Who knew? I grew up loving to read but hating to write. My mother used to force me to add a short comment or two to letters to my grandmother or other relatives. School teachers somehow managed to squeeze minimal essays out of me. I preferred talking.

Then one day it happened.

 My Watermelon Letter:

            “Love, I’m so angry I could scream!” I yelled and slammed the door as I returned from our small commissary. We lived in a base housing area just outside of Trier, Germany. The main commissary at Bitburg Air Base, was located twenty-five kilometers away in the Eifel mountains. Housing was limited on the main base, so the ninety units in five large apartment buildings served the American families stationed in Bitburg. Lee was the ranking NCO on this remote site and therefore in charge of overseeing the support activities, such as the movie theater, the cleanliness of the buildings, the Teen club, and other things. His actual Air Force duties had to do with the Precision Measuring Equipment Lab in Bitburg.

            “Wow, calm down, Love! What got you so upset?” Lee tried to give me a hug.

             “You can’t fix this with your charm!” I yelled so loud that our daughters came out of their rooms to check on us. They weren’t used to us fighting.

             “Okay, okay, just tell me what happened,” Lee was really curious by now.

            “Eve is pregnant, and she’s from Texas, and she likes watermelons, and we’re supposed to save gas by not driving to Bitburg unnecessarily, and, and…” I was getting out of breath with outrage.

             “You’re not making any sense,” Lee held my hand. “Now explain it to me again, but talk a little slower. Start from the beginning. Why are you so angry?”

            I took a deep breath, “For the past couple of weeks, watermelons from the States have been shipped to the main commissary, and  Franz, the German manager of our little branch commissary was allowed to bring a few for sale here. Last week he put up a sign that said ‘Watermelons need to be ordered ahead of time for Saturday delivery’. As you know, Eve loves watermelons, so she ordered one for today. The only thing is that she forgot she had a family trip to Luxembourg planned, so she asked me to pick up the watermelon for her. When I talked to Franz, he told me that the commander of the main commissary wouldn’t let him bring any more watermelons to Trier. Eve will be very disappointed”

            “Ah, so that’s why you’re upset,” Lee said calmly, and the girls went back into their rooms. The excitement was over.

            “Love, that’s only part of my outrage. What really gets my goat is that the base commander had an article in the base newspaper just last month about saving gas during this energy crisis of 1972 and not driving back and forth unnecessarily. And now we here at Trier Housing have to waste gas because of some stupid arbitrary rule about watermelons. It’s disgusting! Eve is going to be very disappointed. She’s pregnant! By now, you should be quite experienced about how women get when they’re pregnant.” I was finally getting calm, but I couldn’t let go of my thoughts about the situation. “I just want to slap somebody!”

            “Love, now it all makes sense. Why don’t you write the Base Commander and explain your feelings just the way you explained them to me?” Lee asked.

            “Are you sure? Won’t you get in trouble? Won’t that reflect badly on you? We wives shouldn’t be making waves, especially not overseas,” I had never complained about military matters before, and I considered the commissary and all other support services part of the military.

            “If you don’t use any profanity and explain your point of view as logically as you’ve explained it to me, nothing bad will happen. You might not get what you want, but there is no harm in trying,” Lee assured me.

            I wrote a polite note to the Base Commander, explaining my concern about the waste of gasoline and the unfairness of not getting our fair share of the produce that comes from the States. My hands were shaking as I deposited the stamped envelope in the mail box.

            A few days later, I received a copy of my letter with the Base Commander’s handwritten comment to the Commissary Commander, “ What about this, Bill?” I wasn’t sure what to make of this brief note, but I noticed that our Trier Housing Commissary had watermelons for the rest of the season. I assumed my little note had achieved the desired result and made up my mind to hone my writing skills as much as possible. I might have to move someone else into action in the future.

 

       That was years ago. Since then I've earned a degree in English and self-published several books. Stay tuned for my evolution into a writer.