I had planned on beginning this blog with a deep, philosophical discussion surrounding our current "plight" as conservatives (using the word as a catch all for "The Right", including libertarians, social capitalists, and everything in between as well), and was going to wait on this, but at this moment, this is what is inspiring me. This is what I need to write about. Something I never had much of, something I'm only now learning to appreciate: Family.

In the mid to late '80s, my mother was married to a good, decent man named Pete. Pete accepted me and my younger sister into his family, and soon my mother and he had a child of their own. We were a nuclear family, and for a brief period in my life, I had the sort of supportive structure around me that breeds success. It was, as I said brief, but its effect was profound even for the short period I experienced it.

We moved to tiny Dewey, Arizona. It's the kind of Arizona town that has no grass, only prickly pears and burrs, tiny infuriating seeds with hooks that grapple your clothing and hang on for dear life. Our dirt driveway ran through a wash, which is like a ditch on steroids, that would fill to over 6 feed deep during the late summer monsoon season, leaving us stranded in our home. We had a large scrap woodpile in the front yard, the left overs from when Pete's father, Grandpa John, had built the house. I cannot recount the number of tetanus shots I had to get because of that wood pile.

Our nearest neighbor, up a steep hill perhaps 400 yards from our front door, was Pete's folks, Grandpa John and Grandma Delores. I was young then, perhaps 9, 10 years old, and so my memories of this time are dim at best. I have only impressions and snap shots. Despite this, Grandpa John is among my strongest influences.

John was rough, with a seemingly perpetual 5 o'clock shadow that threatened to tear your face off if you hugged him. He would torture us kids by wiggling his ears and challenging us to do the same. He did all the typical grandpa stuff, teasing we kids, bouncing us on his knee, and regaling us with heart pounding war stories.

Stories of Iwo Jima and other pacific theater battlegrounds. I don't remember what branch of the military he was in, I don't remember any specifics, I only remember being in awe that I was sitting before a true American Hero, hearing him relate tales of heroism and tragedy that he'd experienced himself. It was those war stories that laid the foundation for my appreciation for those who risk their lives for this country. 

Today, I can't remember the stories. Not a single word, only the feeling of being in the presence of someone important, someone special, a true American hero. From that time forward, I'd always looked upon our men and women in uniform with respect, deference, and a bit of awe. I owe this appreciation for what it takes maintain our freedom to the family I had for just a short time.

As the family unit becomes increasingly marginalized, sometimes it takes those of us who did not benefit from such an environment to remind those of you who do just what a treasure you have. This is but one small benefit I gained, and there are plenty more. My mother and Pete were married only a few years, but the values instilled in that time by having an extended family, the benefit of generational wisdom to be passed down, are immeasurable. 

Today, as I get to know the close knit Minnesota family of my amazing girlfriend, Erika, I am daily reminded of this happiest period of my childhood. Such a childhood not every child gets, but every child deserves. If every child had that sort of upbringing, our military would get the respect it deserves, not the derision offered it by the media and pop culture.