Horses, heroes, headstones, hospitals, and history

We’ve been living here at the Fort Sam Houston RV Park for ten days. It’s not what I’d call a scenic location, but on my fitness walks and drive-abouts, I’ve seen some interesting things.

I’m used to smiling and waving at heroes who drive by me while I’m walking. They often lift a camouflage-clad arm in greeting as they politely slow down and pull toward the center of the road to allow me plenty of safe space. Courtesy and respect as the norm: a military base bonus for sure!

But one day, I saw a different kind of hero coming toward me in the passenger seat of a sedan: dude wearing full-on Superman shirt. Not just a Superman t-shirt like you can pick up at Target. I’m talking costume. It was shiny. And he was muscle-y. I bet my ear buds he had on tights with that thing. Had I been in a car instead of on foot, I may have followed, just to see how that played out.

And right around the corner from the RV park lies the Fort Sam Equestrian Center. I’ve got friends who take their kids there for equine therapy and riding lessons, so one morning I walked over to check it out.

Today’s walk was sunny, but somber. I chose to head over to the cemetery, thinking it would be a nice, quiet place to think and reflect as I puffed along.

But as I drew close to the gate, I heard three volleys of rifle fire, and I knew.

One of our nation’s heroes was being laid to rest.

Things took a lighter turn on my way back home, as I passed by an old vet on the golf course. “Step it up, step it up!” he shouted with a grin. “Yes, sir,” I replied, switching from walking to marching in a hurry. He laughed. “Aww, I’m just kidding. You’re looking great!”

I heart those old guys.

And finally, here’s a story of mistaken identity, combined with history, and progress. Feels a little like a ghost story, really:

It starts when I lived in San Antonio the first time, as a college freshman in 1987. A friend had a bad asthma attack, and since he was the son of an active duty Army officer, he was taken to Brooke Army Medical Center for a few days of treatment and observation. My roommate and I took a taxi to go visit him, and I remember pulling up in front of this enormous, imposing, intimidating, straight-out-of-the-movies stone edifice — and feeling really rather afraid to go in.

We timidly asked someone in uniform how to find our friend. He’d been admitted to the pediatric ward, and if you can picture a hospital ward from a 1950’s movie, your mind’s in the right place: cavernous room with high ceilings, metal cots lining the walls, white privacy curtains, a central nurses’ desk, sepia-toned surroundings — all of it.

It was like stepping back in time, and we. were. petrified.

Flash forward nearly a quarter century, to my family’s arrival here on PCS orders in 2010, and making my first appointment for an annual exam. And finding out said exam would be performed at none other than Brooke Army Medical Center.

Gulp.

You mean… I’d have to go back to… back to that place? The haunted hospital?

I mapped it. I got in the car. And when I got there, I stared with my mouth open for who knows how long, at this:

OK, that was not the building I remembered. At all. And for a few years, I assumed the old hospital had been torn down, and this one built in its place.

Nope.

Turns out it’s a got too much history.

The old BAMC is still here, repurposed to serve as headquarters for US Army South (which, coincidentally, was located in Puerto Rico when we lived there, from 1999-2002).

Two days ago, I finally set out to find it.

It’s not on a part of the base one would normally just drive by, which explains why I’ve managed not to stumble upon it after nearly 6 years of schlepping over here for medical appointments and commissary shopping.

Found it! But I’m still afraid to go in.