In honor of Mother’s Day, I am posting a segment of one of my phone calls from the phone exchange in Subic Bay in 1972.
“Are you going to church on Sundays?” my mother asked.
“Mom, there's no church on the ship, there is not even room for a chapel.”
“I know that. But aren't you in the Philippines? I know they have a church there. It's a Catholic country.”
“OK, Mom. If I'm here on Sunday. Did you get my last letter? I included a photo of me in the ship's repair shop. It's for Jeremy. What was his reaction when you gave it to him?”
“Cochino! I can't give that to him.” [cochino means nasty or obscene in Spanish]
“Why not?” I asked, “Why are you calling me cochino?”
“Your picture shows you sitting in front of posters of naked ladies. Cochino! I can't give that photo to your baby.”
“Mom, I didn't se...” I stopped talking. My face got hot as I remembered where we shot that photo: in our ship’s repair shop with Playboy, Oui and Penthouse centerfolds plastered on the bulkheads.
“Mom, I didn't se...” I stopped talking. My face got hot as I remembered where we shot that photo: in our ship’s repair shop with Playboy, Oui and Penthouse centerfolds plastered on the bulkheads.
My mother was laughing. She had a way of setting me up to tease me. She did it again.
“I'll cut out the naked ladies and give him the picture,” she said. “Cochino!” She laughed again.
Click, click, “Excuse me, this is your one minute warning.” Click, click.
“The operator just cut in telling me that my time is up. I gotta go. Love you, Mom. Tell everyone I love 'em.”
“I love you, too. Cochino! Go to mass on Sunday.” Click, click. Her laughter was the last thing I heard before the line went dead.
No comments:
Post a Comment