May 17, 2001 ~ GI No!
We used to call him Clint, after Clint Eastwood, because he's the strong, silent type. Think James Dean. He'd been working at a construction job for a while now, had been promised a raise, and was disappointed when it didn't come through. Times were hard, he was told. Business hadn't been good.
Yesterday he called to say that he has gotten a new job.
"Doing what, my darling boy?"
"Jumping out of airplanes."
"Ha ha! No, really. What are you going to do?"
"Jumping out of airplanes."
Say what? Come again? My baby has gone and joined the ARMY, fer cryin' out loud, and not just for a couple of years... oh, no. He's signed up for eight years. EIGHT years. Four years active duty, four years reserve. It's a done deal. Papers signed, T's crossed, I's dotted.
It took awhile for *that* bit of news to sink in.
But maybe this won't happen. He still has to pass the physical. There may be a few obstacles. What should I hope for, that he passes or that he doesn't? He wants to do this, he says. I, on the other hand, am not what you would called pleased.
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