As told to Atkins
**NOTE
: I thought readers might me interested in this real-life story related to me by a friend. It's not as wild as some I've read but it's fascinating - and it's true **
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I'm a Major in the U.S. Army stationed at Ft. Benning, GA. I enjoy working down here because I'm also something of a history buff and I love going to the old Civil War battle sites in Atlanta, Chattanooga and other places. I've even been to a few Civil War re-enactor battles and talked to the re-enactors themselves to learn what's involved. I've thought about buying the old uniforms and weapons and becoming a player myself but just haven't gotten around to it. Maybe in my retirement. Anyway, this has been a good tour of duty for me.
You see, history is a living thing to me. When I go to the battlefields or read the old books, I feel I'm there. I love listening to old soldiers talk about the way it used to be. Sometimes I wish I could go back there with them. Little did I know that I would soon be getting the chance in a way I had never expected.
A few months ago I was sent on temporary duty to the Pentagon in Washington, DC for a couple of weeks. I've been to Washington a few times although I've never been stationed there - and frankly, don't want to be. My superior officer during my tour at the Pentagon and I went back a long way together. He was my Commanding Officer during the Gulf War and knew something about my love of history and talking to old soldiers.
Maybe that's why he asked me if I'd like to attend a reception at the Ft. Meyer's Officers' Club being given that night. A retired Army Aviators group was meeting there as part of their annual convention. As he explained it, this group was largely made up of older men and their spouses, many of whom were World War II and Korean War veterans. As sort of a courtesy, the Army would send over active duty men and women to some of the events and my boss thought I might enjoy talking to the old folks. I had nothing else going on so I said, sure, why not?
I arrived about 1800 hours that same evening in my dress uniform, grabbed myself a complimentary drink at the bar and started mingling. I know lots of people my age think it's fashionable to say they hate cocktail parties like this but I'm not one of them. Plus in this environment, I was something of a celebrity. Before long, I had dozens of old Army aviators grabbing my elbow and telling me stories of what it was like long ago. I found it fascinating but after a while, even I wanted to sit down for a bit.
Just about everybody was up and mingling so most of the tables were empty. Sitting all alone at a table along the edge of the room was one elderly woman so I went over to her and asked if I could sit down. She said of course with a practiced social smile and I sat down next to her. Before long we started talking.
Her name was Bonnie although her friends all called her 'Bo' and her husband had passed away almost 6 years ago. She had flown up to Washington to attend the convention from Panama City, Florida and was staying with old friends. She pointed to them standing along the bar.
She and her husband were a career Army family and he had flown and fought in World War II, Korea and Vietnam before retiring. She had two children and three grandchildren and from some of the details about her life, I calculated she was about 78 years old or so.
I had enjoyed talking with some of the old pilots this evening but I found Bo charming and fascinating. She was really the first old woman I had ever spent any time talking with about the Army and an Army career. She told me about what it was like living in Washington DC during World War II and how wonderful it was when it ended in glorious victory.
"Most young men are not the least bit interested in my prattling on," she said with a pretty little smile. She looked into my eyes for the first time and seemed genuinely pleased. "If you don't know about computers and the Internet or modern movies (isn't the language simply awful?), then they don't want to talk."
I shook my head. "Not me," I said. "I love hearing about what it used to be like. I think we can learn a lot from the past."
Bo smiled, then thought for a moment and reached into her purse for something. "Here," she said. "You might find this interesting then."
She pulled out some old photos of her and her husband from during World War II. In the photos she was slender and quite lovely. I went through all the pictures asking her about this one, pointing to that one. She told me about the crazy things she did and laughed out loud when I did. I was charmed by this bit of living history sharing her stories with me.
Bo had a way of patting my hand when I questioned if something she said could really be true. "Oh, you better believe it, honey," she would say.
You're probably wondering what she looks like today and forgive me for not telling you sooner but I just wasn't interested in her looks up to this point. She was just a sweet old lady with a charming manner who loved talking about life 50 to 60 years ago. But something was happening.
We were sitting all alone at the table and when her friends came by and introduced themselves to me, Bo told them we were fine and all but sent them away. So it was just she and I and the occasional old friend who she would greet then dismiss and continue reminiscing with me.
Her lips seemed a little droopy, there's no other way to put it. I watched them as she spoke and she would curl and enunciate particular sounds in that peculiar way that women sometimes do in the South. Only infrequently would she gesture with a finger. She had lovely fingers and wore a big diamond ring from her marriage. Her wrists were fat but disappeared into a lovely blue blouse and sequined sweater. She was wearing a long gray skirt and turquoise scarf that allowed a peek at a surprisingly firm upper chest while hiding some droopy neck folds.
Bo knew how to wear make up well. Unlike many older women, she didn't just slather it on in chunks of red and beige color. She had high cheekbones and applied the make up to accent it. Her hair was beautifully coiffed and she had a delightful way of brushing away a wild strand that might fall across her face as she would tell a story.
When the band started up, it was a little harder to hear but I learned she had no significant health problems except she had hip replacement surgery a few years back that relieved a lot of pain but left her with a bit of a limp.
"Are you able to dance?" I asked her.
For the first time, Bo flushed and seemed a little embarrassed. "I don't know," she said. "I haven't tried for many years. I guess if you didn't mind dancing real slow . . ."
"Nothing's better than dancing slow with a lovely woman," I said and she flushed again.
I stood up to my full 6 foot 2 height and held out a hand. Bo stood up a little shakily and walked with me to the dance floor.
Don't you think dancing is an interesting and sort of salacious ritual? I mean, two near strangers are allowed to stand up in public holding each other's bodies while gyrating to music. When I was growing up, I NEVER touched a girl except for dancing. And now I was holding the soft but wrinkled hands of chubby Bonnie and moving her slowly across the dance floor.
Bo was heavy but not obese and not unattractive in appearance, probably because she knew with dress how to accentuate her positives and downplay her negatives. We held hands in a very formal way with our bodies barely touching and we shuffled to the music while I told her stories of how today's Army was different from the one she knew. Her big belly was just about touching my crotch and I was surprised to realize that the slight friction was exciting me. As a result, I was glad when she asked to sit down. This time she held my hand as we returned to the table.
