The gig is up. Son No. 3 has flown the coop, landing 663.4 miles due east, and for those of you who want to know what he took with him to Marineland, the answer is, not much — his driver’s license, his social security card, a pocket-size address book, a New Testament and $20 cash, as per a sheet of strict instructions.

And according to been-there, done-thats, Parris Island is bad enough in cool seasons. Unfortunately our person of interest has arrived there in a month with heat so notorious it is the stuff of country music. Trace Adkins’ crooning of those conditions is said to have compelled more than one fence-straddler toward the recruiting station, and its lyrics were belting out loud across our badminton net during a recent pre-D-Day (as in departure) family match. The “so gung ho to go and pay the price” line was more than this mama could take, though. A five-minute meltdown/game delay ensued.

Just who is responsible for this military bent in our son I cannot say. There’s the Library, I guess, with that “Basher Five-Two” fighter pilot book he liked so much. And then there’s my dad and his friends down at the 51 Diner who have filled his head full of their enlistment tales.

There were other signs through the years I probably should have noticed, too, like that toy soldier set he picked out at Williamsburg and the airsoft battles he waged with camoed-up friends on Saturdays. But when pressed last week, that son of mine finally put the blame where all blame eventually ends up – on Mom.

“It was that diorama of the Twin Towers you made me do,” he told me, referring to a weeklong study of firemen I assigned him years ago. His research had led him to read about the loss of 341 New York City firefighters in the 9-11 attack.

“I feel like 9-11 is the call of my generation, just like Pearl Harbor was the call of the Greatest Generation,” he went on. And because the threat of terrorism is still here, he reminded me (for the umpteenth time) why he believes he must do his four years – “his duty”.

Whether or not his dream is realized (you aren’t a Marine until you’re a Marine), it was his duty that had him taking an oath and walking a concourse down that path Monday, and it is his duty that now has me setting one less place at the dinner table each night.

And contemplating that strict set of packing instructions.

Because the truth is, that Marine-in-the-making went off with a lot more than was on that list. He has a happy hometown history tucked under his belt that began in a delivery room at KDMC and wound its way through baseball diamonds in Wesson and Scout camps in Hazlehurst and the lawns of mowing customers stretching clear across three counties.

And that display we saw up there at the Jackson airport, the one showcasing all the Mississippi-mades? Maybe it should have a shelf for the group of fresh-faced recruits my husband prayed over before they boarded Delta flight 2478, because one thing is certain regarding our son: he’s a product of this place and its people.

He’s had Spencer Mooney to teach him first aid, Jack Rutland’s “True American Heroes” to teach him patriotism and Steve Russell to teach (well, try to teach) him piano.

He’s had coaches like David Misner who worked him out and over, and lawn-lovers like Roy Daughdrill who just plain worked him.

He’s had a church at Nola send him off with their blessing and his pastors, Chris Sheppard and Keith Stovall, promise to hold him accountable.

He’s had the Family Fish House, Broma’s and all points in between spend years filling him up and filling him out.

He’s had afternoons at Ms. Dorsie’s pond, nights at Exchange Club Fairs, weekends at Lake Lincoln, and a first drive in his first truck down the Boulevard.

He’s had friends and a community and a way of life that made him believe they’re worth protecting, and bottom line, he’s had enough of all those things and people and places and experiences to give him a sense of duty.

My husband and I thank you for that.

So while for us it’s increasingly clear that a parent’s duty, hard as it is, may be to grow them up just to see them go, it’s also equally obvious that a hometown’s duty may be to stay with them forever – if only in their memories.

And in Son No. 3’s case, he definitely didn’t pack light. If only all recruits could say the same.

 

Wesson resident Kim Henderson is a freelance writer who writes for The Daily Leader. Contact her at kimhenderson319@gmail.com.