Between the two floats, I met a young Woman Marine, let’s call her Anne because that is not her name and I don’t have her permission to mention her in writing. Anne was beautiful, charming, alluring, and as a Marine I knew she was tough. As we got to know each other’s likes and dislikes, I was surprised at how much we had in common. I fell for Anne hook, line and sinker. My uncle owned a pawn shop in Miami, FL. I had him find a wedding set, white gold, which he sold to me at cost. Then I asked Anne to marry me. She agreed and gushed over the engagement ring. I had her hold the other two, the wedding bands, as well until the date we would set.
Anne claimed to dislike her Marine Corps life and wanted out. She told me she was playing on the psychologists to get a mental illness discharge, what had been known until that year as a “Section 8.” I believed her because I was in love. I didn’t realize her discharge was legitimate. Anne was bipolar and schizophrenic, two disorders that run in my own family. I should have recognized the symptoms, but as they say, love is blind.
After Anne was released from active duty, and I was sailing the north sea in an LST, she asked me for money to buy the wedding decorations and pay for the ballroom where the reception would be held. I cleaned out my credit union account with alacrity, and mailed her a check for over five thousand 1978 dollars. As time went by her letters became more vague and less emotional. Then came the letter in which she returned the wedding set and called off the wedding. She claimed to have spent the money on a van to ferry church members in. I was so crushed I could not think.
One thing I had no desire to possess was the wedding set. A barmaid at the little country music joint right outside the front gate was a sweet lady who was trying to save up for a fertility procedure so she could be a mommy. I just gave her the rings to sell or wear, I cared neither way. This was the single most devastating thing that happened to me since my grandmother died slowly of cancer.
I loved Anne with my whole being, so the inconsistencies in her actions and words didn’t register at the time. In hindsight they’re plain as sunshine. Anne acted sophisticated and self-actualized, but she wore a brazier that was two cup sizes too small. I noticed the bulge of her bests above the cups whenever she exposed her cleavage in a low neckline. On day I asked her if she wore only push up bras. She said she didn’t need push ups because her breasts pushed themselves up. But her breasts were always tender. I took her to the local Cato’s store and bought her all new underwear that fit her. Her breasts were never sore after that.
Anne claimed to be Christian, Born-again Evangelical. She attended one of those tongue talking churches near the base. I went with her on every Sunday. We had a good time and God ministered through me in prayers, laying-on of hands, and prophecy. A couple people were healed by God when I laid on hands. At this time in my early walk with God, my lips would tingle when I spoke the words God gave me and my hands would tingle when I laid hands on the sick or oppressed.
But Anne’s Christianity didn’t carry over to Saturday nights. One of her friends was married to a professional musician who had a Country Music band that played gigs in bars on Saturday nights. Anne wanted to bring me along to show me how country she was. When we broke up I discovered that in her other personality, Anne didn’t like country music. After Anne’s discharge, but before the letter breaking off the engagement, Anne’s friend invited me to come along with them on one more gig. I wrote a poem about missing Anne that night, set to music. I know this is cliche, I wrote it on a napkin at the band table with the band members’ wives. I even borrowed a pen from one of the ladies.
Every time I see them dancing I miss you.
My arms ache to hold you tight.
The bar maid is a pretty sight,
But I want to be with you tonight.
There were three other verses to it but they are not as good as the first. I realize its not professional songwriter quality, but I am not a polished pro. Anne’s jilting me was the one thing that made me lose interest in trying to remain in the corps. So when the senior NCOs worked to evict me, I no longer fought to stay in. I was in a depression that lasted for almost a full year.
To be continued….
Ol’ Fuzzy is not employable and was denied for disability benefits. The only thing I have is the blogs. But I don’t qualify for ads on the blogs until September. If you like the scribbles I post, please help me keep it going. You can leave me a gratuity by dropping a buck or two in Ol' Fuzzy's Tip Jar. This is a PayPal account I opened on Wednesday, April 5, 2017.
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