Yesterday I had set two main tasks before myself: I would complete the chapter outline of my revised thesis proposal and fill in the somewhat astonishingly numerous employment documents sent to me so that I can get paid to fly on weekends. Neither task required much intellectual effort – just putting the time in.
At 0930, while your correspondent was enjoying his second cup of coffee and lounging about in what he likes to consider his Saturday morning slops, the Hobbit peeled an invite off the fridge and reminded him that a shipmate’s retirement would be in 30 minutes – had he forgotten, at all? Was he concerned?
He was.
The retirement was to be aboard the USS Peleliu at the 32nd Street Naval Base. A good 30 minutes away from these our humble lodgings at a lope and of course it was to be expected that your humble scribe would arrive with all due pomp and circumstance, a-wearing of his very best service dress blue rig. As opposed to Saturday morning slops.
When I was a plebe midshipman, one of the more drearily effective forms of harassment was the “uniform race.” We’d be called out into the commons in the uniform of the day and then required and desired to dash back up the several flights of stairs in order to return to our rooms and expeditiously – but accurately – change into a new and usually unfamiliar uniform and race back to the assembly area in order to present ourselves for inspection. Doesn’t sound like much, but it did tend to go on and you didn’t want to be late: The last three mids to join formation always got “special attention” from the upperclass and woe betide those who had omitted some niggling detail in dress or accessory. The first would be forced to either strain away at push ups in the unkind Summer heat and humidity or else repeatedly hurl themselves into the bulkhead on either side of the hall “sounding off” name, rate and class. Inattentives would have to “brace up” – an extreme form of attention with the chin pulled painfully back into the neck, with shoulders thrust aft and spine erect while jogging through the corridors shouting to all and sundry, “Look at me, I’m imprecise!” I can assure you that it is far more entertaining to observe than perform.
Not quite 30 years later though, this form of “training” paid off – and not for the first time. In moments (about 3.5 minutes, actually) I had shed my layabouts, was dressed in a fashion befitting my state and was hurtling down the freeway hell-bent for leather, shaving as I went. I got aboard the ship only one minute late, which ordinarily might as well have been a year but thankfully I didn’t have a speaking part, and the people gathered there were many. I waved the startled quarterdeck watch away from the ship’s bell with emphatic sideway gestures of my right hand, lowered to the waist – no honors, for God’s sake – and found a spot in the back to watch the ceremony mostly unobserved.
My friend had been the executive officer of the local NROTC unit, serving the University of San Diego, San Diego State, UCSD and Point Loma – Nazarene University. His retirement was preceded by the commissioning of a bushel of young men and women in four pecks – eight new ensigns, three officers of Marines, two Army second lieutenants and a pair of bus drivers Air Force officers. Young. Frightfully young.
There is a rhythm to such things as familiar as the liturgy: A call to attention for the national anthem, followed by a priestly benediction and the parading of the colors. After that, some commanding officer of something of something or other reads a (hopefully) brief introduction to the Exalted Being who has been invited to do the Actual Speech. The young people are both congratulated for their hard work thus far and sternly admonished of the gravity of the tasks before them. The Republic is counting on you. You personally. Savvy?
Jolly good.
Oaths are read and repeated back, identifying insignia of rank attached or revealed, the Marines are ensworded with their Mamelukes, first salutes are exchanged for a silver dollar (the first you pay for, the rest you must earn), we pray a bit more, or pretend to – while thinking about the fight still waiting for all those smooth cheeks – and then break up to mill around the canapes and bug juice.
But linger, yet a while. My shipmate, one of those “mariners and souls that had toiled, and wrought, and thought with me– that ever with a frolic welcome took the thunder and the sunshine, and opposed free hearts, free foreheads,” was laying it all by after 22 years of the faithful, standing down even as a cohort of the young and the restless stood to. It needed a moment or two of official things read aloud, kind words and a short speech condensing two decades of hard work, achievement and sacrifice before it could be considered rightly complete. Afterwards we shook hands, spoke briefly, promised to play that game of golf we keep promising to play and I walked off the ship to sound of four bells and “Captain, United States Navy, departing.”
It was a far more pleasant stroll down the mole than it had been a dash up it. Time to cast a professionally searching gaze across the hulls on either side and be quietly pleased to see nothing objectionable. Lines and ratguards just as they should have been, watches on deck, nothing but the least hint of a stain here or there, and that hard by a discharge vent. You never get it all.
A beautiful San Diego day, the sky so blue you wanted to drink from it. Ships. Ships and sailors, the sound and the sky. I had so missed it. It’ll be PowerPoint slides again on Monday.
Upon returning home I found that the house was left to myself and the Kat and after a brief discussion it was decided that Bronx Pizza in Hillcrest would be just the thing to set it right. On a whim passing the 8 we changed destination to Dave and Buster’s – where the food is good and young people are groomed to someday be compulsive gamblers. Dave and Busters, besides being a restaurant and gaming area is also a place fiercely resistant to being conventionally discovered. We always stumble over it while thinking ourselves lost and about to swing about for another pass – a sort of modern-day Brigadoon.
The Kat thought that appetizers alone would be just thing, and who was I to disagree? She had root beer, I had a Guinness and betwixt the two of us we had convo – horses mostly, she does the talking – and a ret good time. She’s 13 you know, and you have to treasure times like that. Times like that don’t grow on trees past 13. A 15-year old kid could be on fire and she’d still turn down a bucket of water with a polite, “No thanks,” so long as the person doing the offering was any class of father.
On the way home I threw the dice and asked if she’d want to extend the time a bit by shopping for a Christmas tree. It took us three different establishments to get the right price-to-quality ratio this year, since quality has been expanded to mean not only “unlikely to send the house up in flames within the first 24 hours of purchase” but also a kind of scale and grandeur. Size does matter, at least to some and she doesn’t settle.
Wrestled it home, set it up, utterly destroyed the legacy tree stand. The poor thing was never meant to grapple with eleven foot trees, so it was off again seeking a replacement. Several fits and starts later I was back at a tree lot, bashfully asking for their largest stand. “Twenty-seven dollars,” the young lady asked with a smile. I handed over my credit card and she continued, “Cash or check,” and of course, I had neither. The moment stretched wordlessly. “Just bring it by when you can,” she said.
And this, in San Diego.
Pizza was summoned, the clan joined – with even the Biscuit herself condescending to come out of chambers to help decorate the tree. The decorations themselves were brought out of their annual storage, as always with a little trepidation. Few casualties this year though, and old things that once brought smiles were brought forth in perfection, remembered, commented upon. The paper plate that the Biscuit had decorated 10 years ago when she was a mere nobbut was hung with all the solemnity of the crystal angel or the little porcelain statue of Father Christmas himself. Music to help us rock around the Christmas tree in that new old fashioned way when we weren’t decking the halls with boughs of holly. At 10PM it was discovered to our alarm that there were no candy canes. There would have to be candy canes. This serious breach of holiday discipline was soon rectified. The Kat and I returned to find the Hobbit and the Biscuit engaged in happy eager, heartfelt conversation. Warmed in a glow that wasn’t just Christmas tree lights the music turned mellow and we four pulled up chairs, sat close and just. Talked. Until midnight. Memories were summoned and tears were shed between the gales of laughter and serious thoughts, gentle reader. ‘Tis the season after all.
Another one of those moments, another of those days that I would have preserved in amber if I could, and kept someplace safe. To bring it out like the phial of Galadriel – to be a light for me in dark places, when all other lights go out.
I had set two tasks before me yesterday and accomplished neither. It was a good day.
This sweet day is preserved as long as you have memory, Lex. Aren’t we grateful for that?
Haha, the Air Farce has their own version of the “uniform race.” We call ours a superman drill. Spent entirely too much time doing those this past summer, the only good thing of which can be said is that at least they were done inside as opposed to out. It’s hot in Alabama in the summertime, and I didn’t choose the junior service just for the cable TV and golf courses.
As someone who is about the same age and will be entering the same profession as those “frightfully young” butter bars, let me just say that I don’t feel frightfully young, although I’m certain I actually am. One of those perspective tricks, I suspect.
I too, have had the opportunity to hold a fist OVER my head and say “no! no!” to the quarterdeck watch, to make my passage less obvious to those who had budgeted their time more wisely than I.
The last time I bought a tree in San Diego, was the last time that I seriously thought about doing harm to another of my kind, as he was rude, and in a hurry, an non-complimentary to the non native borne staff at the 32nd street NEX for trees. LAMPS guys…
Awww! And I mean it!
Cap’n,
Gone are the days when the Beached Chief would hurl himself out in the cold of Norfolk or J’ville or Charleston to find THE Tree. The kids have their own kidlets and are scattered up and down the East Coast. This year it is just The Lady Katherine and our two Lab pups.
Must admit, when standing Officer of the Deck (Inport) the only officers that got ‘dinged’ were Admirals or Commanding Officers. I don’t think we ever did the ‘Ding-Ding, Ding-Ding Captain, US Navy
Lex, I can read this with a smile on my face and a little sadness in my eye. Actually our weekend was much like yours. Got the tree yesterday. Put lights on it today. Planned to decorate it tonight but it has not yet come to pass.
But as my youngest was helping her dad with the tree today and I was decorating the house, I caught a glimmer of the happiness in her eyes. She, who is always so much into the next latest thing we should purchase her. I grabbed at her as she giggled and danced on her way past, gave her a hug and whispered in her ear that this is what Christmas is all about. At the same time, though, the sadness because the time is going so fast, these kids of mine can be so difficult and we are dealing with a hard time with my mom right now. Funny, how when time passes, it can cause such happiness and sorrow at the same time.
And now, I have been informed that it is time to find a Christmas movie to watch. So be it. Here’s to a peaceful Christmas season for you and your family and many more days like yesterday to unexpectedly greet you.
Well, Lex, at least you have one male heir. You do realize of course, that if your daughters have any sense at all they will inevitably suffer from Lee’s-Daughter Syndrome, whose name I have just now coined.
I refer to the fact that Robt. E. Lee’s daughters were never able to achieve stable relationships with men, because they measured all potential mates against their Daddy, and their Daddy always won, being Lee.
You should gently let them down, as they grow up, and delicately explain about Dad’s Cujo tendencies, and how, as Neil Boortz puts it: All Men Are Pigs.
Nota Bene! Then point out our good qualities which you have displayed to them.
With any luck you can teach them to pick a good ‘un and enjoy the company of really cool inlaws and grandchildren
If you’re looking for a great cheesy movie, in theaters… I loved August Rush. ; )~ (I can’t make those letters do the slanty thing, but it’s a title of a movie.)
I’m with Miss Birdlegs: Great memories are made of days like that! Enjoy them now and hold them forever…
Question for Justthisguy … What are “Cujo tendencies?” I just looked up Cujo in Wickipedia and it says that Cujo was a rabid St. Bernard. Huh? I would say that it’s impossible for Lex to resemble a St. Bernard, rabid or not, even to convince his adoring daughters that he is less god-like than he may seem. So explain, please.
Marianne Matthews
Every ornament on our tree has a memory; the first star the oldest cut out with a sissors (looks like he used his teeth) and a wooden heart the second made in nursery school decorated with nail polish.
Last year when the heart came out for hanging the second son said “Mom, you can’t put that on the tree.”
Me: Why not?
Him: It looks terrible.
Me: Well, you made it…
Him: Yeah, but I was only 3!
Me: And your point is?
I’d read a book written like that. Hemingway-esque. Without the dying. And the women. And the booze.
I’ve been told that having a child is a life-altering event. It is, as Lex so well explains.
I’m kind of ambivalent about Christmas this year. I’ve a three-month preemie that’s now home, the best Christmas present we could ever have. Surely I need or want for nothing more.
Since she’s a preemie, we’re not asking relatives to join us this year. Decided it would be best to let her grow a bit before introducing her to the clan, warts and infections and sloppy kisses from that grandmother and all.
And since she spent 70 days in Neo-Natal intensive care and, well, those folks need to buy presents for their families and I’m kind of a stickler when it comes to paying my debts, Mom and I aren’t in much of a buying mood these days. Christmas will be minimal, the Family Unit at home and that’s what I’d prayed for a few short months ago.
So today I had Things To Do, and the Child was fussy. Wouldn’t sleep. Made it known that she was not happy in her bassinet. Mom was exhausted, of course, as was your humble scribe. I remember being this tired during basic training, but that was over 20 years and about 20lbs ago. I had youth and stamina then, to draw upon.
So I picked up the kid and marched away the afternoon, securing the kitchen and living room from bogeymen that the Child and Mom may sleep safe and secure.
Yeah, had Things To Do today. Important things. Or so they seemed. Until I looked at my arms and saw those little blue eyes and that funny little smile that turns to a pout when I stop walking.
Nothing more important than being a Dad, is there?
— Max
Dressed, to 32nd Street, and aboard in 31 minutes? Wow. Are you gonna tell us how fast you were driving?
Seriously… Beautiful post, Lex. The opening had me laughing, and the last half had me smiling widely at your joy.
And well-written, too…IMHO. Among your best work in these pages.
First thought… what kind of jack*** retires on a Saturday, but combining it with a commissioning makes for a nice bookend.
Most retirements I’ve been to lately have been on a Thursday or Friday afternoon with Tee times being the schedule drivers.
And yes, how fast were you driving? And how was the parking on 32nd? You know the speed limit on base is something ridiculous like 15mph.
Here in Germany it’s 30kph but people routinely drive closer to 40 – based on the radar speed sign they have near my office. Luckily it’s not a photo-radar.
Max – Buy one of those baby swings. They are usually motorized but, don’t use the motor. It is too jerky and violent for an infant. Instead, tie a rope to it and gently pull the rope to make it swing. My first used to get very fussy right at meal time. We would put him in the baby swing and pull the rope off and on to keep the swing going while we ate. It worked like a charm.
We also found that taking the baby outside would stop the crying immediately. I don’t know why.
Awesome essay Lex, Now youv’e done gone and made me all homesick. That just won’t do.
Congrats, Max.
You and Mom do indeed have the best Christmas gift ever. I concur about the swing by the way. Great little invention. Although evil person that I am, I had no hesitation in winding it up. That and the kind of little baby chair (much like recliner with a seatbelt) that sits on the floor and you can rock gently with your foot. Rock them right to sleep in fact.
Oh yeah. Pictures, please. For The Flight Deck.
I concur on the swing, though I preferred our portable one over the big, bulky one. Smoother, gentler on little bodies. If it weren’t for the swing, Little Man might not have survived to see his first birthday.
Lex ~ sounds like a wonderful day. I’m glad you got nothing accomplished like you had planned.
Our Christmas Tree threatens to topple over each year, with the weight of ornaments that each carry a special memory. From the one remaining ornament that belonged to my maternal grandparents, to the first ornaments my parents ever had, to the latest additions each year. The Hubby chuckles as my eyes mist over hanging some of them. Memories are powerful, but never moreso than at the holidays.
A good day indeed Lex.
Word.
For there may come a day when the holidays are something to be dreaded, rather than savored. You are a fortunate man, indeed, Lex.
“The young people are both congratulated for their hard work thus far and sternly admonished of the gravity of the tasks before them. The Republic is counting on you. You personally. Savvy?”
They savvy indeed, with an earnestness and confidence that never fails to humble and move me. Commissioning cerememonies are an equal mixture of pride and dread. They will ‘see the elephant’, and the world as it really is. And still do their unflinching best to make it a little bit better.
Mostly because they have grown into this strength of purpose. But also, in no small part, because you believed that they could.
Kris, when we were decorating our tree tonight I told the girls that at Christmas time, there is a lot of magic to be found in one little box. When they gave me a puzzled look , I pointed to the box on the floor. My youngest grinned and said “Because each ornament holds a special memory”. There just might be hope after all.
Yes Michelle, there is hope every time we trot out our history and display it for our family members.
There is also hope when people like Max spend their day marching their fussy baby around his home, clinging to the child and forego the typical holiday trapings, his Christmas prayer has been answered. What better example could anyone give for the preservation of hope and love?
Of course, this very emotional screed is coming from a Lex Babe… We have a tendancy to get emotional.
God Bless you Max and your family.
Max,
re: Nothing more important than being a Dad, is there?
No, there isn’t. I don’t think I’ll ever need another Christmas gift as long as I live.
As Justthisguy pointed out, some girls forever hold their fathers in high esteem – the way it should be.
Aye, a very good day indeed!
Lou, you are most assuredly right. This will be my 12th Christmas without my beloved dad, and he still stands tall in my eyes. I’m married to an extraordinary and wonderful man, but my dad will always be the best man I’ll ever know.
Believe me, I consider myself lucky in that. And the daughters of likes of our Lex, Max and Jeopardy certainly will count themselves as lucky someday as well.