Warren
I remember the talks I had with my father, back in the 70’s; I grew up then. When my father wasn’t working, he and I would sit by my room, and just talk. He would tell me stories about Korea and Vietnam; of course I was too young to understand them, I around 5 or 6. He would tell me the now clichéd
“Warren, now our family’s always been fighters. Me now, my father in the Second World War and his father before him; we always been fightin’. Now I expect you will also serve. My only advice is to not go in and waste your talents as a target. Me and your mother have worked too hard for you to do that. Now I know you don’t understand now and maybe even when you enter the military, but Ima’ tell you anyway: make a difference out there. Lotta’ men live and die on that field for absolutely nothing. They’ve done nothing and they’ll never do nothing. Now I want you to make a mark in whatever you do, be it war or selling groceries. And that’s exactly what your gonna do, ya’ hear?” He would end his lectures and stories with a varied version of this. His words had faded away over the years, but then they resurfaced.
It was a mild Kansan day in 1985. After eating a bowl of fruity pebbles I went to my car to drive to work, like I always had on these days. The routine of it all had finally bored me. I grew up in a very routine-oriented area and never thought about it much, but that day, something was different. I had opened my eyes and looked at what I had amounted to. 4.0 through high school, no detentions, made it to school every day, and yet somehow I had managed to get declined by almost every college I had applied for. I looked ahead at my life. I saw the routine. I saw the struggling to get by. I saw everything staying the same. But for some strange reason I overshot my car. I sighed and turned back to my car when a van pulled up to my mailbox. Allen Post Office lined the flank of the milk-white van.
I don’t think I will ever forget that moment. The mailman was skinny, freckled and red-haired. He looked at me and said in a cracky, but loud voice “You Warren Andrews?” My name. I nodded. “Ya” I thought that unthinkable thought. This could be acceptance, a way out of routine, a way into the world. “Well I got a package to deliver to you.” He reached into the back of the van and pulled out one letter. One. He handed it to me and I received it, with a twist in my stomach. “Thanks” I slipped out. He drove away without a response. I walked to my car and got inside. I put my head on the back of the headrest and let out a hopeful sigh.
After examining the letter I saw it was from a college. The Air Force Academy in Colorado had sent me a letter. I didn’t even remember applying. I opened the envelope. The letter inside was almost as white as the van it had been delivered in. I read through it, from “Dear” to “Signed.” Acceptance. I was an official cadet in the Air Force academy.
It was a full scholarship.