Uncle Muddy’s stories about Big Daddy holding off the power company with a 12-gauge always make the rounds after supper in his fictional world. Those stories remind me often of where the steel in our family came from. But my own dad didn’t just pass down a short fuse and a sharp trigger finger; he passed down an education on how to survive. (The power pole shotgun story is true as I remember; that was my dad who did that).

My dad, Don Gressett retired from the Army Guard, but before that, he was a grocery puller and a proud Vietnam vet, among many other things he was good at. He used to tell me stories about how he ate for free and got the best treatment the entire time he was overseas. Why? Because he knew how to treat the people who keep the world running. He buttered up the supply sergeants, loved on the cooks, and made the mess staff look like kings.

I took notes. And when I joined the United States Air Force back in 1987, I put those same lessons straight into action. I remember he said he was told when he came to the chow hall, just to sign his name Red Baron, or something silly, so the mess hall would have a signature. Didn’t matter, one meal one signature. He was sending money home to mother, and to me who he had never laid eyes on since I was pretty much a newborn. The supply folks knew this and helped him out, since he was always doing things for others, scrounging stuff and helping here and there.

Now, you have to understand something about the old house I grew up in. We didn’t have a hot water heater until I was ten years old. We didn’t have a working washer or dryer until about that same age. We heated our water on a stove and flushed the commode with a five-gallon bucket. We didn’t even have a landline phone until I was grown and gone.

So when I got to basic training and tech school, everyone around me was whining and complaining about the military food. I just looked around the chow hall like I had walked into a five-star paradise. Unlimited food? Hot meals every day? I ate like a hog sidling up to a trough, remembering how my sweet aunt used to feed us kids macaroni shells and cornbread when resources were tight.

While the other airmen were being sour, I went to work. I buttered up the cooks. I bragged on their food every single chance I got. I found out their family details, carried on banter, and made sure the mess sergeants and commanders knew they were doing a hell of a job. I tried to do this with others, but it really worked best with the cooks. Worked pretty good at the Airmen’s Club / NCO Clubs too as I recall.

When I was at radar school at Keesler Air Force Base in 1996, the little Korean lady working the line used to absolutely hate my friend who went with me there all the time. He was an idiot who tried to pick on her and mock her, so she’d give him the skimpiest portions of food, and he would not quit. But when I showed up? Her face would beam. I’d carry on with her, telling her I was gonna quit the Air Force right then and marry her, and she’d howl laughing along with the rest of the staff, sliding extra portions onto my tray.

The peak of my diplomatic career happened right before a big Inspector General (IG) inspection. The whole base was wound tighter than a drum, and us students were watching the instructors sweat through their evaluation boards.

I was sitting in a full chow hall with about fifty other people. Out of the kitchen walks TSgt Smith (not his real name) —the actual mess sergeant. He is carrying a steaming, fresh chicken dish that he’d been experimenting with for the inspection. He walks past the officers, past the instructors, and comes straight over to my table.

He sets it down and says, “On the house. I need your opinion on this.”

It was chicken cacciatore and it was fine. I went on and on about how good it was, and I made sure to drop glowing praises into the suggestion box. To this day, it cracks me up that nobody else I went to tech school with ever got the hint. They just kept complaining, while the staff treated me like royalty. You should have seen the faces of those others in the chow hall when he brought that special dish out to me. It was hilarious, and a fond memory for sure.

That Keesler AFB chow hall actually ended up winning a major Air Force award that year, if memory serves me correctly, and the Wing Commander came in personally to talk to them about how incredible the food was. But I may be mixing that up with Malmstrom AFB, my first career as a missile systems maintenance specialist, (Minuteman II silos). I think they even put the facility in the Stars and Stripes. To be honest, I think the cooks gave me a little bit of the credit for that award just because I kept their morale high.

My dad taught us how to fight when someone tries to cross the line. But my dad also taught us how to survive when the lights are on. You don’t get through this world just by being tough; you get through it by making the people around you feel like somebody.

Love of family makes you do some strange things—and a little bit of old-school Gressett charm will make sure you get a double helping of chicken while the rest of the world starves. Some of us need reminding that its OK to be human, and everyone out there (yes even those you don’t like) are struggling with some sort of battle. Let’s maybe do our best to remember that and be quick to ante up a little grace now and then. Lord knows I sure could use some myself.

I love y’all so much and thanks for letting me type my fool head off to you; and thanks so much for reading this. It means everything to me.