like a school tuition payment!"

"We certainly have enjoyed these lessons," I politely responded, "And will get back with you after discussing this plan."

Thankful for Caller ID

I had to ignore Monika's calls for at least a week. I know we would have been proficient following the $1700 investment, but I had really just hoped for the Help-We-Have-A-Wedding-Coming-Soon plan with a price to match.

Besides, my pop-cultured husband had endured all the "step,slide,togezah" he was able.

Sorry, Monika from Germany, ballroom dancing as our new hobby was not to be.

My West Point Cadet's Xmas Leave '08 Homecoming (Mom Gets the First Hug!!!)

THE Uniform

When I was seven, my great, great Aunt Sue seemed to be the oldest person I had ever seen. Having always been single, she was extremely devoted to her career as the U.S. Senator from Arkansas' personal assistant.
My dad was the only child of my grandparents. Sue was aunt, minus the two "greats", to my grandmother. With no children of her own, Sue considered my dad to be her son, too.
World War II came and Sue, being so close to the Senator, was able to get my dad an appointment to West Point. My dad was plucked out of line during Basic Training and was whisked away to New York just days before his company's departure to Europe. He later learned that one third of his company was killed in an ambush somewhere in France. Thanks to Aunt Sue, the only son of Charles and Lois was safe at the United States Military Academy training to be an army officer.
The War ended during my dad's first West Point year. He was always proud that he had completed that very difficult year. However, deciding to not pursue a military career, he returned to Arkansas, finishing college at the University.
And with him came the West Point uniform. THE uniform... made of the heaviest gray wool material ever. There were trousers, gray coats with plain fronts, a gray coat with very large, round , brass buttons, and a full-length overcoat.
My grandmother proudly stored the uniform in her cedar chest. It remained preserved in museum-like condition for 36 years.
Upon my grandmother's death, my mother inherited THE uniform, dutifully keeping it in her cedar chest. I'm serious when I say that the long overcoat weighed 10 pounds. It was no small thing to keep THE uniform. Around this time, my brother joined the Air National Guard. Air-Army, no one cared, it was military. THE uniform was re-assigned to his watch.
"Whew," thought my mother, "THE uniform is safe and out of my care."
Years rolled by. My brother downsized his house and needed to store some "stuff". THE uniform fell under the "stuff" category, so my mom welcomed it back into her house. By now, the cedar chest was gone, so THE uniform was given a closet position.
As Clayton began to express a serious pursuit of West Point during his 9th grade year, THE uniform was swiftly escorted to my house. We had a few yucks when Clayton was able to fit into it. I hung it in a closet, and, I will confess, it was under my guardianship that a few moth holes began to appear.
Twenty five years of marriage and three sons later, I decided I had accumulated too much "stuff". THE uniform fell under the "stuff" category, and I informed my parents that I was going to send THE uniform away. I considered Ebay and, more than once, THE uniform spent long periods of time in my car waiting an opportune moment for a Good Will donation.
"I just can't bear the burden of THE uniform anymore," I would complain to my mom.
My dad heard of THE uniform's perilous status and drove over. Again, THE uniform was safe at my parents' house.
"What is this? Uniform ping pong? I thought. " THE uniform is a burden. How long must we bear it?"
Recently, while at a local military museum, a light bulb appeared. "Why not donate it to a museum?"
I immediately called my parents with the idea. Everyone was thrilled about giving THE uniform new purpose and life. (Secretly, we were just plain glad to have it out of our lives!)
Back to my house came THE uniform. Back to the Expedition's rear it was housed until donation time. But,somehow, I just never made it to the museum.
The camel's back breaker came as I was opening my car's rear after grocery shopping, and THE uniform lept to the pavement.
"THE uniform!" I cried out loud, "THE unifoooorrrmmmmm!! How long???"
In December, Clayton experienced his first Army-Navy football game. It is at this game that the Corps of Cadets breaks out their long overcoats. During a phone conversation, Clayton informed me, "Did you know that our Long Os cost $600.00?"
"Did you know how much your grandfather's overcoat weighs?" I answered him. "And, by-the-way, I'm donating it to a museum."
"Mom," Clayton said, "please don't do that. I really want to save it. They aren't heavy like that anymore."
"Oh my gosh...THE uniform...when will I be rid of it?" I thought but did not speak. "Sure, buddy." I consented, "I'll put it in a cedar chest."
Grandmother and great, great Aunt Sue would be glad. THE uniform has had an active 62 years but will be safely returned to the cedar chest. The buttons aren't so shiny, there are a few moth holes, and it's been through 2 generations of being oral report visual. It has survived World War II, as well as, Good Will and museum donation threats.
I suppose it's safe to conclude that once it became a part of our lives, THE uniform was never meant to leave us.

Open Windows

My college guy called me last night. He wanted me to know that he had received his "Happy Fall" package and that it was awesome and would be great for weekend eating! He was extremely tired, as West Point Cadets tend to be, and was heading to bed early. So, after visiting briefly, I said, "I'll let you get on to bed. Thanks for calling."
"...So...uhhh...how is everyone?" was his response and a window was opened for an extremely chatty 30 minute conversation. (Mother of sons are not used to this.)
I'm slowly morphing into Mom- of -College -Person. I would talk to him every day if I could, not to instruct him on his life or to tell him what to do, but just because I miss his voice, his loud techno music, his messy room, his very smelly socks, and all his friends.
It takes a lot of discipline to be a mom in this new role. I'm learning to give him space, to keep my advice in check, and to become less instructor more cheerleader.
I'm in a unique situation with few of the "omg, my son's a college freshman" fears. (I'll save those for next fall when Stu is a freshman.) Clayton's school cares more about his grades than I do. They care more about his health and what he eats; he can't skip class -ever, and his room has to be spotlessly clean. (I'm still in awe that Clayton received the award for "Best Room in his Company". The last two months of his senior year, I had put a "CONDEMNED" sign on his door.)
Open window moments don't come frequently, and I want be wise enough to recognize them and discerning enough to not force it open myself.
I am pausing from my busy Thursday to paste this "Open Window Encounter" into my mental scrapbook.

On the Way to West Point/ R-Day & Beast 2008/ "It"

"For More Than Ourselves"

The search for matching comforters, wondering who will bring the 'fridge, the microwave, the X-Box. How will all my clothes fit in that closet? Will I get into the fraternity I want? The list goes on and on in a familiar chorus repeated by anxious college-bound freshmen year after year.
While friends were attending good-bye parties before everyone scatters, while moms were searching Target for dorm furnishing bargains, while class '08 mates were hitting the lake "one last time" and posting Facebook pics of all their adventures; my son was learning how to salute upperclassmen, eat his dinner with 5 chews per bite while keeping his eyes firmly focused on the plate's crest, was getting up at 5 am every day to the sound of a bugle. He was crawling under barbed-wire in the mud, sleeping without ac, going to his postbox wishing for letters in a generation that has no concept of stamps. He was looking forward to each of 3 ten minute phone calls. He was too tired at night, after countless push-ups, memorizing and reciting books worth of knowledge, running 5 miles, shooting guns, throwing grenades,enduring tear gas without a mask, to even dream of home...and all that he was missing...choosing a hard path and desiring to live "for more than ourselves".

"It" - The Ninety Second Good-Bye

Have you ever waited a long time for something bad to happen? The bad thing is not desired, yet relief occurs when the event has passed. Such was the infamous "90 Second Good-Bye".
When I first learned of "It" in all its horrific-ness, I cried every time my brain would bring it to remembrance. Throughout the "graduation season", there was a guaranteed cry-fest whenever I mentioned "It" to fellow moms (and dads) of seniors.
Life-altering events always arrive amidst a countdown. Reception Day (R-Day) at West Point was both life-altering and now upon us. The Eve had been spent triple-checking Clayton's duffel bag and eating steak.
Everyone in our hotel was delivering a son or daughter to West Point. There was an uncanny seriousness in the air. However, I was amused that night to view several future New Cadets, mine included, circling the hotel parking lot, cellphones pressed to their ears. Last calls to friends before dropping off civilization's radar for the 7 weeks of Cadet Basis Training (Beast Barracks) soon to come.
The morning "of It" came quickly and early. Soon we were in front of Ike Hall joining the "Long Anxious Line", enduring two hours of chatty stories about any body's West Point experience - complete with embellishments and urban legends. Clayton somberly inched his duffel bag forward, arms folded across his chest "Clayton-style", offering few words.
Groups of 40 soon-to-be New Cadets and their entourages of family were invited chunk-by-chunk into the auditorium for "It", accompanied by a short briefing.
"It" had been peeking its ugly head around the corner for months. I couldn't believe "It" was upon me.
Who can remember what the upfront person said or who-the-heck they were? "It" was coming: I bit the side of my cheek and tried to focus on not being a mom soon to give away her firstborn son.
The "It" lady appeared too soon at the microphone, "You now have 90 seconds to say 'good-bye' ".
Hugs, pats, kisses, tears, admonishments whispered in secret filled the room. In 30 seconds my Clayton, holding his carefully-checked bag, was in line for the transition from civilian to military, separated only by an auditorium door. Twelve hundred ninety two stepped forward that R-Day from comfort, affirmation, hometown hero-status into a new world. On the door's other side, superiors were immediately in their faces barking orders and initiating the longest day of their young lives.
"It" was over.
The door was shut on the past 19 years. The unexpectedness of life...who could have predicted that "It" would end the chapter.

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to West Point

So, we were navigating through the NYC asphalt jungle, having splintered into small groups for maximum exploration. China Town, Little India, SoHo, the Village. Re-grouping at our Washington Square rally point caused lunch to rise rapidly to the mission's top priority.
Clayton and I opted for Peanut Butter and Co.*, the other 3 claimed pizza consumed in an out-of-the-way courtyard. Re-charged and ready to continue the urban safari of t-shirts, coffee mugs, quirky hats, and all-things New York; we pressed forward ignoring blistered feet, chaffed thighs, and June heat.
Somewhere in the midst of gritty urbana, taxi exhaust, and big city, we stumbled upon a Greenwich Village sidewalk oasis of culture.
Crumbled cardboard: NY Times Published Poet has Poetry for Sale.
The finer print: A Poem can be Commissioned for $5.00.
"Are you the poet?"
"It is I," he responded, straightening his posture to face his public with uncommon dignity for a man normally mistaken for a toothless vagrant.
His speech was surprisingly eloquent. His expression through poetry moving. I marveled at this discovery of culture amidst the concrete. People continued to pass hurriedly along the sidewalk highway, only briefly noting his humanity. Time suspended for me, and my spirit was opened to a beauty no other passersby could sense.
Often closing his eyes in thoughtful contemplation, words chosen slowly, the poet crafted the poem...for $5.00....
Again the sidewalk highway swept us toward our next espresso; time began once more.
While adding cream and sugar, I wondered if the NY Times Published Poet had ever sold a poem before...or since.


*Peanut Butter and Co. (240 Sullivan St., at W.3rd St., Greenwich Village). Clayton recommends the Peanut Butter & Banana Shake along with the P.B. Sampler of 8 different varieties. I suggest the Grilled P.B. & Banana with Bacon (Elvis Special).

No More Hieroglyphics

On Clayton's first full day of kindergarten I carefully packed the perfect lunch and placed it in his metal Godzilla lunch box. Tucked beneath his sandwich was, of course, a note from Mom. Trouble was, Clayton couldn't yet read so I wrote, "I love you" in hieroglyphics. Then, I drew a picture of me and him hugging one another. He stuffed it in his little pocket, reaching inside throughout the day to remember he was not alone.
This morning, I made Clayton's last school lunch. Tucked beside his sandwich, of course, was a note from Mom... and...just for old time's sake...I added hieroglyphics.
Last night at the Senior High Awards Night, an Army Colonel presented a recognition award to Clayton for his appointment to West Point. The entire crowd gave my son a standing ovation. Pretty awesome.
On my calendar I have a count-down until we say good-by...55 days. The last time I had a count-down of this significance was right before Davis was born, and 2 year old Stuart would announce daily how many more days there were " before the baby chums".
Notes will soon begin to take on significance once again, as Clayton spends the summer at West Point's basic training which is lovingly referred to as "Beast Barracks". During that period, notes will be our only communication...and Clayton has never been very good at writing...so... it's going to be pretty one-sided. Ironically, we are brought back full-circle to the hieroglyphics era and to a time when it will be important, once more, for him to know he is not alone.

Check Out My New Ringtone

Washington called last night.
My United States Senator called my house to congratulate my son on his United States Military Academy appointment. It was the first official news we had heard regarding his "official" appointment, and it was way cool receiving the news in such a dramatic way.
Routinely checking the answering machine messages, I recognized the United States Senator's voice speaking in my hallway. The first response was joy. The second was... figures we would miss this call. But, after screaming for the whole family to come quickly and having time to process , I was thrilled to have the recording... which we immediately recorded digitally, which we made into a CD, of which we are considering making a ringtone, or perhaps, even broadcasting over a loud speaker from the roof of our historic 1920's Tudor house!
There is no way to take in the significance of the moment. West Point receives 10,000 applications per year, of those 4,000 get Congressional nominations... and only 1000 are accepted into each class. My son will be one of those elite one thousand. I just have to boast because I have never had anything so significant happen in my life ever.
We all have "mountain peak" moments. Setting the state high jump record in the 10th grade was probably my first. Getting married, moving into our first house, the births of 3 sons. This is one, and I have to admit, I've needed a moment like this. I simply feel happy for me and excited for Clayton to be meeting the goal he has had since 9th grade face-to-face... and I am very, very proud.