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By Bonnie Bartel Latino

Columnist

A week earlier, I had circled February 8 in red on our 1971 kitchen calendar in our yellow wooden, pre-World War II house at March Air Force Base. I was excited as I heard Tom answer the door on that coveted afternoon.

“Bon,” Tom called. “Rita and Mickey are here!” I clapped my hands like a Brownie! I was excited to have one of my Atmore girlfriends, with whom I went through 12 years of school and had carpooled with in high school, here for a visit. But Rita Sherrill Salter and her husband Mickey hadn’t come from Atmore. They drove from nearby Santa Monica.

“Come in. Come in,” I said as the three of us hugged. “The last time I saw Mickey was before his family moved to Montgomery, Alabama, just before his senior year in …” “1964,” Mickey replied. “Yes, and I haven’t seen Rita since …” Her eyes locked with mine as our minds searched. “It may have been after graduation at the Country Club, Bonnie.” I agreed. Rita had left right after that night on a one-year Presbyterian Church-sponsored mission trip in rural Brazil. A few months later, I departed for college in Mississippi.

Rita and I hugged again before I turned to Tom. “Mickey and Rita’s first dance was in daddy’s den in Atmore.” Mickey practically crowed, “I loved your parties, Bon.” I laughed. Rita’s mama, who had been Brownie Troop Six’s co-leader, thought Mickey was a wild child and never allowed them to date. “Our so-called dates were meeting at my classmates’ parties,” Rita said. “Don’t forget Marshall Gomillia’s party,” I added, “when Mickey socked Buddy Sharpless, who had come back to Atmore after moving with his mom to Ft. Walton Beach. He had the audacity to ask Rita to dance — twice –and Mickey let him have it!” More laughter filled our home.

When Rita and Mickey married on August 24, 1968, after she returned from Brazil and had completed her first year at Queens College in Charlotte, North Carolina, they’d only had one or two real dates.

The four of us visited a while before we freshened up and went to the Officers Club for supper. It was good to be with people I had known forever and could be myself. The Salters were singing and playing guitar (Mickey) and “Gut Bucket” (Rita) at a Beverly Hills restaurant owned by Quaker Oats. The company had hired them after seeing/hearing them perform at a San Francisco club. They liked Rita and Mickey’s music, their wholesome show, and clean-cut appearance. Quaker Oats hired them to travel to wherever the company was opening a new restaurant. The darling couple were the Public Relations team for Grand Openings. Today they would be called Influencers. Long before Instagram, X (aka Twitter), and Facebook, smart companies hired performance artists whose personal styles projected the company’s image.

After dinner we came back to our house, where Tom played all the records we had all loved growing up — fabulous songs from the late 1950s and ‘60s. Tom and Mickey shared the love of music.

Suddenly Mickey face looked excited. “I can’t believe the number and size of those B-52 bombers we saw on the tarmac as we drove by the flightline.” Tom explained that the bomber crews from March often deployed on three-month rotational TDYs (temporary duty) to bomb Vietcong strong-holds in North Vietnam. “In fact,” I interrupted, “our across-the-street neighbor has just returned. Again.”

“Tell them what we do on Saturdays, Bon.”  Before I could answer, Tom continued. “That same neighbor is a B-52 pilot, a major. He asked Bonnie to be a charter member of the Committee for the Release and Relief of POWs and MIAs in S.E. Asia. “That’s a mouthful,” Mickey joked before asking,  “But what do y’all do on Saturdays?”

We hang out at either the BX or Commissary with clipboards and ask military members and their spouses to sign our petitions,  which are later bundled and sent to Washington, D.C. “Wow!” Mickey’s eyes grew wider. “Has Tom ever been accused of protesting the war? “No, no. It’s nothing like that,” I said, “although I understand why someone might think that.” Tom continued again. “B-52s and Fighters are being shot down. The crews are either killed on impact or taken prisoner. “We just don’t want the president and congress to forget them. We are respectfully begging for something to be done to return those men to their families and help them become re-acclimated to normal life.” I shook my head. “A few have been imprisoned for nine years in the notoriously cruel Hanoi Hilton.” We talked late into the night. Our volunteer job had become my passion.

The next morning around six,  our bed shook its way across the floor. This time we knew it was a strong earthquake. Poor Lamb Chop cowered under the covers. The entire house shook as if the Jolly Green Giant had picked up a child’s playhouse and shaken it. From the guest bedroom adjacent to ours, we heard Mickey’s voice. “Hey, Bon, if this happens every time a B-52 takes off, y’all ought to move!” I couldn’t stop laughing. That was so typical of happy-go-lucky, crazy Mickey Salter. Nervous laughter erupted between our squeals of fear. Eventually, all became still. Every picture in our home, now hung catty-rumpus on the walls.

The 6.6 magnitude ‘quake became known as the Sylmar Earthquake in the N. E. San Fernando Valley. The Salter’s apartment in Santa Monica was only 24 miles from Sylmar. They left right after breakfast to check on all their worldly belongings. Later, Mickey said they witnessed  “… much damage to big buildings that were down and Interstate overpasses collapsed.” However, their place, like ours, had no damage.

Praise be to God!

Sidebar to Column:

Human cost and lessons learned

According to the Los Angeles Times in the days after the February 9, 1971 ‘quake in the N.E. San Fernando Valley, 64 people were ultimately killed —  49 of those were veterans housed at Sylmar Veterans Administration Hospital. A few others were killed in a nearby, newly-built hospital’s buildings, as well as on  California’s ubiquitous freeways and all made of concrete, all unable to roll with the earthquake’s quivers and shakes. The day after the 6.6 magnitude earthquake, 50 people were missing. Ultimately over 1000 people were injured.

“The hospital buildings and the freeways, all made of concrete, proved unable to roll with the earthquake’s punches,” according to Jonathan Stewart, professor of civil and environmental engineering at UCLA, who also said “The engineering community learned that just having strength (in structures) was not enough …”

*Information about the Sylmar Quake on Feb. 9,1971 compiled from articles in the Los Angeles Times in the days after the Quake.