Welcome to California à la 1970
Published 1:43 pm Monday, July 15, 2024
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By Bonnie Bartel Latino
Columnist
Tom’s first workday at March Air Force Base, I had gotten up early to press his uniform. It had been to the dry cleaners at Keesler, but our cross-country trip made a few creases and wrinkles that I needed to touch up. Thanks to Bill Harris’ wife in pilot training, I will never forget how to correctly press military pants. After a quick breakfast in our room, First Lt. Tom Latino went to the base to visit the 33rd Communications Squadron and 15th Air Force’s Communications-Electronics Division. He still had paperwork to fill out at both locations.
I tidied up our room and bathroom, and then took Lambie for a long walk. We sauntered around the motel to avoid the busy street out front that led to the base. I thought about how active I wanted to be in the Officers Wives Club, as it was then called. Of course, in 1970 there were no male wives. I decided I wanted to be active, meet new people, and write for the club magazine.
The more Lambie and I walked, the more I wished we had been contacted by Tom’s sponsor via the Air Force sponsor program, but no one from his unit had mailed or called him about the local housing market or about anything else. In fact, he had no sponsor at any of the bases where we had been stationed. The sponsor is supposed to be from your unit at your new base and also about the same rank. If you have a wife, ideally your sponsor will have a wife. Sounds great in theory. It would be nice to know what to expect of many aspects of Air Force life, especially finding the best-off base veterinarian and dentist. I was just telling Lambie those services weren’t available to family members at stateside bases when Tom drove up.
After we both changed clothes, we went to the small restaurant attached to our motel. Over lunch I asked Tom if he had checked with the housing office. “Is there any wait time if we don’t find something off base that we really like and can afford?” He nodded yes. “The housing officer said I should sign up today because there is currently at least a two to three month wait.” Tom took a big sip of Pepsi, swallowed and added, “He also said it’s difficult to find nice apartments in decent neighborhoods that a junior officer can afford — and that allows dogs.”
“So did you sign us up?” He had just bitten into his Reuben sandwich again. He nodded yes, wiped his mouth, and added, “He said we ‘… can always take my name off the list if we get lucky and find an apartment’.” After lunch, Tom paid our bill, and we headed to the car. “And Babe, I’m feeling lucky today!”
“Lord, I hope so,” I mumbled as he drove to the first complex that a major in his new unit told him was nice and close to the base. Tom handed me a couple of maps, one of Riverside and another map of neighborhoods closer to the base. He also had a list of apartment complexes approved by the base. We searched for five days. Every day we came home more exhausted. There was not one rental anywhere near what Tom’s Basic Allowance for Housing would cover. Not with the extra few bucks in his first lieutenant’s salary. Not even with the Cost-of-Living Allowance (COLA) given to military members living in high-cost countries and states such as California.
“The major said we could find nice apartments the farther away we got from Riverside, but I’d have to commute 30 or so miles, one way.” We took the major’s advice and looked for a comfortable, safe neighborhood where we could live for the next two or three months. We soon chose Mira Loma for our interim hometown. The grounds were beautifully landscaped, and they accepted pets! That was non-negotiable. We rented a two-bedroom, one-story duplex, identical to all the other duplexes.
At 6 a.m. one morning in our new abode, our bed started shaking. Was Tom having a seizure? I grabbed his arm. His sleepy look told me he was as confused as I. As our bed shook harder, I pulled Lambie closer. I thought it was the end of the world. Then we slid across the bedroom and my handbag fell off the dresser. I heard screaming outside and jumped up to look out the window. I saw all our new friends coming out of the duplexes in various stages of undress. They all had tan lines and were skinny. We had met most of them at a recent pool party. I laughed as I pulled Tom across our still shaking bedroom. “What?” He was bemused. “Oh!” he roared. “No body is with the right partner. At least not the ones we met last weekend at the pool.” I looked him directly in his eyes and whispered in a serious tone, “Dorothy, we’re not in Atmore anymore.”
Of course it was our first earthquake. It would not be our last.
“Nobody told us wife-swapping was an amenity here,” Tom joked. “Must be optional.”
Welcome to swinging California à la 1970!