A Christmas Move Remembered

Military families don’t appear on any organizational and yet are key components to any fighting machine. Offspring and spouses fill various roles in a more or less prescribed manner-the nonsense described in the Great Santini notwithstanding.

As a parent climbs in the ranks or in roles of responsibility, new assignments translate into relocation. Orders are issued, thefamily uproots, and everyone moves. New base, new school, new friends, and new routines. An expected consequence of life in uniform even if disquieting.

Oliver’s father was just back from a year in Okinawa, Japan and the household was abuzz awaiting instructions. When he finally announced the family would be assigned in Erie, Pennsylvania, the oldest son thought a couple teen years away from the strictures and discipline might be fun. The other kids were too young to appreciate moving that close to the American Bandstand mecca.

Oliver liked transfers and leaving unfinished responsibilities behind. Long avoided homework projects fell victim, as did his recollection of gaffs and enemies. A fresh start adequately offset a Christmas spent in a motel room. Except for the newest addition to the family, everyone had done at least one motel Christmas, Thanksgiving, or birthday.

The guy who convinced the government camels made sense in the U.S. also declared Route 66 America’s highway. He got one right, anyway. San Diego to Chicago, two lanes across America. Oliver and a Pekinese named Quileen occupied the rearmost seat in the station wagon and together read Mark Twain. Most towns passed unnoticed while modest hotels with interconnecting rooms awaited.

The ferocity of the Albuquerque snowstorm surprised everyone. The frozen breeze around the windows left the rooms a refrigerator. By noon, the falling snow emptied the streets and turned parking lots a monument of flaky, car covered headstones.

The motel room became a warzone. No one had clothes for an excursion in this kind of weather, but cabin fever prevailed. Life’s lessons about cold and wet were parental meat and potatoes, so after an hour, huddling hypothermic kids appreciated the relative warmth indoors. Dinner was the same bologna and cheese sandwiches from lunch and breakfast, because the stores remained closed.

By the next afternoon the first snowplow made it across the Sandia Mountains. Preparations were ordered for pending embarkation. Clothes quickly overflowed suitcases and backpacks. Oliver was assigned the dog’s care. Other cars waited in several motel parking lots until the snowplow passed and then fell into line like obedient beetles. The family wagon was one of many as the sun set behind them in an uncertain west.

More snow forecast meant the cars must beat the storm’s arrival to the mountain’s crest. The family hurried through last minute preparations.

The heater did not reach the last row of seats. As Oliver snuggled for warmth, he realized the dog wasn’t by his side. He looked around, careful to move bags and games, and trying not to raise the alarm. His Dad’s eyes in the rear-view mirror were not fooled.

“Where’s the dog?” The car went quiet. The question stripped away any thought of amelioration.

“I must have left her.”

“Must have or did?”

“Did.”

Silence. “Were you assigned the dog?”

“Yes, sir.”

The city limits had fallen behind them an hour ago. The plow pushed a one-way trip on an uphill, single lane mountain road. A U-turn was not possible. Slowing was not possible. The cars behind depended upon the car in front. The quiet screamed in Oliver’s ears. The middle seat sniffled.

His mom spoke. “I checked both rooms, like always. The dog was not inside.”

His dad said nothing.

She touched his shoulder. “What now?”

He sighed.

No one else breathed. The air ran low in the back seat. Oliver walked her before they loaded to go. He looked under the blankets again, but she was not there.

As they started up a grade, the dark sky opened with the next wave of snow. Banks grew high as they climbed the mountain and make tight turns. Quarter size flakes slid over the windshield. No one spoke. Nine years ago, when North Korea invaded the South, his father entrusted another dog to Oliver. He came home when his sister died but that did last long. Chinastepped in and renewed the war. Mother and son moved in with city relatives and the dog could not come along. After his fathercame home a last time, Quileen the puppy replaced Queenie, now someone else’s dog.

When the snowplow pulled into the Howard Johnson parking lot, another behemoth picked up the line. Oliver’s father stopped in front of the restaurant’s frosted glass. The conga line never glanced back. The summit lay ahead.

The motor idled as the car door slammed in the wind. Pant cuffs whipped with drifts beating against his legs. Oliver prayed.

When his Dad was back in the front seat, and finished rubbing bare hands together, he looked up into the rear-viewmirror and held Oliver’s eyes.

“The motel doesn’t have the dog.”

The middle seat cried.

A raised veined hand stopped the sound. “The manager looked inside and outside and can’t find her. It’s snowing again in Albuquerque. We’ve lost two days already. Christmas Eve is tomorrow, and I need to report on Monday. What do you expect me to do, Oliver?”

He couldn’t answer. His mouth made no spit and no words formed on his lips. Decisions such as these meant living or dying in combat.

“All right then.” His shifted the car into reverse and stopped at the open lane. He blinked the headlights and a snowplow’s yellow rotators began to turn. Another family wagon pulled behind as the truck and both cars made the turn onto the highway. Sheets of interminable snow careened through the headlights and catapulted off the back glass.

The trio moved back down the mountain.

At the city’s limits, the trailing car turned away and the family alone followed. Midnight came and left as they inched through deserted streets. The station wagon slide more than once and bottomed several times on mounds of drifted snow.

When the family reached the motel, all lights were dark except the No Vacancy sign. Oliver’s Dad flashed his lights and rolled the window down to wave. A gloved hand emerged from truck’s cab ahead and waved back. The family wagon pulled to a stop on the empty frozen street.

His father placed the lever into park. “Just Oliver. Go.”

The son jumped out of the tailgate and waded through the hip deep snow looking for an ankle high dog. He yelled and yelled, walking the parking lot back and forth. He looked at the car idling on the white street. The headlights glinted. He had neglected his coat and started to shiver.

Then, Oliver stopped. Quileen sat and wagged a tail in front of number four, their room for the last two days. Snow froze around her small muzzle. Water brown eyes watched him.

They drove through the remainder of night and ate the last of the bologna. The dog was passed from kid to kid, and even made the front seat for a last sliver of meat.

Oliver tried to imagine life without Quileen, but the black thought made him shutter. In a year or so, that mystery would be revealed, too. But on that most long night of Christmas, the universe once again became whole.

You are very kind to spend your time with my story. Thank you.

Oliver