Remember - start each day with a task completed. - William McRaven
It was a habit learned and enforced at the orphanage. Every morning, before you even get dressed, you make your bed. Neatly. Once a week, you strip your bed and make it up with new clean sheets and pillow cases. Neatly. And once a month, you get a freshly laundered coverlet, which goes on - neatly - before you get breakfast.
The only thing you were allowed to do before making your bed was using the bathroom.
When he was little, it took a lot of trips around the bed to make sure everything was even and tucked in where it should be. It got easier as he grew up, and by the time he was old enough to leave, he could make it with hardly any extra steps at all.
And he had to admit - getting into a neatly made bed each night was nice.
College came, and different roommates. Guys who hadn't necessarily grown up with that rule. Guys who maybe had and loved being able to decide they just wouldn't bother.
He didn't. Every morning he still made his bed. Every week he washed the sheets. Every month he washed the coverlet.
He took a lot of teasing about "little Suzy Homemaker", but he just laughed it off. It was still nice to get into a neatly made bed.
Then Leslie happened. The Army.
The Army. A spur of the moment I-don't-give-a-damn-anymore decision. While he'd learned to make his bed neatly, it didn't pass muster with the drill sergeant. But he was a quick study. He also learned that no praise was merited "just for making a fucking bed right". That was okay. He'd never gotten praise for doing what he was supposed to.
And he welcomed getting into a neatly made bed after the day's dose of Basic.
He couldn't remember how he ended up in OCS. Or Special Forces after that. Someone higher up decided he should go. He went. Did as he was told with a single-minded determination that impressed people. It wasn't that he cared about the Army, or the rank. It was only so he'd be too focussed to think about her.
He ended up a 2nd Louie in Vietnam. The barracks in Nha Trang reminded him of his room at the orphanage. Sparse. He started every day by making his bed. Until he was assigned to his A-Team.
No beds to make on patrol. Sleeping on the ground, their packs or each other for pillows. Sometimes under a tarp. A hammock during the monsoon. If they were lucky. If they were in a relatively safe area. If they had time to set them up.
During the brief respites back at base, he made his bed. It didn't mean he slept better. He just wanted to feel normal again.
Fort Bragg. The cots were hard, the mattresses thin, the sheets worn. Didn't matter. His bed was made every morning, before he got dressed. Before he joined Hannibal and BA in the common room and pretended to be positive. He could look at the freshly made bed and convince himself that he had actually accomplished something.
After the escape, they slept in cars, in fields, in woods. He managed to get them sleeping bags, at least. Once in a while they found a friend from in-country, and got to sleep inside, in beds. He always stripped the bed the next morning and replaced the bedding with clean. They never stayed more than one night. It was the least he could do.
At some point, he discovered the wonderful world of squatting. And how many beautiful homes and condos were sitting empty while their well-to-do owners were gallivanting around the world. He always slept well in those places. In soft silky sheets on a freshly made bed. And he always smiled, remembering where he came from, and where he was now.
Quite the accomplishment. Yes, indeed.