Choices By Cappy Hall Rearick

 

At this writing, it has been over thirty years since young countrymen left the comfort and security of their homes and families to fight in the Middle East. Anxious Americans watched, transfixed, as media cameras captured them on film boarding planes that would spirit them off to a culture completely alien to our way of life. 

In all of the televised hoopla, it was easy to forget the other Gulf, the one right here in America. In contrast to where our soldiers were being taken, the Gulf of Mexico has been at peace for over a hundred years. 

I know this because I lived there once. By choice.

Each morning I awakened to the gentle swoosh of waves, not to the thunder of mortar shells. I watched the sun rise from my deck and greeted each new day with the expectation of good things to come. I never had to wonder if my house would still be standing at the close of day.  

Dressed in grubby sweats, I hiked to the beach with my dog, Dickens, and we ran because we liked to run, not because we were running from anything or anybody. I didn’t dress in camo army fatigues and Dickens wore only his signature red bandana.  

Returning home, I drank coffee bought at the local IGA (imported, so the label claimed) from South America. I had no need to ration; I was free to choose from Folgers Mountain Grown to IGA’S own Brand X.  

When I began my day’s work, I didn’t wonder if there would be electricity for my computer. I took it for granted that I would spend the next few hours uninterrupted, penning the book I had chosen to write. I did not worry whether or not my words would be censored, only if they would be accepted by a publisher and read by those people who chose to purchase the book.

I often took a sandwich to the beach. The portion I didn’t eat was fed to the gulls looking forward to my visits. Those sea birds were as clean and white as a summer cloud, not weighted down by an evil oil slick.

At the end of each day, my deck would magically transform into an arena where I became spectator to nature’s twilight performance. I watched as a quiet company of players moved silently, swiftly onto the set: the magnificent Gulf of Mexico.

Evening shades of pink, gold and blue opened the performance by executing a slow dissolve. Sea birds pirouetted with practiced grace, gently dipping into the liquid gold of the Gulf for an early supper. 

Occasionally, a dog would bark in the distance as though cheering the performance, and surrounding trees whistled for an encore. Boundless waves clapped thunderous applause as a curtained sky dropped its rainbowed hues of evening.

Captivated by the performance, lulled into near stupor by the harmonious alignment of nature, I often chose to linger on the deck-turned-arena. It was my choice to do so — or not.

Given the busy lives we lead, it is an easy thing to take choices for granted. But lest we forget, there have been too many brave countrymen who went to war in our place. Too many gave their lives. And for what purpose? Our right to choose. 

 I pray power in the Middle East today, as well as in our own country, does not take away choice.