A bit more of my story…

As a kid, back in 1972, our house in Argentina was party central on weekends. We had a large house that sat on a property that covered half of a city block complete with a swimming pool, parrilla (barbecue) and a “quincho” – a thatched-roofed structure with a large table and benches that was perfect for entertaining. We had a guard that was provided by the embassy who knew all of our friends and had standing orders to let any of them in without the need to ask. So, many mornings we would wake to the sounds of people swimming in our pool and the smell of wood burning in the parrilla. One person would bring the meat, and another the wine, and things sort of fell together. Most times, the parties were spontaneous, while other times they were planned.

 

My parents had a diverse group of friends that included everybody from the parish priest all the way to the marine guards that protected the U.S. embassy, and everybody in between. So, the parties were often lively and always entertaining.

 

On one occasion, my parents had a going-away party for one of the agents in the office which was themed as a mafia party, where everybody had to dress up in their favorite mafia suits. I was maybe 10 years old at the time and was dressed in a suit and a hat and was greeting people alongside my father as they arrived at the party. One man showed up wearing a white suit, and I told him that the waitstaff should enter through the rear door. Little did I know that the gentleman in question was the DCM, the number two position at the embassy after the ambassador. Following that comment, I was no longer allowed to greet guests at the door.

 

On another occasion, they decided to do a Hawaiian luau. One of the Marines at the time, appropriately nicknamed “Pineapple”, was Hawaiian, so he and a couple of his buddies came over early in the morning, dug a pit in our yard, and proceeded to light a fire. Next, he produced a whole baby pig that he placed within the pit which was then covered by banana leaves and left to slow cook for the entire day. 

 

Marines being marines, they hung around the pool with their girlfriends drinking until one challenged the other to a pushup contest, which later progressed to wrestling matches, and escalated up from there. Now, I should point out that all of the marines were great guys that got along with each other like brothers and would literally lay their life down for one of their own or for protecting one of us. But like brothers, they were also highly competitive. So, before you know it, the competition had escalated to a machete fighting contest.

 

The competitors were playing around, and the gunny sergeant was acting as a referee, so it came as a total surprise when one of the Marines inadvertently stabbed another in the stomach. Now when I say stabbed, it was not like in the movies where you see the knife enter the front of the body and protrude all the way out the back. No, this was more like a puncture wound where the blade penetrated about an inch into one of the Marine’s stomach. And yes, it was a total accident and not meant to happen, but nonetheless, the Marine was on the ground bleeding.

 

My mother was the embassy nurse at the time, so she quickly came to the rescue and patched and sewed the wound, but it would still require several days of care. So, it was decided that the Marine would take a few days of leave and remain at our house for continued treatment. After all, if the wound was reported, it would likely result in the removal of the gunny sergeant and possibly even a court martial for him and the Marine that inadvertently administered the wound. And given that it happened at our house, there would have surely been repercussion for my father, as well. So, the Marine remained at our house, was well-cared for, and returned to duty a few days later.

 

You might think that the incident soured future parties, but to the contrary – it didn’t even slow down the party that evening. The roasted pig was consumed, and even the injured Marine ate his share.

Leave a comment

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *