This is the story of Joshua Greenleaf, a young man who spent three years, eight months, twenty seven days, and thirteen hours in the Army. He would tell you that the Army gave him a good education, helped him realize what he wanted to do with his life, and helped him grow and mature. Nevertheless, he hated the army. He appreciated what the Army did for him, but he could never adjust to being owned. While he was in the Army, in the back of his mind, there was always the thought that Lincoln freed the slaves, but forgot to free enlisted men. This is his story, a story that starts with a nightmare.

Joshua stood at ease in front of an officer who was sitting, looking through some folders. “What did you say your name was?”

“Joshua Greenfleaf… I mean, Greenleaf, Joshua,” he said, realizing the Army didn’t like first names first.

“And you were told to report here to be discharged?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Well, there seems to be a mistake. According to your file, you aren’t scheduled to be discharged for three years.”

“What? No. That’s wrong. I’ve been in the Army for 3 years, 8 months, 27 days, 13 hours, and” — he looked at his watch — “8 minutes. They said I’ve been in the Army long enough. They sent me here to be set free.”

“Who are they?”

“They. You know. They.”

“Well, they made a mistake. It says here that you have to stay in the Army for three more years, probably longer. That’s the way the old rifle shoots, isn’t it? Nope, we can’t let you out,” the officer said, laughing sardonically.

That was Josh’s nightmare. For five months before he was discharged, he had that nightmare every night. Even after they freed him, that nightmare haunted him for twenty years. His psychotherapist said his problem was post-traumatic stress disorder and told him to suck it up and stop whining. Unfortunately, his therapist’s words triggered emotions in him that he didn’t know he had. Fortunately, his therapist said he was crazy, so he didn’t file assault and battery charges. Josh never went back to him.

Finally, the day came, the day that he was sure would never come, for he was absolutely positive that he was going to be attacked by something olive drab and killed before he was set free. Trying to put those fears out of his mind, he began packing. It was easier getting into the clutches of the Army than it was getting out. First, he had to pack almost four years worth of “stuff” into a duffel bag, and, second, he had to lift the bag. He weighed 125 pounds; the duffle bag weighed about 2,000 pounds, and he had to carry it from his barracks to the discharge office, and then about 3,000 miles to the front gate and freedom. After slaving over a hot duffel bag for two hours, the bag was stuffed to its limit and opening secured. He was ready to go, so he grasped the strap and pulled the duffel bag onto his back. The ripping sound in his stomach was deafening. He was sure he had moved all the organs in his body to places where they didn’t belong. There he was, bent over so that all he could see was the floor. Even a partially mangled body was not going to stop him. Josh tried not to pay attention to the crunching noises that emanated from his spine as his feet took what was left of his body out of his barracks. When he got outside, he waddled to the office building where the prisoners were released. Facing him were three steps, a frightening mountain to climb, considering he had the Eiffel Tower on his back. Unfortunately, he couldn’t put the duffel bag down because the Army didn’t want the ground littered with things like cigarette butts, grass, duffel bags, and bodies of enlisted men.

Groaning, he made it up the steps, and, after he entered the building, he released the strap, and the duffel bag slid off his back to the floor. The duffel bag was off his back, but he was bent like a paper clip. After a few moments, someone came over to see why a person folded up like a paper clip was cluttering up the hallway. The army didn’t like their hallways cluttered with bent bodies and duffel bags. Whoever came to see what was going on did not sound happy and told Josh that he and his duffel bag couldn’t stay in the middle of the hallway. Josh looked at the voice’s boots and decided to try to reason with them. He pointed out the fact that he was bent because he couldn’t straighten up and asked the voice if he would help him.

After completing graduate school, my wife, Mikayla, and I, and Maryanne, our 2-year-old daughter, headed for a small town in the North Country where I started my teaching career. We rented a 12 x 60-foot mobile home, and our life in the North Country began.

On the third morning, we were visited by the trailer park manager, Mr. Miller.

“How do, folks? I come by t’ give y’ this list o’ park rules and tell y’ ’bout th’ roof and th’ heat tape.” He gave us a sheet of paper. “Them are th’ park rules. Y’ got t’ keep y’ yard mowed. Y’ yard is th’ land between your home and the next one.”

“I have to get a lawn mower?” I whined.

“Nope. Y’ can ask Ralph next door t’ mow y’ lawn. He’s m’ nephew. Good boy. Does good work. Don’t charge much.”

“It says here that trash has to be deposited between 5 and 6 a.m. every Saturday morning in the Dumpster that’s at the entrance to the park. Trash must not be put in Dumpster any time before Saturday morning? Mr. Miller, why not before Saturday morning?”

“Bears come out lookin’ f’ food at night. They know how t’ get int’ th’ Dumpster.”

“Bears?” Mikayla asked nervously.

“Yup, bears. I wouldn’t go walkin’ ’round at night, if I was you. If y’ do, I’d get a shot gun t’ keep with y’. Anyway, y’ can hire Ralphy t’ take y’ trash t’ th’ Dumpster. He’s m’ nephew. Good boy. Does good work. Don’t charge much. If y’ want Ralphy t’ take y’ trash t’ th’ Dumpster, y’ gotta get a bear-proof trash can t’ leave in front o’ y’ home. You’ll be okay as long as y’ don’t leave food outside and y’ don’t try t’ play with ‘em. They look cuddly, but they like t’ eat people.”

“Oh,” I whined. “Now, what about the roof?”

“Y’ gotta keep snow off y’ roof. When snow on your roof melts, th’ water will get int’ th’ seams ‘n’ drip down int’ y’ home, so y’ have t’ put on a sealer. Y’ put it on with a squeegee-type tool. Y’ c’n ask Ralphy next door. He’s…”

“I know. He’s your nephew. Good boy. Does good work. Doesn’t charge much,” I said.

“Yup. Finally, y’ got t’ know about th’ heat tape. Follow me.”

At the back was an electrical outlet into which was plugged an electrical cord which went under the mobile home. A plastic bubble, in which there was a small bulb, was at the plug-end of the cord.

“That tape is wrapped around th’ water pipe that comes up from th’ well. As long as th’ light is on, th’ tape is workin’. If th’ bulb is out, that means th’ heat tape ain’t keepin’ th’ water pipe warm, which means the water in the pipe will freeze, which means y’ got trouble. If y’ need a new heat tape, y’ …”

“Call Ralphy next door?”

“Nope. Ralph don’t do heat tapes. It’s a nasty job. Y’ come t’ my office and get a few extra heat tapes just in case. Now, don’t f’ get, y’ don’t want t’ let th’ snow pile up on y’ roof. Just get up there and shovel it off, or y’ c’n call Ralphy next door. He’s my nephew. Good boy. Does good work. Don’t charge much. One last thing. Did y’ notice that th’ home is on cinder blocks?”

“Yup,” I replied.

“And y’ can see space between the ground and th’ edge of your home?”

“Yup,” I replied.

“Well, y’ gotta put up a skirt, around y’ home. That’s one o’ th’ rules. Y’ go to a lumber yard. They’ll tell y’ what y’ need t’ build a skirt. When y’ build the skirt, build a door by th’ heat tape, so it’ll be easy t’ get underneath if y’ have t’ crawl under t’ replace a burned-out heat tape in the winter. If y’ want, Ralphy will build the skirt for y. One last thing. Where you folks come from, the cold is different than it is here. When y’ go out in th’ morning, y’ll think it ain’t cold. If y’ go out thinkin’ it ain’t cold and y’ don’t wear y’ jacket, y’ll turn blue b’fore y’ c’n say Jack Rabbit. That’s all, folks,” he said and walked away.