Maggie
My grandmother was really something. Not even five foot tall, maybe she broke a hundred pounds. Tough as nails, adventurous and fun. She always had a good story.
In 1962, the year I was born, she was to stay at our house and help out with the new baby. Well now, that ain't the way things went down. She decided to to take a trip around the world with her sister instead. Can't blame her there, a crying little fat kid with dirty diapers or a trip around the world. Seems like an easy call.
She said they were flying from Japan to Thailand on a prop plane, were forced to land in Saigon due to weather. She said that South Vietnamese soldiers escorted them from the plane to a building, told them to hurry and be real quiet. She said that the whole airfield was blacked out, a few mortar rounds landed inside the perimeter throughout the night. She said they had watch geese tied out just outside the fences, the geese were nervous and would kick up a fuss if anyone approached and startled them. It was one of those stories she would tell after a couple of gin and tonics in the big tall glasses that she and her sister enjoyed so much. She always told a great story.
Years later I worked with a guy who was a member of the Special Forces, a green beret. He had served in Southeast Asia, he said my grandmother's story was probably true. It was an old Montagnard trick. (Not sure how to spell that, it's pronounced Montan-yard. A mountain tribe indigenous to the area, Vietnamese Indians if you will.) He had operated extensively in those areas where the (Montan-yard) lived. He had lived with and fought alongside them.
About fifteen years ago, when my grandmother died, my oldest sister shared that with the rest of the family. Everyone began to wonder how many of Maggie's stories really were true, some in the family believed that she would embellish. I always believed every word.
Another favorite story is about one of her many road trips. Guess it would have been around '73 or '74. She drove out to California to visit one of her brothers who lived near Los Angeles. She just had to drive up the coast and see San Francisco in her new Plymouth with the 383. She said she was driving late at night, along a stretch of near deserted highway that bordered cliffs dropping straight down to the water. She hit something in the road, was able to get safely onto the shoulder with a driver side front flat tire. She broke out the jack and as she prepared to change the tire, four big bikers road up on choppers. She said they wore vests with "Hells Angels" written across the back. They changed her tire for her, they refused her offer to pay them for their assistance and they escorted her to the nearest motel where she stayed for the night. That must have been a sight, granny in her 383 with four bikers riding point for her. She said they were perfect gentlemen, said they could not have been nicer. My grandmother said those guys were alright.
She taught me to never judge a book by its cover. She said don't believe everything you hear, see, or read. She taught me that actions speak louder than words.
That car of hers was fast, I remember her laughing as she punched it through yellow lights.
In 1962, the year I was born, she was to stay at our house and help out with the new baby. Well now, that ain't the way things went down. She decided to to take a trip around the world with her sister instead. Can't blame her there, a crying little fat kid with dirty diapers or a trip around the world. Seems like an easy call.
She said they were flying from Japan to Thailand on a prop plane, were forced to land in Saigon due to weather. She said that South Vietnamese soldiers escorted them from the plane to a building, told them to hurry and be real quiet. She said that the whole airfield was blacked out, a few mortar rounds landed inside the perimeter throughout the night. She said they had watch geese tied out just outside the fences, the geese were nervous and would kick up a fuss if anyone approached and startled them. It was one of those stories she would tell after a couple of gin and tonics in the big tall glasses that she and her sister enjoyed so much. She always told a great story.
Years later I worked with a guy who was a member of the Special Forces, a green beret. He had served in Southeast Asia, he said my grandmother's story was probably true. It was an old Montagnard trick. (Not sure how to spell that, it's pronounced Montan-yard. A mountain tribe indigenous to the area, Vietnamese Indians if you will.) He had operated extensively in those areas where the (Montan-yard) lived. He had lived with and fought alongside them.
About fifteen years ago, when my grandmother died, my oldest sister shared that with the rest of the family. Everyone began to wonder how many of Maggie's stories really were true, some in the family believed that she would embellish. I always believed every word.
Another favorite story is about one of her many road trips. Guess it would have been around '73 or '74. She drove out to California to visit one of her brothers who lived near Los Angeles. She just had to drive up the coast and see San Francisco in her new Plymouth with the 383. She said she was driving late at night, along a stretch of near deserted highway that bordered cliffs dropping straight down to the water. She hit something in the road, was able to get safely onto the shoulder with a driver side front flat tire. She broke out the jack and as she prepared to change the tire, four big bikers road up on choppers. She said they wore vests with "Hells Angels" written across the back. They changed her tire for her, they refused her offer to pay them for their assistance and they escorted her to the nearest motel where she stayed for the night. That must have been a sight, granny in her 383 with four bikers riding point for her. She said they were perfect gentlemen, said they could not have been nicer. My grandmother said those guys were alright.
She taught me to never judge a book by its cover. She said don't believe everything you hear, see, or read. She taught me that actions speak louder than words.
That car of hers was fast, I remember her laughing as she punched it through yellow lights.
posted by Squarehead at 12:32 PM
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