If you read my other blog, With Me For Thirty Days, I
apologize for the replay, but today was too good of a day not to share with the
people who I know read My Ginger Riott.
Yesterday was my last full day on active duty in the Air
Force. I have made sure to not have an
affiliation with the Air Force in my blog until now, not because I am ashamed
in any way of my service but because my first few stories with Agent 5 had some
real dorks, and I didn’t want to portray the rest of the Air Force in their
light.
Anyway, yesterday was my last full day at work, and this
morning was my final out-processing appointment before I hung up my hat...and
my uniform, forever. My day started out
with a huge feeling of disbelief. I paid
attention to the small details of lacing up my boots. Today I wore green sued combat boots. Eight years ago I laced up black leather
combat boots that I shined with a little bit of water, boot polish and enough
elbow grease to put WD40 out of business.
My whole morning felt surreal knowing that it would be my
last day. That was, until my career was
put in perspective. Don’t get me wrong,
I have done some truly amazing things with even more amazing people, but today
I met a real hero, then I gave him some cupcakes.
At my final out appointment I was sitting at the desk of the
woman who was going through my paperwork, making sure everything was ready to
go.
Lady: You seem to be
missing your ID card paperwork. Can you
take this form down to the ID card office and have them fill it out and sign
it? Then bring it back up here.
I walked downstairs and signed in. The person who was signed-in in front of me
had been waiting for an hour and a half.
This was not going to be a quick process. I sat down in a chair two chairs down from a
chaplain. About twenty minutes later, an
older gentlemen sat down in a chair across from us. I later found out this man’s name was Mr.
Bateman, and he would mean a lot to me.
Mr. Bateman said, "Well
kids, what’s on TV here?"
I looked up from my iPhone game and the chaplain answered
him.
The chaplain said, "I don’t
know. It’s some movie about an opera."
Mr. Bateman said, “Ahh, I miss operas. People don’t appreciate them like they used
to. There is so much heart in operas.”
I went back to playing my game while these two started a
conversation. Mr. Bateman talked about
the house he still owns back in Illinois, and how he wants to move back there
soon, because he hasn’t lived there in 60 years. The chaplain told him he’d be more than happy
to take it off his hands if it was close enough to Chicago. He was creepy.
Luckily, the chaplain was the man who was signed in above
me, and it was his turn to go back.
Mr. Bateman said, “Is your name Lott, or is that an I?”
He was looking at my name tape on my uniform.
I said, “It’s an I.
It’s Iott.”
Mr. Bateman said, “ Oh, I’ve been alive for a long time, and I've never seen that name. Where does that name come
from?”
I said, “I believe it’s French Canadian.”
It’s funny how “old” people are willing to start a
conversation with anyone over anything.
For all of our progression our generation is making, we seem to forget
that there’s other people around us.
We started talking about our home towns, our families, and our kids. My kids being five and one, and his kids
being in their 40s and 50s. He was in
the Navy from 1953 to 1983. He had completed thirty years of service, three
years before I was even born. He told me
about being a helicopter pilot in the Korean Conflict.
Mr. Bateman said, “Well I spent most of my time in North
Korea. They didn’t like us much, but
that’s alright. Those guys kept punching
(ejecting) out of their planes, so we’d stroll over and give ‘em a lift back south. So many of those guys kept asking for a lift
that I volunteered to stay over there for two tours and give them a hand. After that they asked me where I wanted to
go, so I said EAST!”
So they transferred him to a naval base in Spain. When he got there, that base was closing down
so they were going to transfer him again.
Mr. Bateman said, “They asked me if I wanted to move to
Iceland. I said, ‘Where’s that?’ they
said, ‘I don’t know, but it sounds cold’.”
He did two tours there, later moved back to Europe, then
northern Africa, and back to Europe, working decades as a helicopter
pilot.
He told me he now works at the golf course on base, and if
I’m ever there to stop by and he would buy me a cup of coffee. He leaned in and said, “I get it for free”,
with a wink.
The ID card office called me back so I stood up, shook his
hand and walked to the back to get my paperwork signed.
Later today I came home, hung up my uniform for the last
time, ate some lunch, packed up a dozen cupcakes that I baked yesterday and
went back to base.
I am doing a 30 day challenge with cupcakes where every day
for thirty days I’m sharing cupcakes with people for my blog With Me For Thirty
Days. So I decided if I was going to
give anyone cupcakes today, it was going to be Mr. Bateman.
I drove over to the golf course and walked in to the pro
shop. It’s weird how vulnerable you feel
carrying a tray of cupcakes to a total stranger in foreign territory. I walked up to the counter and asked the girl
if she knew where Mr. Bateman was and if I could speak to him for a moment.
She said, “I’m sorry.
Mr. Bateman was furloughed months ago and no longer works here.”
My heart sank.
Mr. Bateman seemed like all of his marbles were still in the
jar, but he is in his 80s. Maybe he
meant to say he used to work at the golf course.
I said, “Are you sure?
Could you please call back over to the maintenance barn? That’s where he said he works.”
The lady behind the counter said, “I don’t think he’s here,
but I can call over I guess.”
She reluctantly picked up the phone and called over. She was wrong. He had been furloughed, but he had come back
to work this week. He was out in the
maintenance barn.
“Where is the barn?” I asked.
“It’s down the hill, behind the golf carts by Hole 18.”
I practically floated down the hill towards the barn. Knowing that he hadn’t been let go and that
he was still here, and he wasn’t losing his marbles gave me a sense of hope
that just pushed all that vulnerability out of the way. I met him in the office attached to the barn.
I walked in, now wearing jeans and a hoodie, not in uniform.
“Mr. Bateman, do you remember me from this morning?”
He said, “Well hello, Chelsea. What a nice surprise.”
I said, “I brought you some cupcakes!”
He said, “What are these for?”
I said, “Well I write this blog.” I stopped there thinking of how I was going
to describe a blog to someone who was born before there were computers, much
less the internet.
“A blog is a...”
He interrupted me and said, “I know what a blog is. How old do you think I am?” This is why he is my new hero, among other
things.
We talked for a little bit, he kissed me on the temple and
gave me a hug. He told me to stop by
again and we would get that cup of coffee.
He also told me to stop by his hometown in Illinois if I am ever in the
area.
We took a picture together and he said, “Now you better hang
up this picture in your barn in Michigan.”
I promised I would. As I was
walking out he said, “Hey.” I turned
around. “Thanks a million, kid.”
No. Thank you, Mr.
Bateman.
