Building More Than Wood: The Gazebo at the 335th Training Squadron


Gazebo built outside the 335th Training Squadron at Keesler AFB

While attending Air Force Technical Training at Keesler Air Force Base in Biloxi, Mississippi, I found myself with unexpected downtime between courses. Rather than waste the hours, a few fellow airmen and I decided to channel our energy into something productive: we built a gazebo. It wasn’t part of our formal training, nor was it an assignment handed down from leadership. It was something we wanted to do, a project that combined teamwork, pride, and a desire to leave a mark on the place where we were learning to shape our Air Force careers.

The gazebo stood just outside the 335th Training Squadron, located in the section of base we all knew as the “Triangle.” For those unfamiliar, the Triangle was a hub of student life at Keesler, a crossroads where airmen gathered between classes, studied, relaxed, and forged friendships that often outlasted their time in the service. The 335th Training Squadron carried the mascot “Da Bulls,” and while the name always brought a smile to our faces, the identity of the squadron carried a sense of pride. Every training unit in the Air Force has its own culture, and the 335th’s culture was about grit, humor, and camaraderie. That gazebo quickly became part of that story.

I still remember the sweat, the laughter, and the occasional frustration as we pieced it together. It wasn’t just about cutting wood and hammering nails—it was about cooperation, trust, and working side by side with people who were, at that point, strangers bound together by uniforms and oaths. Over time, the structure became more than lumber and shingles. It became a symbol, a place where airmen could sit in the shade on blistering Mississippi afternoons, swap stories, and catch their breath between the relentless pace of training.

Not long ago, I stumbled across an old newspaper clipping about the gazebo. Seeing it in print stirred up a rush of memories. The clipping wasn’t just about the structure—it captured a moment in time, a snapshot of how a small group of us decided to give back to the squadron in our own way. I even remember crossing paths with Major Carol St. Denis, the commander of the 335th Training Squadron at the time. She struck me as approachable and engaged, someone who cared not only about the mission but also about the people carrying it out. Running into her occasionally reminded me that leadership isn’t about distance; it’s about presence.

Looking back, that gazebo seems like a small thing compared to the larger scope of military operations. But in its own way, it was significant. It was proof that even in the rigid structure of military training, there was space for creativity, initiative, and leaving behind something tangible for the next wave of airmen. For me, it became a reminder that the Air Force wasn’t just about technical manuals and drills. It was about people, about moments, and about building something lasting—even if that “something” was a simple gazebo outside a squadron building.

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From Basic to Biloxi: My First Days at Keesler Air Force Base


Map of Keesler Air Force Base in Biloxi, Mississippi

After graduating from Basic Military Training in San Antonio, Texas, I boarded a plane bound for New Orleans, Louisiana. From there, a bus carried me east along the Gulf Coast until we pulled into Biloxi, Mississippi—home of Keesler Air Force Base. The ride was long but filled with the kind of nervous anticipation that only comes with stepping into a completely new world. Clutching my issued duffel and the folded map of the base I’d been handed, I felt the weight of both excitement and nerves. Keesler would be my home for the next sixteen weeks, a place where I would trade the rigid lessons of basic training for the focused challenge of technical school. This was where the Air Force would turn recruits into professionals with real skills, and it was where I would begin to understand the role I had committed to play in serving my country.

The journey from civilian life to military life had already been dramatic at Lackland, but Keesler marked another turning point. Unlike basic training, where every day was a battle against fatigue, inspections, and the relentless push for discipline, technical training carried a different atmosphere. It wasn’t about survival anymore—it was about specialization. Here, we weren’t just Airmen in formation; we were future technicians, controllers, maintainers, and operators. Keesler was where the Air Force took its wide-eyed graduates and funneled them into their career fields, shaping us into the gears that kept the military machine running. For me, it was a chance to finally see the path I had chosen take form.

That map they gave me wasn’t just a folded piece of paper—it was a lifeline. Keesler sprawled out like its own city, with dormitories stacked row by row, classrooms buzzing with instructors, chow halls echoing with hundreds of conversations, PT fields alive with running cadences, and technical facilities where the hum of machines mixed with the scratch of chalkboards. For someone fresh off the bus, it was overwhelming. Every corner of that map represented a place I would come to know intimately: places where I would struggle with lessons, places where I would grow in confidence, and places where I would finally realize that the Air Force wasn’t just a uniform but a calling.

Life at Keesler settled into a rhythm that was both exhausting and exhilarating. Our mornings began with the sharp call of accountability formations, followed by long hours of lectures in classrooms filled with the glow of projectors and the drone of technical jargon. Afternoons were often hands-on, with lab sessions that required patience, precision, and teamwork. Inspections came without warning, and study sessions filled every free block of time. Evenings often blurred into nights, spent balancing between homework and the rare luxury of a few hours of downtime. Yet in the grind, we found friendship. My fellow Airmen became more than classmates—they became family. We shared laughter during long study nights, pushed each other through physical training, and swapped stories of home during rare quiet moments. Alone, Keesler could break you; together, it gave us strength.

The Gulf Coast setting added its own character to the experience. Humidity clung to the air, wrapping around us like a heavy blanket during outdoor drills, and sudden summer storms would sweep across the base, drenching us one moment and leaving clear skies the next. On weekends, if we earned the privilege, we could venture off base and taste a bit of southern life—seafood gumbo, jazz drifting from bars, and the sight of the Gulf of Mexico stretching into the horizon. These escapes reminded us that there was still a world beyond the gates, even if our time within them was tightly controlled.

Looking back, my arrival at Keesler marked the moment when the Air Force stopped being an abstract idea and became real. The base map I clutched that first day symbolized more than just directions—it was a guide into a new identity, one rooted in service, discipline, and purpose. By the time sixteen weeks had passed, I no longer looked at that map as a stranger. I could walk its halls and roads without thinking, every building tied to a memory of struggle, triumph, or growth. When I finally marched away from Keesler with my technical training complete, I realized I had transformed. I was no longer just a nervous newcomer clutching a piece of paper; I was an Airman with a skill set, a mission, and the confidence to meet whatever came next.

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Dancing with Greatness: My First NFL Game and the Magic of Barry Sanders


Detroit Lions Ticket Stub - Front


Detroit Lions Ticket Stub - Back

This was the first NFL football game I had ever seen in person, and it’s a memory that still feels fresh decades later. I can picture the faded ticket stub even now, worn around the edges from years of being tucked into drawers and boxes, rediscovered in moments of nostalgia. That small piece of paper wasn’t just an entry pass to a stadium—it was the doorway into an experience that electrified me, a first step into the roar and rhythm of professional football. And as fate would have it, that first game wasn’t just any game. It was the game where I saw Barry Sanders—one of the greatest running backs in NFL history—dart, weave, and sprint directly toward my section for a touchdown. The image is seared into my mind, not just as a highlight of a sporting event, but as a personal brush with greatness.

Walking into the stadium that day, I didn’t know what to expect. Television had already shown me glimpses of the NFL’s spectacle—the booming commentary, the polished replays, the iconic helmets glinting under the lights. But TV couldn’t prepare me for the sheer scale of the real thing. The sea of jerseys, the smell of hot dogs and popcorn, the echoing chants rolling like waves through the stands—it all hit me at once. I remember pausing just to take it all in. There’s something about being part of a crowd tens of thousands strong, unified by anticipation, that makes you feel both small and infinite at the same time. That was my baptism into football fandom: not just watching the game, but feeling the atmosphere swallow me whole.

The ticket stub itself told a story. Printed on it were the team logos, the date, the section and seat numbers, and of course the price—a price that feels almost laughable compared to today’s soaring ticket costs. But to me, that stub became more than a receipt. It was a symbol, a tangible piece of memory I could hold in my hand, proof that I was there. Years later, long after the cheers faded and the players retired, that stub still carried the echo of the crowd and the adrenaline of the moment Barry Sanders took off down the field.

Ah, Barry Sanders. To see him play live was like watching poetry in motion. He wasn’t just fast—he was elusive in a way that seemed supernatural. The defense would collapse around him, arms stretching, helmets crashing, and somehow, impossibly, he would slip free. His runs weren’t just about yardage; they were about defiance. Defiance of physics, of angles, of probability itself. That day, when he broke through and sprinted directly toward my section, it felt like the stadium tilted toward me. Every eye followed him, but for a heartbeat, I felt like I was the one player and fan alike were running with. He crossed into the end zone and the crowd erupted, and I found myself screaming at the top of my lungs, not even realizing it until my throat burned.

What makes that moment so unforgettable isn’t just that it was a touchdown—it’s that it was Barry Sanders. Even then, I knew I was watching someone special. This was a man whose name was already etched in NFL history, a player whose style couldn’t be replicated. Other running backs could be powerful, others could be speedy, but Barry’s mix of vision, agility, and humility set him apart. To witness him live, not through the filter of a television broadcast but with my own eyes, was to feel part of football’s living legend. And for it to happen during my very first NFL game? That felt like destiny.

The stadium shook after that run. High fives from strangers, hugs with people I’d never met, and laughter bubbling from every row—it was a communal joy. That’s one of the things I love about sports: the way it dissolves the barriers between people. In that moment, nobody cared who I was, what I did, or where I came from. We were all part of the same roar, the same pulse, the same memory. That touchdown bound me to everyone else in the stadium that day.

In the days after, I told anyone who would listen that I had seen Barry Sanders run for a touchdown. Friends nodded politely, some jealous, others not quite grasping the magnitude. But to me, it wasn’t just about bragging rights. It was about the way it made me feel. There’s a certain kind of awe that stays with you when you see greatness live, unmediated. It’s the same as seeing a musician perform at the peak of their powers, or an actor deliver a performance so raw it leaves you speechless. Greatness feels different when you experience it firsthand, and it changes you. You carry it with you like a spark.

Looking back, that game marked the beginning of my deeper connection with football. Before, it had been something I watched on Sundays, a background rhythm to the fall. After that day, it became something visceral. I started following stats, memorizing rosters, and diving into the history of the league. But more importantly, I carried the memory of Barry Sanders’ run like a touchstone. Whenever I thought about why I loved football, I went back to that moment. The ticket stub tucked into my wallet or pinned to a corkboard reminded me not just of a game, but of an initiation into a community, a tradition, and an enduring passion.

Time has passed since then. Stadiums have changed, ticket stubs have become digital, and Barry Sanders himself retired earlier than anyone expected, leaving fans forever wondering how much higher his career totals could have climbed. But that doesn’t diminish what I saw that day. If anything, it makes the memory shine brighter. I was there. I saw Barry Sanders, in his prime, take off toward me and cross the goal line. And no matter how many games I’ve attended since, no matter how many players I’ve admired, that moment will always stand as the pinnacle of my football journey.

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