December 18, 2008

By Terri Barnes

I like to have every partridge in its proper pear tree as Christmas approaches, but when a move coincides with the holidays, life does not flow like a song – at least not the song I had in mind. Several years ago, a transition at Christmastime had me humming Willie Nelson instead of Bing Crosby.

Our Christmas on the road actually began in July with a long, hot cross-country drive: Two tired adults, two small children and two heavily laden cars. Newly returned from two years in Guam, we visited family in North Carolina and Oklahoma and drove to our next assignment at Luke AFB, Arizona.

Advance misinformation had us expecting to get a base house right away. Originally, we were told we’d receive preference for housing, because we were coming from overseas.

The tune changed when we arrived at Luke. Guam is about as far from the States as you can get, but housing management informed us that because Guam is a U.S. Territory, technically it’s not overseas. Apparently, someone passed Social Studies but flunked Geography.

The math was killing me. Several dozen families ahead of us added up to a possible six-month wait, and our bank account didn’t balance with living off base.

After a few weeks in TLF, we found a small, unfurnished apartment where we could get a short-term lease. We received our meager shipment of household necessities and used the boxes to substitute for absent furniture.

New friends loaned us patio furniture so we wouldn’t have to sit on the kitchen floor.
We waited through the hot Arizona summer, which blazed into autumn. The kids waited through long days with few toys and no backyard. I waited through long nights with no rocking chair to comfort a wakeful baby, while sirens and occasional gunshots punctuated the silence. Short-lease apartments are not always in the best neighborhood.

Like Arizona temperatures in October, our number on the housing list stayed high. More new friends invited us to come trick-or-treating on base.

My prayers to have Thanksgiving in a real home were answered. Not quite the way I hoped, but another family invited us to celebrate with them. In spite of our homelessness, we were far from friendless.

However, we were losing hope of having our own home to decorate for Christmas. My husband haunted the housing office like the ghost of Christmas Yet To Come.

Just after Thanksgiving, there was good news. A house was available. We took it joyfully and scheduled our shipment for the next week. We unpacked, settled in, hung curtains and decorated for Christmas in one week flat.

I loved our cracker box house, circa 1950. It was a combination of postwar practicality and ersatz improvements, with miniscule closets and peel-and-stick linoleum on the kitchen floor.

Let the neighbors complain about their hideous kitchen cabinets (identical to mine) and outdated bathrooms (identical to mine.) I did not join in that chorus. Mine was only "Hallelujah,” even for painted cinderblock walls and ancient appliances. I was so grateful for our home and for the people who befriended us. I still prefer Bing Crosby to Willie Nelson, but if things had gone according to plan that Christmas, I would have missed the harmony of gratitude and friendship we experienced. After four months of waiting, we had three weeks ’til Christmas, two tired but relieved parents and a home to enjoy our Christmas tree.