The “delightful work” of a recent September weekend was grandparenting. My husband and I drove five hours south from our little house on the hill to West Point, N.Y., to watch our 11-month-old granddaughter while our daughter and son-in-law attended a wedding of a good friend. (The groom was a West Point graduate.)

We stayed in the lovely Thayer Hotel on the edge of campus. A very busy weekend, as our granddaughter was exploring her exciting new world and finding every dangerous plug, sharp corner and dirty trash container. Military-level hypervigilance was our call. Strategic redirecting was required as our hotel suite turned “baby battlefield.”

When time allowed, we decided to see as much of the West Point campus as we could — or, more importantly, as much as West Point security would allow.

To apply for a campus pass, visitors enter a stark basement office. Two military police officers — both possessing muscles that expanded beyond the sleeves of their shirts — sit at the far end of the room behind white desks with computers. We filled out applications — a background check was mandated — as we waited behind the warning tape on the floor before being called to the desk. Nerves began to build. The environment was intimidating. I felt guilty, but reassured myself that I had committed no crimes.

I was next to be called. I began to perspire. The florescent lights bright. I wondered what the rooms in the back were for. A nod from the officer brought me to my feet as I moved to the seat in front of him.

I felt like he could see right through me. He knew I had stolen a pack of gum at age 5 from my father’s grocery store. (My mother immediately brought me to the cashier, and a lecture ensued. Even though we owned the grocery store, she said, we still were required to pay for anything we took.) Did that incident appear under my driver’s license number? I wanted to crane my neck around his computer to see what other details of my life he was reviewing. Instead, I sat glued to my chair with a forced smile, waiting for his next instruction.

Asked the purpose of my visit, I nervously responded that my “son” was in a wedding this weekend. “Lie, lie, lie!” I thought. “He is your son-in-law!” I squirmed as I tripped over my words.

After all that internal drama, the reality was that the officer was just doing his job. Protecting West Point. Grandparents included.

Once we received our passes, we decided to visit the West Point Museum. The exhibit starts with a narrow, dark hallway. Loud noises seem to come from everywhere. Guns. Explosions. The Army “hooah” enveloping me. The visuals were overwhelmingly real. Sensory overload. Several strong, young men were walking in front of me. Cadets or visitors?

Suddenly there were too many people around me. All things military. All things pandemic. Every masked-and-vaccinated fiber in me reacted. The hallway closed in. I fled.

Safely outside the building, with my adult daughter, I shared my wonder at how my father, her grandfather, survived World War II at age 18. Landing on Omaha Beach, marching across Europe, right through to the occupation. War 24/7. Death 24/7. I couldn’t last five minutes in a simulation. My heart ached for him because, while he physically survived the war, he was forever changed. How could he not have been?

The beautiful yet austere West Point campus sits high above the Hudson. On a quiet Sunday morning, the boats moved silently yet reverently along the river. Large estates dotted the opposite coast. Small groups of soldiers marching on a nearby field reminded me of the actual purpose of my surroundings. Bronze monuments on display. Names and dates forever solemnly documented. The following words jumped off one of the World War II plaques: “Duty, Honor, Country.”

This bleeding heart of mine struggled to understand why we humans seem to have an insatiable need for war. We ask so much of those who are willing and able to serve our country.

In fact, we ask for it all.

My mother was right. We do pay for everything we want in this life, especially the cost of freedom.

I wish to acknowledge and thank all the brave Americans who have served and protected our country. I am grateful to each of you.

Elizabeth Ricketson lives in South Pomfret.