After 40 years , I finally fit.

It was August 1966 when my Navy buddy and I found out we were going to Italy. At the end of our training, we had all filled out a “preference of duty” form. The consensus was that the forms were immediately thrown in the trash. No one ever got the assignment they requested. Dan & I had requested the most obtuse locations. I don’t remember them except for Turkey. Italy was a great surprise.
There were two types of servicemen in Italy. Type 1 avoided all contact with the natives. Then spent most of their free time complaining about the country and its inhabitants. Type 2 servicemen immersed themselves in the country and its culture.
98% were Type 1’s. 2% were type 2’s. Dan and I were Type 2’s.
We did everything possible to fit in. Italian clothes helped. Dan came up with the idea of always carrying a local newspaper. The reality was that I was tall and blond and while there were blond Italians, few were tall. Dan was shorter, but just didn’t look Italian.
It was amusing .Board a train and take a seat in one of the compartments. . Dressed Italian, and pretend to read the Italian news.. I would ignore the curious glances and the discrete whispers. Usually, after a short while, someone would brave a simple question. A simple Si or No was not enough for them to figure out where I was from. When they could stand it no longer, some one would ask, “Tedesco?” (German). “No”, I would answer, “American”. Everyone in the compartment would give a sigh of relief and start practicing their limited English on me. I would usually hear something like this “ I godda brodder in New Yak, ya know him?”,
My Italian got better, but I was never able to fit in. I stayed two years, Dan shipped out before me.
Forty years later it’s a different country. There are hundreds of thousand of immigrants from all over and many are tall and blond. On our last trip, I walked out to the street and almost immediately a car pulled over and asked directions. I thought it was a fluke, but it started happening all the time. Forty years ago I always got stares, today no one even notices me.
One day I drove my mother-in-law to the fish market. The parking lot was jammed packed, so I dropped her off and pulled up and doubled parked. I got out of the car, ready to move if I was in someone’s way. A couple got in there car and I stopped the traffic so that they could pull out of their parking place. They pulled out and then stopped. The women got out and gave me 50 cents and thanked me for watching their car.
After 40 years, I fit in.

©2009

Crossing the Road

We had many dogs while I was growing up, but never one that got old. This phenomenon was due to where we lived. It was about a mile west of a small town right on the main road between Houston and San Antonio. In itself this would not have been a big problem, but that major highway divided the family property. We were constantly crossing back and forth across that road to go shoot birds, rabbits or anything else that moved. We had just enough sense not to get hit by the constant flow of traffic. Dogs, being a little less smart, weren’t as lucky. The scene was always the same. Horn blowing, screeching tires then a loud thump. Some drivers stopped and apologized. Most just floored the accelerator and continued on. Replacement dogs were easy to come by. Our Grandfather visited all the local farms, buying livestock, and there was always a fresh litter somewhere. I don’t remember how many dogs we “went through”. I don’t even remember any of them, save one. The one I remember wasn’t the normal mixed-breed farm dog. It was a full breed Cocker Spaniel. Not sure about the name, but it might have been Rusty. It had a silky rust color coat. It was the “family” dog, but I
Considered him mine. I spent far too much time playing with him. During the first few weeks I couldn’t concentrate at school for thinking about Rusty. As months past, I did my best to overfeed Rusty. He grew rapidly and soon could out run me. He kept getting fatter to the point I could tell that he didn’t want to run anymore. It didn’t bother me and I was content to sit down in the grass and let him nest in my lap.
I returned home from school one day and was surprised that Rusty hadn’t exercised his regular routine of running out to greet me. I dumped my books on the porch steps and started calling and searching. Just around the corner of the house I heard a whimper from under the house. I pulled open the tin door and there was Rusty. His normally rust color was blood red. I looked closer and was horrified. I ran screaming to my mother.. “ Mom! Mom! Rusty is falling apart!!” My mother grabbed a dishtowel and dried her hands as she followed me out side. She took one look and said. “O Lord, Rusty is too young to have puppies. “ Puppies?” I questioned, “ Rusty is a boy!” I was shocked and confused as my mother took me aside and explained what had happened. Although not hard fast, it had always been an understood rule that female dogs were not welcome in our family. We had gotten Rusty and he was a male. One morning, when we had had him only a few days, my mother had accidentally run over him when she returned from taking us to school. She had quickly returned to the people that had the cocker pups to get another male. However they only had females. She took the female to save us from the pain of loosing a dog.
Years past and I don’t remember for sure if Rusty had any more pups or even when or where she died. We always had that property across the highway so it’s a pretty good chance she died while crossing the road.

©2009