So, I guess it really is summer here in Texas, where in our part of Houston the “feels like” temperature is 108. The air temp is a balmy 99. And we’re not even in the hottest part of whatever passes for summer here – generally in August, according to some local meteorologists. I just can’t wait!
After two years of hibernating for Covid, we’re now hibernating to stay cool enough to breathe. Neighborhood walks are pretty much out of the question for me. I get much too warm and exhausted. I walk around the house, staking out circular paths. I like our house, but… We’ve talked about a vacation, however, the problem is that most of the US is in the same blazing boat that we are – as is Europe. So maybe Alaska or Iceland? But the thought of flying somewhere, with cancelled and delayed flights doesn’t sound so great either. So, maybe in the Fall, when we might celebrate the Autumn Equinox.
These young people that were killed in Kabul were our grandchildrens’ ages. Many of them were Marines, as my mom was. They were stationed at places where she served – Camp Pendleton, and Camp Lejuene. One was in the Navy, as my dad was. They were all far too young to die at the hands of violent extremists who don’t care about their country or its people. Only about their ideology.
Irene heard that some of the Women Marines in Camp Lejeune would be going to Hawaii. Irene was thrilled since she and her good friend Gerry were slated to go. They made all sorts of elaborate plans and even did a little skit with their fellow Feathernecks to celebrate. Their outfits of straw skirts and leis topped off with goofy masks and signs that said “Honolulu Here We Come” were the hit of the celebration.
Unfortunately, they made plans too soon, and learned that “the Corps” sometimes worked – or didn’t work – in mysterious ways. Gerry shipped out in November 1944, leaving poor Irene stuck in North Carolina with the roaches. But in December, just as she was about to have a Christmas leave with her family in Philadelphia, she got orders that she was being shipped to San Diego. That was the first step.
San Diego was a major disappointment to Irene. The Marine Corps base back then was a staging area for the troops going somewhere else, mostly the Pacific. There were waves of them who had to have muster rolls prepared and payroll records initiated, changed, or updated. Unfortunately, her staff there wasn’t like the top-notch crew she had at Camp Lejuene – or as large. And, the constant flow of troops was as never-ending as the California sunshine.
On top of that, Irene was conscientious to a fault. Because of her exceptional experience at Camp Lejuene, and the fact that she excelled at her job, she suspected that the Corps was keeping her from going to Hawaii. Instead of a workload of the two assignments that she handled at Camp Lejeune, she had three in San Diego: one as Acting Sergeant Major; Adjutant (an assistant to the Commanding Officer, or CO); and First Sergeant. Her feelings were likely well-founded. Those responsible were short-handed and they couldn’t afford to lose her. She began working 12- to 18-hour days again and started to burn out. Her superiors finally told her to slow down – which she reluctantly did. Meanwhile, her good friend Gerry had shipped off to Pearl Harbor, so she didn’t even have a buddy to gripe and share late-night snacks with.
Eventually the workload lightened up significantly, and life got easier in San Diego, so Irene could enjoy a bit of time to herself. She made one weekend trip up to Los Angeles with some other Feathernecks so she could see first-hand what Hollywood was all about. They went to The Brown Derby, Sardi’s, the legendary Clifton’s Cafeteria, and saw Grauman’s Chinese Theater with its celebrity footprints and handprints. In spite of its supposed glamour, she wasn’t impressed with Hollywood, and thought it seemed like any other smallish town. Irene was a big city girl, after all.
But right at home, the Marine Corps base had occasional dances, which she thought were much more fun than Hollywood, and she went to as many of them as she could. At least they were easier to get to, and less expensive. Best of all, they played a bigger variety of songs than “Pistol-Packin Mamma.” There were new tunes too, like “Ac-Cent-Tchu-Ate the Positive” that she could jitterbug to and “Sentimental Journey” for those dreamy slow dances.
Among her other duties, Irene scheduled the Marines who were on her muster rolls for physicals and dental checkups before they shipped out, so she had frequent contacts with those who were responsible for scheduling at those facilities. Clarence was now stationed at the Dental Clinic in San Diego, performing duties as a Dental Technician, and one of his responsibilities was scheduling. They spoke to each other frequently by phone. For weeks, in addition to setting appointments, they laughed and joked and engaged in some serious flirting with one another.
On one occasion, Clarence told Irene, “I heard you need to have all your teeth pulled. I’m so sorry to hear that, but I’m just the guy to be the technician to assist when you get that done.”
Irene was pretty clever too, so she shot back at him, “Listen, buster, if you even think about doing that, I’ll send a platoon of my Marine buddies over to rough you up.”
They both enjoyed the verbal foreplay, and worked hard at coming up with more outlandish things to tell each other.
After going through the process of trying to get my memoir published by a traditional press, I’m happy that I self-published. At least I know that I didn’t lie and cheat people to get my story out there. And, although there are two chapters that are fictional (to protect people in one case, and because we simply didn’t know the story of one of the mothers), I know this story is true.
I’ve been missing for a while due to some health problems, but, hopefully, I’m back again.
I am so excited to see this little story on one of the top-rated blogs for writers. Dreamers is the beginning of a book that will eventually be a collaboration with a fellow writer from my critique circle, Caden St. Claire.
After an absence of about two years, I thought it was time to write something.
A lot has transpired during that time. I finally, finally finished my memoir. I submitted it to a number of agents and was soundly rejected. This is not uncommon among first-time authors, but it still smarts. So, after my bruised ego healed somewhat, I decided to self-publish. I am now learning the intricacies of using Kindle Direct Publishing. Not difficult, just time-consuming and frustrating. Kind of like trying to format documents when Microsoft Word first came out.
I’ve also learned that I should have started marketing at least a year ago. Even when you get an agent and a publisher, you still have to do your own marketing. So then, what do they do for their cuts? Part of that marketing is having a web page. That will be my next step on WordPress.
Keep your fingers crossed for me. I need all the help I can get.
Mary Jo Martin is a retired market researcher who gave up life inside the Loop in Houston, Texas to move to the suburbs. I know, it’s supposed to work the other way.
She is a member of the Houston Writer’s Guild. Her short story, set in South Carolina, about domestic abuse and a poisoning, Flowers for Lewis, was published in the Houston Writer’s Guild Press short story mystery anthology, Waves of Suspense, in December 2015.
A medical mystery led her to pen an account of her quest to unearth her medical history on her father’s side. Instead, she found a big family. This work won first place in the memoir category in the Fall 2014 Houston Writer’s Guild contest. She’s still working on it.
Mary Jo started her professional life as a chemist. Along the way, she sold out to the dark side and earned her Master’s degree in Business Administration. After years of successfully producing concise business text as a marketer and market researcher, she is now free to do “real” writing.