Leghorn chickens are a new addition here at the hacienda.  The first graders at the school where my girlfriend teaches had hatched these birds in the classroom, and at just two weeks old they were looking for a more permanent home.  After our addition of a large vegetable garden about six months ago, a small laying flock seemed like the next logical step.   Luckily the roommates were all in.

There is a long table in the garden where we take our meals.  I like to sit out there with my pipe in the afternoon and watch the chickens scurry back and forth beneath the tomato plants.  There is something about watching them that makes me very calm and happy.

I found this Batman mask in my brother’s closet.  I then wore it.  For an hour.

It has been a rough deployment for my old unit.  Hard on my boys, and hard on their families at home.  Both sides have held up their ends, and now it’s almost over.  Right now houses are being cleaned, banners are being made, and parties are being planned.  I’m headed down south to be waiting for them when they arrive.

My Marine Families photo project, My Heart is Across the Ocean, will shortly be coming to a close.  I’ve also been writing while the boys have been gone.  Writing about their families, and what it’s been like for me to watch them go through these last seven months.  I’ve been on the other side of this before, the side where everyone is in it together, day and night.  Being stateside for this one has given me a new appreciation for circumstances that I may have been dismissive about in the past.

Now, my hope is to put everything together into a book.  After the homecoming it’ll just be a matter of tightening edits and paring down text.  As much as I’ve enjoyed working on this project, I’ll be happier when it’s something I can put away on a shelf.  I’ve been toying with a few different cover images for the past couple of months, but on my most recent shoot I finally found one that felt just right.

In case you were wondering, no I don’t have a publisher, I haven’t started showing it around yet.  But if you wanted to mention the project offhand to your cousin in publishing, then yes, that’d be just great.

I’m sorry to report that in that time, my old Marine unit has taken casualties in Afghanistan.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t taking it hard.

It is no secret that I’m awfully sentimental where my Marines are concerned.  Add a healthy dose of Irish Whiskey to that and it takes a patient and tender woman to deal with me.  I’m very lucky in that department.

It’s not lost on me that I seem to be the only one in this situation allowed the luxury of falling apart.

Tomorrow will be the first of the unit funerals here in California, and the first I will be able to attend.

I have been dreading it.  I have been dreading it with all of my heart.

This is my Yoda, Max S. Gerber, and his niece Willamina.  A fun test shot taken before a shoot I was assisting him on.  I’d like to take credit, but really the camera was already set up, I just made a smart-ass’d comment and pushed the button.

Check out more on that shoot and the story it would become, “The Baby Whisperer”, over on Max’s blog The Latest Shot.  Also, he posted a video of me singing to Willa about cowboys and potty chairs, so I guess you’ll have that to look forward to.

Stay tuned for more on My Heart is Across the Ocean in the not too distant future.  I’m 23 families in and still going strong.

My ‘Marine Families‘ project has been going well. I’ve been logging a lot of miles recently, traveling all over California to photograph the families of my Marines in Afghanistan.  It’s been a labor of love for me, and as rewarding as any project I can imagine.

I received a phone call on Christmas Day, and several emails back from the boys whose families I’ve photographed so far.  They’ve all been short and straightforward, much like the emails I’ve sent to them.  There is a lot that goes unsaid between us, but it will suffice to say that we understand each other perfectly.

I have been touched and deeply honored by the graciousness of these Marines’ wives and girlfriends.  Allowed to share in news from the front, to know the men’s hearts and mindsets in words that Marines never say to one another, only whispered in crowded phone tents with the clock ticking and other men waiting behind.

I see now the full measure of what these women shoulder at home.  A Marine deployed is surrounded by men in his same situation.  Everyone is lonesome. Everyone is homesick.  There is not much reason to talk about it unless the hurt is too great.  When men wait to read their mail alone, you let them.  Other than those few private moments at night, the men are in it together.  That’s how they get through things when being overwhelmed is not an option.

That’s not how it is back home.  The women don’t wake up together to share cigarettes and black coffee.  Their web of support is spread out and disjointed.  They are surrounded by people who don’t understand because they simply cannot.  Still they must go to work and take care of the children and run a household as though their men were on a camping trip together.  Knowing full well that the next Marine they see could be wearing Dress Blues and standing on the front porch.

Make no mistake, I’m not saying that one side of a deployment is easier than the other.  They are very different, and should not be viewed in competition.  What I am saying is that these women, these families, bear a burden that they have not been trained for, and that they bear it with a kind of poise and steadfastness that you’d expect from a Marine, but that isn’t something you learn in Boot Camp, and it isn’t something that requires a uniform.  I believe it’s that thing at the core of words like Honor and Patriotism.  Not all the partisan bullshit that has been attached to them, but the actual definitions, that even cynics know exist.

Can I show something in a photograph that I can barely explain in words?  Perhaps not.  But I can try.

The My Heart is Across the Ocean project now has a Facebook page, making it even easier to follow.  I’ll be posting project updates here on the blog, but the Facebook page offers a bit more personal/casual look into the logistics of the work and that’s where I’ll be posting things like behind-the-scenes snaps and engaging in public discussions and commentary.  I hope you’ll follow along as we inch closer to the day my boys come home and this project comes to fruition.

If you’ve watched my video message to the boys you know it’s been an emotional holiday season at my house.  My old Marine unit is in Afghanistan on their first deployment without me. Now I’ve gotten a taste of what it’s like to be on the other side of separation, and it turns out that neither side is easy. I have so many Google Alerts set that every time they hit the news wire I know about it. Anytime casualties are reported, I hold my breath until I know it wasn’t one of mine. Even then there is a measure of loss involved, but between two tragedies you have to hope for the one you can bear.

When I joined the Marine Corps I knew what I was getting into when I signed my name on the dotted line. I was as mentally prepared as I could be and I figured out the rest along the way. What I didn’t realize at the time, and perhaps am only appreciating now, is that I’d signed my family up behind me for everything but the fighting and dying. Maybe a little of that too, sometimes.

While I have no regrets about having been a Marine, I’ve started to understand what it takes to care about one (or many). And that is no small thing when normal life continues on around you.

I’ve been seeing a lot of that quiet strength recently, as I’ve been driving all over Southern California photographing the wives, girlfriends, and families of my Marines overseas. It started as a Christmas present for them, but it is fast becoming an intensely personal, personal project for me. One that I plan on continuing until their return.

Traveling from home to home photographing the boys’ families has allowed me to continue to feel connected to them while they are away. I’ve been allowed a peek behind the curtain, into the personal lives of men who seem to be as gentle and caring at home as they are stoic and steadfast in uniform. Reconciling these versions of them for myself has only made them more dear to me.

I’ve decided to name the project after a song my father recorded for me when I was in Iraq, at a time when he was grappling with some of the same feelings I have now, plus some I may never know.

My Heart Across the Ocean (Click to Listen)
©2003 Bob Bennett

You can read more about the song here.  Stay tuned for more on the project.

Happy New Year!

A Christmas video message to my Marines in Afghanistan.

"Then all the reindeer loved him..."

This was towards the end of the shoot for Mom’s Christmas card. We were just hitting the fourth verse of our own a cappella version of The California Raisins’ Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer.

You know, we aren’t that bad.  But I won’t be quitting my day job.

I received this letter from my sister a little over a month before my first Veteran’s Day. I found it while thumbing through my journal this afternoon. Shared here with her permission.

Kate and the Marine Corps shared a birthday yesterday.

I was happy to spend it with her.

Sunday was Family Day for Alpha Company.  I rode down to Camp Pendleton with the man who was once my Platoon Commander.  Neither of us are in the unit anymore, but we still have strong ties to the men, and couldn’t let them go without seeing them off.  My father sent along a bottle of Ireland’s finest to be stowed for the journey.

Family Days precede every deployment.  This one had all the usual sights.  A bounce house for the little ones, parents seated at picnic tables in the sun, a hot dog station that was certain to run out of food.  A couple of LAVs were in the parking lot swarmed by kids, their mothers watching nervously, knowing full well that experienced crewman fall off of them all the time.

I was introduced to a whole squad of new wives and fiances, another familiar pre-deployment ritual.  Marines generally use last names when referring to each other, but when meeting a significant other, introductions are always made with first names.  If asked, any Marine would tell you it is to make themselves seem friendly and approachable, but I have a personal theory that it is also to disassociate one’s self from any indelicate stories that may have been told.  “Oh, you’re THAT Bennett.”

A couple of the old Black Sheep showed up, families in tow.  It was awfully good to see them.  Together, we inspected the new up-armor modifications that our vehicles have received since we last lived in them.  This led to criticisms like “Now where will the cooler go?”, and “That new turret shielding will make it kind of difficult to swing a Nerf Bat at the kids trying to steal your pack.”  Indeed, we are untapped resources when it comes to assault vehicle design.

On Monday morning I picked up the newly minted Staff Sergeant Vanderpol from his father’s machine shop in Newport Beach.  I’d offered to take him back down after he’d ditched his truck and the civilian gear he’d been keeping on base.  He was waiting for me out front, his two sea bags, pack, and carry-on stacked behind him. This is to be his fourth deployment, and his experience shows.  There were no last minute errands to run, everything was packed and ready.

When we arrived at the Battalion Area, word came down that their flight was to be a delayed until Wednesday, and that the Marines were to be released until then.  Wives and parents were there, happy of course to have their men for a few more days, but I’d seen those looks on my own family’s faces before.  It had taken a lot of emotional wind up just to get into the car that morning.  They’d only steeled themselves through mid-afternoon.

Vandy and I headed south to Sgt. Paul Acosta’s house in San Diego.  We hung out all afternoon, the three of us drinking beer and relaxing.  We ended the night with a sushi dinner and an old John Wayne favorite.

I woke up early Tuesday morning on Acosta’s couch, my jacket wrapped around my chest.  I lay there without moving for a long time.  The morning was very gray and very still.

Vandy was sleeping in the loft above me.  I didn’t even raise my voice.

“Are you awake?”, I said.

“Yeah, I’m up.”

I could tell by his voice he’d been awake for a while.  It occurred to me that whatever he’d been thinking about up there in silence was probably more than I’d had to worry about lately.

“Join me for a beer then?” , I said.

He answered back, “While I still can.”

When Acosta woke up, we three went out for coffee and some proper breakfast burritos.  When the meal was over, and everything that would be said was said, I shook the boys’ hands, got in my truck, and started driving north.  Back towards the decisions I’ve made.

Half the boys took off on Wednesday, the other half left just this afternoon.  Next stop Afghanistan.

There is more than a small part of me that wants terribly to catch up with them somewhere out there in the desert.  Unexpected, and good for morale.  Like a brother showing up to the big away game, camera in hand.

There are a few small logistical issues I’d have to figure out, but in the meantime;

Godspeed to you my fine Marines.  You make me so humble, so grateful, and so immeasurably proud.

I was in Laguna early yesterday morning to shoot engagement photos for my cousin Dave and soon-to-be-cousin-in-law, Jenny. Being a family affair, I brought Tara and Kate along as Assistants/Wave Watchers (as in “Watch out, a wave is coming.”)

The water was fairly calm and the overcast skies held all morning, so I left the lights in their cases and didn’t even require the reflector.  This left the girls without much to do except hold the bag of lenses, and again, warn me of oncoming waves.

After an almost heartbreaking swell came a little too close to comfort, I gave Kate my iPhone, lest I lose two of my favorite things at once.  This morning I discovered a dozen or so choice iPhonotypes they’d made whilst I was busy.  A few of me shooting, but mostly it was them pointing at hermit crabs and dancing “all crazy” behind me.  These are just a few of the hits.

Tara surveys tide pools with reflector.

Tara points at a hermit crab.

Kate breaks it down.

A big thanks to my lovely and talented Assistants, and to Dave and Jenny, who took the waves in stride and the crew out to lunch.

Blacksheep Platoon, 2004

I got the call from one of my Marines. My old unit is going to Afghanistan, sooner rather than later. They’ll be there before Christmas, possibly before Thanksgiving. My first thought was how fast can I lose 20 pounds and get through the re-enlistment process? I’d been considering this for a while now. While I have no interest in being a stateside Marine anymore, lately the thought of my boys deploying without me has been keeping me up at night. I wondered it aloud and my buddy said,

“It’d take too long. Our slots are all full anyway, you’d just get left behind. Don’t sweat it, man, we got this one.”

WE got this one. It stung, but I needed to hear it put that way.

The truth is, the WE that I was a part of doesn’t exist in the way I want it to anymore. Shortly after I left, my platoon, Blacksheep Platoon, was disbanded and dispersed. Most of the old crew got out, but a few stayed in and climbed the ladder. The Marines whom I’d been responsible for, the young ones whom have never been to war, now have Marines of their own to worry about. Some of them would even outrank me. That’s how the military has always worked, I suppose.

Deep down in my heart I’d give anything to have that old gang back together, the Blacksheep who went to war together. Even the assholes. It sounds cliche when I say it out loud, but we were young and seemingly invincible together. We trusted one another. The same guy that would get drunk and punch you in the face one night would be your closest confidant the next. I have the scars to prove it. Some on my face, some on my knuckles.

Most of the Blacksheep are out now. They’re spread out over the western states, living their own lives, doing whatever it is warfighters do after they’ve taken themselves out of the fight. A few of us have talked about the grand reunions we’ll have, but reality isn’t like the end of White Christmas. Kids get sick, jobs come up, cash gets tight, water mains break. We’ll probably never all be in the same room together again.

Then comes this news of the unit headed to Afghanistan. I’ve never worried for any Marine before. The Blacksheep had me, I had them, other Marines had other Marines. We were all covered. As illogical as it sounds, the thought that some of my old boys will be over there without me feels like I’m letting them down somehow, leaving a hole in their ranks that my own chest was supposed to fill. I know that’s not true, I know I was replaced by a younger, faster, better Marine the day I left, but that doesn’t change anything. These next 8-10 months I’ll lay awake at night and worry about them. It’s a feeling I dread down in my guts. It’s a feeling I know I put my own family through more than once.

I guess this is what vulnerability feels like, and I don’t care for it one bit.

Our vacation Down Under was all we had hoped for and more.

Vacations have a tendency to be exhausting. While I’d admit to suffering the effects of jet lag over our first days home, this trip was a pleasant exception. We packed a lot into our two weeks, but we took it all in at a leisurely pace.

It is winter in Australia. Down in Melbourne, where we spent most of our trip, it was cold and raining off and on. We stayed bundled up a good deal of the time.

We walked around a lot, almost everywhere. To the farmer’s market, to the city center, to “our” local bar. It’s a shame that most of Southern California isn’t really laid out for walking. It was quite nice.

We wandered about the country a bit as well. A short flight here and there, but I logged a lot of miles (or kilometers in this case) driving on the other side of the road. Getting my equipment through airport security was relatively painless. Although, I did have to explain to one fellow what a softbox was and why I had metal poles in my carry-on. He also seemed troubled by the look of my speedlights in the x-ray machine, but I can’t say that I blamed him.

We were staying with a friend, a self sufficient bachelor, so I did most of the cooking for the three of us. I’d have a hot meal and a cocktail waiting for him when came home from work. On nights when it was raining too hard to venture out, we’d sit around drinking Shiraz and watching episodes of Mad Men. We joked that I had become his Betty Draper. I’d wager that Betty Draper never made Kangaroo Fried Rice.

I took a lot of pictures while we were there, of course. I’ve quite a bit of editing to do. Some of it I’ll post, but most of it I won’t. I was traveling for pleasure. I took plenty of travel snaps. A lot of pictures of buildings and bridges and beaches, and my girlfriend standing in front of said scenery. I won’t bore you with our vacation slide show.

Well… perhaps just a few.

The Twelve Apostles

Tara in Sydney

Tara and the Opera House at Night

We’d just pulled into Babylon after a long trip from the Iranian border. Our platoon would be occupying some empty buildings near a small man-made lake for a few weeks. Everyone was backing their vehicles in so we could pull the radios inside, but there was a small palm tree in the way of mine. I jumped out and grabbed the ax. With my first swing I caught one of the low fronds with my left hand. It went straight through the base of my fingernail like a staple gun. It hurt like hell, and my hand was shaking, but the vehicles still had to get parked and everyone was tired and pissed off. So I cut down that tree, and spent the next two months trying to dig that frond out of my hand.

I couldn’t go to the docs for something that small, I’d never hear the end of it. So I just put up with the irritation, but as the nail grew it was dragging the frond with it, and it hurt a lot. I put sanitizer on it often to try to stave off infection, but that didn’t work. I wore gloves to hide the swelling. I knew it was becoming a problem and if I went to see the docs at that point I might even get sent to the Army hospital for antibiotics. I couldn’t let that happen. I’d seen some guys get sent back to Kuwait against their will for seemingly minor injuries. I would have rather died.

So one night I got good and drunk, left the boys playing spades, and climbed into the back of my vehicle. I washed my hands as best I could with hand sanitizer and heated my knife up with a lighter. I slid the blade in quickly under the nail until it separated. It hurt A LOT.

I squeezed hard and the frond came out immediately. I was shaking from the pain, and I remember feeling relieved that it had come out on the first try, because I wasn’t sure I could squeeze like that again. I put more sanitizer on my hand and instantly regretted that decision, but I knew if it was going to heal properly I’d have to keep it as clean as possible.

I was surprised and a little impressed by the size of the frond, more than a quarter inch. I’d carried it with me through so much it didn’t seem right to just discard it. So I taped it into my journal, a little souvenir from my summer vacation.

When you talk about injuries sustained in war, a thing like that is not even worth mentioning. But it was something small that I carried with me for too long, a painful irritation that never let up until I dealt with it the hard way. Sometimes there are things like that in life. This one got taped into a little book I keep in my desk drawer.

I have a desk drawer where I keep Iraq. All the negatives, all the test prints, my ragged journal stuffed with wallet pictures and dinars. When I first got home I’d pored over the images, disappointed with most of them. I don’t know exactly what I wanted them to be, but I’d felt they largely fell short. I made a small edit at the time of about 20 or so that I’d show to people, and the rest just got tucked away. As time passed I didn’t want to look at them, I’d made my selections. I didn’t feel much like reading my journal either, not for years.

A few months ago I decided it was time. I sat alone in my room and read my journal from start to finish, I spread all those prints out on the floor. I’ll admit it was hard for me, reading my own words sparked a kind of total recall. The images brought sounds and smells and absolutely overwhelming emotions. Looking back, I’d been so young. Young in a way that you don’t get back.

But it’s all a personal history now. I’d left most of the war on the plane, and tried hard to bring back only pictures. Pictures that upon later inspection offer a view into what I’d seen at the time and felt a need to photograph. It wasn’t digital then, and I’d had a limited number of frames to remember by.

I’ve begun revisiting those images I’d been ignoring. I remember where I was for each one, and many of them coincide with stories in my journal. I have mixed feelings about sharing some of that work. The photographs are often snapshots, made by a young man who didn’t fully understand his light meter. Some of them were with a disposable camera. I know now where I went wrong technically. I know now how I could have made them better. Like a schoolyard fight lost, I’d give anything to relive it as who I would become.

But six years later, I see now where my own history was a part of our history, and I think that’s a story worth sharing.

I’ll start with a new gallery on my site, SPACES.

I got the call today. Frank the Fish is dead. At nearly five years old he was the final survivor of the Fishbowl Gang, a motley crew of feeder fish I’d bought in the fall of 2004.

It was the first assignment in a photo class I was taking. Photograph one object 36 different ways. 36, of course, because everyone was still shooting film then. So I went to Walmart, spent under $10 and walked out with a large fishbowl containing five goldfish.

Tara and I were still newly dating. She dutifully held the fishbowl in the passenger seat as I tried unsuccessfully not to slosh the water onto her jeans. We drove all over town looking for places where the light seemed just right. At a park, at a bustop, in the center divider on a busy street. It took several hours, but I was happy with the results.

At the end of the day I suggested that we give the fish to the first kid we saw on the street, or else set them free in a local pond, but Tara would hear none of it. She’d named the two largest fish Frank and Fatty and she was determined to keep them for what we assumed was their short lifespan.

The three smaller fish did die almost immediately, and Fatty passed after several months. But Frank was a fighter. As the years passed his fins grew impossibly long like an old man’s whiskers, and he took to spending his days just sitting on the bottom, watching us.

Several times I mentioned that we could buy Frank a larger tank, perhaps a couple of friends, but Tara seemed to think that Frank was staying alive out of pure spite for his circumstance and that spending any additional money on him might be issuing him a death sentence.

And so Frank lived on in that same bowl, the regal lord of Tara’s parents’ kitchen. Always watching, only bothering to swim at meal times or when his possible demise had come into question.

But alas, old Frank’s number had finally come up.

Tara called this afternoon and said,

“Bad news, I just got to Mom’s house and Frank is dead.”

“Are you sure he’s not just resting?”, I said.

“Sorry honey.”

That was it. The undignified end of what was a remarkably long life for a lowly Walmart feeder fish who rose to prominence in the lives of a lucky few.

Frank will lay in state until tonight, when I can give him a proper burial.

Goodnight sweet prince.

Mark Smuts and I have been friends since we were 15. We went to high school together, we worked in a restaurant together, he took me to a bar at midnight on my 21st birthday.

When I was in Infantry School, Mark would get calls at 1am on Saturdays and he’d drive down to Camp Pendleton to pick me up.

The day I came back from the war it was just Mark and my girlfriend at the time who were there to take me home.

He’s a hell of a guy, and a hell of a friend.

Happy 29th Birthday Smuts.

Too bad you grew up to look like “The Commish“!

He takes his drinks tall and cool, and likes his women warm and willing.

He dances like a boxer, and boxes like a dancer.

He can’t help you move this weekend…

He’s growing his beard.

He is: The Most Leisurely Man in the World.

This upcoming Saturday is my brother Colin’s 3rd Annual “Keep the Fire” pool party. A nautical themed tribute to 70s era smooth music or “Yacht Rock“. Loggins and Messina, Hall and Oates, The Doobie Brothers, pretty much everybody that Michael Jackson wiped out of our childhood memories.

Once a year he sends our parents away for the weekend and turns their backyard into the smoking deck on the Love Boat. Party props include fake mustaches, captain’s hats, bubble pipes, and white deck shoes. Before each party we have taken a series of ridiculous “promotional photos” of Colin that are later made into various flyers and email invitations. Now in it’s third incarnation, KTF has taken on a life of it’s own. Every year his planning gets more and more absurd, it wouldn’t surprise me if Colin tried to rent a yacht next year. Just a few days ago he called me wondering whether our parent’s sprinkler system could withstand having a small sailboat parked on the lawn… “for effect”.

A big thanks to Pragna, my “exotic hand model”, and to my assistants Wes and Tommy aka “Blaze and Blue“. Wes was secure enough to stand in front of the many on-lookers from the Newport American Legion and repeatedly pour water down another man’s chest, all while Tommy stood behind me holding lenses and ridiculing him.

Jeff Delgado and I went to high school together. He was a talented artist even then, and seems to have only gotten better over the last decade. I remember senior year, one of his illustrations won some big award and they made posters of it. He gave me one and I asked him to autograph it for me. My mother was going through some sort of compulsive framing phase at the time. She had it professionally framed and hung it in her guest bathroom over the display of little soaps and hand towels no one can use. If you’ve washed your hands at my mother’s house in the last ten years I’m sure you’ve noticed it. That framed poster hanging behind you in the mirror.

Jeff saw my silly self portrait on FB and painted his own rendition of it, which I like more than my photograph. You can check out more of Jeff’s paintings here:

http://jdelgado.deviantart.com

I seem to take a lot of pictures of my siblings. I think eventually I’ll probably just have a section devoted to them. It works out nicely because I enjoy taking pictures of them and they enjoy having a higher quality of Facebook photos than the unwashed masses. Recently I was going to make some large prints and when the question came of what images I could stand to have staring back at me from my office wall, the answer was these two. We get along pretty well, the three of us. Not all siblings have it so good.

I was sitting on an ammo can in the desert the first time I said “I’m going to be a photographer.” That was in 2003. The time had come for me to really make good. So I stayed out, put on a little weight, grew a beard, got a dog, and started making life plans that didn’t involve weapons and body armor. I made peace with the idea that the Marine Corps could keep on without me.

A couple of months back I was sitting on the bed of a hotel room in San Francisco. My girlfriend was fixing her hair in front of the bathroom mirror, putting on her earrings. We were going to a fancy restaurant that night. It was a date night. The weather was perfect and we were planning on walking along the waterfront for awhile before dinner. I got a call from my Mother, her voice was nonchalant in the way it gets when there is something wrong.

She said, “A large manila envelope came from the Marine Corps today.”

I’d listed my Mother’s house as my permanent address.

I was taken off guard for a moment. I remember looking in the mirror and thinking, this is what I get for becoming complacent, this is what I get for becoming this paunchy, bearded asshole in a pink dress shirt and tweed sport coat. I thought about the large plastic tub in my garage, my uniforms neatly folded inside. My canteen cup now a pen holder on my desk, my Ka-Bar used as a letter opener. I felt that mix of dread and resignation you get when you realize something is coming at you faster than you can step out of its way.

“You’d better open it.”, I said.

And as the words left my lips I recalled standing at the edge of a dance floor, my buddy Franco and I dressed in new suits, scotches in hand. We were watching the groom in his Dress Blues dance with his bride. Franco pulled out his cell phone and said, “Take a look at what I got in the mail last week.”

So that, I suppose, is that. A closed chapter in my life. One that I’m very proud of, often sentimental about.

The chances of my donning a flak jacket again for anything more than old times’ sake are pretty slim, though I won’t rule it out completely. I met more than one salty corporal who had checked back in saying “I went through boot camp when your Momma was a sophomore.”

But I won’t hold my breath for the day I feel like the Marine Corps needs me again. If there is one thing I can rest easy knowing, it’s that there is nothing my boys can’t handle.