In September 2008 I posted with permission a story written by Julie Whan who is a friend of mine from Erie Pennsylvania. The story she wrote has now been published in a book of short stories called "A Cup of Comfort for Military Families" and is available at Barnes and Noble.
When I went to Barnes and Noble to get my copy of the book and asked the salesman if they had the book he said "yes we do, it is a very popular book".
Below I have re-posted the story in whole as it was posted on my blog in September. If you buy the book and would like to have it autographed like I did Please leave a comment and I will contact Julie to see if she will be having another book signing. Also, when reading the book the title of the story has been changed for the book to "Such Purpose that Drives Them" and the story can be found starting on page 68.
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Friday, September 12, 2008
Introducing Julie Whan to our Blog
For todays post I bring to your attention a good friend of mine from Erie Pennsylvania, Julie Whan. Julie is a very good writer and she has had several of her stories and poems published. Please see the "About The Author" box below to find out more about Julie. This is one of my favorite stories written by Julie and she gave me permission to post it so of course I didn't hesitate. If you like the story please post a response and I will forward them to her.
About the Author
Julie Whan, 41, of Erie, Penn., has had a passion for writing since the third grade. While working full-time as a purchasing manager for Schaal Glass Company in her hometown, she is back in school to earn her B.A. in English. Her husband is a trucker for Great Lakes Window out of Toledo, Ohio, and she enjoys writing inspirational stories that touch the hearts of families. Her son is serving his second tour in the Air Force in the Middle East and will be coming home in February. She wrote “A Letter to the Other ‘Man on the Road’” as a tribute to both her son and husband.
A Letter to the Other ‘Man on the Road’ February 2008
Our son came home yesterday, my dear, and it was a good day. He took the airport floor in 10 strides, eyes forward and that usual wide smile on his face. His arms were bulging from the work he had done, not from hours at an air-conditioned gym. His blonde hair was lighter, and he looked as if he had grown an inch. I watched as he approached you, grabbing your hand for a shake and wrapping his left arm around you. He didn’t have to stand on his toes anymore to look you in the eye, and I saw two bears posturing but with genuine affection for one another.
The intermittent e-mails he sent prior to his arrival had been our only contact with him.
Hey, Mom, I’m all good. Just got back again. I was rolling through ____ when those convoys got hit. I’m OK — I’m back at the base.
I love you.
Peaches (me)
Those often came a day or two after a news article listing anonymous casualties in one short paragraph on page three of the Times. Then the waiting game would start, and we could breathe again when he reached a safe place and was able to let us know he was “all good.”
He spent his entire tour on the road, which was actually a lot of white sand reflecting a blinding sun, making sunglasses a mandatory possession, so I always remembered to pick up a pair and throw it into his care packages along with new T-shirts, beef jerky, candy, music, pictures and lots of Silly String, anything to make him smile as he weaved his way through the “sandbox,” as he called it. The bulk package of gummy bears was almost a joke, he says, because it had to go in one shot or it would have melted. He was glad to share, anyway, because there were plenty of guys who never received any mail.
I didn’t really start crying until this morning when he asked for more eggs. His tan, killer physique and a new smoking habit are the only remaining signs of convoy duty in the hot zones. One full night of food, laughter and friends wanting to try on his helmet and vest, and he finally passed out. I watched him sleeping on the couch with his feet hanging over the edge.
He said very little about his tour — and we cautioned some of his friends not to ask — but you and I were already aware of some of the details. One of his naïve buddies found an orange plastic cap gun in the dining room and popped one off behind him. He just turned around with that boyish grin and asked the guy to put it away. He sat in the center of his friends, and they gave him space, prodding and joking with him as they had done in high school, but I could see they were watching him, just as we all were, all of us eager to subtract anything bad from his experience — if we were able.
After the barrage of visitors, the really good part came. The three of us sat in the kitchen talking. He pulled out his wallet and showed you all of the driving certifications he had gained. He could operate just about anything with wheels, just like you. He took his boots off, and the sight of his feet, hard as cement from the hot ground, sent me running for a bucket of warm water and Epsom salts. You both laughed at me then.
Then he spoke of the road, driving with a 9-millimeter on one leg and an M-16 next to him. It was his job to move people and supplies from one location to another. The destination was a living, breathing thing, changing every moment for safety. The radio gave him every instruction, and his convoy moved with speedy efficiency to get to the next checkpoint. If they were ordered to stop for blessed sleep, they would dig beds in the ground and one guy would stand guard. His helmet was his wash basin, food bowl and friend.
But the real reason I’m writing this letter is to tell you another important thing I noticed yesterday. It struck me as I watched the two of you talking out in the backyard. I had not realized how quiet you had been. Your comments are usually matter of fact, but you tend to let other voices sing first. There had been a lot of singing the day before. Now all of our company had left, and the two of you drifted outside to talk. I saw lots of nodding and an occasional smile, but I could not hear the conversation.
You knew our son had met the devil on the road, just as you had done several times during your driving career. Each of you had seen things that were not necessarily conversation material, and I think you were exchanging some of those things just then. Bad things can take on different forms, and yours was often the view of a really bad wreck, or a white-knuckle drive in a whiteout. His may have been the guy he saw on the roadside selling strands of some kind of meat and holding an AK-47. I know I will never hear much of what was exchanged, but I’m really glad he was talking to you.
As I walked outside to bring you some drinks, I noticed this single remarkable thing: our son was wearing your plaid flannel jacket, and it hung on his strong shoulders just as it did on yours. Each of you had a short haircut, only yours was that great silver color you love to be teased about; otherwise, I was seeing double. That one inch I thought he had gained was only a new correctness of posture. Our boy had become a man, and he had come home tired, hungry and full of new memories, just like you.
I am proud of the two of you, and I can’t write enough stories or fry enough eggs to show you that, but from watching you, I clearly understand one thing now: Everyone just wants to do his job and come home. That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?
The intermittent e-mails he sent prior to his arrival had been our only contact with him.
Hey, Mom, I’m all good. Just got back again. I was rolling through ____ when those convoys got hit. I’m OK — I’m back at the base.
I love you.
Peaches (me)
Those often came a day or two after a news article listing anonymous casualties in one short paragraph on page three of the Times. Then the waiting game would start, and we could breathe again when he reached a safe place and was able to let us know he was “all good.”
He spent his entire tour on the road, which was actually a lot of white sand reflecting a blinding sun, making sunglasses a mandatory possession, so I always remembered to pick up a pair and throw it into his care packages along with new T-shirts, beef jerky, candy, music, pictures and lots of Silly String, anything to make him smile as he weaved his way through the “sandbox,” as he called it. The bulk package of gummy bears was almost a joke, he says, because it had to go in one shot or it would have melted. He was glad to share, anyway, because there were plenty of guys who never received any mail.
I didn’t really start crying until this morning when he asked for more eggs. His tan, killer physique and a new smoking habit are the only remaining signs of convoy duty in the hot zones. One full night of food, laughter and friends wanting to try on his helmet and vest, and he finally passed out. I watched him sleeping on the couch with his feet hanging over the edge.
He said very little about his tour — and we cautioned some of his friends not to ask — but you and I were already aware of some of the details. One of his naïve buddies found an orange plastic cap gun in the dining room and popped one off behind him. He just turned around with that boyish grin and asked the guy to put it away. He sat in the center of his friends, and they gave him space, prodding and joking with him as they had done in high school, but I could see they were watching him, just as we all were, all of us eager to subtract anything bad from his experience — if we were able.
After the barrage of visitors, the really good part came. The three of us sat in the kitchen talking. He pulled out his wallet and showed you all of the driving certifications he had gained. He could operate just about anything with wheels, just like you. He took his boots off, and the sight of his feet, hard as cement from the hot ground, sent me running for a bucket of warm water and Epsom salts. You both laughed at me then.
Then he spoke of the road, driving with a 9-millimeter on one leg and an M-16 next to him. It was his job to move people and supplies from one location to another. The destination was a living, breathing thing, changing every moment for safety. The radio gave him every instruction, and his convoy moved with speedy efficiency to get to the next checkpoint. If they were ordered to stop for blessed sleep, they would dig beds in the ground and one guy would stand guard. His helmet was his wash basin, food bowl and friend.
But the real reason I’m writing this letter is to tell you another important thing I noticed yesterday. It struck me as I watched the two of you talking out in the backyard. I had not realized how quiet you had been. Your comments are usually matter of fact, but you tend to let other voices sing first. There had been a lot of singing the day before. Now all of our company had left, and the two of you drifted outside to talk. I saw lots of nodding and an occasional smile, but I could not hear the conversation.
You knew our son had met the devil on the road, just as you had done several times during your driving career. Each of you had seen things that were not necessarily conversation material, and I think you were exchanging some of those things just then. Bad things can take on different forms, and yours was often the view of a really bad wreck, or a white-knuckle drive in a whiteout. His may have been the guy he saw on the roadside selling strands of some kind of meat and holding an AK-47. I know I will never hear much of what was exchanged, but I’m really glad he was talking to you.
As I walked outside to bring you some drinks, I noticed this single remarkable thing: our son was wearing your plaid flannel jacket, and it hung on his strong shoulders just as it did on yours. Each of you had a short haircut, only yours was that great silver color you love to be teased about; otherwise, I was seeing double. That one inch I thought he had gained was only a new correctness of posture. Our boy had become a man, and he had come home tired, hungry and full of new memories, just like you.
I am proud of the two of you, and I can’t write enough stories or fry enough eggs to show you that, but from watching you, I clearly understand one thing now: Everyone just wants to do his job and come home. That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?
2 comments:
Dane Bagley: You are the man! Thank you for all of the publicity.
Yer fren,
Julie Whan
Erie teacher Bob Henninger makes national headlines at http://detentionslip.org!
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