Dont Mince Words

While UN inspectors span the globe looking for weapons of mass destruction, I believe I’ve found something more dangerous that must be contained: family.

You can choose your friends and your weapons, but you can’t get around your family. In my small, extended family, I’m generally characterized as the whacky, risk-taking pioneer that marches to the beat of a different drummer. This weekend, my cousin proved that an unsupervised married man is scarier than misplaced uranium – or me.

Jethro (not his real name) gave me two hours notice he and a single Army buddy were coming into town to get away for a night and to whoop it up before his wife and kids came back from their east coast family visit.

“You are meeting us at Barney’s Beanery,” he demanded. “Or, do you have a date with a new victim?”

I could hear the eagerness to get off base, so I demanded he come directly to my house. It was obvious this was going to be a Captains Gone Wild night and I would be the designated driver.

The guys filled their evening with beer, pool, and flirting. I sipped my diet coke and realized I was too old to be in bars infested with 20-something wanna-be actresses wearing camisoles and bearing midriffs. Watching Jethro made me understand, once again, that even the most dedicated of husbands and fathers have to test their limits to make sure they still have “got it.” This gave me further validation: I’m so happy to be single.

I poured Jethro and his tired friend into my car and took them down Mulholland Drive for a scenic ride home with spectacular views of the Valley and city. Shortly after dodging a coyote on the windy road, Jethro requested roadside assistance and released what sounded like two gallons of beer on the side of the road. He was my Honda’s first puker – a claim I haven’t been able to make since the 1980’s. I gave him a bottle of water to rinse and spit and continued on home. Ten minutes from home, he grabbed his water bottle, and with Army precision decided he was going to puke into the bottle. I quickly crossed three lanes of traffic while he missed.

He was fully awake the rest of the way home in his Spaten-soaked clothes speckled with spatzel from dinner.

“Oh my god. I don’t believe this. Look at me,” he said.

Without hesitation, I reverted back to a retort I commonly used in the 1970’s. “I’m telling your mother.”

Since moving to Los Angeles, I’ve been waiting. Waiting for a sign I really do live here. Twenty-two months later, I finally felt my first earthquake.

I was asleep when the bed moved side-to-side while the window rattled. It woke me up and I assumed it was the Mexicans renovating the apartment above me. Three seconds later, it was over and nobody was upstairs. It was the thrill you get on the Cyclone with your hands in the air. You run around wanting to ride it again. I dashed to my computer to see where the quake was. Novice that I am, I didn’t realize I’d feel a 5.6 located 116 miles southeast of me.

When I spoke to my brother to let him know I had my “first,” my nephews didn’t know what an earthquake was. I spoke with them and tried to explain. Five minutes later, Dave the three year-old wanted back on to ask, “Aunt Mahna, is the gwound still shaking?”

No, but I’m sure this won’t be my last one.

I was hit last night by something in my sleep. It’s the tenth anniversary of the death of my father. Since that time, I’ve made several discoveries.

Getting to know him in death has been very interesting. The man who used to make me cry when I couldn’t grasp my math homework was actually a writer. I never knew this about him. Several years ago, his sister sent me some of his essays and letters that were published in the local Ohio paper.

He entered naval service February 27, 1943 and appeared very excited to serve and receive aviation training. “I’m in the Fighting Squadrom Eleven flying the F8F Bearcat, the Navy’s best and fastest propeller-driven fighter. It’s one of the sweetest planes I’ve ever flown,” he detailed in his published letter home.

In his final days, he asked me to take shorthand. He wanted to journal all his Korean War stories. I laughed and came back with a boom box and 90 minute blank cassettes. “Talk all you want dad, I don’t take dictation,” I said giggling. He was very adamant about remembering his military service.

He was also passionate about big band music. His woodshop/get away shed was equipped with too many tools to name and a turntable. He’d spend hours out there tuning out with Benny Goodman. I can’t pinpoint where the following was published, but it truly embodies the music he loved.

Romance in rhythm

This story began on “The Sidewalks of New York.” I was walking down Fifth Avenue when suddenly I saw a very attractive girl. I turned to my friend, whose name was George, and asked him, “Did You Ever See a Dream Walking?” He laughed and looked at me in a queer way. I saw her again that night at a night club. Of course it was “Accident’ly on Purpose.”

I said to George, “’I Hear a Rhapsody.’ Do you suppose that girl will dance with
me?”

She was alone so I went over and introduced myself and asked her to dance. “I Give You My Word” that’s how the whole mess started.

“It All Comes Back To Me Now.” how we strolled out on the terrace after the second dance.

She said, “Don’t the Moon Look Pretty?”

I was so surprised that all I could say was “I’m at Loss for Words.” And before I knew it I was telling her that “Moments Like This” come once in a lifetime. I went on and gave her “The Same Old Story.” I told her,you’re “All I Desire.” I thought to myself, “There I Go”. We were ito be married in June in the “Chapel in The Valley.”

Some “Wise Old Owl” should have whispered “Keep An Eye on Your Heart.”

But alas, it seems that “Everything Happens To Me”. In May I received notice that I was caught in the draft and I was going to camp in Virginia.

We parted at the railway station. It was a sad day. All I could say was, “Good-bye Dear, I’ll Be Gone a Year.”

When I arrived at camp I wrote back to her that “They’re Makin’ Me All Over in the Army.” I wrote back to her pretty often pub her replies got farther and farther apart. It never occurred to me what was happening.

When my year was up I sent a telegram of “Twenty-five Additional Words or Less” to my fiancée at “Number Ten Lullaby Lane.” I didn’t even get an answer.

George met me at the station and told me that “I Had a Date with a Gate.” She had eloped with a Marine. George almost had to “Carry Me Back To Old Virginny.” I was a pretty “Disillusioned” fellow. All I hope is, “May I Never Love Again.” – Sam Bunger (12)

The other discovery I have made is loss doesn’t get easier over time. People tell you that just to expedite the grief

I cried as the fighter planes flew over yesterday in remembrance of Memorial Day. Today I cry for dad. I am my father’s daughter.