A TIME FOR STRETCHING

Our trip from stateside to Okinawa, Japan, in early 1979, had been long and exhausting. My wife and our four young children had accompanied me on our first overseas assignment together. Despite my 13 years of active duty in the U.S. Air Force, this was the first time we had all left for such a long trip. Keeping track of the immense amount of baggage we carried with us, we headed for Customs.

The humidity was near 100%, as it was often on that subtropical island on the edge of the Pacific Ocean. We could feel the moisture in the air through the open breeze ways. Sort of like Corpus Christi, Texas, in July, only worse. The bright sun revealed lush, insect laden, green vegetation. The smell of jet engine exhaust and damp wood penetrated our senses. We all perspired liberally and soon our clothes stuck to us in great blotches.

My assignment as an aircraft training instructor was unique because the man who had been assigned as my boss was also my new LDS Branch President. Rick, who had been a stateside friend, was two steps in military rank above myself. We often referred to him as Bishop Rick, a play on words for bishopric. On this muggy arrival day at the airport, he had an Air Force Lieutenant Colonel Montgomery with him. I later learned that Col. "Monte" was Rick’s first counselor. Monte often kidded that, Sunday was the only day of the week that he saluted first and said that his favorite song was, "We Are All Enlisted."

As we approached the Customs Desk, our family, children ages toddler to about eight years, was greeted by Monte and Rick. Having cleared Customs, we grabbed our bags, but to my surprise, Monte grabbed the two bags I had been carrying and brought them to the loading van. For a Colonel to carry a Sergeant’s bags (we were both in uniform) was highly unusual. I was to learn that, for this humble man, it was no big deal.

The vehicle carried us all to the off base Japanese hotel and after we were settled in, Monte cornered me and asked if I had any objections to the Lord calling my wife as the new Primary President. I agreed with the choice and knew she would do very well in that position.

The next Sunday morning found our family in the Futenma Serviceman’s Branch Chapel, about 100 yards off base. We met with about 450 other American men, women and children. We were sitting way in the back of the cultural hall and as I gazed at the backside of a sea of members, I was sure that I would spend the next few years being known as the husband of the Primary President. That was a role that I was looking forward to. I could support her while she kept busy. Surely that was enough.

It was an extremely large branch, with many talented members, very few of whom we knew, save Monte and Rick. About five minutes before the Sacrament Meeting was to begin, I heard someone whispering my name and motioning for me to come out with him to the foyer. This man introduced himself as the District President and said he had a Church calling for me as well. Would I be willing to serve as the second counselor in the Branch Presidency, he wanted to know.

I was shocked by his question. Surely, there are many more qualified among all these people and besides, did he not know that my wife had just been called as the President of the Primary? He said he understood all this but that the Lord had called me despite this. I still remember turning red and trembling as I accepted. This job would put us both into very demanding, time consuming responsibilities.

I went back to the meeting and a few minutes later was sustained with my wife in our new positions. I can still picture all those faces turning back to look at us while saying to each other, "Who is that?" Thus began some of the most difficult and yet rewarding four years of our lives. We were stretched spiritually and emotionally in ways we had not considered.

I REMEMBER MOMMA

My recollections of her are tender and vivid. Perhaps the earliest memories of her are of being paraded about to friends and family to show off how well I could read. I was probably four or five and had no idea how to read, but I had memorized the nursery rhymes. They were memorized because she had read them to me so often that I could tell what to say by the pictures on the page.

She was always telling me what a "good boy" I was and I figured everyone had a mother like that. My self image remained high, because of her, until hormones, acne and the teen years kicked in and spoiled my perspective. Before that, if people didn’t like me, I didn’t really feel bad about myself. I figured they would like me if they really got to know me, because, after all, my Mother liked and loved me.

During all this, like most kids, we didn’t see Dad very much. Never mind that he was providing the books to "read" and the roof over our head and the food we ate. When I became a Dad myself and saw how much I was required to be away from the home and how much more "popular" my wife was in the eyes of our kids, I began to understand.

Moses Lake, Washington, kindergarten, our black cocker spaniel dog, Skipper, the trailer park manager, who made us get rid of Skipper, are all part of early memories. Once Mom baked a cake in our trailer stove and put me down for a nap. She told me to stay in bed and if I did as she asked, I would get an Eskimo Pie Ice Cream Bar, when she came back. Disregarding her instructions, I used my bed for a trampoline. The cake failed to rise, she came home, saw the fallen cake, knew I’d been up and about and refused to give me the ice cream. I cried and cried and to this day, can’t get enough of Eskimo Pies. Later, in Fresno, Calif., I remember getting lost looking for the ice cream man truck, but that’s a whole story by itself.

As my five brothers were born, I spent more and more time helping Mom do household chores and less and less time with her one on one. We got our first T.V. in Texas and I watched my first program, Hoppalong Cassidy, a kid’s western show. We did less talking with each other and more and more TV watching, sad in it’s own way. The realities of life really began to set in. I ironed, cooked, did the laundry, did the dishes, sweep & mopped the floor, babysat and on and on. It became drudgery, but served me well in my adult years as I was always able to keep house, when single and then do my share, when married. I had been trained.

Years passed. Adventures in Japan and Texas were too numerous to mention. I will say that I do remember the worst Christmas we ever had. We were living on Lackland AFB Texas, at 505 Kellack Road. Mother would hang out clothes on the line by the hour and then take them down and fold them. It was a tedious time consumer. Clothes dryers were the new thing. Mom longed for a dryer, unbeknownst to Dad.

Under the tree was a large wrapped box, about the size of a dryer. Mother just knew, her hanging clothes on the line days, were over. I was pretty excited about it too because I had to help her. The wrapping was pulled off the special package on Christmas Day, only to reveal a pump musical piano organ. Dad knew Mom loved music and was sure she would be thrilled to be able to learn how to play, but Mother was devastated. She cried. We cried and Dad was heartbroken. Nothing is quite like a gift well intended but not received in the same spirit. We all felt bad for both our parents, but we survived.

SUMMER FUN

In the early 1960s, Dad was stationed at March AFB in Riverside, California. We lived at 5383 Crest Ave. and I thought that we had it made. A new house in a new community and I got to be an 8th grader. I can remember feeling that I had finally arrived. Arrived where, I'm not sure.

That summer, Gramma Mongelli invited me to stay for school vacation with her & Joe at their home in Fresno, California. Imagine, no school or big brother chores, just summer fun and visiting with my grandparents. Not only that, but I knew the turf from when we used to live next door to them. I had school chums who had motorcycles and go-karts and we even knew a couple of girls our age.

Grampa Joe was usually at work but Gramma was a joy to be around. She would fawn over me and tell me how smart I was, despite the fact that I was pretty ordinary. She'd fix meals especially for me and I could have all the sweets I wanted. One particular day, she took me to the movies, a huge treat back then. We went to see "Hercules, Unchained," a deep thinking film, where you had to be at least two years old to follow the story line. It starred Steve Reeves, who was the Arnold Swartzenegger of his day, although Steve never was the governor of California.

Every time Steve, or rather Hercules, would lift something heavy over his head, like a chariot, with the rider and horses still attached, Gramma would say, "Madune," in Italian, which is not spelled correctly and was never officially translated for me but which I suppose means..."Oh my goodness."

Gramma was always prim and well groomed. I never saw her with her hair a mess or her clothes sloppy. She was dignified, clean, kind, thoughtful...consistently. Gramma valued me, not because I was special, but because I was family and because that was Gramma. She loved us all, and I'm sure, would have died for us. That's why we loved her back, she never stopped giving.

After the movie, she asked if the nutritionally sound popcorn, bon bons and milk duds had filled me up or was I ready for some dessert. Not wanting to be rude, I mentioned that I might be able to wolf down some ice cream. So we stopped at the Carnation Ice Cream Shoppe, sort of the Baskin & Robbins of the age and I had a Carnation Special. It consisted of a slightly large banana split with seven scoops of different flavored ice cream.

Not wanting to freeze to death, or waste a single morsel, I slowly finished off the entire entree while Gramma watched and asked questions about the movie. Things like, "How could he pick up that chariot? or "Could he really fight ten big men at once." I fielded every question with ease, between gulps, of course. She always acted amazed at my answers and said I was a genius. However, I never could really discover, if I was such a genius, why wasn't I paying for my own ice cream? Her one scoop of vanilla was finished in the first five minutes. After I finally got it all down, she asked if I enjoyed it. I said something intelligent, like, "Yea, Gramma, it was great, but it sure is cold in here."

In the days that followed, I spent time with my friends at Rhoding Park just about two blocks from Gramma's house, riding my bike with my friends looking at the animals in the zoo and laying under tall trees, eating the bag lunch she had prepared for me. Today, that same park is full of gays and drug peddlers, pushing dope to kids. As the years have flown by and I look into the mirror and see an old man, it isn't too hard to figure why I can hardly remember what it was like with my friends, but I'll never forget Gramma.

THE WINE BOTTLE

It was about 1958. Dad was stationed in Iceland with the U.S. Air Force and we were living in a beat up duplex next to Grandma Mongelli and her second husband Joe Pirani. Joe was a short, stocky, steel worker, with huge hands and arms, strong from years of manual labor. He wasn't particularly bright, was prone to drink too much wine and could barely speak English.

Dick, Bob and I were "cute kids" to him and he never took us very seriously. Uncle John was frequently there to help Mom with repairs on our house, a house that had seen better days. He was the "man" of our home and we relied on him for advice and male role modeling. We would have probably never rented that home under normal conditions, however, since it was right next to Gramma, we endured.

A common expression for, "Dicky" was "fifty dollars." When asked the cost of anything, he would always give the same reply. "How much does it cost Dicky?" Grampa Pirani would say and Dicky would reply, "Fifty Dollars." It always got a big laugh out of Grampa, none of us could quite figure out why, but that was Grampa. Uncle John was kind, took an interest in each of us kids and would talk with us on Grandma's covered patio about "important" things to us. John played the trombone, drove a big car and had a full head of rich, dark hair. We loved him, respected him and looked forward to our talks as he tried to be Uncle to us and a Dad to his own wife & family.

Grandma's house was well cared for in every detail. She shined, cleaned and polished every day. The size of the house was maybe 800 sq. feet and included a carport. It all sat on perhaps a sixth of an acre. The outside of the home was maintained by Grampa Pirani and he also did a great job, when he was sober. Gramma was usually after Grampa for something almost perpetually. They would speak in rapid fire Italian and we couldn't understand a word but could tell by facial expressions and mannerisms, what was going on. He would always say to her, when he felt like using English, "Don't worry for nothing." "Joe, the house, she's a need painting," she would say. He would reply, "Don't worry for nothing." and eventually get around to painting the house.

One day, Joe was working in the vegetable garden on a very bright, hot Fresno, California, summer day. He grew corn, tomatoes, and other vegetables and the entire property was directly across the street from a huge grape vineyard. Evidently that made him think of his wine bottle or maybe it was something else, but anyway, he began to hit the sauce quite liberally. The three of us boys were climbing trees in our yard and saw what Joe was doing. We weren't rocket scientists by any stretch; I was about 12 or 13, Bob was about nine and Dick maybe five or so, but we could still tell that trouble was brewing. Speaking of brew, the show next door was more interesting than climbing trees so we watched with some interest as Joe began to sing loudly and stagger about.

Just then, Gramma came out for some reason, throwing out trash or whatever, looked at Joe and began to scold him. He scolded her back and was rattling off in Italian, I suppose saying something like, "mind your own business." She got madder and spoke faster. Joe got madder and staggered more, but we weren't prepared for what happened next. Joe went over to the garden hose turned it on and began squirting Gramma with the water. She ran about screaming and finally went inside the house, thinking she was safe. That did not even slow Joe down. He went inside the house with the garden hose and squirted her some more. She was screaming hysterically and he was laughing, having a grand time. Joe finally took the water ouside when Gramma slipped on the floor. He laughed some more, finally turned off the water and passed out on the lawn chair. It took Gramma hours to clean up the house and she didn't speak to Joe for days.

We, as kids, thought it was all very comical but now looking back as adults, it all seems so sad. A few years later, when I was about 20, and serving in the military, Gramma was killed in a pedestrian accident. Joe went hysterical, became helpless as a child and later died in a nursing home. Funny, but it's one of those stories that got burned into my memory.