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It is funny how life works. I look back over my childhood with fondness and amazement at the adventures and challenges, both positive and negative. I am what is known as a 'military brat,' born and raised. I was born on a United States Air Force military base in the Midwest and within months transplanted into my first of many overseas assignments. I did not know it at that young age but soon learned that every aspect of my life would revolve around being a 'dependant.' Since my father was the active duty military personnel in the family that meant my mother, brother, and I were 'dependants' and expected to follow.
My father was active duty military long before I existed so I guess it is not too surprising that his lifestyle did not change much when he met, married and eventually had children. I am the oldest of two and throughout my life my little brother has been my best friend and worst enemy; out of convenience more than anything else. For the first forty to fifty duty stations I was too young to remember all the details but always remember living out of boxes and suitcases. I still have the world map my mother used to keep track of our moves from base to base and country to country.
It was not until I was nine or ten that I began to take an interest in the ever changing people, places and things in my life. It was at this age that I wanted a say so in the when and where of our next adventure. This did not happen. I look back through photo albums, my mother was obsessed with documenting our every moment, at these different adventures and flashes of memory crowd my brain. As the number of moves mounted into three digets I think about all the friends I have met and left and wonder where they are now. My memories are choppy much like the bits and pieces of foreign language that cling to my memory without a foundation. I could spend hours telling stories of these adventures but that is for another time and place. This story is about what being a 'dependent' really means - Father knows best.
My strongest memories are of Italy. I treasure these memories more than any others because it turned out to be our last overseas stop. Within months I would come to realize that these memories of my life in Italy with the people, places and things represent a gypsy lifestyle that I would be forced to give up because father knows best. I look at pictures of myself as a young teenager visiting Rome with friends, going to summer camp in Pisa and living in a small Southern Italian town outside of the base with markets in the streets. I remember the wonderful foods especially the gelato (ice cream) and the beach just five minutes from my house.
But I can not think about Italy without feeling the loss that followed as my parents made plans to move us back to the United States. After years of moving from place to place and constantly having to adapt to new surroundings my parents began talking about roots. My mother was raised in Nebraska and my father was raised in Massachusetts but because of our gypsy lifestyle we were not close to either side of the family. They were not talking about those kind of roots but the roots that come from home ownership and future grandchildren. Then it happened, one fateful day my father came home with orders back to the United States.
My father was given a choice - Texas or California. My father had been to Texas before and did not want to go back but California - WOW -- California. Visions of tan people, beaches, palm trees, and sunshine ran through my teenage brain. My brother and I were packed and ready to go before my parents even made the final decision. Whoever said "Be weary of what you ask for because you might just get it," really knew what they were talking about. Boy, what a shock! From Italy to California in mid-July, I was excited and thoughts of McDonald's, MTV, and surfing floated through my brain.
Still floating on images of Venice Beach (I know I should have looked at a map!), I got off the plane in Sacramento with my family and met the car and driver sent to transport us back to Beale AFB. As images flew by the windows of the car, I soon realized that everything was not as I imagined they would be. It turns out that Beale AFB is located just outside of Wheatland, California; no where near tan people, beaches, and palm trees.
As the memories rush in I still get the same feeling of doom that built up inside me on the trip from Sacramento to Beale AFB. For those of you unfamiliar with the area, Beale AFB is located between Wheatland and Marysville off of Highway 70 and to say it is rural is a huge understatement. As the temperature hit 109 and I looked around at all the dry rice fields, waiting for the opening scene from "Little House on the Prairie," I was convinced that someone had made a mistake. We had gotten off the plane in Oregon and we just needed to get back to the airport and go to California. As the drive wore on and my discomfort mounted, I remember asking the driver when were we going to get to the base and to my horror he informed us that we were already on the base.
On the base, this was not any military base I had ever seen. I was right, it turns out that Beale AFB which housed several top secret aircraft was also a game reserve. Unlike the majority of military bases I visited in my lifetime this base was set up differently. Because of the aircraft engine noise the main base was located seven miles from the housing section leaving plenty of room for a game reserve. In addition, junior high and high school students did not attend school on base but in the nearest town. This fact was my painful introduction to Wheatland. Throughout it all I could hear my mother says, "Don't worry, your father knows best." It still rings in my brain.
Wheatland is a quaint, little town outside of Beale AFB. In the late 1980s it was much like it is today-small, quiet, and Mayberrylike. I remember my first day as a senior at Wheatland High School and it was not pleasant. I was immediately identified as a 'base rat' by the local kids and was rejected by the 'in' crowd. I found myself bonding with other 'base rats' trapped by their parents decisions. We reminisced about our stops around the world and damned our parents for the plight we were in.
I felt shattered by the complete change in my life; lost among this alien group of people. I still have not gotten over the girls that chewed tobacco! I was trapped in what I called the armpit of the world waiting, not so patiently, for our next duty station. As if my situation was not dire enough the next blow would soon strike. My father came home within weeks of our arrival and told us he had orders to Hawaii. Hawaii, the word just rolls of the tongue. Hawaii, where life could begin again for a seventeen-year-old who just needed to get back to the real world. My brother and I were packed before the words were completely out of his mouth. Paroled! Yippee!
But wait, why were my parents talking about this? What was there to talk about? Why were we not celebrating? And then it happened, my hopes, dreams, and future were crushed. My parents had decided that they did not want to move again. Apparently, they did not care about what my brother and I wanted but then again we were just 'dependents' and did not get an actual vote. My mother reassured us as she always did, "Don't worry, father knows best." The next few days were horrible. School in Wheatland, home to base housing -- could it get worse? Yes, oh yes, it could get worse and soon did.
Mid-way through my senior year, I came home to hear my parents plotting, yes plotting, against my brother and I. I heard words like retirement, moving, property values and got scared. These were not words used my military gypsy travelers. What was going on with my parents, the people that drug us all over the world before we could walk? That night it happened, my parents sat us down and told us that after twenty-five years in the military my father was eligible and wanted to retire. Retire?! He was only forty-eight!
And then it happened, the Big Whammy! Not only was my father going to retire but my parents liked the quaint, peaceful life of Wheatland and had gone out and bought a house -- behind out backs, without even asking! We were floored. Betrayed by our own parents! REMEMBER: FATHER KNOWS BEST! To lighten the mood my parents decided to show us our new house. We drove out to Wheatland and down Main Street. Keep in mind there were only six streets. We turned off of Main Street and saw cows in a pasture two streets away. As we drove closer my heart sank as I realized where we were going. Kids at school had told me about this place but I had never been there. It was rumored that several teachers lived on the same street in Wheatland and it was even nicknamed "Teachers Alley."
I could see the sold sign on the house halfway down "Teachers Alley" and I knew - my parents had, in there infinite wisdom, bought a house in Wheatland on "Teachers Alley" and my life was over as I knew it. It was Saturday afternoon and my History teacher was next door mowing his lawn. At that point I think I blacked out because the next thing I knew we had moved to Wheatland and I was forced to adapt to this new way of life. It would be wonderful if I could say that I lived happily ever after but life really is not like Mayberry.
I never did adapt, I just counted the days until my senior year was through and then moved away to college. Ironically, while in college I joined the United States Coast Guard and spent the next ten years traveling from place to place finally ridding myself of the 'dependant' label that plagued me my whole life. I made my own choices and grew to be an extremely strong willed, independent person. I eventually left the military and went back to school and now teach teenagers about the wonderful places I got to see when I was their age. My parents still live in Wheatland an I visit them periodically but when I go back to Wheatland I am always confronted by our family motto - Father knows best.
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