Semper Fi meets Anchors Aweigh

Memorial Day isn't what it used to be. Billed as "The Official Start of Summer," the true reason for the holiday tends to get lost in the shuffle of furniture sales, barbecue cook-offs, and zero percent financing on the SUV du jour. Don't get me wrong--I love barbecue and nobody on the planet enjoys a sale more than I do. But it seems like the TV stations are the only ones who remember--THAT's where you'll find the Memorial Day marathons of movies like A Bridge Too Far, Tora, Tora, Tora, and my latest personal favorite, The Great Escape.

SO--in honor of what this holiday REALLY stands for, I thought I'd share a few recollections of life with a Navy man. I'm sure most people are familiar with Hollywood's version of the process whereby rootless drifters become Naval aviators, a la An Officer and a Gentleman and Top Gun. What follows here is the TRUE story. I am not making any of this up!

My sweetheart, Randy, finished his bachelor's degree at BYU in December of 1980. Fascinated with cars and airplanes, the only jobs that were available at that time for a Political Science major just didn't fit the bill. He just didn't want to become an outside sales rep for Georgia Pacific, or a desk jockey for any of the rather anemic companies that set up recruiting booths on campus. On his way home from school one day, he happened to pass by the Navy's recruiting booth and it was love at first sight. I was appalled at the prospect of getting into the Navy--it wasn't the military that bothered me, it was the deployments. Was I gonna stand by quietly and watch my husband sign on for a job that would take him away from me for six to eight months at a crack on a regular basis? Not only NO, but NOOOO! So I pitched a fit and whined and complained and he interviewed with a few companies and then promptly headed off to Aviation Officer Candidates' School (AOCS) at Naval Air Station Pensacola, Florida, in January of 1981. I was nine months pregnant at the time and, too pregnant to fly, I stood there at the airport gate in Salt Lake City with my three year old daughter, Annike, and watched him fly away. So much for pitching fits, whining and complaining...

At that time, AOCS had changed the program just a tad and the first week of training was called "NAVIP" week. I think it stood for Navy Very Important Person week or some such nonsense but the point was, it gave the potential candidates a week to undergo all the physical and mental testing required BEFORE official training started. This is very important. On the first day of official training, the guys would all have their heads shaved. What AOCS officials found was, massive numbers of candidates would either wash out or "DOR" (Drop On Request) during the, shall we say, rather intense training, and then would find it difficult to get a job given their rather intense appearance. And trust me, it was intense. Randy's own daughter would have nothing to do with him for the first few minutes of our reunion because someone had taken her Daddy and replaced him with this bald-headed ex con. But I'm getting ahead of my story.

The first week went well, according to Randy's letters, although he made the mistake of watching a movie about the Hanoi Hilton the night before he reported which made him sort of second guess his decision. But he passed all the physical and mental testing and stood poised with his comrades to endure the next fourteen weeks of abuse at the hands of the Perris Island Marine Corps drill instructors who would pretty much beat them into submission--or, I should say, beat them into officers. (If you've ever seen An Officer and a Gentleman, you sort of know what I mean)

Anyhow, now I must introduce Gunnery Sergeant Buck Welcher. A Vietnam veteran, Gunnery Sergeant Welcher (or Gunny Buck to his colleagues) is easily the most intimidating man I have ever known. Here's a picture I was lucky to get (and yes, I most certainly DID ask permission first).

Gunnery Sergeant Welcher was tasked with taking the forty or so guys that entered training with Randy and turning them into Naval Officers. It was a responsibility he did not take lightly. His reputation preceeded him. It was widely known that he had a photograph on the desk in his office in which he was posed with his arm thrust through a gaping hole in the chest of a dead Viet Cong, flipping the bird to the photographer. Did I mention he was intimidating?

SO. It's the night before the first day of this excruciating experience. All of the guys are really nervous and apprehensive. Nobody knows quite what to expect. Nobody sleeps much. About all they know at this point is you NEVER look a drill instructor in the eye and you ALWAYS use "SIR" before and after every statement. As in, "SIR, YES SIR!" and "SIR, NO SIR!"

Just before dawn, the entire squadron is awakened by the sound of several large metal trash cans being tossed down the length of the barracks hallway, accompanied by not one, but several drill instructors shouting, "GET ON LINE!!" (meaning, get in the hallway, backs to the wall, at attention, and do it yesterday) Stumbling from their bunks, forty grown men scramble at top speed to get in the hallway and get lined up. In such instances you do NOT want to be the last one. In fact, you don't want to do ANYthing that would draw attention to yourself in any way.

Now, let me pause a moment, leaving our forty men sweating profusely in their underwear amid the shouts of the drill instructors, the clamor of the trash cans, the chaos of it all. Well, I should say thirty-nine men were sweating in their underwear. One of the guys standing next to Randy decided he'd get a head start on things and had slept in his uniform. Wrong. Very, very wrong. Remember the part about not attracting any attention to yourself? The drill instructors were all OVER this guy. Randy remembers Gunny Buck screaming just inches from Randy's ear, "GET THOSE CLOTHES OFF!!"

Remember how you're not supposed to look a D.I. in the eye? Randy didn't--and he sure as hell wasn't going to ask questions. So, amid the chaos, he scrambled back to his bunk, took off his underwear, and re-appeared in no time flat back out in the hallway, at attention. Buck naked.

It wasn't long before he realized that he was the only naked man in the hallway. AGAIN, scrambling at breakneck speed he darted back to his bunk, put the undies on, and back out into the hallway at attention. With all the commotion still focused on the guy with the uniform on, Randy fervently congratulated himself on rectifying his mistake without anyone being the wiser.

It wasn't until much later, at the end of course party at the club, that Gunny Buck confessed that he had seen the whole thing. In his words, "It took all my years of Marine Corps training to keep from busting out laughing! I had to take my Smokey Bear off and put it over my face to keep it straight!"

I think Randy was his favorite from then on. That first week is always fondly known as "Poopie Week." Nobody ever explained why, although I wouldn't be a bit surprised if it has to do with the distinct possibility of having to change one's trousers after coming face to face with a screaming D.I.

Here are more unfortunate "Poopies," wearing their "chrome domes" and being "PT-ed" (physical training) for some indiscretion:

But things got better over time. Gunny Buck was tough, you couldn't find anybody tougher. But he was also fair and won the undying respect and admiration of the men that he trained. When Randy got the news that I had safely delivered Bryan, that baby I was waiting for when AOCS began, it was Gunny Buck who saw to it that Randy was allowed to call me. It was Gunny Buck who insisted Randy buy Bryan his first football. He never let that tough guy image slip--Randy remembered him quietly asking about me and Bryan, all the while holding a lit cigarette lighter just inches from Randy's ear--removing a loose thread in Randy's uniform. Nice cover-up for a personal conversation.

And here's our little family together again, just before Randy's commissioning--have you ever seen more adoration on any little girl's face??

Randy was commissioned on May 1, 1981, and we spent ten of the best years of our lives in the Navy. I am SO glad that he listened patiently to my whining and complaining about his decision and then did it anyway. He was right. I loved it! And Gunny Buck? When I asked permission to take that photo, he told me "Hang on to it--it'll be worth something some day." He went on to Hollywood to become the technical advisor to the film An Officer and a Gentleman. If you look closely, you can see him jogging by with his class in tow, as Louis Gossett, Jr. tells Richard Gere, that's what an AOCS class SHOULD look like.

Aviation Officer Candidate School Class of 04-81:

The "Silver Dollar Salute"

Ensign Randall W. VerHoef and Gunnery Sergeant Buck Welcher

Semper Fi.

Mother and Daddy

Having managed to almost finish the first chapter of my thesis, I decided to reward myself yesterday with a trip to the Georgia Renaissance Festival. This annual event actually deserves a post all its own since I could certainly go on at length about my longtime love affair with the Tortuga Twins and the delicacies available for sale there--including the King's Codpiece. But I digress...

After my satisfying day at the RenFest, I drove home, admiring the newest addition to my ring collection (a celtic design thumb ring) while my hands rested on the steering wheel. I was struck, not for the first time, at the appearance of my hands. I have my Mother's hands. When I load my no-longer slender fingers full of her turquoise jewelry, the resemblance is truly uncanny. This isn't a bad thing--I love my Mother more than words can express--and while I would prefer the size 4 ring fingers I had when I got married, I realize age brings imperfections and I'm okay with that. What concerns me is the image I see when I look at myself in the mirror. Most women my age see their mothers. I see my father. In drag.

My Dad was a handsome guy, don't you think?

I just think he looks much better as a man than I look as a woman who looks just like him. Does that make sense? Anyway, in honor of what should have been my parents sixty second anniversary on June 1st, I thought I'd write just a bit of their story.

My Daddy, Arthur Jackson Hardy, Jr., was known as "Jack" during his early years, and "Andy" once he began serving in the Army Air Forces. After serving in the 8th AAF in England during World War II, he was transferred to Boling Field near Washington D.C., to become the Chief of the Personal Equipment Branch at Continental Air Forces HQ.

Here's my Mother--she was a stunner wasn't she?

My mom, Margaret Osburn Shutt, was the daughter of a Colonel in the Army, had just barely turned 18, and got her first job as a clerk typist in the same office. Well, the sparks flew and they had their first date on Halloween--it ended up being a scary event for poor Mother. In her words, "We were invited to a party at some people's house that your father had known in England and it was supposed to be strictly "casual," so, being 18 years old, I wore a skirt, sweater and "bobby sox" (the rage of the day). EVERYONE ELSE there had on cocktail dresses, stockings and high heels. I was so humiliated I didn't know what to do but bravely entered into all the games and such but I've NEVER forgotten it! I was really furious and your father felt badly for me but guess he was so in love it didn't matter a hoot to him. I never dated anyone else and by Christmas we were engaged!"

Here's a picture of them ring-shopping in DC:

Gas and cars were still in short supply in those days, so Daddy usually rented a car to take Mother out but on one snowy evening, he decided to take a bus from DC out to Clinton, Maryland, where my Mother lived with her parents (always known to us kids as "Colonel" and "Dardy"--another long story!) in a furnished home that they were renting. Well, the weather was terrible and the bus driver had to stop the bus to put chains on in order to make the trip. Daddy offered to help the driver get the chains out of the luggage compartment. The bus continued on its way to Clinton, and Daddy and Mother had a lovely evening together. When it came time for Daddy to return to DC, my grandmother, Dardy, wouldn't hear of it. The weather was too bad and the trip too dangerous. Daddy would stay in the guest room for the night.

In the wee hours, Daddy began to dream--in his dream, he was helping the bus driver with those chains and became locked in the luggage compartment of the bus. Frantically pulling on the compartment door (in his dream) he awoke in his future in-laws guest bedroom when the headboard of the bed he was sleeping in cracked in two as he desperately tried to get out of that bus compartment!

An inauspicious beginning to a lifelong love affair! They were married on June 1, 1946, in the post chapel at Andrews Field, Maryland. Is this a couple in love or what?

I'm lucky to have a letter written by Dardy to my Dad's mother, Ruth, (who wasn't able to attend) just three days after the ceremony. In Dardy's words, "Andy stood at the altar all eyes (and love written all over his face) when the bride came in. Without a single mistake the ceremony went off and I hope never to see anything sweeter than our Margaret looked like in her long bridal dress and veil. She looked so like an angel, so young, and above all so sure. They were the dearest looking young couple!" Her letter also mentions the fact that they were not too sure about the quality of the wedding pictures since the photographer had been tasked with stirring the punch for the reception while the wedding party was at the church. By the time they returned, he was rather sloshed. Doesn't seem to have dimmed his talent much, tho, huh?

They honeymooned in Lake Lure, North Carolina, and the rest, as they say, is history. Here are a couple more of my favorite photos:

So, if I do look like my Dad in drag and if my hands do look just like my Mother's--well, I can live with that. I can't think of any two people who I'd rather be like.


Now if I could just figure out a way to have my Dad's face and my Mom's hands and Cameron Diaz' body, I'd have nothing left to wish for....

Conflict avoidance...

Okay, so I lied. I promised myself (and a number of my children) that I would not spend time on a blog until I finished the seventy-five page thesis that has been the thorn in my side (pain in my butt, fly in my ointment, bee in my bonnet...), for lo these many months.

My thesis is not necessarily an unpleasant task. I am still fascinated with my topic (German POW camps in Georgia) and after spending literally months wading knee deep in the records of the Provost Marshal General's Office and the War Manpower Commission in both Washington, D.C. and just up the road at the regional archives, I have managed to give birth to a thesis statement, I have coughed up an outline, I have even managed to write the first two pages of this masterpiece.

So why am I sitting at my computer at 8:00 on a Saturday night working on a blog that will not contribute to said thesis and has nothing to do with graduation requirements? It's called "conflict avoidance" and I have raised it to an art form. I can hear myself now, telling my middle school students, "If you spent as much time WORKING on your project as you do WHINING about it, you'd be finished already!" Please don't tell them, but I was talking total crap! In reality, whining takes less time and much less brain power than working.

Closely related to whining is rationalizing. "I worked reeeally hard on it yesterday, so I can relax a bit today." "I don't have anything to do on Monday, so I'll work all day Monday on it and make up for not working on it today." Or my personal favorite, "I really do work better under pressure and it's not the last minute yet."

SO, kind family and friends, this constitutes my very first attempt at blogging. Whether I have written well, whether I have made you smile, whether you'll be interested enough to check back later on to see if I've updated my blog remains to be seen. What is absolutely CERTAIN, however, is that I have NOT written my thesis. But it's the day before Mother's Day and I deserve the day off. Right? Riiiight......