The Most Powerful Woman

Before we get started, I should mention that, since they have so many goodies the overwhelming majority of men crave, women have a power we men can only dream of. We’ll do damn near anything to have access to those goodies, including agreeing and admitting they’re right.

That said, I met the most powerful woman in my life last week on Sadie Hawkin’s day and shook her hand. The occasion was my sister’s retirement party, and the event was unique in many ways. For twenty-seven years my sister worked for the US government, specifically as a civilian for the Defense Contract Management Agency. Her job, as near as I’ve figured out, had something to do with the military personnel who also work for that agency. I think she made sure that the forms were all properly completed and contained no errors and helped them out if they needed revising.

Now, no private company that I know of has these kind of official retirement parties. Maybe there were affairs for the executives I never knew about, but the parties I attended were always slapdash affairs held in the lunchroom. This one was at Trump National Golf Course in Rancho Palos Verdes, a place I never knew existed.

When we arrived at the sign-in desk I was immediately met by a woman I’d heard about for years and who I recognized instantly by those descriptions: Colonel Wilma Slade. About as imposing a woman as you could ever hope to meet, but as delightful as a bag of kitties. It was apparent at once that Col Slade (ret) was one of those people who expects and receives no amount of questioning. She’s as nice as can be about it, but her “You’ll go here and sit there” gave me no chance to complain or any choice to do otherwise.

I was impressed. I also followed her orders. I had no choice in the matter.

There were about twenty people in the room; my sister didn’t want a large party. The invitation recommended business dress or, for members of the military, the uniform of the day. About a quarter of the attendees were in uniform, several in camouflage ODs. Since the party was indoors, sadly, none of them got to wear their hats.

Col Slade (ret) came over to instruct me and my niece’s son that, since we were seated at the head table, it was our job to pull out the chairs for the two women when they were escorted into the room. One of the women receiving this honor was my sister, whose chair would be my responsibility. The other woman, the one Greggory would seat, was the most powerful woman I’d shake hands with, one Mrs. Patricia Kirk-McAlpine.

I gave Greggory a quick rundown on what I thought would be involved in seating her. “Pull back the chair,” I said, “then, when she sits down, pretend to push it in while she does all the real work.”

We were all sitting around, and the event kicked off precisely on schedule. This did not surprise me in the least. We were welcomed by my sister’s ex-boss, a woman who took over the job when she retired from the military and who, I’m told, was stunned when she received her first paycheck because there was no “clothing allowance.” These military types, you see, live differently than you and me.

The next item on the agenda, and, yes, there was one, including a four color seal of DCMA complete with the eagle holding the olive branches and arrows, was the arrival of the official party, to wit my sister and Mrs. Patricia Kirk-McAlpine. We all rose, they were seated, then we stood up again for the playing of the National Anthem.

I thought of Senator’s Obama’s problems, and did not place my hand over my heart. Neither did any of the people in uniform, who did a much better job of standing at attention than I could ever dream of.

It was over in a minute, and was a great version of the anthem, performed, no doubt, by some military band with plenty of cymbal crashes. We only got to hear it through a little boom box, however, so some of the finer details may have been lost. There was, as proscribed by protocol, a row of other flags.

Say what you will about the military, but just like with Roman Catholics, they have quite a bit of ceremony and I’m a sucker for it. Next to the US flag, which is placed on the far left, the flags of the Marines, the Army, the Navy, Coast Guard, and Air Force are all lined up. That’s the official order, based on when the force was founded. There were no Coast Guard or Navy personnel present, not in uniform, anyway, but their flags were there.

Then came the flag of the Agency my sister worked for and last, and perhaps the most inspiring, was Mrs. Patricia Kirk-McAlpine’s flag.

She has her own damn flag.

The Agency, until she took over a few years ago, was always headed by a General, who always had, of course, his own flag. I always found that incredibly cool. Although Mrs. Patricia Kirk-McAlpine is not in the military, as director (if that’s her title) of the Agency, she’s entitled to a flag and hers was a fine one. I have no idea what her title is, only that she signed the proclamation she presented to my sister as SES, DoD. Her flag was quite simple, really, with just some bars on a shield as far as I could tell, but just like any Navy flag officer, she has her own damn flag.

It’s safe to say that I will never have my own flag. Nor, that I will ever be in the presence of anyone, male or female, who does.

For lunch I chose the chicken, which came with two perfectly prepared stalks of asparagus and two equally well-prepared carrots nestled in a few tablespoons of garlic mashed potatoes.
It wasn’t as good as the flag.