I'm a Service Brat

A neighbor asked me about being a "service brat" today. I said that it was fun being the new girl. I said it was fun moving around and getting to know a new place. I said it was fun to have adventure after adventure.

But the conversation played in my head for the next few hours and I realized I had more to say. It wasn't always fun. It was especially hard at times. I do not exaggerate when I tell you that I was in three different first grades.Three. I traveled by car, with my mom and dad , with every new set of orders. I knew Coast Guard, Navy and Marine bases from coast to coast. Could read a map pretty well by the time I was six. My mother didn't drive so the driving would be up to my father and the navigation up to my mother and I. My father would receive his orders. That brown envelope never left his side. Without transfer orders we would be sunk when dealing with movers, landlords or utilities. It was an easy way to break a lease or start up new gas and electric accounts. The Coast Guard didn't always give us an allotment check to pay the movers - so you just showed them the orders and they knew they would get paid by Uncle Sam. When my fathered signed on to be transferred to Oahu during the Korean War he did it because he would receive " hazard pay" and lucky us - a bonus if your family transferred with you. It sounds nice, but remember this was a few years after the end of World War II.Who knew what evil was still out there in the Pacific! Families were transported from Long Beach California via old troop transport ships. There were make shift rooms that had the strangest hardware, hooks and screws sticking out here and there. Hatches that wouldn't budge and bunks that were welded to the walls.Every surface of that ship was painted grey. Since my father was an enlisted man , we had pretty awful accommodations. Three women and assorted tykes shoved into a very small cabin. All the children had to wear life preservers ( adult size) and keep off the main deck. My mother was very sea sick and all I could offer her were sips of water and make sure she had her cigarettes and lighter. I do remember one incident that was so breath taking. We were on deck having yet another safety drill when thousands of flying fish appeared.  I was stunned!  The were, indeed, flying through the air and back into the water. So spectacular.Sixty years later and I still remember it!  The sailors  hoisted kids on their shoulders so we could watch. It was thrilling to feel the sea air  and see those silver slivers soar in great arching leaps.

 We arrived on the island of Oahu and made our way to the military housing provided by the Navy for the Coast Guard families. Rows and rows of - surprise! - grey bungalows. We were two blocks from Waikiki Beach. Our saviors, the Fukuji family, were our neighbors. They were Japanese Americans. The dad was a chef. The kids were my playmates. The mother was a love.

The trip and the lonely life without friends and family was too much for my mother. She spiraled into alcoholism very rapidly. My father had signed on for an eighteen month hitch. He was on an ice cutter and also ran supplies from the Aleutians to Korea. No phone calls, a letter here and there - a package at Christmas ( a small toy seal) . We really missed him. My dad made sure we had a car and he shipped his '47 Chevy to us. But it just sat there because my mom never did learn to drive. The Fukujis' were lovely people. They took care of me. Dressed me for every Japanese holiday. I ate dinner with them every night. I still have photographs of me dressed in silk adorned with lovely hair ornaments.

My darling grandmother came to visit after about a year. It was wonderful. She powered up that Chevy and took me everywhere. We went to pineapple plantations, beaches with pink sand. Black sand. Green sand. We visited the grand hotels and their gorgeous gardens. We went to the base and saw movies. She took me to the beach every single day. I got so brown. And , finally , my father came home. And as usual, our Christmas tree was still up. We always kept it up until he came home. A tiny,needle less, little tree on a box with brick crepe paper surrounding it, acting as a base. It was such a happy time. My mom got dolled up. Our neighbors made wonderful dinners for us. My dad bought Hawaiian shirts. My mother wore a cocktail dress with giant banana leaves printed in red and orange. I still have his shirts and my mother's dress.

So redonc! I cannot figure out the new Facebook. I feel like I'm in a bad B movie and I go to the phone on the wall and crank it,"Udella? Give me the Sheriff!". So here I come - - - back to the Blog 0 Sphere. I can't wait until next week when I sign up for my smart phone. What will the store clerk , I mean sales associate think of me when I ask her to repeat that again, Just ONE More Time? Speaking of phones - My mom and dad rarely had a phone. We could use our neighbors or my father could make calls from the base. So when I was visiting my grandmother it was a real joy to have a telephone. She had a party line. Two households shared one line. This was an economical adventure. Each household had their own ring. And you were to respect the privacy of the other line by NOT picking up the receiver and listening in. HAH! Even within that special ring culture my grandmother divised an even more economical way to communicate. It was the ever famous,and not such a secret, ONE ring. One ring at midnight on New Year's Eve meant - I love you Happy New Year now you can sleep. One ring at three in the afternoon might mean - I'll be late for dinner. One ring at ten p.m. was the signal for , I'm spending the night at my girlfriend's place. Anyway, back to the art of listening in on the neighbors phone call. Always soo boring. I never heard one good thing. My grandmother let me call in radio requests, enter phone contests and even answer the phone with hilarious greetings like, "City Morgue". The caller would say, "Little Madonna? Let me speak to Big Madonna, this is cousin - Choose One: Ozella Helene Tommy Birdie Doris Sister Oona I'll stop now. The Sister person was from church and these ladies always dubbed themselves sister. In fact, my grandfather was a member of the same church in Remington, next to Hampden, and always called my grandmother Sis. Back to the phone business - Telephones were things of beauty, I swear. Heavy and black. The dial was sturdy and with each rotation , to the right and falling back , it clicked. Look at any old movie. Now listen to that phone. Dialing gave you a few seconds to gather your thoughts. Settle down in the chair and turn on the lamp and doodle while you got connected to you party. As most of my friends know, I'm not one for phone calls. I speak to two girlfriends. Everyone else has to put up with my emails. Not kidding - phone is ringing....