Entry #40: April 25, 2006

Camp Buehring, Kuwait (Somewhere near the Iraq border)

An ode to my parents. A deserved honor reserved for now, much too late and right on time. Heroes to be sure, a noble tribute every great parent merits to be awarded. Mine are heroes, and not in an Achilles or SGT York way. Mom and Dad are heroes because of what they have sacrificed and accomplished while raising three mischievious young men. My two brothers and I were (are?) a handful. When kids outnumber the parents, it can always be a tricky situation, as doctor appointments and soccer practices are that much more difficult to juggle. Raising kids, though, is much more than doctor’s appointments and soccer practices. But to begin this ode, we shall start at the beginning.

I was a work in progress from the day my parents were married. My parents were joined in marital bliss on May 10, 1975, on a glorious Southern spring day in a traditional and sublime ceremony. I was born six and a half years later after many attempts to conceive. My parents were worried for a while that they wouldn’t be able to have children. But God smiled on them just as he smiled on Rebecca and Jacob of biblical lore. I wasn’t a miracle, but rather a triumph. My Dad often reminds me however, I wasn’t the first child; that would be Fritz, my parent’s miniature schnauzer. I was a trophy baby, not that I won baby beauty pageants, but because I was the first Long grandson, cherished by my paternal grandparents, and because I was the first child born to the baby O’Quinn, and therefore regarded as a treasure by my maternal grandparents.

I was followed a year and a half later by Matthew, with his chubby cheeks, wide grin, and fried chicken smackin’ lips. He was adored the same way I was, if only because he was more gregarious and amusing. Here we find a brief break in the arrival of Long boys, but not by choice. We moved to Conyers around 1987 and lived in a duplex for a year while the Long family abode was being constructed. In that year, my Mom became pregnant again, but it was not to be. There was a miscarriage. For me, as a precocious six year old, I knew what had happened. My Mom’s round belly carrying a brother or sister didn’t last. It was a sad time as my paternal grandmother was also dying from cancer, but life takes turns only to keep us finding ourselves in the right place at the right time.

Then came Joseph. Named after Joseph with the coat of many colors, it was a peculiar choice of names. The biblical Joseph was sold into slavery by his brothers and though I won’t lie when I say that on occasion that seemed like a good idea, I will say he’s no regular Joe. All you have to do is look back at my entry about him turning eighteen for reasons why.

So, to recap, three boys, aged 7, 6, and 1, years spent nurturing them to this point, a nice house in the small town of Conyers. Here, the raising really begins, but more background is required. My Dad was the Chamber of Commerce president, my Mom worked as a nurse either helping patients over the phone, or working at Scottish Rite taking care of other children. I read today about homes with both parents working and the children being neglected, but that never happened to us. Both of my parents went through great pains to be at our soccer games, help us with our schoolwork, meet with teachers on a regular basis, and, like all boys need, discipline us when we needed it.

We were never left without anything we needed, and though we never got the Nintendo we asked for every Christmas, we were always satisfied. In retrospect, my parents were wise not to spend money on a game station for us. We spent days playing soccer, damming creeks, reading, and camping out rather than slowly being stunted by burrowing indoors in front of the TV. In other words, my parents purposefully kept us from the troubles that afflict most of today’s kids. Foresight is a heroic trait.

Days spent in the outdoors gave way to a teenager’s yearning for adventure and freedom. Translated, this means a car at the age of sixteen. Some parents bestow brand new cars upon their adolescent Richard Pettys, which is nice and all, but like my Mom told me, you’re just gonna end up wreckin’ it. So I drove a 1991 Toyota Camry. It was a good first car, got good gas mileage, and I went from point A to B with ease so long as I changed the oil regularly. Of course, I did end up wreckin’ it. Matthew, when he turned sixteen, drove my Dad’s old 1992 Toyota Camry. He still drives it to this day. I sold my 1997 Nissan Altima to my parents and Joseph when I departed for Germany. Old cars keep you humble and grounded. Humbleness is a heroic trait.

My Dad was and still is, very proud of his yard. It is his domain, his pine-straw covered, dogwood and azalea bloomin’ acre of land. He is prouder of his acre and a half than Ted Turner is about his hectacres of buffalo pasture. Once, it snowed a good six inches in Conyers, and my brothers and I set about to frolic and heave the icy mix at each other and the rest of the neighborhood kids. In the middle of building a snow fort, we all heard the roar of a four-wheeler barrelin’ through the quiet neighborhood streets. It veered directly into our driveway and tore through the snow in our backyard, subsequently destroying all greenery that happened underneath its all-terrain tires. When the four-wheeler circled around, we shouted a warning to the drivers to cease and desist their destruction of my Dad’s precious yard. Ignoring us, they’re revved the engine and took off through our yard, cutting a path not unlike Sherman’s March to the Sea. They got their warning. The next time they circled and headed for our yard, I took off after them. Four wheeler versus soon-to-be county champion track and cross country runner. Man versus machine. Well, I caught the four wheeler and its two occupants at the creek bordering our property and began to unleash a whirl of punches, ripping off their helmets and pummeling them. When their tears and blood ran forth I stopped. My brothers had gone to fetch my Dad during all this and he saw the aftermath. He pulled me back, sent the other two boys on their way. I waited fearfully for the punishment to come. It never did. I learned some things are worth fighting for. Passing on the virtues of protecting what is yours and never allowing anyone to trample on you is a heroic trait.

Three boys, two close in age, the third trying to be. My parents liked to occasionally get away from us on the weekend for a well-deserved holiday. I don’t blame them, but for reasons unbeknownst to me, they trusted Matthew and me with keeping watch over the house and yard. Matthew and I often found this hard to do without the help of a couple dozen of our friends. The problem with having a Dad who also has a brother only a couple of years between them is he knows every trick in the book. The reason being… he’s tried it before too. Wisdom is a heroic trait.

I can’t tell you all the things my parents sacrificed to raise us. They haven’t mentioned it. But I know they have given up a lot for our sake. My Mom is steadily rising in her career, a late bloomer if there ever was one. Actually, she is more like a beautiful flower that was kept in the greenhouse and is just now being put on display. She now drives a fancy new Lexus, a well-deserved treat after years of towing us around in a minivan. My Dad is devoting a lot of his free time to bar-b-quing and trying out recipes and wines. Sometimes I can tell he misses all the soccer tournaments and such, but I think he enjoys his new pastime as much as the old one. As my Mom always reminds me when I see her, “I’m not done raising you yet.” Truer words have rarely been spoken. And so the Soldier’s life continues…