As I ponder retiring in 15 months, my thoughts are moving from my upbringing, to what has brought me to where I am now. I am truly amazed at where I started in the Air Force and where I am now. I did manage to get a bachelor’s degree through the University of Oklahoma because I promised Mommy I would. It took me a long time. But I did it! The Air Force has treated me extremely well. What follows is how I accidently ended up where I am now.
By 1984, I was living in Wisconsin after spending my first seventeen years in Ohio. Mommy and my stepfather Bob moved me there halfway through my senior year of high school for work reasons. To say I was disgruntled would be the understatement of the century. I went from an A‑and‑B student to an “I don’t give a f*ck” student almost overnight. Somehow—despite my best efforts—I still managed to graduate high school in 1983.
As soon as I could, I hopped a Greyhound bus back to Ohio to reclaim the life I’d been forced to leave behind. Unfortunately, that life had moved on without me. My friends had graduated, gone off to college, and were busy becoming adults. I, on the other hand, had zero interest in college—much to Mommy’s heartbreak. She had saved her entire life for me to go, but only under very specific conditions: her college of choice, her roof, her rules, and her vision of the perfect daughter. That wasn’t my plan…not that I actually had a plan. I just knew I wanted freedom.
Freedom, as it turns out, looks a lot like paying your own rent, riding the bus because you don’t have a car, and working eighty hours a week at Wendy’s—only to realize your shiny promotion to assistant manager means you make less money once they switch you from hourly to salary. I started running with an older crowd from work—people whose idea of fun extended beyond dancing and alcohol. Thankfully, I had been raised well enough to steer clear of anything that would have wrecked my life completely.
Eventually, reality caught up with me. By late 1983, I was calling Mommy, asking for money to come home. I boarded another Greyhound—this time on her dime—only to find that nothing had changed. Same rules. Same curfews. And now I was paying rent on top of it. I didn’t mind the rent. I minded the rules.
Not long after, I started dating a cute older guy who worked at a gas station and lived with a young married couple. I spent most of my free time there. We drank Old Style beer, smoked pot, and played backgammon for hours. Mommy was not amused. We fought constantly.
One day, Bob showed up at that house—how he even knew where it was, I still don’t know. Very calmly, he told me that if I wasn’t home by curfew that night, my belongings would be delivered to that same porch the next day. We were all drunk and high and thought this was hilarious…until my stuff arrived in trash bags the following afternoon. Lesson learned. Eventually, my boyfriend and I saved enough money to get our own place. He cleaned carpets; I worked two waitress jobs.
My morning gig was at a local watering hole owned by a popular ex‑mayor. I loved that job. The customers were almost all regulars who sat in the same seats and ordered the same things every day. I’d see them through the front windows and have their coffee ready before they even walked in. The tips were great. After work, the other waitresses and I would walk to the bank with cups full of change, swap it for bills, then head right to the local bar.
And that is where I met Ski.
Ski was the bartender and always good to us. We’d buy one pitcher of beer, and he’d keep it mysteriously full. One night, after the others had left, he looked me in the eye and asked, “So…do you plan on being a waitress your whole life?”
The question hit me square in the chest. I tried to brush it off, but when he pressed, I admitted I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life. He studied me for a moment, then slid a bar napkin across the counter with an address written on it. “Stop by here on your day off. It’s my day job. I might have some work for you.”
I left feeling giddy. An office job! Phones! Filing! The following week, I took a bus across town and walked several blocks to the address—only to discover it was a two‑story office building housing Army, Navy, Marine… and Air Force recruiters.
Yep. Ski was an Air Force recruiter who bartended on the side to find people like me.
I’d heard the horror stories about recruiters lying. Ski never did. He was honest, kind, and—looking back—a complete Godsend. My boyfriend was sliding into heavier drug use, and I knew I had to make a change. I couldn’t go back to living under Mommy’s rules, and I couldn’t stay where I was. I took the ASVAB, initially signed up for electronics, and figured I’d do four years and get out. I was placed in delayed entry with a six‑to‑eight‑month wait for school.
I didn’t tell anyone. Not my military‑hating boyfriend who by the way, had been kicked out of the Navy for smoking pot (his words – them fuckers!) Not Mommy, who was still hoping I’d return home and become her golden child. The Air Force was my secret—my ticket out.
Then one afternoon, I came home early and found a strange car in the driveway. Inside, my boyfriend and two men I didn’t know were shooting up drugs. I freaked out, stayed the night in a cheap hotel I couldn’t afford, and called Ski the next morning. I told him I needed to leave—now.
That was Thursday.
On Friday, he came to the restaurant I worked at and told me he could ship me out Monday morning if I was willing to change my job selection. Electronics were out; instead, he secured me a guaranteed Aerospace Ground Equipment (AGE) slot—work that could take me to almost any base in the world. Exactly what I wanted.
Telling my boyfriend went better than expected. Telling Mommy…did not.
At her house, the showdown happened in the formal living room—the one with white carpet, fancy furniture, and brass‑and‑glass tables no one was ever allowed to touch. I thought she was taking the news calmly. I was wrong. As I headed for the door, she attacked like a spider monkey, screaming, “YOU WILL NOT DO THIS TO ME!”
We rolled through that room like a Jerry Springer audition—tables flying, carpet burns everywhere. Bob finally wrestled her away, holding her in a death grip while yelling at me to run. So, I did.
The next morning, Ski explained basic training and tech school. Reality finally hit, and I cried. When I admitted I didn’t have the money to get to Texas, he laughed, hugged me, and promised me that the Air Force would take care of it. He told me I was going to be just fine.
My planned four years turned into nearly twenty‑three. Ten in Germany. Most of the rest in Oklahoma. A remote to Turkey. Then almost twenty more years as an Air Force civilian.
All because one bartender asked a simple question:
Do you plan on being a waitress your whole life?
Thanks, Ski. You were a Godsend.