Veteran’s Day made me think about women’s rights and football. How did I get there? Let me tell you.
People were so kind to me and Rob on Veteran’s Day. My older sister especially goes on about how much she appreciates all we did…so much so that I had to stop and think, did I do anything, really? What did I do while I was in the Air Force that made me worthy of accolades and free meals at Chili’s? Then there’s that moment in church when they ask the veterans to stand up and so I do and everyone applauds. I think sometimes people believe I stand by mistake because I don’t look very veteranly. So I have to look back and remember my time on the flight line as an Avionics technician on the F-111. Rob and I were getting married during Desert Shield. Beepers were going off during our wedding. Nothing ruins a honeymoon quite like a war. Desert Storm brought 12 hour shifts to Upper Heyford Air Force Base where I was stationed in England. Our fighters flew from our base all the way to Iraq and back home again without landing anywhere in between thanks to the re-fuelers that met them along the way. It was an odd feeling, touching a jet that you knew was on its way to war - looking at a missile being loaded knowing that it would be gone when the jet got back. We got to paint a little yellow bomb on it for everyone that dropped and hit its target. I was a radar and navigation specialist which sounds very complex but the Air Force made it very easy. If something broke, it was in a box inside the jet. Take it out and put a new box in. They made it as simple as they could for teenagers like me.
I didn’t like the flight line as much as I liked the Air Force. It was cold and the work was hard, the tool boxes were heavy and the uniforms weren‘t flattering. The flight line gloves impeded my ability to hold a screw in its tiny hole to tighten it so I cut the fingers out of them. I was one of very few girls in this line of work and that was a good thing. That made me think about Mrosko. Mrosko was his last name. I don’t remember his first. In the military everyone kinda goes by their last name. I was Ramsey. He was Mrosko and he was the size of a large refrigerator. The boxes we had to sometimes change inside the jet were 100s of pounds and it took two people…unless Mrosko was there. He could do it alone. Imagine lifting a washer or dryer over your head and sliding it into place. It was effortless to him.
“Are you from a lumberjack family?” I joked.
“Kind of,” he smiled. “My oldest brother is big too. He plays in the NFL.”
“Really?” I asked.
“Yeah, Bob Mrosko. He plays for the Giants. He’s going to win the Super Bowl someday. I just know it.”
“Oh…great.” I had my doubts. Mrosko didn’t.
He was unassuming and gentle and he loved to carry my toolbox for me. And I loved to let him - cause it was heavy.
I digress. You know the part of Jane Austen’s movies that I love most? The part where the women walk in the room and all the men stand up. I love that. When did that stop? When did ladies stop getting treated like ladies? I’ll tell you when….when a bunch of liberal feminazis wanted equal rights. They burned their bras and fought for the right to be treated like a man - to cuss and drink like a man - to hop from bed to bed with whomever, whenever, wherever. Once women were assumed morally superior. Remember when men used to watch their language if a lady was in the room? Yeah…that doesn’t happen anymore. (At least not where I work.) So it seems they were fighting for the right to be less than they were at the moment. Odd. I don’t want to open my own door. I want a man to open it for me and I don’t think that makes me less of a woman - I think that makes him more of a man.
And so Mrosko carried his toolbox and mine…and I’ve lost no sleep over that because he offered and seemed to like it. There used to be something innate in a man to protect and care for women. People assumed that I agreed with putting women in combat because I was in the military. It was a hot topic back then. No. I don’t think women should be in combat. Why? Not because we aren’t as smart as men. I say no to women in combat because of men like Mrosko. Gentlemen who can’t help but look after the weaker sex. If he and I were in a foxhole he would be so busy protecting me that he wouldn’t be thinking of himself. He’d probably try to carry my gun for me and I’d probably let him. That’s no fair, is it?
Bob Mrosko went on to win the Super Bowl in 1991 just like his little brother knew he would. I bet their family celebrated his victory and threw quite a party in his honor. I wonder too if they properly celebrated the little brother. The veteran. The gentleman who valiantly and honorably used his brute strength on a cold and rainy flight line an ocean away to ensure that Kuwait was liberated. I like to think they did.
So there. I confess. I feel guilty being celebrated as a veteran because I had others do my heavy lifting. And quite honestly, being in the Air Force was easy and fun and a great honor. Much like a 4 year long paid vacation. I am not missing any limbs and my body has not been scarred by road side bombs. I had it easy. Others have not. I celebrate them and their bravery and so should you. Pray for our troops...
