In the spirit of the New Years celebration, below is a photo from New Years Eve, 1966. This gathering of friends celebrating with a night of laughter and libations (too many as it turns out) is at the Station OClub. Pictured are the Merchants (Deborah L Cramer youll enjoy this), the Maleens, my mother and father - Bev and Fred, the Barkers, the Teress the Reids and the Endsleys. My father had been in Subic for six months, but Mom us kids arrived in mid-December, just a few weeks prior to this night. My mother was truly an innocent, yet uneducated in the ways of the vibrant Subic social life. She didnt drink or smoke, and had yet to be exposed to the energy and temptations of this new world. That night she discovered a new magical elixir, a sweet, bubbly concoction that could be consumed in volume without any effect - or so she thought. After at least a bottle of champagne, and after the New Year had been raucously welcomed, my father drove and carried her home to our Barrio Matain compound. She had never been inebriated in her life, until this night. I awoke to some great disturbances and laughter, and a voice from my mother that was somehow strange. My folks room was across the hall from my own, and from my bed I could see - and hear - them. Mom was paying the price for her excesses, and had locked herself in the bathroom to suffer privately. My father became concerned when some time had passed, and he began knocking and calling her name. I sat up and asked my Dad if things were OK, and he curtly told me to go back to sleep - that wasnt going to happen, and I was now enjoying the show from my front row seat. Dad grew louder and more urgent, banging and demanding that Mom open the door. No response. My father took few steps back into my room to provide more space for his goal of ending this siege, lowered his shoulder, and launched himself into the door. At that moment, my mother, naked and perched contentedly on the toilet, opened the door. Dad sailed past her, into the tile wall, and tumbled into the bathtub. A moment of silence ensued - except for my fathers groaning and my laughter at the sight of my mothers naked profile staring at her bruised and bleeding husband. Mom stood up, grabbed a large beach towel which she ceremoniously draped around her besotted torso, and proclaimed, This piggys going to market. To this day, none of us have deciphered the meaning of this, although my two boys always pleaded for the retelling of this event when visiting Grandma, which concluded with them writhing on the floor in laughter. Grandma was always a great sport, and feigned embarrassment, but enjoyed the story as much as we. Theres more - after her grand announcement, she did head to market - no one is sure where that was in our Barrio neighborhood - and walked out the front door into the darkness and out the compound gate. My father, still dazed and semi-conscious, struggled to his feet and gave chase. Out on the highway he found the towel, which could only mean that things might get worse! After a few hundred yards down the San Miguel road, as we called it, not yet to the Catholic Church (can you imagine what the local priest might have concluded?), he located his piggy, and returned her home. The next day all of us kids were anxious to hear the full story, although I was the only eyewitness and was holding back details before I knew if the full retelling might land me at odds with Dad. Turns out there was nothing to be shared for hours, as Mom and Dad were unable to arise. Dad, bloodied and broken, Mom nauseous and pale - both claiming that even the slightest sound was an unbearable clanging and a full scale attack on their senses. Mom eventually learned how to navigate this new world of happy hours and social events - something the seasoned career military wives had accomplished earlier in life - and she rarely drank again. Champagne remained a favorite - but only one glass thank you!
Posted on: Sun, 11 Jan 2015 18:59:41 +0000
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