“Now serving B-4-1-1, at Window No. 3,” a mechanical female voice said from the base clinic’s automated pharmacy system. My ticket read “B-419.”

I grabbed a copy of the local free newspaper and took a seat in the waiting area. I searched the pages for something to distract me from my tendency to blatantly people-watch and settled in on the sudoku puzzle.

“Now serving B-4-1-2 at Window No. 2.” *Sigh*

After a swish of the revolving door, I heard heated banter, prompting me to peek over my newspaper.

“Now you sit down right there!” a tiny woman with bushy salt-and-pepper hair and a shirt embroidered with teddy bears barked at her companion, while pointing to a row of chairs. The companion was a slightly taller, even older woman with short, wispy white hair, thick glasses and a quad cane.

The companion hobbled over to the chairs and sat begrudgingly, muttering something about not needing any help. The two argued about where to put their purses, until one blurted, “Knowing me, I’ll forget where it is anyway. I can’t even remember where I parked the car!” They both leaned into each other, erupting in cackling, snorty laughter.

I now understood. The two were good friends, most likely retiree military friends or military spouses who help each other during outings, like trips to the base pharmacy. Clearly, their hostile banter was just a shtick.

As I watched them, I wondered, “What had their lives been like?”

They looked to be in their late 70s or 80s, both wearing the kind of elastic-waisted polyester pants that are advertised in the back of Parade Magazine. Where had they lived? What had they lived through? How did they both end up here?

I wasn’t the only one watching the feisty old ladies’ comedy act. A man in uniform waiting nearby stepped toward them and said, “I got you a number from the kiosk over there. You need one to pick up a prescription. It’s a new system, but I can help you.”

The white-haired woman grumbled and snatched the ticket from the serviceman’s hand. Her salt-and-pepper friend thanked the man kindly, before scolding her companion for being rude.

Others standing by peeked over to see the number on the women’s ticket - B-421 - so they could alert them when the time came. Everyone seemed to understand that these women had earned their place in the line, and in life.

There was no need for the women to abide by the new pharmacy system or tone down their cantankerous banter. Somehow, the rest of us in the waiting room knew they were to be respected and taken care of, and it was our duty to do it.

We watched with genuine reverence, knowing that someday, we’ll be the retirees and retired spouses in the military clinic pharmacy waiting rooms needing help. We’ll be the ones wearing wrap-around sunglasses, pushing shopping carts through the commissaries, bickering over coupons and deli meats. We’ll be the ones telling old stories of proud moments, of sacrifices, of military friends lost and gained along the way.

Without a spoken word between us, we made a collective pact to help the two old women that day.

It took 37 minutes for my number to be called, but I was grateful for the opportunity to observe the military folks around me. Whether we know each other personally or not, we are one people, one community, one family. We share experiences and a sense of respect for our unique lifestyle.

And we take care of each other.

This Veterans’ Day, we must open our eyes and hearts to fellow military members in our communities, be they active duty, reservists, military retirees, or anyone else who has served in the U.S. Armed Services. Don’t forget about military spouses and children. Their lives are directly impacted by military orders, so they deserve recognition, too.

Hear their stories, show respect and lend a helping hand.

Read more at themeatandpotatoesoflife.com and in Lisa’s book, “The Meat and Potatoes of Life: My True Lit Com.” Email: meatandpotatoesoflife@gmail.com