Home Port

That was my dad's idea, a very old Navy tradition where fleets are berthed. That's your "Home Port". All most all sailors enjoy an extended stay in the ship's homeport. Yes, there are two spellings, there's a difference. "Home Port" emphasizes the "Home". Again, my dad's idea, but I understand it totally, which scares me some... Am I really that much like my dad? But it's cool; I get it.
Non-military families have "home towns". For a military family, home town is a difficult concept to grasp. One tends to get a little jaded by the constant moving. I used to get a little anxious when people spoke of home towns; I never really had one. "Where ya from?" "Uh, how much time you got?"
The worst of it was early in life. By the time I entered Hunter's Point Elementary for Kindergarten, I had moved from my birthplace, been in Stubenville, Ohio; with three trips to San Diego, two to Pearl Harbor, and one to San Francisco. Kind of a whirlwind tour, huh? Well, it didn't quite stop there, as I was in three separate Kindergartens, and two first grade classes. It slowed down a lot after that. I was at Pennycook, in Vallejo, from grades 1 - 6, and Springstown Junior High for 7 and 8. My sister attended Hogan High from 7 - 12, as it became a Senior High School at the beginning of her sophomore year. We used to joke about her taking six years to graduate from Hogan.
Then one evening, my parents informed us we would be moving in July (1965), once again. We were moving from East Vallejo, to an apartment in Vacaville, until construction of a new home was completed in February 1966. At the time, Vallejo had a population of 65,000; Vacaville, 16,500. Well, actually 16,504, as of July 1065. Vallejoans thought of Vacaville as "the sticks". I was all against it, but really had no choice. Besides, while all my friends would be "Nineth Graders" at a "junior" high, I would be a "freshman," at Vaca High. Vallejo would just be another homeport.
As a small, rural town, with generational roots, Vacaville turned out to be a little suspicious of newcomers, and as a "new kid," didn't fit in with the Native Vacavillian very well. We were, pretty much, lumped into one of three categories: Military, Inmate Family, or Transient. We were largely ignored by the "lifers," as some referred to the Natives. We were the old, proverbial "out-crowd". Being forced to seek out non-lifer friendships, we became a sub-culture around Vaca High, we became "Hippie-esque," and tried our best to follow the examples being set in San Francisco. We dressed Hippie, let our hair grow some, and knew about sex, drugs, and rock 'n roll, long before it became popular.
It wasn't a "revolution," or rejection of anything, it was mostly survival. We lost some, along the way, people whose entire history is just a name carved in a stone, as far as our lifer-classmates knew, or cared. The friendships forged during those times have long outlived any lingering effects of being ignored by half of your high school. Even the teachers wanted to know what brought us to Vacaville, and we were treated differently because we lacked a Vacaville pedigree. It was a shame, but it was true, with few exceptions.
Tom Zunino noticed that I had a talent for "shoe wrestling", and notified Larry Nelson, who came down, on his prep-period, to watch me go up against a guy, literally, twice my size. My strength was quickness, and a bullied-kids adept knowlege of escape. When my "match" was over (I had the shoe), Tom and Larry conferred for a minute, and Z tells me I'm going out for Wrestling. It was the best thing I had ever done (to that point). I was pretty good, and "lettered" as a sophomore. I was fortunate, because of Wrestling, I was able to break through the social barrier, and I started to think of Vacaville as my home town.
Throughout my Navy career, I called Vacaville my home town. I came back often, whenever I could get the time off. I've watched it grow into a City of 100,000. albeit at a distance. My last assignment was to a squadron at Moffett Field. We checked for rentals around the base, and could only afford a studio, which would not do for the five of us. My loving wife, whom I met at Vaca High, asked where we could live. "Vacaville" came out so quickly, both of us jerked. We knew it was home, a place where we both had some roots.
Moved a couple more times, over the years, but we keep coming back. It's home.