What progress has preserved

My sweetheart had a few days of leave before deploying, so I went south and east to meet him. We were enjoying dinner in an upscale bar and grill when one phrase from the conversation in the adjacent booth rang out: “That boy Obama.”

For about two seconds I held out hope that the speaker was referring to our president’s relative youth, but upon further eavesdropping (which might not even be the correct term, given how loud she was), I was proved wrong. It became clear she had a problem with his race.

If she had called him almost anything else -- jackass, socialist, cog in the Chicago Machine -- I wouldn’t have blinked. Everyone’s entitled to an opinion. But calling a grown black man boy? What the hell decade are we in?

She didn’t have advanced age as an excuse; she wasn’t much older than I. And if she had a shred of the Southern manners I’m accustomed to, she’d never be so intentionally offensive with a black man sitting three feet away from her. This leads me to believe that she was either truly that ignorant, or else she was doing us a favor by forgoing her usual term, the one that starts with N. Or she just could have been a rude asshole.

Pissed as I was, even I could see confrontation was out of the question in that venue. So after we’d heard more than enough of her pontificating, I told Sidney they could have their ignorant conversation over there, and we could have our more enlightened conversation in our booth. My asking him, “What do you think about burning gays at the stake?” kicked off enough silliness to get us through the neighboring diners paying their check and leaving.

The rest of the evening was all right, but I was awake for most of the night, unable to forget that look of pain in my husband’s eyes. Two days later, it still tears at my heart. He’s going to war for that woman as well as every other unreconstructed racist, and this is what he has to hear as thanks.

The motto of this town is “What progress has preserved.” Someone needs to fix the vetting process.

Yo ho ho

When we saw the first few airline-size bottles in the empty lot next door last spring, I thought it was a one-time thing -- probably some kids getting rid of the evidence before they went home.

Then the bottles became a regular occurrence, several a week. They were usually in the adjacent lot, although a few made their way onto our property. And they were always Bacardi O.

We were as much curious as annoyed. Obviously someone was drinking a lot of this stuff, so why the tiny bottles? Finally, months into the mystery, Sidney was looking out the window around 5 a.m. and saw a contractor truck turn onto our street. A bottle flew out the driver’s window and the truck roared away.

I had a few issues with this:

It’s not nice to litter.

It’s not nice to drink and drive, especially when you’re piloting a big-ass truck.

Bacardi O? Seriously?

Over the winter I didn’t pay much attention to the lot, but a couple of weeks ago my neighbor said he’d picked up 15 bottles, so it appeared that the merry contractor was still at it.

Then Saturday morning I came out to find a Bacardi O bottle that was remarkable for two reasons. One, it was in the middle of our driveway. Two, it was flask size. Our littering drinker is growing up. I’m expecting a cask through the window before fall.

Quarter time

Today marks three months that Sidney’s been gone. It’s been a strange in-between time; he’s not downrange yet, so I’m not in full-on worry mode, but something’s not quite right.

I’m not exactly a Navajo tracker, but I could usually walk in and tell exactly what my sweetie had been doing in the kitchen. But now, it’s always clean. The bathroom, on the other hand, is always not. (Honey, I always believed that you cleaned the sink, but now I really believe it.)

Laundry has dwindled to maybe a load a week, instead of several. Grocery shopping can be accomplished with a hand basket, although I still grab the big cart out of habit. I’m cooking weird grains. I made tofu last week, for pete’s sake.

On garbage day, one bag goes to the curb, and half of that is cat shit.

I’m watching more TV, partly because I don’t have that interesting man to talk to in the evenings, and partly because I can finally get my mitts on the damn remote.

In other words, I’m back to the single life, which fit me very comfortably for many years. Except instead of a one-bedroom condo, I rattle around in a four-bedroom house. Instead of stopping by Marshall Field’s (RIP), I troll the PX. And instead of wondering if I will ever find the love of my life, I have him -- but I don’t have him here, and that’s not quite right.

Dust in the wind

One of Kansas’ charms is that so many of its small towns manage to maintain a historical society, a little museum, or some kind of quirky attraction. Sometimes all three. Investigating these is a good way for an outsider to gain a sense of place, which is how I ended up stuffed into a converted train depot with a group of mostly elderly locals for a presentation on Dust Bowl art.

The speaker, a doctoral student who also works at the Spencer Museum at the University of Kansas, was excited about her subject and gave an engaging talk. The images themselves -- from Dorothea Lange’s iconic migrant mother photo to Herschel Logan’s ominous woodcut (above) to WPA murals in post offices -- fascinated me. Whether it’s a painting or a symphony, I love being taken through a work of art by someone who can help me appreciate it in a new way.

The after-lecture bonus was listening to the audience members, many of whom had lived through the Dust Bowl and could speak firsthand to the dirt, the heat, and the grasshoppers. Then we got homemade cookies. The next historical society event is already on my calendar.

Whistling past the backyard

In the past week, we’ve had a 6-inch snowfall as well as a day that hit 81 degrees. It’s hard not to think about spring when wild chives are popping up in the yard, although I’m too Midwestern, and thus inherently suspicious of all weather, to hope that winter is over.

It has to be thawing to a close, though, because today brought this year’s first sighting of our resident whistlepig, looking no worse for his long winter’s nap, waddling around like he owns the place. I wouldn’t call him part of my support system, exactly, but I’m awfully glad to see him out and about.

Hanging around

In the past month, more than one parishioner has come up to me after mass and asked, “What are you still doing here?”

This is not the typical Christian welcome. However, a lot of people thought I would be gone by now, so they’re surprised to see me hanging around. They’re equally unsurprised to hear about the Army’s change of plans; this is one of the benefits of being in a military-heavy church.

From others, though, the same question has been more censorious. When I said it didn’t make sense for me to move right away overseas, where I would be unemployed and almost immediately alone for a year when my sweetheart deployed, one soldier asked, “What makes you different from any other Army wife?”

Most recently I got the same thing, in a much more polite fashion, from another Army wife. Her attitude was that it didn’t matter if my husband was going to be gone for the next two and a half years out of three; of course I should drop everything and move.

To review:

Here: Sweetheart deployed. Family relatively nearby, friends, good job. House that, at least for now, we can’t sell without taking it in the shorts. Supportive church, understanding military community, big city close by.

There: Sweetheart still deployed. Small town. No job. Inability to communicate eloquently (or often even basically) in local language. Excellent beer.

As much as I love good beer, it’s not enough to sway me to move.

Whatever anyone’s idea of a good Army wife is, I’m probably not it. I accept that. But I’m able to spend time with my 98-year-old grandma, I’m paying my taxes, and I’ve got work that, for 10 hours a day, helps keep my mind off the upcoming two years’ worth of deployments. My sweetheart is 100% OK with this; he’ll worry about me much less here than there. I’m about 90% OK with this; sometimes I still think I should be grabbing what time I can with him, even if it sends the rest of life into a tailspin.

And the latest why-are-you-here churchgoer? Much like the others, this one -- who happens to be the wife of a retired soldier -- gave me a big hug when I answered, saying, “We’re so glad you’re staying! This is right where you should be!” I doubt she had any idea how much I needed to hear that.