I was a high school student in Alexandria, Virginia, when my friend Barbara and I decided we needed a lesson in government. Since she was dating a page in Congress, we could easily get passes for the US Senate. We hopped a bus, crossed the Potomac River and were exploring the Capitol in no time. Seated in the visitors’ gallery, we had an excellent view of the Senate in action. Wayne Morse, the feisty senator from Oregon, was arguing with Paul Douglas, the soft-spoken senator from Illinois.

President Lyndon Johnson -- LBJ

The two men who drew our attention the most were already famous but no one had any idea of the tragedies still to come. Lyndon Johnson, an imposing Texas Democrat and Majority Leader, was presiding over the Senate as he lounged at his desk on a dais in the front of the room. He seemed very much aware of his position of power. To Johnson’s left was a large table with several seated senators. Not everyone was paying attention to the debate, especially a very attractive and young-looking man with a head of thick chestnut hair who was reading a newspaper.

Next to us in the visitor’s gallery was a young man in a suit avidly studying the scene. “Who’s the cute guy reading the newspaper?” we asked him. Though we were serious students, we were still girls interested in the male sex.

“That’s John Kennedy, haven’t you heard about him?”

As college students a couple of years later, both Barbara and I had summer jobs working for the government as typists. By that time Kennedy was President and he had initiated a special program to familiarize college students with government, which was to take place several times during the summer. We saw JFK one morning on the lawn of the White House as he kicked off the program by giving us an inspiring speech I no longer remember. We all came in buses from our various jobs around the Washington area and walked across the deep grass and past Carolyn Kennedy’s playhouse in proper working attire, which meant heels for females.

I had seen Robert Kennedy, by that point Attorney General, previously when he was campaigning for his brother. That same summer this Kennedy brother was speaking to the assembled college student workers at Constitution Hall in Washington, and Barbara and I were also there. When it was over, we happened to walk by RFK’s limousine and were treated to a huge smile and a good look at his sparkling blue eyes. The Kennedy brothers certainly had great magnetism.

My last college summer job was at Washington National Airport, another chance to witness a part of history. I hadn’t paid attention to the upcoming March on Washington, but the fellows I worked with in Operations asked if I wanted to see some movie stars. I accepted immediately and invited my friend Harriet. We dressed in heels and hats and were taken to Butler Aviation’s private lounge to mingle with the stars as if we belonged there. I observed Paul Newman, Sidney Poitier, Dihanne Carroll, Sammy Davis, Jr., James Baldwin, and James Garner in action, but never talked to any of them. I stood in-between Sammy Davis, Jr. and author James Baldwin while we looked out at the landing field. I was in high heels, which made both these short fellows only about breast high!

Before we left, there was a plane from California landing, and many of us went downstairs to the field to welcome them. It was noisy before the propellers were shut down and I had put my hands over my ears. A tall handsome man leaned over toward me and commented, “Loud, isn’t it?” I grinned widely: it was actor Charlton Heston! I recognized him right away and remembered seeing him in “Ben Hur” not many years before.

As the seventh of eight children, Mama had practiced being her own person early in life. When it’s Mother’s Day, I remember Mama and all the effort she put into making sure her kids had the best she could give. In retrospect, I can truly appreciate her creative efforts, which came right from her heart. It’s difficult to write this story without tears: Garnette Motley Williams died 38 years ago this month. She wasn’t quite 53. She didn’t go to college, but she knew a great deal about life and how to treat people with love and consideration. She let her heart dictate and then she went for it–whatever she chose to do– with enthusiasm and energy.

Passport photo --Tupper, Victoria, Darby, Garnette

Besides being the best wife, mother, sister, cousin and friend she could manage, her primary talent was sewing.   She tried her hand and/or Singer at almost everything stitchable: slipcovers and drapes, specialized window coverings (swag and jabot, Empire style sheer curtains), men’s shirts and ties, children’s clothing and almost any fashionable garment for women. When I was younger I had a Madame Alexander doll, about six inches tall, and she made tiny outfits for it. Her creations for me assured that I’d be stylish despite my dad’s thrifty habits. She kept the old Singer sewing machine humming; it came along with us to various Army posts, including Tripoli, Libya. During my teenage years in the Middle East, we found material, probably in an Italian shop, and set up our version of an assembly line to sew clothes for the two of us. Mom and I wore the same size and would pick out a pattern that was suitable for both, although we’d use material of different colors and patterns. We didn’t want to look like twins!  I would cut out the pattern and sew the darts, for instance, and Mom would put in the zippers and work on anything difficult. I still remember the cotton 1950s style scoop-neck sundresses: hers had a black background with a lively print; mine was red. Those were the years of puffy crinoline underskirts, which girls had to starch and keep clean to keep their outer skirts sticking out. Mom came up with the unusual idea to use soft plastic chicken wire as an underskirt. It kept its shape longer and was easy to keep clean. As I remember, I didn’t wear it often because it was a little too unique, and I was wary that someone might discover it.

In later years, when I was in college, she made me some elegant party clothes: a spaghetti-strap basic black satin dress with a little short-sleeved jacket that I wore to a college dance, and a sexy, form-fitting black wool sheath with a boat neck and long sleeves I wore to several parties. There were many more creations, but the only garment I still have is my wedding gown. I got married in Germany in the ‘60s while my parents were stationed in Frankfurt. My mother found the ideal satin and lace material, and the perfect net for a veil, and it looked divine. It even had a small train. The gown is stored in a box, without all the fancy acid-free tissue of today. Even though I wonder what shape it’s in, it’s comforting to know I still have it. The only garment Mom didn’t make for my wedding was Dad’s suit. Interestingly enough, the wedding dress design  is somewhat similar to the one worn  last year by the new Princess Catherine of the United Kingdom.

Mama on my Wedding Day--she made her dress.

Years later, Mom made my cousin Penny’s wedding gown and her bridesmaids’ dresses as well. After all the work on Penny’s gown, Mom ironed it, but the iron was too hot and lifted off some of the material on the front of the dress. Mom agonized, but Penny’s sense of humor and practical sense wouldn’t let my mother fret.  ”I’m glad it’s you who did it and not me! It doesn’t matter because my flowers will cover it,” Penny declared.  After the ceremony and a few glasses of champagne, Penny cared even less: it was a funny sorry to tell all her guests. I didn’t always appreciate Mom’s talents. Regrettably, especially in college, I envied the girls whose parents gave them money for clothes in a department store. It was only later that I figured out that my mama’s talented fingers created me original attire, and they were sewn with all the love she could give. She created clothes for me that could never be bought.

Oh, my Mama Mia, I miss you so!

My stories are available on Amazon at an unbeatable price. To intrigue you, my readers, I am sharing excerpts. I hope you enjoy them and are curious enough to buy the Ebooks.

http://amazon.com/author/victoriagiraud

from:  COLONELS DON’T APOLOGIZE

“Do you think he may have gotten Alzheimer’s from all the rotten things he did in his life?” Emily asked.

“I believe we create our own reality and bring on the physical conditions we need for our soul’s growth,” Beth answered. “It’s interesting that Dad has lost his control over all the things he valued most in life – money, intelligence, his family, his own body. Since we’re talking about theories, I’ve got another thought concerning the World War II and Korean War generation of American men. I think those extreme situations seriously affected their views on life. They came home with hardened hearts, devious minds, and plenty of sarcasm. But they also knew how to be charming and get their own way. Their wives and children, who were easy targets, suffered the most. These guys didn’t seem to know how to say, ‘I love you,’ much less, ‘I’m sorry.’”

“I feel sorry for him. He’s been through a lot. Perhaps this disease evens up the score. But I hope none of us suffers the same fate.”

“I don’t believe we will. We were on the receiving end of his brand of child-raising, but none of us have chosen the same approach to life.”

“His suffering kinda makes it easier to forgive him,” Emily said with a mischievous smile. “You know what else is odd? He loves to get hugs and he knows that saying I love you will get a warm response and maybe another hug. He could never say that to any of us when he was well and in possession of all his faculties.”

From: WEIRD DATES and STRANGE FATES

A SINGLE GAL’S GUIDE TO CROSS-DRESSING

Carl had advertised himself as someone interested in dance, theatre, travel and sunbathing. He sounded culturally aware and although she wondered about the sunbathing, it probably wasn’t unusual for a Southern Californian. His voice on the phone was soft and polite, and she looked forward to their date. She felt comfortable when she parked in front of his corner home.  The small, square undistinguished house was a few blocks shy of the high-rent district south of Ventura Boulevard, but the fact that it was in Encino at all lent it a great deal of prestige.

The man who answered the door was friendly and natural as he guided her into his house. Proudly telling her he had inherited the home from his uncle, he suggested they take a little tour. A typical one-story postwar 1950s home, it had nothing imaginative in its design, inside or out, but she pretended to be impressed. He led her through a step-down, rectangular living room and then outside to a concrete atrium whose only amenity was a hot tub and a few cheap and fading lounge chairs.  Occasionally touching her elbow, he told her of plans to make a few changes here and there and asked her opinion.  When he took her into his small square bedroom, she noted a white lacy negligee hanging over a closet door and beneath it, four-inch black spike heels.

“How do you like my new negligee?” he asked.

“It’s beautiful,” she responded evenly, wondering what revelations might come next.

“My wife liked me to wear lingerie to bed. Now I can’t sleep without it.”

She could tell he was watching and listening carefully for her reactions. So far she was accepting all of it as if it was all perfectly normal.

I am a sentimental and nostalgic woman and lately my beloved alma mater has gained some happy notoriety. “Fake news” TV comedian, Jon Stewart, is an alumnus, and he occasionally brings up his tie to the College of William and Mary. Last week, when he interviewed David Barton, author of The Jefferson Lies, Stewart declared he was a graduate of the same school as Thomas Jefferson.

A couple of nights later, HBO comedian Bill Maher had a William and Mary government professor, Lawrence Wilkerson, as a guest on his show, which discusses the latest political news. Wilkerson has had quite a career; among other positions, he served as chief of staff for General Colin Powell. Not long ago,  Robert Gates, who served as Secretary of Defense for both President George W. Bush and President Obama, became Chancellor of William and Mary. Gates was in the class behind me during our college years, but I didn’t know him. Former British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher was an honorary Chancellor of William and Mary from 1993-2000. Not bad for a college with only about 6,000 undergraduates in 2012.

This small college, founded in 1693, is located in an historic town that had figured in the American Revolution. Future US President Thomas Jefferson was a graduate, so were future Presidents James Monroe and John Tyler. Academic honor society, Phi Beta Kappa, was established there: its credentials were and are still amazing.

The Wren Building

When Johnny Carlson, an old friend from Wheelus High School in Tripoli, Libya, who was a couple of years older than me, was accepted, that was the clincher for my choice.  His parents and sister Gail invited me along for a Thanksgiving trip to the college while I was a junior in high school, and I adored the colonial 18^th century atmosphere. We ate our holiday feast in a little French restaurant in town: Thiemes.

I love history, and Williamsburg was the perfect setting for my idea of a college: venerable old trees, lots of greenery, and aging brick classroom buildings highlighted by the famous Christopher Wren Building, where I later had most of my English literature classes. The Wren Building, designed by Sir Christopher Wren, famous English architect who designed St. Paul’s Cathedral in London, was the most notable building on campus.

Williamsburg, which had been the colonial capital of Virginia from 1699 to 1780, had been restored to its 18^th century glory by the Rockefeller family. Living there was like stepping back into history: shopkeepers, restaurant waiters, etc. dressed in Colonial costume. There was no traffic because cars weren’t allowed on the local streets and college students couldn’t have cars either. Walking was a pleasure and far healthier. From the Wren Building, it was an easy walk from the College Corner intersection of Jamestown and Richmond Roads to the Capitol building down Duke of Gloucester Street (nicknamed DOG Street). I remember strolling past Casey’s Department Store, Corner Greeks and Middle Greeks (both restaurants owned by Greeks, of course), the Magazine (where ammunition was stored in the 18^th century), and the elegant Governor’s Palace with its beautiful gardens. On certain days a walker might enjoy the Fife and Drum Corps melodically marching up or down DOG street.

If you were a female student and took a walk around Williamsburg during my 1960s college days, you had to be properly dressed—no long or short pants allowed (unless you were on a bicycle and you had to carry a cover skirt in case you got off the bike). Male students had no dress restrictions or curfews either. Midnight on Saturdays was the latest female dorm residents could stay out. It was more difficult to get in trouble with no cars, no males allowed past dorm lobbies, and with strict laws about alcoholic beverages (Virginia was a dry state then). The most absurd restriction, in my opinion, was the one imposed first semester freshmen year. Girls—we were generally 17 or 18—and hadn’t been through the Sexual Revolution–were  not allowed to speak to boys after 7 p.m. Monday through Thursday.

Ready to graduate

Actor Djimon H. with an octopus by Herb Ritts

Southern California has its own unique weather style: summer comes late. Until then it’s May Gray and June Gloom, known for the humidity, morning clouds, reluctant sun and cool weather as low as the 60s. We learn not to count on good beach days until July and those who live in the beach cities may go for weeks without seeing that warm yellow orb. That was yesterday and so far today: sweaters or jackets are a must.

A tram takes visitors up to the museum complex (3/4 of a mile) so it feels like you’re really going someplace. It’s an excursion and doesn’t even require a visit to any of the art galleries (5 buildings). One could walk around the multi-level patios with pools and fountains, visit the extensive gardens (one has a circular maze), eat in one of the three restaurants or get snacks from the food carts. A few months back I saw actress Diane Keaton talking to a male friend at an outside table near one of the food carts.

It wasn’t crowded on this Tuesday, but there were plenty of visitors, including school groups and tourists from around the world. I overheard a German family and almost tried out some of my rusty German. I like to talk to people and joked with a mother, who had brought her two young toddlers in a stroller, that she was getting her children started on art appreciation early in life.

Neither Barbara or I had checked on the latest exhibitions and were pleasantly surprised by a new show of Los Angeles native Herb Ritts’ photography. He was known around the world for his black and white portraits, magazine covers (Vanity Fair, Vogue, etc.), music videos and commercials. He died at age 50 but accomplished an amazing amount of work, which filled up several exhibition rooms. One room was curtained so they could show some commercials he made for Calvin Klein and Lancome, for instance, and videos: Madonna singing “Cherish,” and Janet Jackson singing on the beach.  His portraits are too numerous to mention but Elton John, Cindy Crawford, Richard Gere, Mel Gibson and Magic Johnson are among them. The contrasts of lighting, the statuesque poses, and Ritts’ love for the human body were very evident in all of the work on display.

In Southern California, museums and gardens mix well together. The Getty Center is the perfect place to see Nature displayed along with human works of art.

Madonna photo by Herb Ritts

MRI Machine

After my neurology doctor examined my legs and decided they worked, she deduced the problems were coming from my lower back. Time for my first MRI. No chance to anguish or research, it was scheduled the very next day. Did I want a Valium to keep calm since I would be in a fairly “cozy” space for a half hour? She thought they might have music (an iPod perhaps) available as an option. I decided bravery was my choice and maybe music.

Radiology was located in a far corner of the hospital complex and the waiting room was small. Two women and an elderly man were chatting away in an Eastern European language, I guessed, and another older woman was lying on a small couch. I discovered later she’d had six back surgeries and was still hurting.

My name was called and my technician, Monte, showed me the dressing room. Remove my bra and put on two hospital gowns: one for the front, one for the back, take off my watch and hair clip and lock up my purse. Did I have any metal in my body or metal in the pants I was wearing? I wondered what would be required if the answer had been yes.

Monte was pleasant and had a sense of humor. Turns out there was no music because patients would start moving around to the music and you must keep perfectly still for this monstrous machine to work accurately.  When I sounded disappointed, he jokingly pretended he’d entertain me: Did I like Elvis or Asian rap?

I climbed onto the sliding “bed” and settled on my back while Monte straightened the pillow under my head and added a pillow under my knees. He gave me a rubber device that fit in my right palm; if I squeezed it, he’d come to my aid, just in case I needed help—if I was too hot or too cold, for instance. He didn’t mention panic!

The platform started to move into what could best be described as a round coffin. No room to move: the rounded top was inches from my face and my arms were essentially pinned to my sides. Thankfully, I could still look down toward my feet and literally see the “light at the end of the tunnel.” When it stopped moving, I couldn’t help but feel trapped and had to work at keeping calm and still while air conditioning blew on my cheek.

He rushed out of the room but said he’d keep in touch through a speaker broadcasting into the “coffin.” Monte’s instructions, which he repeated from time to time, let me know I wasn’t entirely alone: “Keep your eyes closed. Don’t move and take deep breaths.” Why was I thinking of “Star Wars?”

At least I could move my hands a tiny bit and I managed to ignore my familiar nerve twinge in my upper calf. I listened to the noisy sounds the machine made: something that sounded like a device used to blow up a mattress in the background, and a type of motor noise that rose and fell as it did its work  making a scan of my back. MRI stands for Magnetic Resonance Imaging, so the noises are the pulses of radio wave energy.

It was creepy and I kept thinking of Egyptian mummies all wrapped up and lying in a coffin. The most comforting thing, besides thinking about how I would describe this experience, was to be able to see the light at my feet and know that 30 minutes wasn’t a lifetime.

What my MRI Scan might resemble.

When my children were younger and I was still married, we had a condo on the beach in Ventura County. It had a view of the ocean and was a very relaxing place to be. One day I was walking alone along a fairly uninhabited beach, which led to a large power plant, a few miles south. I noticed a baby seal slowly swimming in with the tide and decided to see if I could help him change direction. I waded in, softly spoke to him and gestured toward the ocean. He seemed comfortable with me a few feet away and looked as if he understood. Just then a Volkswagen “Bug” drove to the water’s edge to watch. The seal growled at the car and when the car drove off, I went back to my traffic cop routine. This delightful sea creature didn’t act aggressive toward me, and eventually got the message. Was I missing my calling as an animal trainer? Hardly likely, but it was a memorable experience getting so close to a wild animal. When I researched the seal, I discovered it was a baby elephant seal. I liked to imagine I “rescued” him.

Raccoons are plentiful in the California hills. For a few years, I lived in an area that bordered the Santa Monica Mountains. A pair of raccoons (apparently, it’s normal behavior to pair off) decided to explore the dumpster across from my apartment building one night. The next morning one was stuck inside it while the other one ran around the top perimeter of the dumpster, as if it could figure out a way to help its friend or mate. When I told the manager, he brought a chair from the pool area and placed it in the empty dumpster. It didn’t take long for the enterprising raccoon to climb out and join his friend.

My most poignant critter encounter was a couple of blocks from where I’m now living. My building borders the concrete flood control channel (a fenced-in tributary of the mostly dry Los Angeles River) and, except for some bushes and a few trees, there’s mostly empty land on both sides. My landlady likes to joke that we have a river view, which the flood channel becomes once it rains. I was taking a break from a walk and sitting on a small wall surrounding a home garden. I heard a whimpering sound and turned around to see a lone raccoon with an injured paw approaching me as if I could help him. My first thought was of the fictional children’s book character who took care of animals, Dr. Doolittle, but what could I do for this wild animal? He got within a few inches of me before he turned around and hobbled off into a fenced-in garage area and disappeared. I felt privileged that this creature felt comfortable enough to approach me and I silently wished him well.

Setbacks Create Comebacks

One of my favorite genres in the book world is the Memoir. We all experience the contrasts of heartbreak and joy. Memoirs help us feel connected and hopeful—we aren’t alone in our pain and pain can be overcome.

I’ve had the privilege of editing, rewriting and even co-writing 15 memoirs, at last count. Each one was an emotional, meaningful journey for the author and for me. William McCloud, author of Setbacks Create Comebacks, proclaims: “It matters not what happens to you; it only matters how you react to what happens to you.”

The books I discuss here were all edited by me and are currently available on Amazon. William McCloud’s book, Setbacks Create Comebacks has a fairly recent new cover.

Bill’s mother Fannie, who was dark-skinned, gave birth to five children by four different fathers. When Bill was born, Fannie told the nurse he was too white to be her child and to take him back! In a sense he was “taken back” because his tough, no-nonsense grandmother raised him and his other siblings. She could be mean: she believed in whipping, but she made him a proud survivor. Every time life knocked him down, Bill stood up and managed to laugh about his misadventures with his grandmother, his mother and his siblings; it was great fun to edit. In 1985 Bill won an Emmy for his work as a cameraman on The Benson Show, starring Robert Guillaume. It had been a long journey from a small Ohio town to Los Angeles and work in the entertainment industry.

I had a wonderful experience co-writing Wendy Wong’s memoir, When the Phoenix Rises. To help me with the project, she sent me a variety of photos, newspaper articles and other mementoes from her home in Honolulu. I had a privileged view of her life growing up in poverty in Hong Kong and her struggles to make something of herself. Although her family was a loving one, they didn’t think females really needed much of an education, and when she did get a college degree, they assumed she would teach and then marry. She surprised them all with her skills in the real estate business, a talent nurtured by a very affluent Hawaiian businessman/developer known as the Hawaiian Rockefeller, who had been her lover. Wealth, success and marriage, however, don’t ensure a carefree life. Wendy has weathered various financial depressions in Hong Kong and Hawaii, and she’s endured the heartbreak of a mentally challenged daughter. Her son, however, is a graduate of Yale, is training to be a doctor, and is newly engaged to be married.

When the Phoenix Rises

A Survivor’s Closet by Debra Luptak and Andy Walks With Me by Ralph Heidler and his co-author wife, Twila Lopez, were both horrific memoirs of childhood abuse. It was amazing to me how these individuals survived their physical and emotional torment. Humans manage to live through some incredible challenges. My own childhood heartbreaks seemed so minor in comparison.

Ralph’s father was a psychotic tyrant, who fancied himself a preacher when he was truly an avenging devil. During the frequent beatings he suffered from his father, Ralph would have an out-of-body experience. His consciousness traveled to a garden where “Andy” walked with him. His child’s mind had given new meaning to the old hymn “I Walk in the Garden Alone.” He interpreted the line “and he walks with me and he talks with me”  to mean: “Andy walks with me.” Andy (Jesus) gave him moments of peace and joy. However, when Ralph’s mother would appear to doctor the wounds from his father’s beatings, Ralph would awaken in pain, back in his bruised and bloody body.

Andy Walks with Me

In later years, although grown and married with children, his extreme childhood caused Ralph to one day disassociate from his past and disappear from his home in Pennsylvania. During the next 20 years, totally unaware of his former life, he married twice more. Ralph was living in Hawaii when his children found him, and he discovered the missing horror of his past.

He happily connected with his children, and a professor at the University of Pennsylvania in Johnstown got to know Ralph and started using his book in a psychology class.

Debra Luptak’s strength of spirit and determination kept her alive despite the murderous attempts of her profoundly mentally ill mother, who claimed her daughter was part of the devil. She was tied up, placed in a straitjacket, burned with cigarettes, hidden in a dark closet and fed sedatives, all before the age of five. There was no magic rescue or instant healing: A Survivor’s Closet tells the gruesome years-long tale of Debra’s survival. When she was an adult, it took years of therapy, hospitals, family and friends to come to peace and self-love.  The mother of grown sons, Debra’s used her book and her talent as a speaker to help others deal with traumatic childhoods.

http://amazon.com/author/victoriagiraud

*****

Diego had seen Melaynie leave by herself that morning, her cheeks rosy, a distant but peaceful look in her eyes. He was pleased his young friend was taking some time to be by herself; she had worked as hard as the men in building the fort. His contented thoughts were jarred a short time later when he saw Jerome saunter out the stockade gate, a lascivious look upon his scarred face.

The merry little stream washed over Melaynie’s dappled sunlit body, caressing her erect nipples, flowing through her legs, cleansing the sounds from her ears. It was so soothing she failed to hear the snap of wood or the rough sigh.

Jerome stood on the stream bank, his good eye riveted by the sight of tiny breasts floating on the water, glistening in the flashes of sunshine. The curly blond pubic hair clearly hid no male genitalia. It was a surprise he would never have imagined. The boy had always seemed just a bit too feminine, but no matter. He’d just as soon stick his cock in one hole as another. It would provide excitement of a sort he hadn’t bargained for, and this time she didn’t have her knife on her. Perhaps he could frighten her into giving it up to him whenever he wanted, especially if he threatened to divulge her secret. His mouth hung open as if he were contemplating a meal to be devoured, as he quickly slid out of his breeches.

The sucking sounds of a foot in mud and the splash of a body entering water finally alerted Melaynie. She righted herself and let go of the branch, but it was too late. Jerome was in the water and reaching for her breasts.

“So, this is what ye’ve been hiding from me, Christopher,” Jerome sneered as he grabbed her, twisting her nipples. His breath was foul and his jagged teeth looked rotten.

She grimaced in outraged anger as she tried to hit him, but he laughed at her efforts. Although the water was not deep, the soft, slippery stream bottom kept her off balance. He pinned her arms as his wet open mouth clamped down on a nipple. She opened her mouth and lowered her head to bite at his thinning dirty hair, and when she had some in her mouth, pulled back as strongly as she could. Her feet found a solid place, and she drew her knee up and slammed it into him quickly. He stumbled backwards to protect his genitals, and the knee caught him on the chin.

“Ye want a fight, do ye?” he laughed derisively rubbing his hairy chin, his walleye askew while the other glared in lust. He had not lost his balance and lunged at her again, this time firmly catching her pubis with his long-fingered hand.

She shuddered with revulsion and twisted her body around and out of his grasp, throwing him off-balance. Neither of them heard the first ominous sounds of something heavy sliding into the water from the opposite bank.

Crocodile - an Eating Machine

USNS General Maurice Rose

The anniversary of the Titanic sinking 100 years ago today brought back my own memories of large ships, most of them much less glorious than the elegant Titanic. I’ve crossed the Atlantic three times and  toured the Mediterranean as well, all on a US military ship.

I don’t remember my first two trips at all since I was only four on the first crossing headed to Germany after World War II, and seven when we returned. The 1958 summer Mediterranean Cruise, however, was so much fun I wrote several blogs on it about a year ago.

On a Thursday at 2 p.m. in June 1958, about 160 passengers boarded the US Navy ship, General Maurice Rose, docked in the Tripoli, Libya harbor: eventual destination New York. My mother, my sister Tupper and I were sharing Cabin 0116 on the port side of the boat deck, which were quite nice quarters. We were to have the third seating for meals at Table 18 in the dining hall aboard ship.

It’s a unique and insular world aboard ship. Getting one’s “sea legs” is vital to digestion when there are  storms. We had a tumultuous one off the coast of Italy about halfway into our trip, but I managed to stay upright and comfortable with all systems go. Our cabin (narrow bunk beds and a private toilet) on boat deck was not subject to as much rocking and rolling as all the lower decks.  There were three seatings for meals in the formal dining room. The meal alert was done by a seaman who walked the ship’s corridors with a small xylophone, using his mallet to hit three or four notes.   We had the third seating and joined three American teachers traveling home.

Military personnel and military dependents would be embarking and debarking as we sailed from Tripoli to Athens, Istanbul, Izmir, Naples, Livorno and Gibralter before crossing the Atlantic Ocean and docking at Brooklyn Navy Yard a couple of weeks later.

I still remember the distinct smells aboard ship: a pungent combination of oil, metal and seawater. There’s also the mysterious aroma, to me, of adventure: new vistas, new people, new places. I imagine many of the passengers on the Titanic felt the same way. I doubt if any of them imagined what would eventually happen to them.

Since I was sentimental about our military ship, I found some information about her on the Internet. The General Maurice Rose operated out of New York in the Atlantic and Mediterranean from 1950 to 1965. Steaming primarily between New York and Bremerhaven, Germany, she completed more than 150 round-trip voyages. In addition, the Rose was deployed to the Mediterranean 17 times. Between January and March 1957, the Rose made three trips to Europe to transport Hungarian refugees back to the United States. For the first eight months of 1966, she made eight round-trips to Europe and back. She sailed again from New York  for troop-lift duty to South Vietnam. The ship returned to New York in late January 1967 for overhaul and was placed in Ready Reserve status at the James River Reserve Fleet, Virginia. Alas, the General Rose was scrapped in Texas during the year 2000.

I haven’t taken advantage of the many cruise ship opportunities in Southern California, but I’ve often visited the magnificent Queen Mary, now permanently anchored in Long Beach. Built in 1936 and retired in  1967 (ironically, the same year as the Rose), she had a history of transporting everyone from movie stars to soldiers in World War II. Now she’s a hotel with restaurants and a museum.

A few years ago, I attended the Queen Mary’s exhibit of Titanic artifacts. What could be more appropriate than to display these poignant items on a proud old ship. I especially remember the porcelain cups and dishes from the first class dining room. The Queen Mary, at the length of 1,000 feet with 12 decks, gives a good idea of what the Titanic might have been like. It was 882 feet long and had 8 decks.

Queen Mary in Long Beach

Ships continue to entice and inspire me: I wrote an historical adventure novel concerning Sir Francis Drake and his Caribbean adventures–Melaynie’s Masquerade, which is available on Amazon: http://amazon.com/author/victoriagiraud.