Since it is quite easy for me to write three hundred words about the view from a park bench, putting a whole weekend into one essay might prove difficult. Telling you about the weekend is much more complicated than writing a travelogue. It was not just about a wallflower attending her first formal dance. It was also about a mother discerning if the most difficult decision she has ever made concerning her child was the right one.

Being in close proximity to my ex for three days also made it about putting my former life in perspective. I am happy to report, I made the right decision on that front many years ago – and also that the ex and I are now well practiced for the future graduations and weddings we’ll have to share. No bloodshed occurred. All sarcastic commentaries remained in my head where they belonged (a greater accomplishment than me winning the war with a pair of pantyhose.) And, I must have phoned home twenty times, elucidating my renewed appreciation for the character of my other-half.

The school sits in a tiny Midwest town established during the civil war era. The military ball is likely the town’s bread and butter as well as its bane. Hundreds of families arrive for the weekend, filling its hotels, restaurants and beauty salons. By Saturday evening, the outsiders are bedecked in tuxedos and expensive gowns and limousines share the streets with pickup trucks and tractors

From the outside looking in, it probably appears affluent, snobbish and show-boaty. But the reality is that most of the attendees aren’t much different from me. They didn’t aspire to send their children to a military academy. Their year has been marked by worry, stress, sacrifice and financial strain. And for many, like me, the weekend becomes a celebration of the turn-around their child has made—one gigantic sigh, full of relief and pride.

The highlights . . .

My Son:

A kid who once made slouching and slacking an art form has transformed into a young man in who takes a leadership position in his unit and is the first to come to attention when his commanding officer approaches. Yet he retains the goofy sweetness that makes me love him and his teachers forgive him,

The Ball:

While I remained true to my wallflower nature, I witnessed both my children stepping onto the ballroom floor for the first time, a bittersweet, yet prideful moment.

I must wear my wallflower on the center of my forehead. I about fell off my heels when another cadet’s mother approached me and asked, “Is this seat taken?” and followed-up her question with the statement, “I hope this is the wallflower table because this is sooo not us!” We became companions for the night – not surprising to our sons, who have become best friends in the last few months.

The Military Parade:

Lately, my life is about finding parallels in unexpected places. An older gentleman sat next to me in the stands and, while I was enthralled with the parade – and amazed by my son’s role – he provided a running commentary of each happening on the field and the military meaning behind it, complements of fifty-five years of attending the annual event. At the parade’s conclusion, he shook my hand and I thanked him for sharing the parade with me. He told me he was a Word War II Navy veteran. Given my history, and my son’s recent identification with the grandfather he never knew, I suspect the Universe had something to do with the seating arrangements.

He walked away before seeing the tears streaming down my cheeks.


And, of course, it was a gleeful moment when I returned to my hotel room, shed my pantyhose and pulled 52 bobby pins from my “up-do.” Still, I’m looking forward to doing it all again next year.

(You can find more photos of the weekend here)