Everyone needs a good friend

Yesterday, I called my friend Susan to give her my good news. We
talked for over and hour and laughed about all kinds of things. She
was so happy for me and it was great to feel the validation from a good
friend. It's a wonderful thing to reach out to someone whom you've
known for so long because there is no need to explain how you feel or
think. They just know and it's safe to talk in a free flow manner.
That's how I was yesterday and it felt great. I was so grateful to
have a friend like Susan that it made me laugh to remember how we met
so long ago.

Susan and I met on Thursday, March 31st, 1993 and we've been great
friends ever since, but it didn't exactly start off that way. I read a
poem once about friends who come into our lives for a reason or a
season. Well, Susan became my friend for a reason, we needed each
other when we were having a difficult time as your soldiers in the
Army. The great thing is we bonded like I have with no other friend
and it's been great.

In early March of 1993, I received orders for my first duty assignment
as a 46Q photojournalist to be stationed at Fort Rucker, Alabama. It
was an exciting scary time for me because I was about to be a real
journalist and work on a weekly newspaper while serving as a soldier in
the US Army. The long bus ride from Fort Benjamin Harrison, Indiana to
Ozark, Alabama was not very comfortable in my class A uniform, but it
served as an outward symbol of my current occupation. It was the first
time that I was out in public alone amongst civilians with my uniform
on. It was a little bit scary because I didn't know how people would
treat me. At each stop, I'd venture into the coffee shop or diner and
get something to eat and the waitresses, would call me "honey" and the
older men would sometimes ask me "what's a nice girl like you doing in
uniform." It was their way of saying welcome to the South.

My Greyhound journey ended in the quiet town of Ozark, Alabama. The
bus driver deposited me and my baggage at another diner who's name
escapes me, but it reminded me of an old saloon with it's raised wooden
porch and glass windows that looked out onto the old main street of
town. I walked through the long diner taking in the old fashioned
soda fountain at the counter and the row of booths opposite it where
locals drank their coffee and ate their pie while tipping their head to
me as I passed them. A pink uniformed waitress at the end of the
counter peered over the cash register and said, "What can I do for you
honey?" I smiled and asked if they had a pay phone. Motioning to the
restroom signs I could see the phone and I heard the register bell
ring, she stopped me and gave me a quarter. "Here you go. Welcome to
Ozark." Stunned by her kindness, I took the coin and proceeded to the
make my call.

A Specialist Davis answered the phone and told me that someone would be
there to pick me up and she didn't know how long it would be. That was
it. I figured they must be pretty busy at the newspaper if that was
all the conversation I was going to get. If there was one thing I
learned during my short time in the Army, it was the art of waiting for
something to happen. So, I sat at the diner counter ordered some pie
and looked out the window for someone to pick me up.

About 45 minutes later a dark blue sedan with government plates
barreled into the parking lot and stopped in front of the restaurant.
As the dust was settling from the dirt parking lot a 5'2" soldier
dressed in BDUs marched up the steps, threw open the door and said,
"Hey, I'm Specialist Bouchard. Get your shit and let's go." I
mentioned my name, grabbed my duffle bag and black bowling bag that my
dad had given me and shuffled to the car.

On the way to Fort Rucker, Specialist Bouchard was complaining about
being on deadline and that nobody wanted to come to pick me up and that
she had to do it. I sat in silence and felt bad for being such a
burden on everyone, but the reception by my co-workers at the paper
wasn't much different than hers. It was obvious they were on deadline
and any distraction took away from getting the paper done. I would
later learn to appreciate the stress of deadline day.

I stood in the middle of the bustling newspaper room with my two bags
and wondered what my life would be like while the other soldiers
introduced themselves to me and sized me up. Meeting a new soldier is
a bit like a dancing. You introduce yourself, make physical contact
with hands and make small talk, all the while wondering what the other
person is thinking. It doesn't last long, but you have to make a
favorable impression.

In the meantime, Specialist Bouchard went to her desk, grabbed her
camera and notepad and ran out the door and I could hear the familiar
sound of gravel flying as she pulled the sedan away from the building
on her way to finish her story.

As I watched the dust settle again in the parking lot, l wondered what
would become of me at the home of Army Aviation. Little did I know
that in the weeks and months to follow, I would become good friends
with Specialist Susan Bouchard and that I would learn that first
impressions are not always what they seem and can be clouded by the
rush of daily life.