Last night, when I finally got to sleep, I slept very well. I woke up around 8:30 in the morning from a dream which might disturb any normal human, though I was not bothered by it. I dreamt I was in a massive plane crash. I sh*t you not. The reason it didn't bother me is that I got up and walked away from the crash. I had heard about what airplanes mean in the context of dreams, but I couldn't remember.
Having shaved the previous night, I showered, put on slacks, jacket and tie, and combed some gel through my hair. And off I went to work. Arriving, I slipped and fell over on the wheelchair ramp to the front door. It was wet from the rain. I didn't get too wet, but I was more than slightly annoyed. So it's gonna be this kind of day, is it?
I came in and the first thing I did was check an online encyclopedia for dream interpretation. Apparently, a plane crash is a symbol of expectations being too high. Interesting. Clearly, this is how God and better angels tell us mere mortals to chill the f**k out. The encyclopedia seemed to recommend lowering expectations to avoid crashing from a soaring height. Hot damn, I do love symbolism. Immediately, I gave the talking points one last run-through and vowed that that would be my last reading of it until the actual briefing.
When I arrived at the armory, my boss was waiting. The rain had lightened to a mist, and the skies to a silvery grey. The temperature had risen as well. There was even what felt like a slightly warm breeze. It reminded me of a rainy day at the beach.
Greg and I stood in the lobby, talking mostly with each other, but also with an NCO about when we would get up and do our thing. When the Lt. Colonel came through the front door, a voice boomed "ten-hut!" But as quickly and easily as the room snapped to attention, he casually waved off with a "No, no. As you were. Carry on."
Further inside was another room. It was large like a warehouse, with cinder block walls and a concrete floor. The walls were painted, the un-tiled floor had a dull polish to it, and there were bulletin boards with various information for education and other benefits. Gear was stacked up at one end by a mobile basketball hoop. At the front were two tables on either side of a podium. Facing them were several folding tables, lined up in columns like a cafeteria. Only older men, visiting veterans, sat down. But surrounding the room in a large, disorganized horse shoe were young men and women in pixelated fatigues. The Colonel thanked us for coming. The First Sergeant introduced us. And I stepped up to the podium, taking the folded talking points from inside my breast jacket pocket.
I instinctively dropped my voice down to a guttural, lower register in my throat, and raised my voice. "Can everybody hear me alright?"
I expected a few nods and perhaps one or two shouts of "Yeah, you're fine." So needless to say, I was proudly shocked when, in unison, the room responded with a resounding, booming grunt of "Hoo-uh!"
Jesus! "Wow," I said. "Now that's what I call a response."
In just a few minutes, I went through the talking points and gave the soldiers all the information that I could about how the Red Cross can help their families during their deployment overseas. I spoke loud and clear, trying to keep a good pace without rushing through it. I feel I did that. Then I got to the end.
"That's pretty much it," I said, turning over the last page. The First Sergeant stepped forward, into my peripheral vision, presumably to relieve me. But I wasn't done talking. I had carefully prepared this statement and, God help me, I was going to express my thoughts. "I just want to say this in conclusion," and he stepped back again.
"The American Red Cross is known for doing a lot of other things; disaster services, blood services, health and safety training. But this work, service to the armed forces, is really at the root and the heart of our organization. The first president of the American Red Cross was a woman named Clara Barton. She began working to help soldiers and their families as far back as the Civil War. We've been doing this for a long time, and we're proud to continue this work." I paused long enough to take a deep breath, when I began to feel the subtle sting of tears gathering in my sinuses. "We support our troops. We honor the service and sacrifice of you and your families... God speed. And thank you."
I had kept it together. Stepping back, the First Sergeant took my hand and shook it, thanking me again. The room applauded. As I took my place again, standing next to Greg, he just nodded and said "Top notch." And I felt damn good.
Driving back to the office, the breeze was still warm, the mist still fell, and I was listening to "Black Water" by the Doobie Brothers, playing on the radio. But just as the song ended, John Mellencamp's "Pink Houses" began with that unmistakable first strum of an acoustic guitar.
And I listened to that repetitive phrase in the chorus; "Ain't that America." For just a moment, the clouds parted, the rain stopped falling, and the sun shone blindingly bright through a crack in the sky, onto the fields, farms, and wooded hills. And I listened to the next verse.
There's a young man in a t-shirt
Listenin' to a rock n' roll station.
He's got greasy hair, greasy smile.
He says "Lord, this must be my destination."
