Memorial

Tidworth - England

27 December 1945

Dear Papa,

Received your letter of the 12th today. That's not very speedy, but it's good considering the recent service. I don't care, so long as they eventually get here - that's what counts.

Christmas is over. I can't say I'm not glad. There's something special about Christmas that makes you pretty homesick. We had four days off and didn't do a darn thing but lie around and wonder what the folks at home were doing. It was nice that all of you got together this year and I'll bet you had a good time.

We are on our final day of full-scale redeployment here today with the loading of the 12th Airborne on the Queen Mary. Then we pause a week or so to get our breath and then, lookout - here come the G.I. brides! That's the last straw in this whole mess. But, although I've seen some peculiar goings on in this redeployment program, I can't conceive of their using available troop space to ship the brides over. It's bad enough to think we may be retained over here to do the job of putting them aboard. Well, Papa, by the first of the year, there will be around 175,00 men over here who are eligible for discharge in January. That's 200,000 less than they've been shipping each month. So if their intentions are honest in getting eligible men home it should be easy enough to do. They can cut redeployment in half and still handle that many troops. By the same reasoning, I should sail in February as I become eligible (at last) on the first of February - both on points and length of service. I can't miss on that part. Naturally, the whole thing hinges on the whims and fancies of the brass hats over here who are reluctant to tell us goodbye. Kind of look for me the end of February, Papa, although it can pretty easily be March. I am getting closer, one way or another.

Oh, I put in my application to visit Paris the last week in January. I"m looking forward to it very much. I think it will be very interesting and lots of fun. I hope my old boss, Capt. Williams is still there. We will really have a time then. My only worry is getting away from the P.X., but the lieutenant said if it was at all possible I could go. The devaluation of the franc will make it possible to do a little spending. France is having a hell of a time controlling the black market.

Yes, it was certainly too bad about General Patton. He had what it took to be a real soldier and what his presence meant in winning the war should never be underestimated. It makes you damned mad to think he had to lose his life the way he did.

The foreign ministers seem to have hit it off better in Moscow than in London. That's good news, Papa. We are beginning to learn how to prevent war and I think the people themselves should give as much attention and loyalty to these men who are trying to win the peace as they did to those who won the war.

So, dear father, it's time to say au revoir again. Don't let Matt get at that Sauterne. I'm liable to be dry upon arrival. It won't be long, Papa.


Your loving son

Raymond


* * *

I cry every time I read this. "That's good news, Papa. We are beginning to learn how to prevent war..." He believed it.  He was a good man.

Gun Time

I did it! I ran my first half-marathon last Saturday, and I’m walking and talking today.

Standing at the starting line, I was pretty sure that I was going to foul the whole thing up. My team didn’t do much work on pacing. After fourteen weeks of training, I still can’t run at a steady pace on my own. I run too fast, I hurt myself, I slow to a crawl for a bit, then start running too fast again. Half of the Walnut Creek coaches, including the pacer that I run with on weeknights, decided not to run at all during the race. “Allen? Why are you in jeans?!? ALLEN!!!”

Worried, but determined to run a good race for my sponsors and for myself, I ran along on my own for the first quarter of a mile. Then, my friend Nicole pulled up beside me. She and I have done long practice miles together, and, more important, she has one of those fancy watches that tells her if she’s running at the right pace. I was elated to see her. “I’m going to try to run without stopping for at least five miles, then switch to intervals. Is that cool?”

“Nicole, I’m so happy to see you that I’m cool with however you want to run this thing. Let’s do it!”

At mile marker 5, we agreed that we both felt good enough to keep going without switching to intervals. Nicole’s foot started to hurt, but we pushed on through. At mile 6, we saw the first of the half-marathoners coming back toward us.

“Have you seen any other AHA runners yet? I’ve been keeping an eye out for our team jerseys.”

“A couple of guys, but no women. I think we’re the top two AHA women running the half right now. Sweet!”

We ended up running all the way to the turnaround, stopping for a brief comfort break at the halfway point. A gel shot and some water, then we were on our way again. “How’s your foot, Nicole?”

“It’s…numb? Is that good?”

“Well, I’m no doctor, so I’m going to say that it IS good.” The big muscles in my legs had started to fatigue, but I didn’t want to say that out loud. If she was still going strong on one good foot, I didn’t want to do anything encourage her to slow down. The gel shot kicked in just as I thought I wasn’t going to be able to keep up, providing me with a critical boost of energy.

A few minutes later, we started crossing paths with our AHA Start Training teammates. “You’re really close to the turn! Keep at it! Good job!” It felt amazing to be running out there while cheering on the rest of our team. We kept at it, jogging and cheering and clapping, until we passed the last outbound racers coming toward us on the trail. Our teammate Sally can only walk, and not very quickly, but she was determined to try for the whole thirteen miles. Prior to the start of our training, she hadn’t walked more than half a mile at a time in thirty years. We came across her at our mile 8.5, which would have been her 5.5. “Incredible job, Sally! Wow!” I don’t know if she finished. I hope she’s proud of however far she made it.

We slowed at an aid station to pick up some gummy bears, a surprisingly effective source of mid-race glucose, and happily gnawed on them as we trotted along under the trees for a few more minutes. Finally, we agreed to drop back to a fast walk for a hundred yards or so. We checked her watch and saw that we’d jogged straight through for almost ten miles, farther than either of us had ever gone at that pace.

At about 10.5 miles, picking up the pace again, she pointed off to our left. “Hey, who’s that guy waving at us? Is that your boyfriend?”

“Yes! Unless we’re hallucinating. Are we hallucinating? How did he get out here? I need more gummy bears. Wait…yep, that’s him. Ten second hug break!” I skipped off course and threw my arms around him. “C’mon, Nicole, you hug him, too. He’s really good at it!” Hugs all around and a laughing “keep running, sweetie, this isn’t the end of the race”, then we were back on the trail. She said that I should have kissed him some more, but I replied that it would have added too much to our chip time. “Plenty of chances to kiss him after we cross the line. Finish strong, girl!”

We walked a good bit of the last two miles, but sprinted when we saw the cameras and heard the announcer calling out the names of the racers as they came in. (If any of you have ever run in an event organized by Brazen Racing, you know how great they are about personally welcoming you across the finish line.)

We ran under the arch at 2:44:46. I know that it’s not supposed to be about the finish time or where I placed in the results, but I’m still proud to say that I was near the middle of the pack overall, and finished faster than half the women in my age group. Not bad for my first long race.

48 hours post-race, I’m happy to report that I’m not in any danger of losing any toenails, and my legs feel good enough for me to consider running again within a couple of days. I’m running another half-marathon in less than a month. I feel fantastic.

And, yes, there was plenty of post-race kissing.

Bath Time for Castro

I did not pick that fountain at random, or because I thought you’d be able to easily recognize it. I did not pick it because I knew I’d have several angles of approach where I’d be able to see you before you saw me, which meant that I wouldn't look silly if I didn't recognize you. I did not pick it because I was thinking that, if we didn’t hit it off, I’d use it as my meeting place for all of my future dates, too. All of those things are true, but that isn't why I decided on that spot. I picked it because of a dream I had eight years ago.

…

The sculpture is an inverted, rounded ziggurat with alternating layers of yellow and black, like a child’s drawing of a bumblebee. The water flows down from a pool at the top, forming a sheet that partially obscures the body of the fountain, and creates a rat-a-tat sound as it hits the lower pool. Everything else at the mall is Italianate cast concrete. This bright, modern piece stands out, even though it is tucked in behind the Starbucks and the California Pizza Kitchen. I’ve always loved it.

In my dream, the fountain had been elongated into a tub in a gorgeous bathroom suite. I was one of several personal advisers to the owner of said suite, and we were all standing around patiently, clipboards and notepads clasped to our chests, while he enjoyed an afternoon soak. His name was Fidel Castro.

He was sitting in the bathtub, wearing an olive green cap and a pair of swim trunks. He had a rubber frog in one hand and a loaded revolver in the other, and he was happily playing with both, splashing them through the water and covering them with bubbles. We watched with amusement as he had a sing-song dialogue with the frog while pressing the gun muzzle to its bulging eye. He must have then decided that they’d reached a truce, his amphibian captive and he, because he made a beard and bushy eyebrows for it out of the suds. “¡Viva la rana Castro!” He was having a ball.

We’d let him stay in there for as long as we could, but time was running short. “Fidel, you have an appearance in a few minutes, and your fingers are going to prune. C’mon, jefe. Time to get out.”

The shot startled us all, but none more than Castro himself. We all jumped, then froze in place for several seconds, nobody sure who had fired or who had been hit. Castro had many enemies, but there was no sight line from outside the palace into his bathroom.

His advisers stared wide-eyed at him, and he stared back at us, suds clinging to his eyelashes and the end of his nose. He looked comical, but we were all too shocked to laugh.

The ringing in my ears went away after a few seconds, allowing me to hear the steady stream of bath water hitting the floor. I looked from Castro’s blank, stunned face to the small, round hole in the lower left corner of the tub wall. I looked back at Castro and saw that the gun was still in his hand, pointing down between his shriveled feet.

“What did you do, Fidel? What have I told you about guns in the bathtub?!”

I don’t know how the gun - steeped in a warm froth of Calgon and scoured by bath salts – was able to fire. I don’t know how he didn’t shoot one of us, or shoot himself in the foot. We all knew that we had quite literally dodged a bullet. The tub had not been so lucky.

For a brief moment, I thought that it would be possible to plug the hole with a towel, just to hold the water in long enough to drain the basin. Before I could even move to reach for the towel bar, the crazing around the hole spread wider, and the structure failed under the pressure. The stream turned into a deluge as the tub wall gave way. A wave of soapy water surged across the slate grey floor, breaking over our feet and flowing out of the doorway behind us to flood the Turkish rug in the hallway. Bits of black and gold ceramic littered the ground like broken shells on a beach at low tide. I was wearing a pair of leather and suede pumps, and I was furious that they were now ruined.

Castro was still seated in what remained of the bathtub, clutching his revolver. He hunched his shoulders and looked up at us sheepishly from under the brim of his cap, runnels of water flowing off of his scraggly beard onto his round belly.

“Dammit, Fidel!” I yelled. “Who’s going to clean this mess up? This was a custom-made tub. Do you know how much it’s going to cost to get a mason in here to rebuild it? Do you?! Dammit!”

Huge tears welled up in his dark eyes and rolled down his broad, flat cheeks. His toy frog let out a long, pathetic squeak as he squeezed it, its soapy beard dissolving into a stream that ran down his forearm.

“Squeeeeeeeeeaaakkkkththththtpffffft…”

Exasperated, one of the other aids sighed deeply. “Oh, Fidel…”

And then I woke up.

…

I was chuckling to myself about this dream as we were strolling down the sidewalk. I was debating telling you about it, wondering if it would make me seem too strange for you to like, if you’d take your hand from mine and wish me goodbye and good luck now that we were back at the place where we’d started. I was afraid that you, too, would think that you’d dodged a bullet. “Weird girl. At least she didn’t eat much, so I’m not out a ton of money for lunch.”

Then you said, “I want to kiss you, but not here.” All I could think of was how very perfect it would be to kiss you right there, in front of that fountain.

“Why not here?” I turned toward you, and you leaned into me and kissed me, and then I wasn’t thinking about the dream at all anymore, lost as I was in the feel and the taste of you, and hearing only the staccato rhythm of the water hitting the tiles in the shallow pool behind us.

Friday the 13th: The Miniseries

Well, here it is, readers. This is the official start of the end of my marriage. In this envelope, on less than ten sheets of paper, are Peter’s petition for divorce, my response, and two copies of the process server receipt. It was mailed out on Friday the 13th. I don't know why, but I find that hilariously appropriate. We went on our first date on Halloween, after all.

You might think I’d be sad about this. You might be thinking, “Aww, Suzanne, I’m so sorry! You must be crushed!” It might surprise you to know that this is not the case. I’ve got a lot of good going on, and I’ve never felt better. Let’s take a quick break from me falling behind A-to-Z challenge for an update, shall we?

I’ve dropped fifteen pounds since Thanksgiving. All of those sweaters that I knit that were just a little tight? They all fit now. It’s all been through exercise. I haven’t changed my diet at all. What magical new exercise could do this? Why, running, of course.

The Start Training team is coming up on week 12 of our program. We’re doing twelve miles this Saturday, then the half marathon in two weeks. This program deserves a post of its own, which I’m going to give it sometime very, very soon. It has changed my life.

My hand is almost healed enough for me to stop wearing The Immobilizer, which is a good thing, since The Immobilizer is a little the worse for wear after being in Winston’s mouth. Knitting resumes!

Alive, healthy, and relatively uninjured at the moment, I figured it was time to start dating. After what has to be a record-settingly short time online - a mere three days - I met someone amazing. This also deserves a post of its own, which I’m also going to give it sometime very, very soon. As soon as I can break away from kissing him. Readers, he's hotter than the sun.

Feeling fit, feeling strong, and feeling an unbridled happiness for the first time in years, I opened the manila envelope and filled out my part. It’s the end of something good. It’s the start of something else good. It’s all good.

F: Fair Warning

Album
Fair Warning

Artist
Van Halen

Provenance
I’ve had this recording in one form or another since I was a kid, probably way back to when I was thirteen. I had a Maxell tape of it, recorded from The Engineer’s vinyl album. When that got stolen from my beloved Pontiac J2000, I bought the official tape. When CDs started replacing tapes in my collection, this was one of the first ones on my shelf.

Best Lyric
This is not a complicated album. There won’t be anything profound about the lyrics. They’re just fun. Let’s go with this one.

Well, my baby’s on the corner and she’s lookin’ so fine
Put one and one together and it blow my mind
Man needs love to live, I’m livin’ proof
Catch that smile and I hit the roof

Big double-take but you keep on walkin'
I'm in love
One summer
I'm overdone
- So This is Love


Why it Won
It’s thirty-two minutes long, this record. Thirty-two minutes of perfectly crafted summertime music. I’d listen to the tape when I was washing my car, getting ready to head over to Bird’s house to pick her up for an afternoon of aimless driving. I’d listen to it over at Big Guy’s house while he drank beer and cleaned his tools. I’d sit in the passenger seat of The Engineer’s Trans Am while it played at top volume, pouring out of the open windows as we cruised around town. Today, probably twenty-eight years after I first heard it, ‘Fair Warning’ brings all of those memories flooding back over me. It's a good-time record.

Runner(s) Up
Facelift – Alice in Chains - I decided to leave Cal Poly SLO after hearing this album. Long story.

Finn – Finn Brothers - Tim and Neil Finn, of Split Enz and Crowded House fame, stopped bickering and breaking each other’s bands up long enough to put out an amazing record together back in 1995. The standout track for me is 'Where is My Soul', one of my favorite songs in my entire catalogue. This was a close tie with ‘Fair Warning’, but Van Halen won based on sentimentality.