I grip the hand of my son. His six-year-old fingers squeeze back as we walk a step behind his nine-year-old brother. The damp ground moistens the bottoms of my shoes as I shuffle to the sound of the cadence of the horses’ hooves 20 feet ahead of us as they pull the caisson carrying the remains of what was my Marine.

Arlington is otherwise still. The rain has kept tourists away, but the freshly manicured grass and spicy scent of autumn leaves drift through the air and fill the soul with peace.

It’s an irony that is not wasted on me. This noble place. It’s not one wishes to race for, but rather one strives to. Guarded by sentries long gone, their granite tombstones welcome its newest arrival. I smile as I remember the lyrics of the Marine Corps Hymn, If the Army and the Navy / Ever look on Heaven’s scenes, / They will find the streets are guarded / By United States Marines.

A cardinal flutters and lands on a branch above. It is not a sad day, but rather one of honor that few will ever know. I shiver and shove my empty hand into my pocket.

“Oh,” my mom says as she claps her hands together. “Don’t you look just like an airplane pilot!”

“You really think so?” I asked, as I button the blue polyester blazer. In 1976, it was the in-thing.

“Now just remember, the Johnsons will meet you in Dallas. Don’t worry about a thing.”

“Okay.” My smile revealing my confidence.

I was about to embark on the journey of a lifetime. A ten-year-old, on her own, flying half way across the country to visit her grandmother. I was so excited I could hardly stand it. And my new navy blue bell-bottomed pant suit with the big gold buttons was the classy garb to get me there.I’d made this journey before with my family. Fly from Philadelphia to Dallas, change planes at the airport, and arrive in Oklahoma City a few short minutes later. As a big girl, I knew I could do it on my own.

The first flight landed in Dallas right on time. A flight attendant sat next to me. We chatted about swimming and the fun I would have going to Branson, Missouri with my cousins. And, just as my mom promised, the Johnsons were at the gate to greet me.

The Johnsons were my parents’ friends. They participated in each other’s weddings. They had sons. Cute sons. This I knew. We strolled through DFW easily. Mr. Johnson flew for the airline and wore his uniform as he shook hands with everyone and was treated like royalty. I wondered if he thought I, too, looked like a pilot, but I didn’t ask.

After a leisurely lunch, they pointed me to my gate and waved as I stood in line for security. On the other side was the same flight attendant I’d met earlier, waiting for me.

I put my small tote onto the scanner belt and moved to the metal detector. The man on the other side motioned for me to walk through. I did.

Buzzzzz.

A loud signal chimed. The man motioned for me to return through the security screen and try again.

Buzzzzz.

He stopped and looked at me. He scowled. He studied me as heat crept from my belly, into my chest, and up my neck.

“Hold out your arms,” he said sternly.

I watched. Arms outstretched, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks as teardrops hovered over my eye lashes. I bit my lips. I sucked in my cheeks. I wiggled.

“Stand still, Miss.”

He grabbed his electric wand and waved it in front of my face. Tears, falling in earnest now, slid from my eyes and onto the floor. He moved his machine above my right arm and around my head and across to the left. Down my back. Over my torso. Buzz. He stopped.

Buzzzzz.

He waved it again.

Buzzzzz.

Buzzzzzzzzzz.

The sound was deafening, echoing in my ears, shouting at me. A sob was about to break loose. I couldn’t hold it back.

“It’s your buttons, Miss.” He smiled at me. “It’s fine, you can go now.”

I stood still, shocked. I ran my sleeve across my face and dried my eyes as best I could before walking slowly to the conveyer belt and snatching my Barbie bag, tucking my chin in shame.

I don’t remember the rest of the flight or if I ever wore that navy blue bell-bottom pant suit with the big gold buttons again, but to this day, I can’t walk through a security gate without a flinch. And if it buzzes, heat rises in my belly and flutters slowly towards my cheeks. So while other people complain about full-body scanners, I silently smile and think, at least they don’t beep.

Never be too lazy to change the toilet paper roll.

Why you ask? If you are too lazy to change the toilet paper roll, what else are you too lazy to do? I understand the philosophy of not changing it. Heck, I have even left it sitting on top of the empty roll myself. But I believe that this is a metaphor for life. It’s a short cut.

Short cuts are okay sometimes. Have you ever walked across the grass instead of following a windy path from the sidewalk to the front door? It might be quicker, but you might also ruin your shoes. Is the risk worth it the risk? Sneakers….maybe. Five inch heels…not a chance.

However, it’s not the quickness that counts. Bothering to take the windy path is respectful. If it’s your house, you are respecting your own property. If it’s someone else’s, you are respecting theirs. The path has a purpose and so does the toilet paper roll. The toilet paper roll deserves to be respected. Change it when necessary, even if it’s not your own…and always remember, the paper should fall to the front; it’s the right thing to do.

“Mom!” I shouted as I walked from the runway into the air conditioned building.

I had just stepped off a cramped 25 seat propeller plane at the Reading Regional Airport in Pennsylvania. The airport has a single terminal with a small restaurant, a few ticket takers, and virtually no security. I had flown in to and out of RDG many times with Allegany Commuter Airlines.

Reading is about 75 miles northwest of Philadelphia via the Schukylkill, otherwise known as the Sure-kill, Expressway. As the nickname intimates, it is a highway fraught with hills, turns, and lots of stop and go traffic. It was something we tried to avoid—so, we often flew in and out of Reading on itty-bitty airplanes.

During the summer of 1993, I packed up my suitcases, my two golden retrievers, and my apartment and returned to my family home in Shillington, a small suburb of a small city. I had just moved to Oceanside, California where the unemployment rate was over 9.5% and my military husband was sent on deployment.

The house I grew up in was affectionately known as Camp Brown. Life there was always an adventure and we learned to expect the unexpected. If we weren’t mowing grass or playing tennis, we would be chasing gophers from the yard or birds from inside the house. The last time the dogs visited, a swarm of bees stung them until they jumped into the pool.

The trip from San Diego to Pittsburgh was on a standard large plane with lots of people, several flight attendants, and plenty of peanuts. The flight from Pittsburgh to Reading was noisy, cramped, and bumpy.

Landing on the tarmac, the flight was greeted with stairs attached to a large golf cart. I made my way down and followed the line of passengers into the terminal. The stale air filled my lungs while the day’s heat was visible on blacktop.

Mom and I hugged and chatted while waiting for my bags and dogs. Rather than a conveyer belt, there was an open window where luggage was placed. My bags appeared but I wondered where I’d meet the dogs.

“Ma’am, your pups are ready to greet you in the front of the terminal,” the bagman said.

“Great, we’re ready to go,” Mom replied as she bounded off to get the car. She had a choice of three: a pickup truck, a roomy Cadillac, and a Mercedes coup. I assumed she brought the truck.

Excited to see the dogs, I raced to their crates where I was presented with problem number one. Flying didn’t agree with them. They didn’t seem to mind as tails wagged and they pranced with joy over feces and excrement.

I opened the crates and slip leashes over their heads while doing my best to not let them touch me. Glad to be free, they stretched and looked for a place to do business. Fortunately, a man tending flowers nearby had a hose and offered the dogs some water. They slurped and panted and rolled on the freshly cut grass.

As my mom pulled her tiny blue car forward, I noticed problem number two.

“Well this is interesting,” she said with a sigh. “I’ve got a roll of paper towels,” she added slyly as we both started to laugh.

We borrowed the hose and gave the dogs a good bath. The dogs, my mom, and I piled on top of one another leaving the crates to be picked up later. I wasn’t sure what Mom was thinking when she came to pick us up, but I knew I was about to have another adventure.