Pride

It was dark as we made our way through a lake of hippies. The scents of ultra-content people rose above the soccer-field-turned-campground. All around us, drums tripped and popped, smoke drifted through the tents, and laughter exploded from a campsite in the middle of the field. I would soon meet a man named Daly who was in the middle of telling stories.

An avid reader of RER will remember Daly. In his mid-30’s he decided to complete a life goal. He joined the Army. Boot camp is tough for 18 year-old punks. Daly came through it with a few scars and a thousand smiles. He got married and expected to take care of that one weekend a month and two weeks out of the year his service required.

Then on a sunny September morning, the world shifted. A month later, Daly put on his fatigues and headed to a military base in this country. He’s not been home for more than a few days in the last 10 months.

He is now just a month or so from coming home. His tour is about over. He’s planning to go to Las Vegas with me and 20-some guys. At least, that is the plan.

Plans, as he has discovered over the past year, have a tendency to change.

Daly is now leaving for Afghanistan. It promises to be a short trip. He has expertise in an area that some of the younger soliders need. He will teach and hopefully come home as soon as promised.

Promises, like plans, tend to change.

That’s why today I’m feeling proud to know this guy. I’m proud of all my friends’ accomplishments. But, Daly–the best story-teller I know–holds an odd mystique for me. I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again…he makes me want to make more of myself.

So, over the next few days, keep a guy named Daly in mind. And maybe some day I’ll get him to tell you the chihuahua story.

I laugh every time I hear it.