December 8th, 1988

In everybody's past is some magical day. You have that one experience that it is the beginning of a whole new life. And sometimes you had absolutely no idea it was happening.

I had been in Germany for only a week and hadn’t done much. I had wandered the base, hitting all the necessary spots like the post office, the gym, chow hall, theater, and the BX.  And for alternate dining there was always the La Hacienda, a diner who aside from its name offered no actual Latin options, as long as you don't count nachos.

There I was. In Germany. My fascination with all things German - the language, culture, food, history, architecture - moved me to put it down on my Air Force 'wish list'. Incredibly, I actually got orders. I was excited to be there, but also a bit melancholy. After a move to California in 1985, the Air Force and tech school in 1986, Scott Air Force Base in 1987, here I was starting over again, again. That isn't an easy thing to do. The best way to get over those blues is to get the hell out and do something.

It was Thursday and the word was that on Thursday you HAVE to go to ‘the club’.  Everybody goes to the club on Thursday. If these people really knew me, they’d know that wasn’t much of a selling point. Even at 20, I was more of a bar person. I'd be happiest as one of a dozen or so people on barstools nursing drinks. A jukebox playing 60’s & 70’s hits and maybe an old dog in the corner. Clubbin’ wasn’t my thing, because then, as now, I would generally try to avoid places where I had to dress a certain way and yell to speak to the person standing next to me.

But I was 20 and fresh from the States. Back there, not having reached majority age, I could never go out. Everyone would go out and I’d be stuck with the rest of the under 21 crowd, looking for someone to bring beer to the dorm. Pathetic for sure. Fun at times, but it still felt like I was a high school kid being left behind while the grownups had fun. (I feel comfortable putting that out there because my son refuses to read anything I write).  So, rocking to some 10,000 Maniacs, I put on my generic and borderline fashionable 80's goin' out clothes, got some cash and headed to the NCO Club.

To say that the evening started as a disappointment would be an understatement. Let's start with the complete and utter let down that this walk to the club turned out to be. I had spent the last two years in the states watching others celebrate their 21st birthdays with debaucherous blowouts. It was an event. An American male's bar mitzvah celebrating 'adulthood'. You may have already been allowed to file a tax return, join the military, sign a legally binding contract, and drive a car. But at 21 you're really an adult because you can drink. A rite of passage to celebrate.  And here I was a month and a half short of that magic date in a country with no drinking age, and I very unceremoniously and without fanfare, walk alone into the club.

Passing through the doors of the establishment, my outlook didn't get any better. The Zweibrücken NCO Club was put together with all the style and imagination you'd expect from the U.S. military. I couldn't tell you much about the details. My memory of the NCO Club generally involves the color brown. There was a basic bar/dance floor/stage set-up, and the walls were lined with cheap lithographs of various aircraft. Base aircraft, F-4 Phantoms and C-23A Sherpas hung most prominently. There was a brightly lit back room with five or six slot machines. All continuously occupied by the slot zombies. 

 

I lingered for a while. Had chats with a couple people I had met in my short time there. Sitting at the bar, I watched with disgust people who chose Budweiser and other American beers over the local brand. Zweibrücken's own Parkbräu Export was my drink of choice as I settled in to conversation with a band of crew chiefs. One guy, Dave Gunner, was telling me of tours that run out of the bases. He went to Paris and on the last day there, he missed the bus as it left the Louvre. His friends hadn't noticed his absence so he had to catch a cab to the Eiffel Tower in hopes that he could find his group there.

 I was one of the medical people. We worked 8 - 5. A girl comes in dressed her BDU's. Clearly straight from work and clearly, she knows these guys. The badges on her uniform told me that she was some sort of mechanic.  Big smile. Bits of her blonde hair frizzed out from a French braid that was impressively snug for someone who just got off a shift of repairing aircraft. She stood out because she never once sat down. This girl appeared to know everyone in the place and moved across the room from one conversation to the next. As she worked the room this girl exuded an energy that came out in her expressions, her arms, her face, her laugh, and her body. And that enthusiasm didn't wane between conversations.

She was a dancer. Again, the girl never sat down. With each song she'd find someone to take out to the dance floor. Guys would tire and she'd move on to the next. At some point she magically had a drink in her hand and was making the rounds at our table. Yelling over the loud music, she leaned in to speak to someone across from me. I could see the name tag on her uniform said JEWELL. The guy I was talking to spoke with her. Dave called her Jennie, but never introduced us. She leaned in to talk to him and rested her hand on my shoulder.  I remember that. After she moved on, Dave let me know that she was one in the group that left him behind in Paris.

Soon enough, I was getting bored with the whole thing and honestly, I still hadn't quite gotten over my jet lag, so I was ready to go. But a song came on and Jennie was once again looking for a dance partner. "Sure", I said, shrugging my shoulders. Now how is that for a passionate start?

My wife would kill me if I revealed this secret, so I won't. The song that we danced to was, and is not a song that she likes. She hates the song. She hates the band. It is a completely undanceable song and has no place being played anywhere that dancing is practiced. But there it was. The music starts off slow. At first we put our hands together, my right hand around her waist. Leaning in close, I could detect a scent of White Rain shampoo and just a hint of jet fuel. We talk, but it was really yelling and we listen as best we can. The dance floor was not that big and there was no escaping this DJ's 1980's mammoth speakers. "What is your name?" "Where are you from?" She did her Air Force tech school in Illinois. I'm from Illinois. She was from the Syracuse area. I had visited Syracuse because of a cousin who lived in Liverpool. It was a lively, but slightly generic conversation. Eventually, my hand left hers and found its way down so our hands rested on each other's hips. The slow start to the song was over and the pace picked up. Unsure of what to do, the dancers stayed the course, defying the recording's pace and volume and continued with a slow sway.

Then the song ended...and that was it. We parted. "Nice to meet you", with no expectation that we’d ever see one another again. I had another beer then walked back to my dorm. We ran into each other at the theater the next night. Somebody blew someone else off, but there is a bit of debate about who exactly that was. There is enough animosity in that story for another whole post. We did not have occasion to speak again for months. Our mini- When Harry met Sally moment was over and we went on with our lives with no inkling that months later we'd speak again. We'd hang out. We'd be friends. Then best friends. Then eventually living in New York with three children on the couch watching Fred Claus.

But that day, December 8,1988 was the first time I laid eyes on Jennie Jewell. It was the first time I held her hand. The first time I held her close. It was the first time I heard her backstory. And I didn't know it at the time, but it was the beginning of my future.