Homefront: Wireless Connection from the Ahwatukee Foothills News

August 9, 2007 - 12:17PM
HOME FRONT: Wireless Connection

Commentary by Missy Martin
I’m on my cell phone, wearing one of those posh white bathrobes I found hanging in the closet, at noon, leaning over the third floor balcony of my room in a New Hampshire hotel trying to get good reception, talking to my brother Mike who is calling from “Mortaritaville” in Iraq. Spread out below me is a sea of green, perfectly manicured grass and trees without the single stain of a brown blade of grass or a yellow leaf. Beyond the grounds lies a bay, where sailboats and small fishing boats drift back and forth past the mammoth colonial houses that line the granite coast. It’s an idyllic scene, which is why the gift shop downstairs is brimming with things like note cards, trivets and ornaments depicting it.

Mike has flown into Mortaritaville, officially named Camp Anaconda, in the volatile Sunni Triangle north of Baghdad, from his duty station in Kuwait. His convoy security crew was recently assigned a new vehicle, called an armored security vehicle or ASV, to replace their humvee. They’re at Mortaritaville to learn how to operate it. I know nothing about an ASV to feel either good or bad about it.

I ask Mike what he thinks of Mortaritaville. He answers that it’s the first place where he’s seen a tree since he arrived in the Middle East a month ago (I choose not to brag about my view). I ask him if the camp is aptly nicknamed, and he tells me that sirens and loud-speaker announcements warn of mortar fire about three times a day, but admits that the camp is so large that he’s actually never heard the rounds explode or seen where any have hit. In fact when the last warning sounded, he was eating lunch in the dining facility, and without missing a beat, kept on eating.

I know from experience that our conversation will last about 30 minutes, the length of time it takes a 300-minute calling card to expire (the bulk of minutes are supposedly expended just making the connection) or the point at which the next soldier waiting in line for the phone will urge him to hang up.

When I hang up, I’ll get dressed and my family will drive in our rented car to Boston where we’ll meet my other brother Bill for seafood on Newbury Street. Bill is in town from Missoula, Mont., to learn about his new employer, Textron. Over clams and Sam Adams Summer Ale, I’ll repeat the conversation I had with Mike – the tree, the mortar fire, the ASV. We’ll compare the contents of care packages we’ve each sent. After dinner I’ll lobby Bill to join us again, but he’ll decline, apologizing that his week is booked with Textron business.

The next morning, while training in some Boston conference room, Bill will send this text message: “Textron makes the ASV.” The threads connecting my family to this war will pull tighter.

From my laptop on the desk, next to a bottle of sunscreen and a map to York Beach, I’ll learn that the Armored Security Vehicle is bigger and better than a humvee; that it promises “battle-proven protection” against small arms fire and roadside bombs. I’ll read specs on the vehicle’s survivability, mobility and firepower – a lot of technical jargon that means, in layman’s terms, it’s designed to ensure that soldiers come home.

When I return home, I won’t credit my week of spa treatments, restaurants, beaches, boats and sleeping in late for reducing my stress. It’ll be the armored steel hull and the ceramic composite expandable armor on Mike’s new ASV that does the trick.

Missy Martin is an 11-year Ahwatukee Foothills resident, mother of three and editor of Bombshells: War Stories and Poems by Women on the Homefront. Her brother, U.S. Army Specialist Michael Dunn, attended Arizona State University and graduated from the University of Montana with a degree in accounting and now provides security on convoys in and out of Iraq. He can be contacted at Spec. Mike Dunn 7th Chem – APO AE09327.

I'm Sending Too Much!

Quick somebody stop me! Rumor has it, I am sending my husband too much stuff! It has almost become an addiction for me. Everytime I go into a store all I do is look for things I can buy him and send him, whether it be snacks, bathroom items, or magazines and books. My frivolous sending has turned him into a packrat, with 4 bags of sunflower seeds hidden in his locker, and candy bars here and there. He even has numorous stacks of books he probably won't even read.

I don't know why I feel this need to constantly send him goodies. I think it makes me feel better about our situation. The more comforts from home he has the better he will feel...that is my impression.

He told me a few weeks ago that sometimes when the mail comes in, some of his friends think a package is for them, but it always ends up being for him. He said it makes him feel bad. I could understand this, so I started sending packages to his friends as well! I even send packages to his friends who are now on other orders and other ships!

I was just wondering if I'm nuts or if anyone else sends countless flatrate boxes full of who knows what??

Rest in Peace Elizabeth Smith

My aunt Liz died Saturday night in a plane crash. Her story from Bombshells is included in this blog. Liz was on a great adventure with her 78 year old friend. They were on a one month trip through Alaska flying to small airports, camping under the wing of the plane and the stars and enjoying life. I imagine if Thelma and Louise were seniors, they would be like my aunt and her friend. Click the title to access a news link.

She was due home today, Sunday, but the plane crashed on their last stop and Liz is no more. This is Liz at 15, right when she met Garry.

Liz was 73. She lived through the Great Depression, married Garry Smith and soon after he was drafted to Korea... Her tale follows. For me, she was a great symbol of pride, strength, fearlessness and independence. She and her friend also went to Russia last year and many other adventures. She died on another great adventure. She was a pilot, a mother and a true friend.
This is a picture of Garry in Alaska during the conflict with Korea.
Korea, Korea, Korea
Liz Smith


We met at fifteen and seventeen, and fell in love the very day we said hello. We dated, took wonderful car trips, walked the beaches and hills, and danced to the big bands at the Hollywood Palladium. When Garry graduated from high school, he replaced his old 37 Chrysler with a snazzy 1947 Buick convertible, and we were in heaven.
Yet this strange echo reverberated in the background: Korea, Korea, Korea. We didn’t know quite what it meant, but we had just finished World War II, and didn’t worry about another war.
But then our friend George surprised us with the news that he’d joined the Navy. In unison, Garry and I responded “WHAT?” George urged Garry to look at his draft number – it was next to be called up.
“Oh my god!” we both thought. We studied our options. Garry didn’t want to join the Army and serve during the freezing winters in Korea. Since all the Navy billets were filled in the towns adjoining ours, we raced to Lancaster where Garry enlisted and was sworn into the Navy. We eloped on Garry’s leave from boot camp.

The first three months were wonderful. We lived in San Diego in a Travel Court for $13.00 a week. Falling asleep in my sweetheart’s arms every night was a dream come true. Then one day Garry opened the door and I could tell by the look on his face that something was wrong. He handed me a large white slip of paper. Orders. He’d be shipping out in three days.
But it wasn’t too bad. His ship was delivering supplies to Alaska. While it was dangerous, as Russia was only a few miles off the coast of Alaska—ready to blow up any ship that strayed—it wasn’t Korea. And it only lasted six weeks. In fact, the experience was comical.
I moved out of the Travel Court and stayed in an old shed in the back of Garry’s parents’ property. Every time Garry’s ship stopped at a port along the west coast, he would hitchhike home for a visit, and then I would drive him back to the ship. Once Garry’s dad had to put him on a plane back to San Francisco. He said, “Garry, please don’t hitchhike from Alaska.”
When the mission ended, Garry and I moved back into a room at the Travel Court. Then Garry received new orders. This time they said: Korea.
I moved back into the shed until winter came and it was too cold to sleep there. Then I slept on the sofa inside my in-laws’ house. I filled my days by working at J C Penney Company, and I learned to paint, wallpaper and garden, helping Garry’s parents remodel their house. At night I’d write passionate love letters.
Our love grew stronger while Garry was away, and we talked of having a baby. When the day arrived for him to return home, I watched his ship sail into the horizon. When it docked the Admiral himself congratulated me on the fastest run up a gangplank in high heels.
Finally, I was in Garry’s arms again. I became pregnant at once, no doubt about ten minutes after we checked into the motel. We rented a garage apartment in a San Diego suburb, and furnished it with the best stuff the Goodwill store had to offer. When the baby finally arrived, Garry thought she was the greatest miracle in the world. He adored her, and everyday after work he’d bound up the outside stairs two or three at a time shaking the whole apartment. He’d open the door, give me a kiss and go straight to the bassinette to pick up his daughter and hold her.
One day his steps were slow. When he opened the door I thought a ghost was standing in his uniform. He said, “I have orders to go back to Korea.” He’d be shipping out in three days.
“No! You served your time!” I cried, wondering what would happen to the baby and me. I was only 19 and didn’t know anyone in San Diego. I cried all night.
We decided that I would stay in the apartment and pray the war would end early, and peace talks would work, and Garry’s tour of duty would be cut from a year to nothing.
I had $167.10 a month to live on. The apartment without gas and lights was $65.00 a month, and I had no idea how to I would stretch the funds to cover the rest of my expenses. I swore I would never borrow money from anyone. The baby was on Pet milk and canned foods so I bought all she’d need at one time, so I would not run out. The store was within walking distance and for 15 cents I could take the bus to the naval hospital for my baby’s monthly checkups so I could save the car for emergencies only, spending only about $1.25 a month on gas.
Loneliness and despair encased my life. I ran to the mailbox each day but the Navy held up mail until the operation was over. At least I had Garry’s first letter, and I read it over and over:

July 18,1952

Hello my precious little one,

I love you with all my heart. Oh Sweetheart, its evening now and I’m so lonesome and heartsick for you as I begin this first letter of our separation. I can’t express to you how bad I felt as we said goodbye at the ship. I wanted to tell you so many things but I could hardly talk, after I kissed your tear filled checks and our sweet little baby. Oh honey it was all I could do to keep from breaking out crying. Darling, it would have been torture for me if you and little Linda had stayed and watched the ship leave the dock. Oh God, Liz when I walked away from the car I could hardly stand it. I looked around once and almost cried, it was so awful watching you and my tiny baby driving away without me. I knew I had to hold myself together, yet I wondered if it were possible when I reached the ship and went aboard and looked around again and you were gone, and the terrible realization of being separated swept over me. The feeling I had can’t be written in words or said; only our good Lord knows what was in my aching heart. Oh darling, I could never go through another goodbye like that again and be the same. You just can’t take two things from a man’s life that he loves more than life itself and expect him to be the same. I knew, my precious, what being separated from you was like before I left this morning, but today I not only said goodbye to one of great love, but two dearly beloved one’s in my life. Yes, my darling the terrible experience of saying goodbye is over, but the more terrible separation remains. I just hope and pray God helps me enduring these long days and nights of loneness. He gave me the most wonderful and perfect wife and baby in the world so I truly believe he’ll watch over me now.

Well darling, the first thing they told me when I came aboard ship this morning was that I have the watch starting at 8:00 so I went below to our quarters, put on my undress jumper and went to the radio shack. There wasn’t anything for me to do so I just went outside and walked around taking my last look at San Diego and thinking of the wonderful happy year we’ve spent here together. As the time draws closer and closer to our departure from this Harbor I kept thinking of you and the baby and wondering if you were all right after being so terribly upset and heart broken, then at 10:00 o’clock, we took in the mooring lines and slowly moved away from the dock, and I just stood looking at San Diego and thinking of the day we would return. Oh precious, I miss you and the baby so very much. I went to the movie tonight but I couldn’t keep my mind on the picture so I left when it was half over and got out my paper and ink and started this letter. Taylor asked if he could see the pictures of Linda again that I have in my wallet so I showed him the big pictures instead and he sure thought she was a doll. I’ve showed quite a few guys her pictures and most of them complemented me on our sweet little girl. Honey you tell “bumpy” that her daddy is very happy over his cake and is going to enjoy it on the mid watch Sunday night. I’m saving it just especially for then. Well darling it’s about time for lights-out so I’ll bring my letter to a close for now. Be careful and remember I love you and Linda with all my heart and think of you all the time. Goodbye my love and God Bless you both.

Your Very Loving Husband, Daddy, Garry

Early one morning, around three o’clock, I awoke to a knock on the door. I peeked out and saw two uniformed men. When I opened the door and discovered they were San Diego police officers, reporting that a drunk driver had just hit my car, I fell to the floor in a near faint. The officers assured me that the car could be fixed, but I explained, “I thought you were here to tell me my husband had been killed in Korea.”
The year passed, and my little baby grew into a little girl, and I had grown up in many ways, too. When Garry’s ship returned I held our daughter’s tiny hand and together we walked the gangplank to welcome her daddy home. There was no race in heels to win this time just the sure new walk into the journey of our lives.

The Comforts of Home-- Missy Martin-- Ahwatukee Foothill News

HOME FRONT: The comforts of home

Commentary by Missy Martin
Ordinarily I hate fast food. I once rented the movie Supersize Me to help indoctrinate my kids against it. A few days after watching it, we drove past a McDonald’s where an ambulance was parked out front. The kids all gasped, certain that someone had bitten into a French fry and suffered a heart attack. The other day, while I was out of town, my husband, who is not nearly as zealous as me, suggested the family go to Burger King for dinner. “Nooooo!” the kids all shrieked, fearing for their lives. They lobbied for an organic peanut butter and jelly sandwich at home.

But ever since my brother Mike deployed, I find my hard line softening.

In his first e-mail home, Mike described driving into Camp Virginia, Kuwait, his duty station while at war. Sand was blowing so fiercely he could hardly see in front of him. Yet, to his delight, he managed to spot a McDonald’s in the middle of the small camp.

He also mentioned a conversation he had with a soldier from the unit Mike’s company is replacing. The soldier related that their trucks had been hit with roadside bombs about 150 times in the past year. As Mike will now be among the company of soldiers providing convoy security on Iraq’s deadly roads, suddenly the thought of him sitting in a McDonald’s, eating a Big Mac and fries, actually seems like a safe and reassuring place to be.

This war is making a hypocrite out of me.

Recently I took my kids to the Arizona Science Center to see Body Worlds 3, an exhibit of real human bodies that have been preserved after dying from diseases. We muddled our way through all the skin, muscle and bones to the display of black lungs where I warned my kids to stay away from tobacco, or else! Yet, in assembling the first care package to send to Mike, I drove to the grocery store, with kids in tow, for the express purpose of buying Copenhagen chew.

And chips. And candy-flavored with high-fructose corn syrup, colored with artificial dyes – more things I routinely preach are hazardous to your health. We bought four Goliath-sized bags of Mike’s favorites.

At the post office, I waited in a long line and filled out the customs form, declared the value of the contents in the box (Copenhagen = $6.74, Jolly Ranchers = $2.99, my 7-year-old son Merrick’s description of his future invention to detect roadside bombs = priceless). I felt immeasurably pleased because Mike would be receiving these “comforts from home” in only a week to 10 days.

But then the kind postal clerk with the soft, sweet voice ruined my mood when she said, “I hate to ask, but….”

I expected the perfunctory “anything-liquid-toxic-flammable-perishable” questionnaire. Or possibly, “any obscene pictures, bulk Christian or anti-Islam material, or pork?” (None of this is allowed).

Instead she said, “In case of non-delivery would you like this package returned, or to go to the chaplain?”

“Non-delivery?” I replied, puzzled. “Why wouldn’t it…?” But then I remembered where it was going, and got it.

Missy Martin is an 11-year Ahwatukee Foothills resident, mother of three and editor of Bombshells: War Stories and Poems by Women on the Homefront. Her brother, U.S. Army Specialist Michael Dunn, attended Arizona State University and graduated from the University of Montana with a degree in accounting and now provides security on convoys in and out of Iraq. He can be contacted at Spec. Mike Dunn 7th Chem – APO AE09327.

This is for the soldier's dot org-. Click the link NOW

Tips on sending stuff to Iraq:

Energy Bars
Tobacco products
Squirt Guns
Comfort Items
Cookies


Use flat rate boxes-

Declare: Find out if you can send tobacco legally before declaring it.



Alcohol is illegal as are pork products. If you send contraband... you could get them in trouble.
Spam and vodka are probably not the greatest idea--

Please add any suggestions-

Home Front: Hate the war? Love the warrior from the Ahwatukee Foothills

June 19, 2007 - 2:49PM
HOME FRONT: Hate the war? Love the warrior

Commentary By Missy Martin
Last week I traveled to Fort Polk, La., to see my brother Mike, and the rest of the 7th Chemical Company, off to war. For the next 15 months they’ll log miles all over Iraq, providing convoy security. Mike’s job is to drive a Humvee while a gunner mans the 50-caliber machine gun mounted on top of the truck. Their buddy in the passenger seat will lookout for assorted threats. It’s no secret that Iraq’s roads are the most dangerous in the world; roadside bombs account for the vast majority of troop casualties.

The guys in Mike’s company are actually chemical operations specialists, trained to detect nuclear, chemical and biological agents in the air and on the ground. They could argue that “convoy security” is not in their job description. But soldiers do what’s asked of them. They’re a special kind – people who voluntarily give up their liberties and put their lives on the line for the benefit of others.

Regardless of our feelings about the war, I think we all should cherish our warriors.
Some of the soldiers I met at Fort Polk talked about how they’ve been personally touched by the kindness of strangers. Even though polls show that most Americans oppose the war, it doesn’t stop people they don’t know from approaching them in public places, patting them on the back and offering to buy them something like a burger or soda to show appreciation for their service.

Perhaps no one supports our troops like the folks in Bangor, Maine (www.mainetroopgreeters.com). The Bangor airport is often the last stop on American soil for military planes heading oversees, and the first stop for troops returning from war. Ever since the first Gulf War in 1991, Bangor residents have made it their mission to greet every unit that comes through – often in the middle of the night. They offer food, the use of phones and overwhelming gratitude. Mike’s plane stopped in Bangor on June 5. He called me from the airport and confirmed that indeed the soldiers were thunderously greeted like rock stars.

Some of the soldiers, including Mike, said the celebrity-like attention embarrasses them. They don’t see themselves as special – they’re just doing their job, they say. But I think they deserve the love and more.

Especially when there are people out there, like the real celebrity Rosie O’Donnell, who just as thunderously dole out undeserved hate. Recently, she smeared our troops by implying that they’re terrorists. It’s her right to say whatever she wants – it was earned through the sacrifice of veterans – but she has no insight to judge the intent on every soldier’s heart and mind. She’s the one who should feel embarrassed.

Some people excuse Rosie because she donates oodles of money to children’s charities, a loving act indeed, though not a sacrifice when you’re rich like her. I’m more impressed by the folks who reach into their pocket for a couple of bucks to buy a soldier a cup of coffee. Like soldiers, these kinds of people are pretty special too.

Missy Martin is an 11-year Ahwatukee Foothills resident, mother of three and editor of Bombshells: War Stories and Poems by Women on the Homefront. Her brother, U.S. Army Specialist Michael Dunn, is a graduate of Arizona State University. He can be contacted at Mike Dunn 7th Chem – APO AE09327.