During morning rush hour, cars creep forward in a queasy gas-brake rhythm toward Gate 1. I’m old enough to remember the days when guards only checked for windshield stickers, and some gatehouses even stood unguarded. But ever since the attacks of Sept. 11, 2001, new threat levels have prompted heightened security on U.S. military bases worldwide.

For 24 years, gate guards have been ever-present.

For twelve of the 28 years of my husband’s active-duty Navy career, we lived on U.S. Navy bases and Army posts. I’d make school drop-offs, then join the security line to get back to our house.

With nothing else to do but wait, I’d flop down the visor and grab a flosser from my purse. Every few seconds, I’d peek under the mirror and inch the minivan toward the back bumper of the car ahead of me. In the space of two or three minutes, I’d manage to floss my teeth, pluck stray eyebrow hairs with the tweezers I kept in the center console and dust the pollen off the dashboard with my sleeve.

With the gate finally in sight, I’d feel for my military ID card. I’d use the pad of my thumb to grip the edge of my laminated ID card, tugging it from its slot. Every once in a while, it wouldn’t be there, and I’d feel that nervous burn in the pit of my stomach. “Did I lose my military ID?” But after a few panicked seconds, I’d find it rattling around in the bottom of my purse with gum wrappers and stray coins.

Usually, my ID was just where it was supposed to be, and I’d slide it out between my thumb and forefinger in one fell swoop.

During our last tour of duty at Newport Navy Base in Rhode Island, I saw one particular guard often. “Oh no ... not that guard,” I’d mumble to myself with dread. “Will he ever crack a smile?”

I’d known many gate guards in my years as a Navy spouse in Rhode Island, Germany, Florida and California. Some military folks form personal relationships with their gate guards, who often check our military IDs multiple times each day. Over time, we recognize the guards and their distinct personalities.

I recall the chipper young military guards willing to exchange “thank-yous” and “have-a-nice-days” while fulfilling their duties. The Department of Defense police guards were a more eclectic mix. Some reflected local social mores -- Southern hospitality, West Coast mellowness, Midwest sincerity, Northern reserve. In Florida, I enjoyed banter with guards who had slow-cooked Southern drawls, and here in New England, I’d perk up when I’d see the one who chats with an amusing Nor’eastern accent, complete with dropped r’s that turn up on the end of other random words.

Even if I had some jovial banter with the gate guards, there was always a serious moment when he or she would swipe my ID through the handheld card reader, apparently revealing everything in my past, including that day I got grounded for digging worms up in the neighbor’s back yard. I have no criminal record, but I’d always feel like I was in trouble.

What a relief it was when the guard looked up from his little machine of secrets, handed me my ID and said with a smile, “Have a nice day, ma’am.” Whew!

But I’ll never forget that one guard who was different.

After checking the ID of the driver ahead of me, the stoic guard would order that car to proceed with a flick of his finger, as if jettisoning a bug from his shirtsleeve. I’d sheepishly approach the guardhouse, handing over my ID. “Should I kill him with kindness? Drip with sarcasm? Or hit him head-on with, ‘Hey mister, this ain’t no Buckingham Palace - lighten up!’”

However, I’d always lose my nerve and simply offer a weak “Thank you” after being summarily dismissed.

Driving away, I’d realize, as much as I’d feel more comfortable if he would have let his guard down and smile, he was obviously more comfortable keeping his guard up.

Besides, as long as the guards keep us safe, I’ll always be comfortable with that.

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