Four years of academia prepared student veteran Jen Carver Comer for this moment, but it’s a bit intimidating, nonetheless.

On her 29th birthday, less than a week after donning a cap and gown with thousands of other graduates at Weber State University in northern Utah, Comer is going before a juvenile court judge to offer her opinion about a young offender’s prospects.

“I’m a firm believer (that) you go in the room being the smartest person there, knowing everything about the case,” says Comer. “So I’ve done my homework.”

Comer, an Army veteran who did two tours in Iraq, is finishing up an internship at the Farmington Bay Youth Center, where she has been a youth worker for several months. It’s in that role that the student veteran is going before the judge.

The internship is one of her last student projects; this summer she’ll finish a senior capstone course and another internship at WSU’s law enforcement academy, completing dual degrees in social work and criminal justice. (WSU allows students to “walk” at commencement in the spring because there is no ceremony for those who finish school in summer).

And then she’ll be ready for the next chapter, studying for a criminal justice master’s degree at WSU in the fall and beginning work on a master’s degree in social work in summer 2014.

While her own background of childhood abuse and family dysfunction gives her a soft spot for troubled teens, she also wants to teach law enforcement candidates about cultural sensitivity and diversity.

The two degrees equip her well, says Bruce Bayley, a criminal justice professor and one of Comer’s mentors.

“She’ll be a conduit between those two worlds that often don’t get along very well,” says Bayley. “She’ll be a mediator.”
—

‘I protect people’ • T.J. Carver, Comer’s 5-year-old son, holds up the WSU medal on a purple ribbon that his mother gave him. They wave and grin at each other, as T.J. sits in the Dee Events Center arena seats with his stepdad, Daniel Comer, 2-year-old step-sister Scarlett and grandpa Bill Comer and his partner, Shereen Strong.

Comer is down below, in a crowd of hundreds of graduates of the College of Behavioral and Social Sciences. Two red, white and blue cords signify she is a veteran, like many of the criminal justice majors.

Daniel Comer, whom Carver married last August, beams as he watches her walk up to symbolically collect first one, then a second degree.

Comer is grateful for their blended family’s support, but disappointed that her father, who lives in Washington, did not come. She is the first in his family to graduate college. The first in her mother’s, too, but they no longer speak. “I about lost it when they had the families stand,” Comer says, describing the moment during commencement when families are recognized for their support.

After commencement, she flashes open her graduation gown to reveal a short black sheath dress. Her spike heels are red sateen with black lace.

Comer spends the afternoon trying, unsuccessfully, to donate blood at the academy; her iron level is too low.

The donation will have to wait, likely a year because Comer is getting a ninth tattoo to celebrate her graduation, birthday and Mother’s Day.

It will be a pair of angel’s wings that look made of iron, with blades in place of some feather tips. A bullet hole will pierce the place on her back directly behind her heart.

“I’m the protector,” she said. “I protect people, I shield them. Basically, I take the brunt of it.”
—

‘So much going for her’ • She is reflective this afternoon, hours after graduation, considering her long road from the Army to likely graduating with a GPA in the neighborhood of 3.30.

A native of a small town in northern California, Comer escaped at age 18, barely out of high school, and joined the Army.

Two tours in Iraq and a broken marriage later, she was 25 when she settled in Utah so her 2-year-old son could be near his father’s family.

The first two semesters almost killed her ambition.

“I didn’t think I could do it. I really just wanted to quit. I didn’t think I was smart enough,” Comer says.

But Charlie Chandler, director of WSU’s Veterans Services office, recognized her leadership skills and helped her rediscover her strengths.

Comer is tearful as she recalls, with gratitude, Chandler’s kindness and that of four professors who she credits with molding her.

Corina Segovia Tadehara, a social work professor, helped Comer learn about herself in what Comer remembers as an “emotionally draining process.”

It was in one of her first classes with Tadehara that Comer created a ceramic mask that she carries today in her Jeep; her son, T.J., wants to hang it on his wall. She painted the outside red, white and blue and adorned it with symbols of her life to that time, journeys across the world and little-boy toys.

She painted the inside in camouflage colors, including a silhouette of a soldier kneeling before a battle cross, symbolizing a fallen soldier.

“On the inside, I’ll always be a soldier,” says Comer. “And you always remember the ones you lost along the way.”

She credits Bayley and Jack Rickards, director of the law enforcement academy, with teaching her diplomacy and tact.

Steve Vigil treats her like a colleague as she finishes her last projects with him, empowering her to be the professional she has trained to be.

“I literally had an epiphany with him,” she says. “He brought me full circle.”

Comer, says Tadehara, does not give herself enough credit.

“Ultimately, she gets all the credit. We were just sounding boards, in her corner,” Tadehara says.

“She has so much going for her. I don’t think she always sees it.”

—
American Homecomings followed Iraq veteran Jen Carver Comer as she studied, served on the student senate, worked at the veteran center, raised her son and re-married during her senior year at Weber State University. See the story archive here.

Editor’s note: This is the final installment of a year-long series of stories about Iraq War veteran Roman Baca, whose personal journey has taken him from New Mexico to Connecticut and now New York City.

NEW YORK CITY — Seven years removed from a bunker in Fallujah, Roman Baca’s worlds collided the other night in a tiny, avant garde theater in Queens.

It was live streamed, no less.

Exit 12, the ballet troop Baca founded with his wife, Lisa Fitzgerald, was performing dances he’d created out of his war experiences in Iraq; one of the Marines who served with him, Joseph D’Amico of Hamden, Conn., sat in the third row; the livestream audience included Iraqi kids Baca taught last year on a goodwill mission to Erbil. Also watching was Baca’s mom, in New Mexico.

It was like a digital version of “This Is Your Life.”

“Honestly, I don’t think I could do this without incorporating all the other elements,” said Baca, who sat off to the side of the small stage. “This is bigger than just me and my story.”

Maybe so, but there’s little doubt this has been a whirlwind year for the ballet-dancing Marine.

Baca, 38, has been featured everywhere from CNN and the Wall Street Journal to the cover of the Village Voice. He took a full-time job with a veterans’ group called The Mission Continues, connecting him to veterans doing service projects across the country. He also returned to Iraq to teach dance, performed aboard the U.S.S. Intrepid aircraft carrier and conducted workshops at the U.S. military academy at West Point.

“I feel like my life has purpose,” Baca said, comparing the past year to when he first got home from Iraq. “I feel more focused and have more of a direction. It’s funny. When you create something and go in a direction that scares you, the scarier it is, the more you know you’re going in the right direction.”

Not bad for a guy who used to have thoughts of ramming into other cars during traffic jams.

“I wanted to keep this work honest and true to form, so that people couldn’t say we were taking advantage of the veterans’ space, or that we were capitalizing on all of this veteran buzz that has been going on,” Baca said.

The centerpiece of this night in Queens, as it is at many of Exit 12’s shows, was a dance called “Homecoming.” It describes the reunion of American soldiers with their families, accompanied by a sound track of actual letters written by military families.

Another part of the show featured a dance inspired by the Iraqi youth Baca met last year. It was filled with quick, acrobatic movements, as opposed to the flowing, timeless pacing of “Homecoming.”

In the audience, D’Amico watched intently. Not a dancer himself, he was persuaded several years ago to take part in one of Baca’s performances, dressed in military garb.

D’Amico said he’s proud that Baca has pursued his dreams as an artist  something he’d confided to D’Amico years ago in Iraq.

“We were each other’s right hand, through a lot of it,” D’Amico said of their time in the military. “I didn’t spend any more time with anybody other than Roman. He was my … he was the guy.”

These days, he’s a guy on a mission.

In April, Baca and Exit 12 will perform at West Point again and at Walter Reed Army Medical Center in Washington, D.C. Meanwhile, he continues to talk with politicians in Connecticut and New York about putting together a cultural mission in Iraq.

A new dance piece is also in the works. This one, written by Angela Scimonelli, is called “Sometimes, Silence.” It’s about a mother who watches her two sons grow up, join the Army and go off to war in Afghanistan.

“It will have its New York debut on the Intrepid on Memorial Day weekend,” Baca said.

By that time, even more U.S. troops will have returned from the Middle East. They’ll join their fellow veterans in an often difficult transition into civilian life.

Baca said he plans to chronicle their journey and promote their interests for years to come, whether it’s a popular topic or not.

“I think the country is tired of these operations that have been going on and they’re weary of seeing veterans in the news every day,” he said. “We know there’s an expiration date on what we do. We also talk about how we cannot pay attention to that. We need to keep pushing our message.”

Now and then, Darnell Rias finds himself thinking about what he’d be doing if his life hadn’t been changed on Oct. 8, 2010.

Right about now, he’d be thinking about re-enlisting, and probably would have by now. He loved the Marine Corps and loved serving.

On this day, a weekday, he’d probably be training, or cleaning his barracks, or attending a class. Or he could be deployed. Half of his old unit, the 2nd Battalion, 9th Marines — the Two-Nine — is in Afghanistan, still working and fighting as military operations there wind down and the U.S. prepares to withdraw all combat troops by next year.

He still keeps in touch with some of the guys from his unit. One of best friends, Cpl. Harley Philhower, just re-enlisted. Others, like Ryan Ferland, a 24-year-old Navy Corpsman from Pawtucket, R.I., and Cpl. Tom Coggins, from Georgia, left the service the same way he did, by being wounded in action. They share a bond, one forged with blood.

“We’ve been through a lot,” he said. “After going through what we’ve been through, we can’t not talk about it.”

He misses the Marine Corps. He misses the military lifestyle. He misses the guys in his unit.

Technically, at 23, he’s retired, the injuries he suffered when his M-ATV struck an IED having left him with little choice. He could have stayed in the Marines, but would have been restricted to administrative duties, a desk job, in the rear with the gear.

Darnell Rias’ Purple Heart sits on his TV stand, along with formal photos taken during his time in the Marines, in his West Manchester Township, Pa. apartment.

That wasn’t what he signed up for. He signed up to be a warfighter and he had his chance, albeit not for as long as he hoped.

Still, he said, he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

“No regrets,” he said. “I had a good run in the Marine Corps.”

***

His life is lot different now than it was when he was in the Corps, and it’s even a lot different than what it was like just last year.

Then, he was kind of in a holding pattern, waiting for his G.I. Bill to come through to start school, going to the Veterans Affairs clinic for ongoing treatment, living in his mother’s West York home. It was a frustrating time for him; he wanted the latest chapter of his life to begin.

But he was still halfway between separating from the Marine Corps and joining the real world.

Now, about a year later, he has made the jump. He is going to school — taking classes at the York campus of Harrisburg Area Community College — and he has his own apartment in West Manchester Township. It feels as if his life is on track and things are happening.

Things still aren’t completely settled. He is thinking about moving to Virginia or West Virginia and transferring his credits to a college or university there. (His girlfriend lives in Virginia.) And he still has to get through this first year of college and decide what he wants to do with his life.

He pretty much takes it as it comes, he said. He’s not big on planning or plotting. “I play it by ear and see how it goes,” he said.

After all, he said, his time in the Marines “didn’t go according to plan.”

Darnell Rias meets with a group of specialists at the VA Medical Center in Lebanon County, Pa. to assess his health care needs as he makes the transition to civilian life. The specialists, from left, are neuropsychiatrist Aida Rjepaj, speech-language pathologist Pete Brown, physiatrist Duc Kim Hoang, traumatic brain injury point of contact Sandy Jones and Operation Enduring Freedom/Operation Iraqi Freedom program manager Katie Reesor.

***

The plan was derailed on that October day.

He spent a couple of months in the hospital and months after that in physical therapy and exercising to keep his back as flexible as it could be. Still, he has limited motion with his back. And he suffers from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and headaches brought on by a traumatic brain injury.

He sometimes has trouble sleeping. When that happens, he either lies in bed or gets up and watches TV or studies.

During a recent visit to the VA clinic in Springettsbury Township, he had a brief checkup and then met with a doctor. Mostly, it was just a visit to check in.

Katie Reesor, Operation Enduring Freedom/Operation Iraqi Freedom program manager, outlines health care options for Darnell Rias.

His health seemed to be on track.

He doesn’t have any more appointments scheduled.

But the VA is there if he needs it.

“The VA has been very helpful,” he said. “They’re always there.”

***

His classes this semester are harder than the last term. He has a lot of work to do, tests to study for, papers to write.

He laments that he procrastinates when it comes to doing his schoolwork sometimes — typical college student.

He sometimes struggles with the work; his traumatic brain injury makes it difficult to remember things or concentrate. He’s getting better at it, though. The work is hard, but he’s getting used to it and getting used to what’s expected.

Still, he feels stress.

“I’ll have two papers due and a midterm coming up,” he said. “So there’s some stress.”

Darnell Rias studies in the living room of his West Manchester Township, Pa. apartment. He went into the Marine Corps straight from high school and moved back into his mother’s house after his retirement. It’s the first time he has had a place of his own. A San Francisco 49ers fan, he has a Fathead of star linebacker Patrick Willis on his wall.

But compared to the stress of preparing to go on patrol or being in a war zone, he said, “it’s very minor.

“The worst-case scenario is maybe I miss an assignment. Nobody’s going to get hurt.”

***

He is majoring in criminal justice and hasn’t decided what he plans to do. Obviously, he said, his back limits what jobs he may qualify for. Patrol officers, for instance, have to meet certain physical standards and his back may disqualify him from that.

“I’ll find something or other,” he said. “I have a pretty good sense of where it’s going.”

He may not know what he’ll become.

But he knows what he is.

A Marine.

“It’s a source of pride,” he said. “Not everybody gets to do it.

“If I had to do it all over again, I’d do the same thing.”

Darnell Rias waits to be seen by doctors. As a Marine, he was injured in Afghanistan while on patrol. But he says he has no regrets.

AURORA — The story of Kevin Anton’s  American homecoming has unfolded in progressive chapters: the happy-go-lucky soldier’s return; the first steps toward a civilian career; the sudden leap into family life; the struggle to redefine both himself and the very idea of “home.”

But for the former Army intelligence specialist, who served a tour in Iraq, they’re linked by an underlying theme.

Discipline, he reminds himself, or everything’s lost.

It is how he shoehorns about 64 hours of work at two nursing jobs into his week, how he attends and studies for two college classes and manages to wedge quality time with his fiancée, Edna Ramos, cq and their two young boys into the mix.

“I’ve made something of myself when everybody said I wasn’t supposed to make something of myself,” says Anton, 26, cq who grew up the Los Angeles-born son of Nicaraguan immigrants. “I feel like I’ve come out of the ’hood, fulfilled my call to duty, done something for myself and took advantage of everything the United States of America gave me and my family.”

He realizes that his homecoming has differed significantly — for the better — from many others who returned from war zones, both now and in previous generations. In the jobs he has held at rehabilitation facilities, he has encountered veterans from the Vietnam war whose return from combat met with public hostility.

“They speak about how they weren’t accepted, how they were called ‘baby-killers,’ ” Anton says. He no longer tells them that he, too, is a veteran, for fear they might resent him.

He returned from Iraq unscathed, physically or emotionally, and still recalls his military work as exhilarating and rewarding. He would have re-upped, if not for the pleading of his parents.

With civilian life looming ahead, he shifted his sights to becoming a licensed practical nurse, then worked and took classes at the Community College of Aurora to finish up some credits before transferring to University of Phoenix to pursue his bachelor’s degree.

With the help of military programs like the post-9/11 G.I. bill and VA loans, he has gotten financial assistance for his education and been able to buy a house for his family — Edna, her son Isaiah cq from a previous relationship and Kevin Jr. cq

“It’s a blessing everything worked out that way,” says Anton, who also has reconnected with his Seventh-Day Adventist religious roots. “I’ve been to church a lot more often. I’ve been real thankful.”

Now, his challenges focus on more mundane concerns, like the balancing act of time and money — covering both necessities and family outings to the monster truck show or the Denver Aquarium.

While Edna puts in 20 hours a week as a nurse when she’s not caring for the kids, Anton recently took on a new job with more flexible hours — and kept his old job on a part-time basis. The expanded work time has helped him pay down credit card debt and offer financial assistance to family in L.A.

But it also reinforced the importance of the military discipline that has helped him methodically grind out the work week while handling school as well — he’s currently enrolled in an anatomy and physiology class plus a film study elective.

Meanwhile, he has become something of a role model for Brian Furman, cq a close friend since they met while stationed at Buckley Air Force Base several years ago. And Furman has become a point of reference for Anton’s ability to move ahead with his life.

They both served tours in Iraq and eventually shared an apartment while Furman was still in the Air Force and Anton was a footloose single guy in the waning months of his Army service.

They reunited when Anton rebounded after a short-lived marriage and started to forge a post-military identity.

Furman saw him as an emotional, heart-on-his-sleeve kind of guy struggling to deal with the end of his brief marriage while also dealing anew with the civilian world.

“When you’re still in and you see somebody transitioning out, you almost think it should be easy,” says Furman, 30. cq “It was probably good that I was in and he was getting out, because it helped us see each other’s point of view.”

Furman,who remained in the Air Force, watched Anton enroll at Concorde Career College cq and began to realize how hard his friend worked and how much he was learning in the nursing program.

“I saw him fulfilled, in a way,” Furman says. “And I thought, ‘That’s what I want to do.’ He was an inspiration.”

When he exited the military in 2011, Furman started down the same path. Now, he looks at Anton with admiration at what he’s been able to accomplish both professionally and personally.

“I get chills just thinking about it,” says Furman. “I remember him at his lowest point. And now I see him, how hard he’s working, how he knows who he is and what he wants out of life. I see where he’s at now, and ‘proud’ doesn’t even suffice.”

Still, Anton admits that sometimes he will “look in the rearview mirror” and regard his time in the military wistfully, as something that retains a certain hold over him. He toys with joining the Reserves, but admits that he avoids that conversation with Edna — for now, at least — and remains focused on creating a stable home for the boys.

“I sweep it under the rug,” Anton says of his dilemma, “but at the end of the day, I made the decision to be here and support my family. But I’m 26. There’s a lot more decision-making I have to do.”

The process suggests a more fluid, figurative “homecoming,” influenced by his L.A. childhood, his military coming-of-age, his continuing personal metamorphosis.

“It’s all what made me who I am,” Anton says. “But what defines me is what I have here, in the moment. I never stop moving forward. I never regret anything. This is home now.

“Colorado is home.”

Kevin Simpson: 303-954-1739, ksimpson@denverpost.com or twitter.com/ksimpsondp

The Denver Post has followed Kevin Anton since last spring as he adjusted to civilian life. His story and those of other servicemen and -women are on the site AmericanHomecomings.com. This marks the last regular installment about Anton, though The Post will continue to check in on him from time to time. American Homecomings chronicles the lives of returning veterans of the Iraq and Afghanistan wars and offers news, support-service information and a place to share photos and memories.

As recently as last year, his depression seemed to be deepening. With a fifth child on the way, Wright began to wonder if his choice of charting his own path to deal with post-traumatic stress disorder was fair to himself, or his family.

The former Marine, who recently turned 30, doesn’t know if his fierce determination or just the passage of time finally led him to focus on all the good things in his world. So far, that simple but not so obvious notion seems to be moving him forward.

“It’s getting there,” Wright says about his life six years after being diagnosed with PTSD.

“There hasn’t been one (expletive) year that hasn’t been a struggle, but it’s getting better,” he said. “Nothing’s ever easy. Who the hell ever said it would be?”

Wright returned from Iraq in 2006 a decorated war hero, but felt isolated and unappreciated in civilian life. Like many combat veterans, he spent most of his time “bunkering down” at home, avoiding situations that might trigger emotions left over from the battlefield.

“I was pissed off and a little scary then,” he recalled.

His contacts with the outside world were mostly limited to job interviews, which often ended abruptly when Wright was asked about his PTSD diagnosis. He came to believe some potential employers regarded applicants with combat-related emotional issues as risky as those with serious criminal records.

He landed one job with a national retail chain, but reluctantly quit when recurring headaches from a war wound caused him to miss several days of work.

Late last year a couple of jobs through a temp agency led Wright to a permanent position with a company that delivers and sets up medical equipment for hospice patients. Despite the nature of the work, he said he has found a certain satisfaction in helping patients and family members facing end-of-life issues.

“I get to help patients who are passing on,” he said. “You get to understand how the patient’s families feel, and it gives me some peace of mind knowing that I did my best to make everyone more comfortable.”

The job has helped him recapture some of the spirit and focus that saw him through three tours of duty in Iraq.

“Right now I’m being far more social than I used to be,” Wright said. “I know it starts with me.”

Once agitated to the brink of aggression by the rudeness of strangers, Wright said he is learning to accept people for who they are.

“I have to push myself to do the right things,” he said. “I’ve learned to say ‘forget it’ and just kind of push on.”

Wright remains supportive of U.S. military involvement in the Middle East, but said he’s been disappointed over several incidents involving the behavior of personnel deployed to Iraq and Afghanistan. None are more upsetting, he said, than the tragedy last month that took the life of former Navy SEAL Chris Kyle, a sniper credited with the highest number of combat kills in U.S. history.

Kyle and a neighbor, Chad Littlefield, took former Marine Eddie Ray Routh, 25, to a Texas firing range thinking it would help ease his symptoms from PTSD. Routh is accused of, for reasons yet unknown, turning on the two men, shooting them both dead with a semi-automatic pistol.

Wright believes Routh should be punished but should also be helped if PTSD is determined to be the cause of the shooting. “I don’t think he can be helped, but I would give it a try,” Wright said. “I think he kind of went off the deep end, but I wouldn’t give up hope.”

Wright said, under certain circumstances, he would risk his safety to help out a fellow veteran with emotional issues.

He hasn’t fired a weapon since his discharge, but hasn’t ruled out going to the shooting range as a way to relieve stress. He recalls “feeling naked” without his M-16 a long time after returning home.

Wright said he never gave up on himself, yet he understands the destructive emotions war veterans are sometimes powerless to control.

Holly veteran couple Tyler and Rosemarie Kenny have had a jam-packed year following the birth of their son Aedan Maddox — but they would not change anything for the world.The past year has a been an adjustment, to say the least, with Tyler still actively drilling in the National Guard, going to school, working as a Veterans’ Benefit Counselor and being a dad.With the start of a new semester, Tyler is catching a break since he’s only taking one class at Oakland University toward his master’s degree.“I’ve only got one class this semester, it’s not as busy as last semester,” Tyler said. “… It’s a government financial class … it’s kind of the sector I work in everyday — so it’s interesting to know a higher level of thinking and operating.”The couple left Iraq in 2010, and Rose left the National Guard in July 2012.

Tyler is still drilling for the National Guard one weekend a month and two weeks a year. Tyler’s drills are conveniently located in his hometown, and he brings Aedan along so that he can see his grandparents.

At work, Tyler is thriving, and staying busy.

“We stay pretty busy up here (at Oakland County Veterans’ Services) … but it’s not busy to where you’re overwhelmed,” Tyler said.

Meanwhile, Rose has been busy being a mom and maintaining her perfect grades, as she works toward her bachelor’s degree in criminal justice from Eastern Michigan University.

Things have also settled down for her, as she is going to school less and nearing completion of her degree.

“It’s going pretty good, I actually cut down on the classes. Last semester, it was twice a week from 10 a.m. to 8 p.m., so now I’m just going to night classes,” Rose said.

“We’re living our family life and just trying to finish college,” Rose said. “I have two classes left, I’m hoping to get them done in the summer — if they aren’t offered, I may have to wait until fall.”

The next step will to start the job hunt, which Rose knows could be difficult.

“If I’m working, I probably won’t walk (at graduation), Tyler really wants me to walk … so that’s really up for negotiation,” Rose said.

The baby is now 10 months old and growing up quickly. He can now stand up and is quite vocal.

“He’s getting big,” Tyler said. “He got another tooth, so he’s got seven teeth total coming out. He’s starting to kind of walk a little bit, along kind of traveling along the couch (holding on) … If you put him down he takes off (crawling).”

Rose said Aedan’s new hobby is grabbing everything in sight.

“He’s fantastic, he’s into everything. He’s crawling and working on walking,” Rose said. “He pulls himself up on everything and grabs everything.”

Aedan has decided he does not particularly enjoy the word “no.”

“He knows the word ‘no’ and he knows what it means, but he has his daddy’s stubbornness,” Rose said. “ … We had to go around the house and baby-proof everything.”

A major highlight of the past year was the Christmas celebrations with their new addition.

“(Aedan) is a pro at ripping open the gifts, he had a really good time,” Rose said. “The whole family came over my parents and (Tyler’s) parents … Aedan loved the tree and the lights … It’s really exciting to see how exciting everything is in his eyes.”

Tyler agreed watching Aedan was the highlight of their Christmas.

“It was pretty cool to watch him open presents,” Tyler said. “The first couple you have to kind of show him how to rip the paper, but he eventually got it. But like any baby, he was more interested in the wrapping than the actual presents.”

Reflecting on the past year, there’s one moment BOTH Kenny’s agreed was the highlight.

“The first highlight is the birth of our son and over the past year it has really just revolved around him and trying to get this thing down pat, which we don’t have it,” Rose said. “Life is so much better now that we have him, but it’s a lot more work — but it’s been worth it. We’ve gotten used to the lack of sleep.”

The Kenny’s believe they are heading into the next chapter of their life.

“The biggest thing right now is Rose is finishing up school, so hopefully she’ll find a job she loves,” Tyler said.

“We’re on the brink of the next changes in our life,” Rose said. “We plan on me getting a job and probably purchasing a bigger house and having our next child — we’re right on the edge.”

Tim Kenney dances with his daughter Emily during the father daughter dance at her wedding reception. Emily married Josh Kastendiek on December 29, 2012. Photo by Mahala Gaylord

Montrose, Colo. — Duck hunting in the early weekend mornings: The rising sun  casts a soft beauty over the Uncompahgre River. The exuberant puppy at Tim Kenney’s side feels like a new best buddy. The birds angle in through the dawn and Kenney can choose to shoot, or to simply enjoy watching them.

It’s a time he is at peace. It’s a time that reminds him of who he was before he went to war.

“All these little things that I took for granted — the small things I couldn’t enjoy before,  I’m enjoying them now. I’m doing a lot better,” Kenney said two months after he hit the darkest of his post-war dark times, and began to see the light again.

Kenney, 46,  said he still views his time in an Army National Guard  infantry unit in Afghanistan as a scout and gunner as something he needed to do for his country. He is an unabashed patriot, from his love of the flag-waving sentiments of Toby Keith songs to his decision to put his life on the line and enlist.

He would do it all over again, even after the hell he’s gone through since he came back from Afghanistan wounded and since Post Traumatic Stress Disorder set in with increasingly damaging effects.

Tim Kenney’s adopted son Biniyam was the ring bearer for his older sister’s wedding, December 29, 2012. Emily Kenney, 19, walks with her father Tim before the ceremony at First Church of the Nazarene in Montrose CO. Photo by Mahala Gaylord

“The price is more real to me now.  I’ve seen what it’s like when you don’t have hope and you don’t have freedom,” Kenney said. “I think I have a lot more understanding about what is called ‘freedom’ in America. I understand more now than most Americans understand.”

Kenney was an idealistic 42-year-old husband and father of four, a businessman and an uber outdoorsman when he enlisted. He was the oldest soldier in his company at  Fort Benning. He had been a fishing, hunting and rafting guide. He had been a contract trapper. He had children who believed he could do anything. He was a tough man who was not a stranger to brawling.

He thought his age, his outlook and his life experiences would make it easier for him to deal with the stresses of war.

He was wrong.

“You can’t know when you go to war what you will have to deal with,” he said.

He started a business, Toads Guide Shop, after he returned to his family to recuperate under a program called Community-Based Warrior Transition Unit. It has been a blessing in that it allowed him to be at home rather than on a far-off base. But he is still technically an active-duty soldier, meaning he must still follow military rules while trying to navigate his way back to some semblance of normal civilian life.

Over the past two years, his life has been a journey through the Veteran’s Administration maze of care. He has gone from doctor’s office to doctor’s office for the back and shoulder pain he still suffers following surgery for injuries he sustained when his armored vehicle was hit by roadside explosives.

Tim Kenney gives as speech at the reception of his daughter Emily who married Josh Kastendiek on December 29, 2012. Photo by Mahala Gaylord

He has spent many hours in a dentist’s chair for repair of broken teeth. He has spent more time with counselors and psychiatrists who are treating his PTSD, depression and struggle to reconnect with his family.

In spite of that help, he has fallen into despair at times. In December he started drinking after 18 years of sobriety. He temporarily moved into the bunkhouse at his family’s ranch south of Montrose. But he pulled it back together.

Four days after Christmas, he was able to walk his 18-year-old daughter down the aisle with the solemn pride of any good father.

He cried “like a baby” during the ceremony as he sat between his wife and his mother. In his outspoken fashion, he called out, “you better,” after the groom promised to take care of his daughter.  He had a touching father/daughter dance at the reception.

“I was in a positive place that day,” he said.

Tim Kenney looks over at his new son-in-law Josh Kastendieck after the wedding ceremony held for his daughter Emily and Josh at First Church of the Nazarene in Montrose, CO, December 29, 2012. Photo by Mahala Gaylord

He knows more bad days are in store. His counselors have warned him about that. PTSD doesn’t simply dissolve or soften after a proscribed time. There is no roadmap for it like there is for  grief. Veterans have told him to expect his wounded psyche to continue to give him trouble for some time to come.

“I see some dark times ahead, but I’m on my way out. I know that at some point life gets better,” said Kenney, who makes it a point to count his blessings every morning when he wakes up. Those blessings include, “My God loves me. My family loves me. My church loves me.”

And he repeats what has become his mantra.

“You can’t keep a good dog down.”

Nancy Lofholm: 970-256-1957, nlofholm@denverpost.com or twitter.com/nlofholm

“I really, really loved music,” the Iraq War veteran said recently, before performing at the seventh annual Nat Keefe Concert Carnival at The Independent in San Francisco. “I loved singing. I love all kinds of music. But I showed little interest and natural ability (in playing an instrument).”

That changed, she said, when she visited Ghana, took drumming lessons and discovered rhythm in her soul. Upon returning home to Oakland, she received ukulele lessons from her husband, Erik, a professional musician who plays in the band Hot Buttered Rum.

Suddenly, she said, “I could strum.”

Yates, 30, has been a whirlwind of creative energy ever since. As is typical of her many avocations, her music is influenced by her six years in the Army, which included two tours of duty in Iraq as a public affairs specialist. Her 2008 discharge liberated her from the rigidity and drudgery of military life but not the anger that had welled inside her while she served.

She found music helps dissipate that residual frustration. She has written several songs — enough to fill a CD, “I’ve Got Your Folk Songs Right Here” — some of them sardonic missives reflecting on her time in the Army.

“It’s been an amazingly healing thing,” she said. “I’m not angry all the time, and I have a way to express myself.”

That’s a winning combination, said Jason Moon, an Iraq War veteran and founder of the Wisconsin-based nonprofit Warrior Songs. Moon seeks, through music, to promote healing in veterans.

“Music moves us in ways that conversation doesn’t,” said Moon, who suffered post-traumatic stress disorder after returning from Iraq. “Less than 1 percent (of the U.S. population) have served or are serving. A lot of people don’t get us. We think nobody is feeling what we feel.”

Emily Yates and her husband Erik Yates perform her song “A Northern California Love Song” at the Seventh Annual Nat Keefe Concert Carnival on Dec. 20 at the Independent in San Francisco. (Courtesy of Robb Hirsch)

Moon is compiling a CD he hopes will provide messages that resonate with veterans and civilians alike, to be released July 4. He asked Yates if she would contribute a track. She responded with “Smoke Break,” a song about soldiers desperate for a fleeting respite from war.“When you do a CD with a lot of heavy, depressing stuff, you don’t want to scare the civilians away,” Moon said. “She has a wonderful way of addressing serious topics. This song is about finding relief in the simple act of sitting in the smoking area and how that’s relaxing. It’s perfect.”

Yates joked that her lyrics assume the structure of the essays she used to write in the Army. “Look at my verses,” she said, while coloring placards for use as props during one of her songs at the Nat Keefe event. “I can’t even help it.”

She freely admitted that being married to a professional musician has its benefits.

“Because of him, I’m always around other musicians,” she said. “I’m so spoiled. I know it’s part of how I’ve been able to get as good as I have so fast. Granted, I’m not going to be anywhere near as good as them by the time I die, but I can play well enough to express myself in a way people will listen to.”

There’s no denying Yates’ piercing wit and unflinching commitment to telling the truth as she sees it. From “I Don’t Want to Have a Baby,” to “Shut Yer Face,” to “Foreign Policy Folk Song,” you don’t have to wonder what she’s thinking.

She performed two songs at the Nat Keefe Concert Carnival, which played to a capacity holiday season crowd. She was accompanied by her husband on “A Northern California Love Song,” him on banjo and her on a banjo strung to mimic a ukulele. Then she was joined by about a dozen musicians and backup singers — “a combined, like, hundreds of years of experience,” she said — for her signature tune, “Try Not to Be a Dick.” Long before she finished, the crowd of about 100 was on its feet and singing along.

Yates and her husband took a post-holiday Jam Cruise, combining sightseeing in the Bahamas with musical performances and workshops. But she doesn’t consider music to be mere instant gratification. On schedule to complete her degree in Near Eastern Studies at UC Berkeley in May, she would like to return to Iraq some day to participate in a collaborative musical project with Iraqis.

“Music is the great communication bridger,” she said. “I feel that in life, it’s really about playing to your strengths. I want to do the things I love, and in doing those things make a positive impact.”

Contact Gary Peterson at 925-952-5053. Follow him at Twitter.com/garyscribe.

Yet Kevin Anton, who served a tour in Iraq as an Army intelligence specialist, has settled into a post-military life that propels him toward clearly defined goals to a steady drumbeat of utter normalcy. His challenges tend toward the traditional — how to pay the bills, how to advance his career, how to do right by his kids.

Kevin Anton teaches his son Kevin Junior how to play Nintendo Wii with Edna at the family’s home in Aurora. AAron Ontiveroz, The Denver Post

No debilitating physical injury, no trace of PTSD, no adjustment anxiety.

“I did literally and figuratively dodge the bullet,” says Anton, 25, now a first-time homeowner and father cruising down a career track in nursing. “But at the same time, I don’t feel it was all luck. Part of it was just the path that I chose.”

When he joined the Army, he had no idea what the military held for him and figured he’d probably end up as an infantryman. But as he processed in, he was told that his test scores indicated a possible aptitude for intelligence — a slot that came with a financial bonus.

“I was going in kind of blindfolded,” he says.

The nature of his Army job, which he can describe only in general terms, kept him largely out of the line of fire during his deployment — though hardly out of danger zones. In his early 20s, Anton kept fear at bay by taking his training and preparation seriously (he lost more than 30 pounds) and focused relentlessly on the task at hand.

He and another intel specialist would attach to a larger unit — the 101st Airborne, in his case — and operate on such a sporadic schedule, accompanied by significant firepower, that he would have made a difficult target.

“At the end of the day, I was never scared,” Anton says. “I was just kind of ready. Maybe I can project scared in a different way. It heightened my awareness of what was going on around me. I was able to hide a lot of my anxiety.”

He projected confidence and sought emotional detachment from the grimmest elements of combat, even as he recognized the injury and death happening around him.

“It became real, but at the same time I was able to block it out in terms of what it would do to affect me,” he says. “And it hasn’t affected me to this moment.”

Family also has played a prominent role in his ability to cope in the Army and adjust afterward.

Kevin Anton and his son Kevin Junior head up stairs after spending time playing Wii during the holidays at home in Aurora. AAron Ontiveroz, The Denver Post

Anton’s father counseled him to fear nothing — “Everybody lives and dies,” he told his son — and take his challenge one day at a time, with optimism. Anton tried to talk with his dad weekly, when he could, and he always heard the same refrain, even though he would later learn that his worried father would weep afterward.

“He thought he had lost me,” Anton says. “But he did what he said a dad needed to do — have the best, optimistic approach. Because if you show weakness, your son is going to think it’s a fail situation. He was very positive. It got me through the whole Army experience.”

The discipline Anton learned in the military followed him back into civilian life. For the most part, it has helped him power through academic coursework to become a licensed practical nurse and now pursue his bachelor’s degree while he works at a rehabilitation center.

“I can still tell, his work ethic and his behavior is definitely a military-type personality,” says Lindsay Matkin, Anton’s supervisor at Azura of Lakewood. “He wants everything structured — he’s here to work, and he’s going to get everything done in an orderly fashion. He likes everybody else to do their job like he does his.”

That triggered a long discussion with Matkin after some employees felt Anton was unapproachable based on his sometimes brusque response when interrupted on the job.

“His biggest thing is respect, being structured and doing things a certain way,” Matkin says. “People not doing it that way, interrupting a conversation, he thinks that’s completely rude. I think that’s completely military-based.”

Kevin Anton at his front door while spending the holidays at home in Aurora. AAron Ontiveroz, The Denver Post

Anton was shocked.

“I felt bad,” Anton says. “I’ve had to realize they see me portrayed like that, so I take it a lot easier and try to help, be a team player no matter what. As I’ve gradually gotten used to the civilian world, I’ve learned to take a ‘chill pill,’ and know that it works a little different.

“What I say to myself every day when I get a little upset: ‘We’re only people taking care of people.’ ”

Matkin attributes much of Anton’s successful integration into civilian life to his love for family — a caring side of him that spills over into his work with patients. And Anton acknowledges that his relationship with fiancee Edna Ramos has kept him well-grounded.

“She has helped me to live a normal life,” he says. “She points out all the things we have — the kids, the house, the cars, the dog, the income, the education. She constantly pushes me to realize we have a lot more to be thankful for than to be angry about.”

Anton thanks God that his time in a combat zone spared him the experiences that damaged so many others — soldiers for whom he harbors the deepest respect. The turns of circumstance that led him to where he is now, healthy and headed along a career path he enjoys, hinged on so many things: good fortune, yes, but also the influences of family and work have been what he calls “a melting pot that made me who I am.”

“No one thing has done that to me, but my family — my father, my mother, my brother — got me into the career that linked me up with Edna,” he said. “The kids are influencing me drastically every day. My career is influencing me a lot every day, too. Being a nurse is a privilege to take care of other people and have that responsibility.

“At the end of all that, the thing that slingshotted me to all that was the Army,” he says. “I think I’ve served my country to a certain extent, but it has definitely served me, too.”

Kevin Simpson: 303-954-1739, ksimpson@denverpost.com or twitter.com/ksimpsondp

Nick Wright takes some time to reflect outside his home in Chico, Calif. (Jason Halley/Enterprise-Record)

CHICO, Calif. — As families of victims in the Connecticut school shooting will come to realize, healing from psychological trauma and overwhelming loss can be a long, uncertain process.Their humanity and sense of justice have been assaulted by an insufferable act, and will be tested again as they seek closure and understanding.The brand of violent terrorism visited upon Sandy Hook Elementary, and the challenges faced by survivors, is familiar to veterans of modern warfare, particularly those who fought in Iraq and Afghanistan.

Two of those veterans, each being followed in American Homecomings profiles, have had their share of difficulties in overcoming the trauma of war and adjusting to civilian life.

Tim Kenney, an Army veteran who served in Afghanistan and now runs a fishing guide business near Montrose, Colo., recently took several steps backward on a path that seemed for months to be steering him away from alcoholism and the worst symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder. The latest installment in his story said he is drinking again after 18 years of sobriety, using psychotropic medications, and may be admitted for in-patient care at a veterans hospital. He recently shocked his wife and children by admitting, “My life pretty much sucks right now.”

Nick Wright, a former Marine from Chico, served three tours of duty in Iraq. Although it’s been seven years since he was wounded, and more than five since being diagnosed with PTSD, Wright can still relate to how Kenney, several years fresher from the battlefield, became derailed.

“Of course Kenney would suffer a setback returning to civilian life,” Wright said. “You were expected to act and behave a certain way while serving, and when you get back you expect people (civilians) to act the same way. It feels like you’ve been thrown into a crowd of rude, ungrateful people.”

Wright dealt with his disappointment by reminding himself that he went to war to help guarantee the freedom of Americans who may disagree with his beliefs.

Wright said he witnessed civilian deaths in Iraq, including a crash that killed the occupants of a vehicle that had been playing “chicken” with his convoy.

“As much as we don’t want innocent civilians to get involved and die, you have to keep in mind that it is war, and it is going to happen,” Wright said.

Nick Wright has a quiet night with his family in their home Friday, December 28, 2012 in Chico, Calif. As part of the ongoing American Homecomings story.
(Jason Halley/Enterprise-Record)

Wright also witnessed the death of several U.S. troops when a powerful car bomb exploded as a convoy passed. Wright was among a squad of Marines providing security for the convoy, and has only recently forgiven himself for not stopping the terrorist driving the car.

Kenney hasn’t been able to reconcile the deaths he believes was responsible for in Afghanistan, and one in particular haunts him. “I think I killed a little baby,” he told a Denver Post reporter.

While traveling in an armored convoy, Kenney tossed a canteen of water to a beggar woman sitting in the road with her child — an act of kindness, and not his first in Afghanistan, Kenney recalled. He is fairly certain the full canteen hit and killed the infant. That memory, and the recent suicide of a close former comrade, pushed Kenney to a breakdown.

“I just went berserk. I snapped,” he said.

Wright said Kenney’s mental anguish is understandable, but knows war can be confusing.

“It helps not to think of the worst result in every possible situation,” Wright said.

Ask what advice he would share with Kenney, Wright said he would advise Kenney to continue counseling sessions and talk with other veterans.

“What helped me most was talking with my family, but with certain memories, talking with other veterans who have gone through war helped a lot,” Wright said.

During a nearly six-year transition to civilian life, Wright said he learned a lot about the importance of his primary support system — his wife and five children.

Nick Wright enjoys some family time at home on Dec. 28, 2012 in Chico, Calif. (Jason Halley/Enterprise-Record)

“When he (Kenney) gets angry, he can’t lash out at his family. The best thing to do is just walk away and be given some space to calm down. It took me awhile; I know it’s easier said than done,” Wright admits.

Wright, 29, is having more good days now than bad, and has landed a job with a medical supply company he believes will lead to a career. Through his lowest points, Wright said he was buoyed by the fact that his grandfathers went through world wars and still made it happily through life with the help of their families. “I can do the same,” he said.

“If there is any further advice I can give Kenney, it would be to keep his head high and know his family loves him,” Wright said. “He needs to focus on what’s going on now with his family and be there for them, instead of letting what ‘could have’ happened get the best of him.”