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Social life, you ask, nonexistent. An Adventure, not so much? Here we are in New York City filled with attractions, including: Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, Central Park, Empire State Building, Rockefeller Center, Times Square, Broadway, many museums, zoos, architecture, the arts, cultural events, parks, major department stores, food establishments, Coney Island Boardwalk (its free), beaches, the ocean, and on and on and on…
How about a walk around the neighborhood?
One evening, we drove to the ship Dick was currently assigned to moored at the Brooklyn Naval Yard. They had warned us such a drive could be dangerous, so I was told, seems we were not living in the best of neighborhoods. One rule, never go outside the building. When traveling at night, the rule, keep moving. Should you arrive at a red light, slow, look both ways, then go. Simple. And we did, several times. Luck was with us tonight. The drawbridge recently lowered, permitting us to drive over the waterway without waiting. We arrived at the base, boarded the ship, got an abridged tour, and then sat for a while in the ship’s galley, drinking a cup of coffee. Keith sat seemingly disinterested, sipping on a hot chocolate, bored. He was not a fan of hot chocolate. The social event of the week. Likely the only one for several weeks. Sailors politely acknowledge us as they drift by, noted our existence. Some stopped to chat with their mates at a nearby table, all in matching uniforms. The same buzz cut. Small talk. A break in routine protecting democracy.
Going out in the evenings was rare and unusual. Dad rattles off a memorized check list, “be sure all the windows are rolled-up, doors closed, locked, and keep your head down.” I got to see the tops of buildings, the bridge supports and signal lights, most green for go, some red for apparently slow and go. The drive felt short. We arrived at the yard when I was informed I could sit up and see dad’s ship.
This was it?
I thought it would be bigger, appeared small, lonely. I first noticed it was gray. Next, I noticed it had a number stenciled on the side, a number I cannot recall. We boarded via the gangway, wandered a bit before we eventually arrived at the ship’s galley, although I also heard it called mess hall? It looked clean to me. We sat in a metal box. Metal floor, metal walls, metal tables, metal cup for my hot chocolate, metal ceiling; even the hallway outside our door leading somewhere was a gray nondescript metal. Everything felt hard, uninviting. I’m tired, bored. I’m uncomfortable. This is where dad spent his days. Finally, we leave, back to the car, following the rules, asleep by the time we reached home.
He carried Keith to his cot, placed him with care, and covered him as he prepared to leave. I guess back to the ship. By all appearances, he has a predilection serving with his shipmates. The uniform, routine, training, even the prestige the Navy offered, his actual home, his family. A quick kiss, a hug, and he would be off, leaving behind a promise that we would drive “home” on his next earned off-base liberty.
Gone. Always gone.
Eyes closed, I hear movement nearby. Mom, the blackout blinds removed allowing the sun to stream in, I realize breakfast is being prepared, cream of wheat, orange juice, slice of buttered toast, again. Hoping she allows me to add some sugar otherwise, ugh. Another unremarkable day to relive, housed in a gray world following the rules. Rules were not to be broken.
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