blown to bits

After the year in our Spanish apartment we moved into base housing. The base housing was not on the base however as it typically is. The story was told to me like this......

When the Americans came over to build a base the built the airstrip and housing first. The Spanish government then came along and said:


"Grasias, for building us the fabulous air strip. We really love it."

and the Americans said

"Well, what about us?"

and the Spanish said

"no habla English"

so the Americans went about 30 miles away and built their air base.





The other deal was that the Spanish would not allow the military to put a fence around the housing. So basically anyone and everyone was allowed to roam around the housing complex. This wasn't really a problem for most people, only the people who lived on the outskirts of the complex.

We were these people.

So, what did this mean for us? It meant that the local Gypsies would walk up to our patio in the middle of the day and simply walk away, not run mind you...walk, stroll even, away with our bicycles. There was nothing that could be done.

Despite the thieving Gypsies, it was a great place to grow up. The field next to our house went as far as the eye could see, and in the way distance you could see the skyline of Madrid. At some point a crew of bulldozers was working out in the field, and a neighborhood mom asked them to dig us two holes.

Two holes.


In those days that was all we needed.


Two holes.



One for the girls and one for the boys. They became our second homes. For middle schools kids who had no television and no telephone and soon enough, no bicycles, this was the most we could ask for. The girls dug couches and chairs out of the dirt on the sides and decorated ours with wildflowers from the field. Secrets and lies were told, plans were made and wars were fought in those holes. It was a great place......our hole.




Most people did not have cars either and there were no school buses. We had to walk to and from school everyday, just like our ancestors. Rain, shine, cold, hot, damp or dry. We were like little postmen. We walked on a path that winded it's way through the fields and eventually ended at our school.


Like most kids we yammered on about our teachers, we got a good feel for curse words, we made up stories about the creepy old house we passed everyday. But, unlike most kids we had to be sure not to spook the passing herd of sheep. On this count, I messed up once- in a very huge way.



On the way home from school one day, as we crested the last of many, many hills, there was the herd, along with their sheep dogs and their very own, real life shepherd. Perhaps we were laughing too loud, maybe on that day there was crying going on, or it could have been my new Avon perfume? The specifics aren't clear in my mind. I spooked them....me, it was defiantly me.


I looked at them, they looked at me.


and apparently someone gave a silent signal.........


they were off.

I ran.


They followed.


I ran faster


They followed more closely.


This went on until the shepherd managed to convince me to stop running. In my memory we ran that way for miles and miles, in reality it could have been 5 minutes.


The point is however- this was one possibility I dealt with on a daily basis.

.....the sheep and being blown to bits on a field trip.


The headlines read:

Hezbollah Restaurant Bombing April 12, 1984: "Restaurant Bombing in Madrid, Spain, A bomb explodes in a restaurant popular with American servicemen killing 18, all Spaniards, and injuring 82, including 15 Americans."


The restaurant was called The Rib House. It was a great old house turned into an eatery. The front lawn had long picnic tables and I remember always eating outside on these. But what I remember most vividly is the giant bowls of lemon water. Nowhere in America had I washed my hands in lemon water. I loved it.


My parents loved the Sangria, so we frequented.


We were not there this night however, we were in Germany.


Most of the Americans were not there at the time either. They were at home, in bed, asleep likely, deep REM sleep...


Even as a kid I found it odd that these terrorist would spend the time to find a place frequented by American, plan to leave a bomb in a briefcase in the bathroom, and not know that Americans ate way earlier than the Europeans. How did this little piece of information happen to get left out? Really? You didn't know that? That wasn't someones job in this operation?


Anyway that is why we brought along bomb experts on field trips. After we visited our 868th castle we would walk back to the bus. We would stand however many feet from the bus and our expert would lie on his back, check underneath, then get on and check. Once we were clear it was back to school.........


What I wonder is, what has that done to me. How would I be different if I hadn't watched that happen so frequently. We had an at home version as well. It was a check list my parents had to follow every time we started the car. Did that change me? Knowing that with every key turn or field trip, I could be blown into a thousand pieces....Would I be more meek, afraid to cross the street, terrified of what might be around the corner?


What did it do to my mother? Is that why the drinking began? Was the threat too great to handle sober. Did the beer help her send us off, to see yet another castle. I like to think that it was worry for us that drove her to drink. It is more comforting than boredom, or hatred for a man, or loneliness.......