In January of my second year of college, some friends and I went over to visit another friend at his dorm. Somehow, we got involved in a poker game. During the evening, this lanky, brown-haired guy named Paul came down to talk to his friend, who was playing poker with us. The whole time he was there, Paul cracked jokes and made really bad puns and was generally very funny. Knowing even then a life’s fascination with words, I thought there might be something to this fellow, but it wasn’t until the last month of school that our friendship deepened into something more.

Fast forward to 1983—we graduated from college. He had taken the Naval Officers’ Exam twice and failed by a small margin each time. The last time, I think he failed by less than half a point. Sometime that summer, we visited a recruiter just to see what the Army might offer. He passed the exams with flying colors, but there was one problem: when he was 18 months old, he had surgery for a hernia and had an undescended testicle. The docs wouldn’t let him continue without knowing what was going on inside. The surgery showed the hernia healed and the testicle non-existent.

Paul took the oath on August 22, 1983. We married December 17. Two weeks after that, on January 4, 1984, he left for Fort Dix, New Jersey. I’ll never forget the first time he called—he was so hoarse, but he sounded so good! I didn’t find out until later that standing in the freezing cold had caused him to cough up blood and had aggravated a foot condition, but he continued on and got the highest marks in his class.

In the meantime, I started paralegal school. Paul’s salary allowed me to concentrate only on school—I kept a 4.0 average the entire time I was in school—and to take an unpaid internship with the Kentucky Public Defender’s Office. That internship led to my life’s work—and gave me my first ability to use my fascination with words in my specialty in appellate and post-conviction criminal defense work.

Paul got sent to Fort Stewart, Georgia in mid-1984. Much as we wanted to be together, I had to finish what I started in order for us to create the life we wanted. We wrote lots of letters and lived for Saturday phone calls. He didn’t come home for Thanksgiving that year, but he came home for two weeks at Christmas. I had told him to surprise me when I met him at the airport in Louisville—he got off the plane wearing his Class A uniform. He was so handsome! He still is. His normal dress—BDU’s—don’t really do much for anyone, but he wears the uniform with pride. And I feel very proud walking beside him when he wears his uniform, BDU or Class A.

I graduated in 1985 and looked forward to joining Paul because he had orders for the Supreme Headquarters of the Allied Command in Europe (SHAPE) located in Belgium. We were going to be gone for three years. In some ways I looked forward to it. In others, I didn’t--I thought I had a good chance to get a job with the Public Defenders' Office; I wanted to go to law school. Would I be able to when we got back? I didn’t know. But fate took the decision out of our hands

Paul’s orders for Belgium were rescinded because he was trying for Officer Candidate School. Sometime in the summer of 1985, he was ordered to South Korea because there was a “shortage” of folks in his MOS (Military Occupational Specialty—his “job” in the Army). He had to leave Thanksgiving week of 1985, so we found a trailer in Hinesville, not far from Fort Stewart, for August through November.

We didn’t have much money, but we were together. I had books to read. He worked a strange shift—he would go in about 2 and then work until 10 p.m. It got so after we had dinner, I went back with him and helped do non-confidential printing. There was a radio, so we listened to music (I sing badly) and we laughed a lot. We argued some because we were young and stupid—and hard-headed--but we enjoyed each other’s company most of the time.

What I missed was the wonderful fall weather we have here in Kentucky. In Hinesville, we were still seeing 80 degree weather in October; I knew at home the leaves would be turning and the nights would be cool enough that the windows would be open.

And I hated Paul’s direct supervisor, this idiot shavetail (brand new lieutenant) who thought his degree from Virginia Tech made him the bees’ knees and my husband’s degree from Berea College made him next to nothing. Paul, dealing with the idiot and a somewhat unhappy wife, never said a word.

Leaving Paul at the airport in Louisville, knowing he was going to Korea and I wouldn’t see him for a year was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. Hearing the tears in his voice on Christmas Eve—knowing that the Post Office had lost his Christmas package--made it even worse. (His package finally came in January. He said the cookies and candy I made were even still good!) And there was no shortage of folks in Korea. Paul said a lot of days he took a book to work or worked the crossword puzzle.

I went back to my public defender internship and moved in with a friend until Paul came home in November. The night he was supposed to come home, his plane from San Francisco was late into St. Louis and he missed his connection. I sobbed till I had no tears left. There was a lot of traffic the next morning and I was late. He was coming out the main doors just as I went in. I’m not sure who grabbed each other first, I just know we stood there for a long, long time, complete again because we were together. We left for Fort Monmouth, New Jersey the day after Christmas. There have been few times in our lives as miserable as that year we spent “marooned” in New Jersey!

Once again, Paul got screwed because there’s no “shortage” of folks at Fort Monmouth. I’m unhappy because I’m “a dependent”, when all my life, I’ve depended on myself and no one else. I worked on a winning case to the United States Supreme Court before I left Kentucky, now I can’t find a job. It is so blamed hot in our quarters that we move our bed downstairs. We have no money because the cost of living is exhorbitant in New Jersey—we actually qualified for Food Stamps, even though we were only a family of two.

Paul works from 4:30 or 5 in the morning until late afternoon. He comes home, sits on the porch, drinks a Bartles and Jaymes, gets in a fight with me, has dinner and about 8:00, goes to bed. About 3:30 every afternoon, I start dreading life because I know he’s coming home mad in an hour. At 4:30, I start thinking about making it through dinner until he goes to bed so I can breathe deeply again. I don't talk much because everything escalated into an argument.

Did I think about leaving him? You bet! Did I? No—because I knew that person wasn’t the man I fell in love with—and still loved. Did I know what to do for him? No. Could I talk to him? Nope. How did we make it through?

To this day, I am not sure. Part of the reason was our cats. We connected in our enjoyment of them and of what they brought to our “life.” We had to depend on each other--our families were in Kentucky and West Virginia. We were trying to build a life. His work hours got better in the spring--he started coming home happy for a change. He took wonderful care of me when I got a double ear infection and strep throat in the fall and when I burned my right hand just before we left.

He left the active Army on December 16, 1987. We came back to Kentucky and he joined the Army Reserve. Recently, we were talking a dinner about one idiot commander at his unit in Lexington—the man who almost caused Paul to leave the reserves. Why didn’t he? Because he got requested to join a retention unit—retention folks are the ones who reenlist folks and make sure their contracts are done correctly. Paul really enjoyed the work—he was helping people and correcting mistakes.

Late in 1991, I had been to St. Louis for some training (by this time I’m working as a paralegal with the Public Defenders’ Office). When I came home, Paul told me that the Army, in its collective wisdom, was doing away with Retention Specialists, but since he already had teaching credentials because of his work as a STAMP (can’t remember the acronym now) teacher, he was joining a teaching unit, the 125th ARCOM in Nashville. I said are we going to Nashville one weekend a month? He said no, the 125th was his headquarters, but he would be teaching in the Kentucky area. He really enjoys teaching—he has a real knack for relating to people and making some really boring stuff interesting (must be the sense of humor)—to the point where he decided to get another degree, this time in teaching.

When Paul first started back to school in 1992, GI Bill regulations said reservists going to school part-time were not eligible, but we limped through. Again, we were trying to build the life we wanted. After AT (Annual Training) one year, I traveled to an Air Force Base outside Nashville to bring Paul home and to attend a party. One of the people he worked with asked about school and how we were paying for it. Paul said we’re putting most of it on plastic.

Our dinner companion said the regs had changed and Paul was now eligible. Paul was reluctant to take his benefits--he said someone needed them more and we were doing fine. Walt finally convinced him that the GI Bill was just a small portion of the thanks this country owes him for making the sacrifice. God bless Walter Goodrich--Paul’s life the last year and a half of school was quite a bit easier.

The 125th ARCOM closed in 1995 or 1996, but Paul was able to join a teaching unit which works at Fort Knox. The ARCOM and now the instructional unit give him the ability to teach. Paul hasn’t been able to use his teaching degree--he tried to teach Industrial Arts to high school students in two different schools for two different years and it nearly killed him, but he's pretty happy teaching in a manner somewhat different from the way he thought he would. He works with some wonderful people—people who congratulated me when I finally achieved my dream—I graduated from law school and passed the Kentucky Bar in 2000.

Who is Paul? He's not the type of reservist who 1) does not understand that being in the Reserve means you could be called up--or killed; 2) does not iron his uniform, get a haircut and shine his boots for duty. Every weekend he serves, he goes out of here with a pressed uniform, haircut and shiny boots because he respects the uniform he wears—and because he has a deep belief in the country for which he wears it.

He’s the type of person who doesn't like to wear his uniform out in public. Why? He's uncomfortable because people thank him for what he considers just doing his job. We were in Wendy’s during Gulf War I and the manager paid for his meal. Paul doesn’t want gifts or handouts. He’s just happy to give back to this country.

Is it a sacrifice? I do without him one weekend a month. I hate the two weeks he’s gone. I’ve been more concerned since November about him and where he’ll be than I’ve ever been in my life. I’m not sure how we made it through New Jersey, but we did.

Do I like some of the people he’s served with? No, but I’m not particularly fond of some of the folks I work with—or members of our families--either. I can honestly say there’s only one person in the world—Paul’s former commander in the 125th--I would probably not swerve to miss should he walk by my car when I’m driving.

I look at Paul and can’t believe we will be celebrating our 20th anniversary in the military in four short months. What have we gained? Better knowledge of ourselves; a closeness in our marriage and our relationship formed out of terrible times when had only each other to depend upon; my paralegal education; Paul’s second degree.

Last year, thanks to a Veterans’ Administration home loan, we bought our first house. Our house is a wonderful oasis of quiet and peace after some long, troubling days. Our house—filled with four cats now, laughter, good music, good food, friendship and comfort. Would I trade my life as Paul’s “military dependent”? Absolutely not, not even that year we spent skating the edge of bankruptcy in New Jersey.