Margie

    The fleet frigate now robbed of mobility and with a gaping hole in its outer skin perched high and dry in the only still-used dry-dock in a disused shipyard in South Boston. The metallic banging of a door on a discarded locker was played by a hot off-shore wind as un-orchestrated percussion in an otherwise quiet symphony of tide testing the dock’s gate and the distant rumble of an MTA subway headed for Dorchester and the fringe suburbs of the capital city.

    A short walk brought the young sailor to the street for an uptown visit to the Boston Common and adjacent Public Garden. Dogs patiently walked their captives and the swan boats meandered lazily around the Duck pond on a clear summer day.

    This virgin sailor had yet to taste the wonder and terror of the sea and the bitter taste of unrequited love. New to life away from small town roots, this new world of strange city and enticing girls was a mélange of curiosity, awe and trepidation.

    Not yet of an age to enjoy adult beverages but wishing a break from exploring this new world, a coffee shop was the choice so back to Tremont street to search for refreshment. The Copper Kettle was less than a block from the notorious Washington street area known as the 'Battle Zone' where of-age sailors plied themselves with alcohols of one form or another as they mingled with B-girls, hookers and other 'strip' personae.

    Ordering a chocolate shake (shades of Radar O'Reilly's grape Ne-Hi) the young Navy man was disappointed to find that in this new world, a chocolate shake was nothing more than syrup stirred into a glass of milk. His waitress, Margie, was about to begin a small epiphany for this far-from-home sailor in a strange place.

    Margie, quite likely Irish, was a delight for this newbie to the real world. She patiently schooled the young tar that a milk shake was called a 'frappe' and coffee with cream and sugar was a coffee regular (pronounced reg-uh-lah) and she seemed as taken with this handsome young man as he with her.

    Though probably the same age, this young lass mesmerized him with her worldly-wise manner and confidence. That she was also pert, perky and pretty added to the fetching aura. Waiting for her shift to end he was delighted when she allowed him to escort her home to Cambridge, a too-short ride away on the Lechmere car.
   
    They chatted comfortably while walking the short distance from the car stop to her home. He learned her last name. Their lingering shared glances led to the inevitable embrace and good night kiss. The sweet kiss was soon over but not before being punctuated with a most unexpected and never-before-experienced love nip on his lip. It was the end of an exciting and unforgettable day of hope building within.

    Before she went inside, she revealed that she would be leaving Boston to live with her father in Michigan. Sadly clinging to hope and clutching the note paper with her Detroit address, this dejected sailor navigated his way back to the shipyard.

    His letters to her were never answered.    

#  #  #

   

It Was A Very Good Year

    Whenever I sing this Sinatra standard at karaoke events, I recall my “stages” in a similar manner.

    When I was 17, I learned that I was not quite ready for college even though the H.S. guidance counselor said I was college material. Shortly after returning to non-scholastic life I turned 18 and learned that as a draft-eligible young man, no company was interested in hiring me even for the most menial position. So, in order to avoid being drafted into the Army, I enlisted in the Navy.

    That, after boot camp and electronics school, put me aboard a brand new ship in the Charlestown Naval Shipyard in Boston, Massachusetts. That ship, the USS Leahy (DLG-16), was being fitted out and readied for sea to join the fleet. The Leahy was my home for three years.

    That billet in Boston gave me ample time to thoroughly explore the city (and fall in love with it) and educated me about things I had no prior knowledge of. Like the Hatch Memorial shell (a gift from Maria, the sister of Edward A. Hatch, to the city of Boston in memory of her brother) where Arthur Fiedler and his Boston Pops played every Fourth of July.  The perimeter of the stagefront is emblazoned in bronze with the names of many of the world’s greatest composers some whose names I hadn’t heard of until hearing their music years later.

    The Hatch shell is nestled comfortably between Storrow drive and the Charles River basin on a piece of land called “The Esplanade”. I didn’t know then that an esplanade is simply a promenade or public walkway situated near water.

    One afternoon while enjoying a stroll on the Esplanade, I saw a young woman in a sailboat having some obvious difficulty negotiating her small craft. To the rescue I dashed to save this damsel in distress on the deep. Well actually, she was just a young girl bearing a bit of badness on the basin but as a suave, daring (I thought) young sailor I felt compelled to save her from whatever plight a grounded sail boater might have suffered with the wind luffing her sail and pinning her to the shore line.

    Discovery! I didn’t know the first thing about sailing! I (we) waited patiently until another sailor (of the civilian persuasion) came along and with his powered boat pulled us (I was her passenger by then) to her mooring. Failure though I was as a “sailing” sailor, her father expressed his gratitude for my efforts and good intentions by inviting me aboard his mini-yacht for a cruise up river to his boat club.

    In the Sinatra song, It Was A Very Good Year, the phrase, “When I was 35, it was a very good year for blue-blooded girls”, reminds me very much of that incident. I wasn’t 35 then. I wasn’t even 21. But it was a very good year.

#  #  #