Home is where the Army sends you: Part II

It was not wanting to be separated as a family for a year — my dad was offered a tour in Korea — that sent the four of us to Panama (the country!) from 1990-93. When we reached our cul-de-sac-situated quarters on Ft. Clayton, my mom was thrilled to see that this time, the cockroaches were welcoming HER to THEIR world. My dad chased after one group with a blowtorch. And my brother and I stared in awe at what was our new backyard: a humidity-soaked, insect-flooded jungle ... dotted with pretty flowers.

At all times of the day, we'd see several different creatures come crawling or flying out: sprinkler-sipping iguanas, colorful toucans and this rodent-like fella (an agouti) and his family. We'd watch the noisy Capuchin monkeys swing from tree to tree, and look for the caiman crocodile that was rumored to live in the large pond across the road and down the hill from our house. And every once in a while, military police would show up at the end of our street to halt traffic and help a very slow moving three-toed sloth across that very busy road. I remember my mom telling me to stay away from them (the sloths) because their fingers, which were more like sharp claws, could rip your heart out. Now that I'm older, I'm sure that isn't entirely true — I've seen zookeepers holding the ugly little guys. One of the most interesting insect finds was the praying mantis who perched himself on our car one day — and the cutter ants that would take down an entire bush, piece by piece and in a straight line, like little workmen.

I didn't understand why we had bars on nearly all of our windows — until my 11th birthday when a man with a machete showed up, opened the side door (in the kitchen) and stuck a ball of masking tape into the lock hole so he could come back to an unlocked home when we were asleep. Fortunately, my dad pulled up and saw him, grabbed a baseball bat and chased him into the jungle ... then threw the masking tape-ball away.

Our school was on the base, along with the pool, the post office, our church, the movie theater that showed films that came out in the states six months earlier, my dad's office and the tennis courts where I had my first lessons. We'd leave the base, which overlooked the Panama Canal, to go to the commissary for groceries and the PX for clothes, electronics, jewelry, etc. Only with a group of people or with my dad did we go into Panama City. At stop lights, men would come up and wash our car windshield — even to our protesting — and then wait for my parents to give them money. When we'd go to the open-air mall, the women sales associates would literally be on our toes following us around, afraid we would take something. I guess that's why my mom did most of our clothes shopping when we went to Michigan for two weeks. And when we did go home during the summer, we either flew backwards for four hours in some crazy Army airplane, or sat on a bench in the back of a cargo plane and kept earplugs in our ears because the engines were so loud.

For family vacations, we'd head over to the Atlantic side for a few days. There were some beautiful ocean views near the place we stayed, and my brother and I would try not to drown in the water's crazy waves. We stopped in this one particular town, where we bought some birds and then tried to find the mountain range shaped like a sleeping princess -- there was a folk tale about her that I can' remember today.

Our first Christmas in Panama was so strange. We picked out a tree in a lot filled with others that had been shipped in. We were able to stand in our church's live nativity — I was an angel — for hours and not feel frost-bitten. And I rode my new bicycle up and down the cul-de-sac in shorts and a tank top.

For fun, my dad took my brother and I on a 'safe' jungle excursion somewhere way off the base. The one snake that I do remember seeing was actually slithering around the playground our neighborhood friends used to hang out at — the same place we'd bring a tape player to and listen to the Top Gun soundtrack. Wow.

There was some normalcy among the strange: I fell for the New Kids on the Block, even their Christmas album; got braces and color-coordinated the bands at different holidays; had a crush on my sixth-grade teacher, Mr. Lyle; was one of the 'Teas' in the Nutcracker at Christmastime; learned how to use the Dewey Decimal System; learned how to 'see' Bloody Mary and (fake) scream when I "did;" and cheered for a youth flag-football team — and then never again.

But of all the frightening things I experienced while living in another country — like no rain for six months — there was nothing more scary than sending my dad off to war (in the Gulf). We all worried, but no one like my mom. I wore a yellow ribbon to school each day and remember watching the news -- and their night-vision views -- of the all the bombings. Finally, after six long months, the phone call came: he was coming home.

Sure, it was a relief when we finally began packing for our new assignment in Virginia, but living in Panama was an opportunity I'll never forget - jungles and all.