Reason #4: Learn new languages out of necessity.

This is a photo of me, Sheila Witherington, when I was 9 years old and on a class trip to southern France. I had asked a friend of mine to take a photo of me, and one of the French boys, Phillip, on the trip stepped in front of the camera at the moment. Needless to say, a young girl has to learn to speak the native language at such exasperating moments. Growing up in the military provides many opportunities for children and families to learn new language skills as the families are stationed at various locations around the world. I believe the other boy in the photo is Eddie Scott, an American boy in my bilingual class at Touvent Elementary School in Chateauroux, France. As kids, we went on a class trip for four days and nights to southern France. In school, we studied with French students two days a week. One day the French kids would come to our school, and another day we would go to the French school. We each had French partners and were encouraged to exchange visits with their families outside school. What a wonderful experience. We lived in France for two years. What a wonderful way to raise a family.

My thoughts for today.
Sheila Witherington

Reason #3: Make lifelong friends around the world.

When military families live in different locations throughout the world, they interact with the people in the native cultures. One of our dearest friends when we lived in Chateauroux, France, was a French couple named Jean (John) and Marie Cassanova. Pictured at left is my mom, Sue Witherington (right) and Marie Cassanova (left). They became close friends while we were stationed in France. Jean worked worked with my dad Bill Witherington as a local civilian on the base. His wife Marie helped my mom with household chores at times when she need the extra money. I can remember going to their peasant home out in the countryside several miles from Chateauroux. They had no heat in their house, the floor was dirt, and they raised their own food. They invited us for dinner on one occasion, and it was tremendous event for them. They killed one of their chickens and roasted it. You could see where the feathers had been plucked even after it was cooked. It was the first time any of us had tasted wine. They had purchased a bottle for the dinner, and since it was such an economic strain on them to entertain us, my mom and dad gave us permission to sip our small glasses of wine. My little brother was only four years old, and he loved it. My dad and Jean Cassanova wrote each other until they died decades later.

My thoughts for today.
Sheila Witherington