Once upon a time in a far off, island part of the kingdom, there lived a maid named Mary Gunther, a blower of sand and raiser of many munchkins. Mary was a good soul, washed her hands and face each morning, said her prayers every night, and always told her shipmates "Watch that boom" before she tacked. One day, despite her clean living and good deeds, Mary was stricken with a dread disease. All who knew her asked "Why?" but not Mary, no siree, Bob! She just gritted her teeth, rolled up her sleeves, and, after being irradiated by some of the King’s men, got better. That’s right, boys and girls, got better!
Getting better didn’t come easily, but it came nonetheless. Later, Mary said "I can’t think of any jokes or any fancy way to respond other than thanks to God and to all who have given me more support than anyone will ever know this side of heaven. People say I am ‘positive,’ but I would say that I am well-loved. A humble heart knows that God has done a mighty work." All the boys and girls rejoiced and sang and danced and vowed to save Mary a chair at the annual festivals of excessive food and drink in 2001, 2006, 2011, etc. Meanwhile . . .
A funny thing happened to Mary while she was sick. One day, she was at church exchanging the usual pleasantries with a woman she’d met who didn’t know she was sick. The woman asked Mary how many kids she had and Mary said, "Six" and the woman said, "Six children . . . If I had six children, I wouldn’t have any hair left." Mary remembered the better part of valor and resisted the urge to pull off her wig. Mary’s living happily ever after at 1 Eighth Street, Qtrs K, Honolulu, HI 96818, 808-422-8857. Meanwhile . . .
In a neighboring hamlet, a prince of a guy named Bill Peacock, known to polish the odd bee of the sea, got a letter from the King who’d recognized Bill as a man of talent and had picked him above others to journey far across the deep blue sea to the Land of the Oaken Awa, a strange and militarized place filled, apparently, with Awas made only of oak. "There," quoth the King, "Ye shall taketh command of 600 knave Seabees in dire need of polishing at yon Naval Mobile Construction Battalion 74 in the Camp of Shields on April 7th in the fiscal year of our POM 1998." Being a dutiful and career-minded lesser noble, Bill couldn’t refuse the King and packed his trash and sailed westward for a spell.
While his trash was being pack, though, a funny thing happened. One day, Prince Bill was "Out Dining," a strange ritual rife with archaic rules and regs where seniority and juniority are turned on their ears. Alas, Prince Bill broke a rule and was fined by a still lesser noble. For his penance, Bill was made to stand and sing a hymn to the seafaring pigskin Gods, Anchors Aweigh, methinks. As he stood and began belting out said tune, he looked askance and, lo, at the other end of the mess rose maid Mary mentioned above who joined in, such was her propensity not to bilge. Meanwhile . . .
Another prince, Mark Ashley got his own note from the King commanding him to sojourn hence to Gulfport, MS there to rule over all lesser nobles and seabee knaves alike as CO of Naval Construction Training Center. And so off Mark stepped smartly on his left foot toward the land of weeping willows and swamps of drooping moss where frogs and lizards make beer commercials and folks build houses on stilts. Meanwhile . . .
In the far off northern Duchy of Minnesota, which means "small sota," a duke named Brooks Berg lived with the lovely (and talented) Duchess Linda and their two small dukelets (dukelings?), Carter and Andy. One day Duke Brooks changed his email address to read brooks.berg@guidant.com. That being done, he emailed far and wide to other dukes to coordinate their whereabouts and, lo, Tony Kurta responded from the bounding main where he’d soon be destined to drive his very own galleon, CARNEY. Alas, Brooks looked long and longingly at the Kurta mail and pined for the sea as the small sota Duchy, being land-locked, had no ships. Alas, his frustration was great and he took it out by cross country skiing with Linda across the semi-frozen, El Nino’d wasteland near the castle, he on slick, new skis and Linda on ratty, old, garage sale retreads, the coefficient of friction of which prompted her to bid him switch since he was the one who needed to sweat out his troubles. Later, Brooks, whose pulse was now great, vowed to buy fair Linda her new skis and get a reserve slot closer to the sea in DC. Meanwhile . . .
In a sunny southern part of the kingdom called the Land of the Winged Knights, there lived a particular knight named Rick Martin who longed to teach other young knights the secret mantra with which they could escape their earthly confines to soar and swoop and waggle and wooferdil at altitudes low and high and airspeeds sonic, super and sub. So he petitioned the King’s detailers who reviewed his parchment and saw that he’d done good deeds and, lo, they created him CO of VT-2 on the 19th of June next month. Whilst Rick punched holes in the sky, fair (and talented) Lady Meredith quested for her Degree of Masters, which is kinda like being a Jedi Master only more expensive. For months she studieth texts ancient at the library of the University of Western Floridadidians whilst her progeny attendeth high and elementary schools nearby. Introspectively, Sir Rick asked to no one in particular whilst in the head, "High school . . . be we that old?" Next day upon the flight line, he saw the answer plain as day as his students hailed from the Class of ’97. Yea, even had he not caused fair Meredith to bear him heirs so soon so many years ago, he would still have been old, but, did he let it get him down? Not a whit. Instead with childish glee he aileron rolled his young charges ‘til they puked on canopies beneath them as they stared up at the sapphire sea. Meanwhile . . .
Sir Rick whipped out a quill pen and wrote of other knights’ conquests. First, Sir Mike McKinnon screened for command and headed for the good sub KENTUCKY bobbing in the King’s Own Bay, GA there to run both silent and deep, ever ready to target and lob and MIRV should Golom and the Evil Ones creep up. Second, Sir Jim Murray awaiteth command of VT-31, his XO billet slatethed for Sir Jaime Navarro, a volatile combo according to Sir Rick. The skies ‘oer the sapphire Mexican Gulf shall ne’er be the same. Lastly, Rick penned contact info, martrj@bellsouth.net. Meanwhile . . .
In the King’s Pentagonal Palace of Puzzles ‘cross the river from the City of White Limestone (not to be confused with the City of Crystal), long lost Lord Dave Phillips emerged from hiding to report from OPNAV, a strange and mystical place where ACATs prowl for sponsors and people converse in an other-worldly tongue called "gov-speak." More trying than Latin, it is, with nouns like verbs, modifiers misplaced, and paragraphs wrought of single sentences. When outside the palace walls, Dave dwells in suburbia with Lady Sheryl, a good Hood girl of ’88, and 4-year old Christine who hath learned that same hymn to the seafaring pigskin Gods recently belted out by Prince Bill, such is her young devotion to sport, blue and gold. Evenings, whilst not directly in the King’s service, Lord Dave journey’s to UMUC there to master financial management. Later, at the dawn of the new fiscal year, the King will see fit to bless him with TERA and retire him to the life of a gentleman commuter. So happy is Dave in his lot that his heart hat filled with song along with others who collectively call themselves "The National Chamber Singers" whilst performing for the peasantry about the City of White Limestone whilst not being reached at chpnshr@clark.net. Meanwhile . . .
Back in the palace toiled still more of the King’s men, among them Squires Jim Shannon, Pete Gumataotao, Bubba Turman, and Rick Blunt, J6, Office of Legislative Affairs, OPNAV, and OPNAV, respectfully. Be it noted that Squire Bubba retires from the King’s service in December. South of the palace, in the City of Crystal, Sir Paul Ims works to buildeth the King’s newest sub, but soon, like Sir Mike, he’ll submerge his very own state-named boat and join the other denizens of Neptune’s deep. Still further south, Sir Scott Howe reigns over his own little fiefdom at the mouth of the River of Pax whilst awaiting word from the King’s rocketeers who he hath petitioned to dub him Mission Specialist so to shuttle free of this airy sphere’s grip and look down upon mere mortals from among the stars like sisters Wendy and Kay and brother Brent. Meanwhile . . .
Still further south, Marquis David Fuquea reigned supreme among the warrior-like, sea green people who populateth the sand swamps of Eastern Carolinaeus. Strange-talking people they are who, like the Celts before them, paint their faces and issue forth in battle animal grunts, believing as they do that such theater strikes fear in the hearts of their foes. And lo, it does, but not half as much as in the hearts of spouses who after battle must wash the grease paint leavings from their garments. Like his blue bretheren, Dave is a seafarer, but a passenger only. Thus he was during his recent voyage as XO of a MEU(SOC) (fear not, it’s only mil-speak, a sister tongue to gov-speak and I shant use it again) while embarked aboard the good ship KEARSARGE. Meanwhile . . .
Having taken off to the Great White North, Tim Tocci toils tirelessly near Toronto in Ottawa. Tis yet another tale the details to which I truly know not (sometimes one is inexplicably seized by the urge to alliterate). Meanwhile . . .
Not quite as far north, little Lord Fuzz Harrison of the Harbor of Bar reporteth that he is "busier than a one-legged peasant in a buttocks kicking contest." Kind of Chauceresque, no? Fuzz reports that the Harbor escaped the icey death and destruction visited on certain Bateseans winter last. Perhaps ‘twas those temperate sea breezes that waft south from Newfoundland via the Bay of Fundy. Perhaps not. Meanwhile . . .
In Clarendontown, just north of the palace, lived Lady Lisa Cicchini Bachiller, now a demi-colonel of the sea green folk. Yea, my alphabetically-next-in-shot-line hath brasso’d the last vestige of gold from her clusters which now shine a bright chromium. Woe is her, though, as she hath been driven from her first love, fixing the King’s machines that fly, to be chained to a desk in the dungeon of I&L from which escape is futile. "What hath I done to deserve this fate?" her voice is heard to cry late at night after the cows are home, "Which monitor hath I forsook (forsaken? . . . whateverth) that I am condemned to wander the Hill from subcommittee to subcommittee mute save for animal utterances like ‘BRAC’ and ‘POM.’ They shall think me mad!" I, for one, swear fealty to her cause for she is a noble lady who hath borne a fine son, Jon Paris, Jr., of 15 years who dreams naught but attending the U of Canoe before joining the sea green people. As if that weren’teth enough, she hath distinguished herself further by being the first active duty lady U of Canoer to reach demi-colonel amongst the greens. Had I a hat, t’would be off to her. Praise and sympathy for her and her plight can be forwarded to MILCON Project Officer, HQMC, I&L, LFL-4, DSN 426, Comm 703-696-1000/1, fax 696-0903, email: bachillerlc@hqi.usmc.mil. Meanwhile . . .
In the Watery Tide area dwelt the Earl Larry Olsen since ’95 who, after leaving the King’s Navy, donned blue yet again for Special Work at CINCLANTFLT N7, signing on for 90 days then stretching it six months more ‘ere resuiting as Assistant for Joint Training. Larry’s bids us know him a resource as the King strikes down COMTRALANT save N7 to carry the load. Those wishing to call out to Larry may at (H)757-686-4799, (W)757-836-0102 (DSN same), fax 0141, email:olsenle@clf.navy.mil. Meanwhile . . .
Two of the King’s former fleet footed messengers, Neil Hogg and Al Scott, continue to race down paths of greatness. Neil dwells along coastal regions in the Ville of Jackson where he awaiteth anointment with JP-5 ‘ere leading a squadron of the King’s rotarian flying machines SH-60ish. "T’will be at least Christmas," thinks Neil, "’Til then, with Pam, I’ll bide my time with my first-born and heir, Graham William Edward who, in two months, shall be one." And the two middle names, prithee, why is that done? ‘Tis an old Scottish custom which, truth be known, begs a bit of trivia. Consult, if you will, page 240 of thy Bag Lucky and gaze, if it please you, upon the father, Neil William Thomas whose nickname ‘neath his visage is "Nitwit." "Why so?" ask ye. Well, ye, seems someone put i’s ‘tween his initials, threw in a T for good measure, and, well, there it is. Meanwhile . . . Al sold his soul to the King’s detailers for Monterey en route to the pinnacle of higher learning, a PhD in Aerospace, before returning, anon, to the U of Canoe to dispense his new-found knowledge amid midships, a latter day high tech Socrates in the Stribling grass surrounded by Mach 3 Plato wannabes. Meanwhile . . .
Lady Kay Hire gazeth down upon us from the heavens as thee gazeth upon this toner, our third astronaut. Meanwhile . . .
Noblewoman Sharon Disher ‘80, wife of Sir Tim, hath proved the keyboard mightier than the sword and authored prose of future renown entitled First Class that recounteth days of yore when women first called for chow in Bancroft’s hallowed halls. Obtaineth it at yonder Barnes & Nobles (Noblewoman . . . Barnes & Nobles . . . Be there a connection?) website or at any similarly named emporium. Yea, even have her ink your newly purchased pages as follows: 1000-1200 4/23, Alumni House, 4/30, Association of Naval Aviators, Norfolk Marriott, 1400-1600 5/2, Barnes & Nobles, VA Beach, 1300-1500 5/3, Barnes & Nobles, Newport News, 1130-1330 5/19, WOPA Luncheon, Pentagon Executive Dining Room, 1400-1600 5/19, Pentagon Bookstore, 1130-1330 5/20, USNAAA Luncheon, Ft. Myer O’Club, 1130-1330 5/21, ‘80/’81 Luncheon, Ft. Myer E Club. Meanwhile . . .
Read, finally, the words of a small child who came into this word on the same day, 39 years hence, as your devoted scribe:
"I know that it does not reflect well on myself and the rest of the Class of 2020, but my late arrival on 4 February was no less than a welcome event for my first time parents, Marci & Scott Hubal. Dad was happy enough to allow me to send this email so that you may get the news and spread it and his address of scott@caor.com.
Mom has been helping me to read, but what do you expect after five days from the son of a teacher? Mom is doing great and she and Dad are quite enamored with my diaper art work and seem to be saving it for possible future value. I should imagine that they would have enough to do a one-baby show by the end of this week and should make enough money from the sales to let them retire early.
Just wanted to send this news bulletin of my arrival. Looking forward to meeting you and many more of Dad’s classmates in the future when they come through San Diego. Most sincerely, Baby Mark."
Meanwhile . . . Well, there are no more ‘meanwhiles.’ I’ve plum runneth out and my column runneth over so the tale is told, but not before I tell you that everyone lived happily ever after whether they realized it or not and those who don’t think so sweateth things little. Anon, forget not the usual "Don’t Forgets," to wit Class Project suggestions, ’81 Golf at Ft. Meade next month, ’81 lunch at Ft. Myer ??? And remember, be careful out there, okay?
Later, .