It’s been a long, hot week. A week that I would normally do my best to split my duties between the office and the ovens otherwise known as attics. It is a joke with the other monitors in the program that we only inspect mobile homes after lunch in the summer. Since they have no attic, they are a much better choice for 100+ degree heat. I don’t like spiders and snakes, but I will face them in a crawl space any day if I don’t have to endure 150 degree heat.
But this week I had another out of town monitor ride with me. He has only been on the job a month, and has had little hands on training. One thing about this job that is unlike any other I’ve had is that they will send you to classes and trainings until your eyes pop out. Weeks in class and little time in the field made the training very slow for a “hands on” learner like me, so I try extra hard to give new guys as much real world as possible. Since today was his last day with me, I lined up two homes in Thomaston early this morning and we took off.
We arrived at the first home about 10:30, only to discover that it was in fact a manufactured home. No attic! It was out in the middle of nowhere in a blink of a town called The Rock. The doublewide was very neat with a circular drive way and a well-kept lawn. Blooming flowers and shrubs surrounded the long front porch, while small flocks of birds battled for space at the feeders. A small black and white kitten greeted me at the front door and demanded to be recognized before I was allowed to enter the home. This place was pretty remote, but it was feeling like a little slice of paradise.
As I reached for the door knob I looked at my watch. We were about thirty minutes late so I figured the agency employee that was meeting us at the home was getting impatient. Taking us to this home was a last minute favor so I wanted to stay in his graces. “We’ll make this first one kind of quick” I told my partner, “I know our escort is tired of waiting”.
The inside of the home was as nice as the outside. Very clean, and as tastefully decorated as any home I’ve seen. A lady that could double for Paula Deen was planted in a recliner watching The Weather Channel with one eye and me with the other. After I introduced myself, I was absolutely sure this had to be Paula Deen’s sister, and I asked her if she had ever been told this. “Lord no, honey” she laughed still holding my hand. “But I bet she can’t make biscuits like me”. I guess you have to be careful telling someone that they look like Paula Deen, but I meant it as a compliment and she had taken it as such.
I asked her if it was okay if we looked around a bit as I turned my head and scanned the adjoining rooms. I noticed two AK-47 assault rifles propped against the wall by the back door, and while I’ve seen everything in these country homes, I think it worried my trainee. He is from Atlanta via New York via Maryland via Jamaica. Raised a little differently? Probably. Neither of us gave it a name, and we continued to look around in the rest of the home.
I called his attention to a door jamb in a hallway that is a notorious air leak in this type home. We were discussing the correct ways to remedy this when out of the corner of my eye I noticed a person lying in one of the beds. I’m sure I jumped when I realized he was there because I just assumed the homeowner was there alone. “I’m sorry I woke you up” I offered the young man lying on top of the fully made bed, “I didn’t know you were here”. He just looked at me for a few seconds and said “ok”. Grandson I thought, way too young for Paula Deen’s son. He was about 25 years old and was a very large, muscular man. The room he was in was quiet, (no television) and he was lying on the bed fully clothed. I have seen more than a few unemployed people since taking this job, at home during the work day, but it still struck me as odd.
As we headed back to the other end of the home I had to walk between Paula Deen and the TV. “What you planning on shooting with those machine guns?” I asked, pointing to the rifles propped against the wall. “You have one for each hand”. She laughed and told me that they were not real. “Relics” she said as she got out of the chair and walked toward them with me. “My grandson spent two tours in Iraq and they let him bring them home with him. They won’t shoot anymore.” She reached down, picked up one of the rifles and handed it to me. I knew she said it wouldn’t fire, but it always makes me uneasy holding a strange gun. I placed it gently back beside the door and followed her across the room. That is when I noticed the room was pretty much a shrine. A trophy room. Medals draped with red, white and blue ribbons arranged neatly in glass top boxes, certificates in frames hanging on the walls and a book shelf with military uniform items sitting on its shelves. Paula Deen walked over to the shelves and removed a light brown, desert camouflaged helmet that looked like it had seen better days. “You gotta see this” she said as she turned back toward me holding the helmet at arm’s length. “He got shot in the head while he was in Iraq.”
That is when I noticed the large hole in the frayed camouflage covering of the helmet. She was poking her finger in and out of the hole when she said, “He didn’t know who he was for two and a half months and his mama didn’t know where he was either. We figured he was dead.” She was handing me the helmet at this point, and I really didn’t want to take it. I couldn’t imagine what was on the inside of this thing, and she could tell I was hesitant. “Stick your finger in the hole” she said as she put it in my hands, “You won’t believe it.” It was a dead cat. It was her father’s ashes. It was something personal that I was not supposed to touch. All I could think to say as she placed the helmet in my hands was “Is that him lying in the bed in the other room?”
“Yeah, that would be him” she said “There really ain’t nothing wrong with him…physically. This here helmet saved his life. That ain’t what got him.” At this point I looked down at the battle scarred hat. I put my finger in the hole and realized it was only in the covering. “Wow” was all I could think to say. “You are lucky to have him here alive.” I was holding the shield that prevented the sword from piercing his heart. The seat belt that kept him from flying through the windshield. The suit of armor that brought him home alive to The Rock. Something both scary and magic.
“He got over this in a couple of months.” She said “Then they sent him back though, said he was fine. I don’t think he was, but I ain’t no doctor.” I couldn’t think of anything to say. She proceeded to tell me a story of how his buddy, a “colored fellow” had pushed him out of the way of a rifle shot, saving his life. How this man had been killed by a sniper’s bullet that was meant for her grandson. “He ain’t never got over that.” She said as she looked down the hall toward his room. “Sometimes he just paces around the house all night. He says he don’t want to talk about it, but I think he does.”
I had been here too long I thought as I handed her back the helmet. I could feel the tears somewhere inside looking for an escape. I turned to leave and almost ran over my new helper who I didn’t realize was standing behind me. I needed to collect my tools as well as my thoughts, and I really didn’t want to talk to anybody else. I wasn’t sure how long he had been standing behind me, so I just looked at my flashlight and walked to the kitchen to gather my files. I said goodbye to Paula Deen, and as we prepared to leave my feet directed me to the door of the room where the young man was lying on the bed. He looked up at me as I tried to make my mouth work. “Thank you” I croaked, “Thank you for your service.” He smiled a little as I turned, looking at my feet, and headed for the door. I almost plowed over the new guy again as he walked past me straight to the young man’s door. I could hear him thanking the soldier just as I had done as I walked out the front door.
We got back in the truck and headed for the next home. Neither of us said anything for quite a few miles and I silently wondered what my co-worker was thinking. What he was thinking… and how much he had heard of the grandmother’s story. What did he think about the “colored fellow” comment? I knew that Paula Deen didn’t mean anything by it, but what did this city boy think of it? I hate to say that I thought he had probably heard worse in his time and I just added that to the guilt I was feeling. Conveniently my co-worker began a conversation about the testing procedure for a gas furnace, and we talked shop until we reached the next home. Thank you for stepping in front of that bullet.
After a long drive home I dropped him off at his hotel. We had a good week together and I felt good about his training. As I drove away I realized that while we had not spoken again of the small town soldier, he had never been far from my mind. The perfectly healthy looking young man lying on the bed with nothing but his thoughts. Replaying the images of his very short life and struggling to move forward. Paula Deen had told me that he went to college some, and I could only think of how much older he was than his fellow students. How mundane a final exam must be.
We all watch the news. We tune out when we hear headlines declaring “Deadliest month since….”. The war(s) have been going on forever and the body count numbers have a way of just becoming….numbers. 36 million pounds of turkey recalled, 104 degree heat, 25 killed by roadside bomb. The media brags about the men and women that have returned safely, and family reunion stories are often quite touching. But how does one put a number on the small town soldier pacing the floor in the middle of the night. Running from the sights and sounds only he can hear. Lying on the bed in his grandmother’s home reliving the events that have changed him forever. I can’t imagine that in his mind he has returned “safely” to The Rock.
But this week I had another out of town monitor ride with me. He has only been on the job a month, and has had little hands on training. One thing about this job that is unlike any other I’ve had is that they will send you to classes and trainings until your eyes pop out. Weeks in class and little time in the field made the training very slow for a “hands on” learner like me, so I try extra hard to give new guys as much real world as possible. Since today was his last day with me, I lined up two homes in Thomaston early this morning and we took off.
We arrived at the first home about 10:30, only to discover that it was in fact a manufactured home. No attic! It was out in the middle of nowhere in a blink of a town called The Rock. The doublewide was very neat with a circular drive way and a well-kept lawn. Blooming flowers and shrubs surrounded the long front porch, while small flocks of birds battled for space at the feeders. A small black and white kitten greeted me at the front door and demanded to be recognized before I was allowed to enter the home. This place was pretty remote, but it was feeling like a little slice of paradise.
As I reached for the door knob I looked at my watch. We were about thirty minutes late so I figured the agency employee that was meeting us at the home was getting impatient. Taking us to this home was a last minute favor so I wanted to stay in his graces. “We’ll make this first one kind of quick” I told my partner, “I know our escort is tired of waiting”.
The inside of the home was as nice as the outside. Very clean, and as tastefully decorated as any home I’ve seen. A lady that could double for Paula Deen was planted in a recliner watching The Weather Channel with one eye and me with the other. After I introduced myself, I was absolutely sure this had to be Paula Deen’s sister, and I asked her if she had ever been told this. “Lord no, honey” she laughed still holding my hand. “But I bet she can’t make biscuits like me”. I guess you have to be careful telling someone that they look like Paula Deen, but I meant it as a compliment and she had taken it as such.
I asked her if it was okay if we looked around a bit as I turned my head and scanned the adjoining rooms. I noticed two AK-47 assault rifles propped against the wall by the back door, and while I’ve seen everything in these country homes, I think it worried my trainee. He is from Atlanta via New York via Maryland via Jamaica. Raised a little differently? Probably. Neither of us gave it a name, and we continued to look around in the rest of the home.
I called his attention to a door jamb in a hallway that is a notorious air leak in this type home. We were discussing the correct ways to remedy this when out of the corner of my eye I noticed a person lying in one of the beds. I’m sure I jumped when I realized he was there because I just assumed the homeowner was there alone. “I’m sorry I woke you up” I offered the young man lying on top of the fully made bed, “I didn’t know you were here”. He just looked at me for a few seconds and said “ok”. Grandson I thought, way too young for Paula Deen’s son. He was about 25 years old and was a very large, muscular man. The room he was in was quiet, (no television) and he was lying on the bed fully clothed. I have seen more than a few unemployed people since taking this job, at home during the work day, but it still struck me as odd.
As we headed back to the other end of the home I had to walk between Paula Deen and the TV. “What you planning on shooting with those machine guns?” I asked, pointing to the rifles propped against the wall. “You have one for each hand”. She laughed and told me that they were not real. “Relics” she said as she got out of the chair and walked toward them with me. “My grandson spent two tours in Iraq and they let him bring them home with him. They won’t shoot anymore.” She reached down, picked up one of the rifles and handed it to me. I knew she said it wouldn’t fire, but it always makes me uneasy holding a strange gun. I placed it gently back beside the door and followed her across the room. That is when I noticed the room was pretty much a shrine. A trophy room. Medals draped with red, white and blue ribbons arranged neatly in glass top boxes, certificates in frames hanging on the walls and a book shelf with military uniform items sitting on its shelves. Paula Deen walked over to the shelves and removed a light brown, desert camouflaged helmet that looked like it had seen better days. “You gotta see this” she said as she turned back toward me holding the helmet at arm’s length. “He got shot in the head while he was in Iraq.”
That is when I noticed the large hole in the frayed camouflage covering of the helmet. She was poking her finger in and out of the hole when she said, “He didn’t know who he was for two and a half months and his mama didn’t know where he was either. We figured he was dead.” She was handing me the helmet at this point, and I really didn’t want to take it. I couldn’t imagine what was on the inside of this thing, and she could tell I was hesitant. “Stick your finger in the hole” she said as she put it in my hands, “You won’t believe it.” It was a dead cat. It was her father’s ashes. It was something personal that I was not supposed to touch. All I could think to say as she placed the helmet in my hands was “Is that him lying in the bed in the other room?”
“Yeah, that would be him” she said “There really ain’t nothing wrong with him…physically. This here helmet saved his life. That ain’t what got him.” At this point I looked down at the battle scarred hat. I put my finger in the hole and realized it was only in the covering. “Wow” was all I could think to say. “You are lucky to have him here alive.” I was holding the shield that prevented the sword from piercing his heart. The seat belt that kept him from flying through the windshield. The suit of armor that brought him home alive to The Rock. Something both scary and magic.
“He got over this in a couple of months.” She said “Then they sent him back though, said he was fine. I don’t think he was, but I ain’t no doctor.” I couldn’t think of anything to say. She proceeded to tell me a story of how his buddy, a “colored fellow” had pushed him out of the way of a rifle shot, saving his life. How this man had been killed by a sniper’s bullet that was meant for her grandson. “He ain’t never got over that.” She said as she looked down the hall toward his room. “Sometimes he just paces around the house all night. He says he don’t want to talk about it, but I think he does.”
I had been here too long I thought as I handed her back the helmet. I could feel the tears somewhere inside looking for an escape. I turned to leave and almost ran over my new helper who I didn’t realize was standing behind me. I needed to collect my tools as well as my thoughts, and I really didn’t want to talk to anybody else. I wasn’t sure how long he had been standing behind me, so I just looked at my flashlight and walked to the kitchen to gather my files. I said goodbye to Paula Deen, and as we prepared to leave my feet directed me to the door of the room where the young man was lying on the bed. He looked up at me as I tried to make my mouth work. “Thank you” I croaked, “Thank you for your service.” He smiled a little as I turned, looking at my feet, and headed for the door. I almost plowed over the new guy again as he walked past me straight to the young man’s door. I could hear him thanking the soldier just as I had done as I walked out the front door.
We got back in the truck and headed for the next home. Neither of us said anything for quite a few miles and I silently wondered what my co-worker was thinking. What he was thinking… and how much he had heard of the grandmother’s story. What did he think about the “colored fellow” comment? I knew that Paula Deen didn’t mean anything by it, but what did this city boy think of it? I hate to say that I thought he had probably heard worse in his time and I just added that to the guilt I was feeling. Conveniently my co-worker began a conversation about the testing procedure for a gas furnace, and we talked shop until we reached the next home. Thank you for stepping in front of that bullet.
After a long drive home I dropped him off at his hotel. We had a good week together and I felt good about his training. As I drove away I realized that while we had not spoken again of the small town soldier, he had never been far from my mind. The perfectly healthy looking young man lying on the bed with nothing but his thoughts. Replaying the images of his very short life and struggling to move forward. Paula Deen had told me that he went to college some, and I could only think of how much older he was than his fellow students. How mundane a final exam must be.
We all watch the news. We tune out when we hear headlines declaring “Deadliest month since….”. The war(s) have been going on forever and the body count numbers have a way of just becoming….numbers. 36 million pounds of turkey recalled, 104 degree heat, 25 killed by roadside bomb. The media brags about the men and women that have returned safely, and family reunion stories are often quite touching. But how does one put a number on the small town soldier pacing the floor in the middle of the night. Running from the sights and sounds only he can hear. Lying on the bed in his grandmother’s home reliving the events that have changed him forever. I can’t imagine that in his mind he has returned “safely” to The Rock.
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