Time went on, and the girl and I got better acquainted, courtesy of a self-styled hippie-esque folk, sort of minstrel group. There were nine of us, in total, only one of them wasn't Mormon. (Hmmm, I wonder who that could have been....?) Damn we need a Sarcasm Font! I soon got a much better understanding of Mormons, and developed a deep respect for its devotees, but it wasn't for me... (No drinking or smoking? Yeah, right.) After a while, a nine-person group became unmanageable, and the group broke up. Three of us, a diminutive red-haired girl with a pretty soprano voice named Nina, myself, and the girl, who it turned out, had an extremely pleasant alto, and could blend well on harmonies. I played guitar, by chords, and had a pretty wide vocal range, but I needed help with guitar, and there were tenor notes that baritones were never meant to hit. Originally, we looked at a guy who also played in the bigger group, but it didn't work out. That turned out to be the best thing that could have happened.
Enter George, who had a Martin DB-6 that blended perfectly with my 12-string, and a folk group was born. We learned everything Peter, Paul, and Mary ever did, improvised a fourth-part of harmony, and gained a little notoriety locally. We were asked to play at political functions where we would break into a whaling shanty who's words were altered to support a certain candidate for Congress; PTA dinners, any little function, just to get out and sing. We must have been pretty good, and I always wonder what would have happened if Americas Got Talent had been on in those days. Sigh.
OK, getting back to Mormons... George, Nina, the girl, and I formed the group, originally, to compete in a Mormon "Stake" Quartet Festival. Nina and the girl being Mormon; George and I would refer to ourselves as "heathens," we qualified to participate, and we actually took First Place. That night, the girl and I had our first date, sort of, although we did ask her mom. We had gone to a small venue rock 'n roll concert, and I found out that Mormons didn't think much of taking drugs, either. See, slowly I'm processing this stuff, I really, really,... like this girl. She's kinda naïve, blushes at anything, has an absolutely engaging laugh, and makes me feel like everything is O flippin' K whenever I am with her. I've had a few girl friends, but this one's different. I don't know what it is, but I'm totally into it. The best part was that she seemed to be into it as well.
I hold her Sixteenth Birthday Party in the garage at my parents house. A few couples come, we listen to records, eat, drink sodas, dance a little, and actually played "Spin the Bottle," when it got to the last four couples. Afterwards, lounging on the couch that had bee brought in for the party, we got to talking about "stuff," things we wanted to do with our lives. After a while, we started talking about things we could do together. That's when things kind of "spun out of control".
The girl talked about me graduating, and going out and getting a job so we could save up some money for when we got married after she graduated. WARNING! WARNING! WARNING!
Let's back the team up a bit, What the %#@ did you say?
Apparently you don't know me as well as you think you do. I'm a freaking 17 year-old, don't know Jack, don't know I don't know Jack (yet), and still eligible for the Draft. I don't think I can make a commitment like that right now. Many are the times I wished I'd have actually told her that. It would have spared her the shock of meeting my new girlfriend. Yeah, I know, I was a dick.
The folk quartet withered and died, the girl went off to BYU, and I joined the Navy. Life moved on.
I want it stated for the record that I do not fare well on my own. I was taken care of by my parents until I was 19; and have been taken care of by my wonderful wife from the time I was 22, on. Wow, only three years, almost exactly three years! I still marvel at how quickly one's life can go straight into Hell. Once out of boot camp there was no one to do your thinking for you. And no one tells you that until someone is in your face, red-faced screaming at you, and you have no idea what it is you did. Hey, "Welcome to the Fleet."
I was nineteen, going on twenty, when I joined. In boot camp, I was sheltered (sequestered might be the better word), and my time in A-School was just the beginning my realization that I could do anything I want as long as I was at muster in the morning. The Navy is just a microcosm of the current society (maybe a little behind, but fairly current). The same things that drive people on the outside drive them during an enlistment, it's focused a little differently, but the drive is very similar. The one difference between military and civilian life? Military people learn to work as a team, for a common good. Civilians work for themselves. Out of the two, I prefer the military way. This has nothing to do with my Mormonism, except for the drinking.
I went downhill so fast, it was frightening. I traveled in Greece, Italy, dozens of ports throughout the Mediterranean Sea, but don't remember much of it, because I was drunk (or stoned) for most of my trips to the Med. I'm not proud of it. I am actually somewhat embarrassed, or should be, but that is not the man whom God dragged out of the fires of adversity, and forged anew in the armor of God.
One night, a Duty night, I was on watch aboard the aircraft carrier INDEPENDENCE while the ship was in "dry-dock" (out of the water). My watch was a roving patrol to make sure no one was on the Bridge, and that things were secure in the superstructure, and forward 03- level. My watch didn't extend to the structures attached to the Mast, but I would, occasionally go up there to have a smoke. I have no idea what brought on all the stress, but all I could think about is how this would be my second Christmas away from home, still 3,000 miles away, and that I was all alone. I had no one in my life (at age 21), I'd had girls that were friends, and friends that were girls, but no GIRLFRIEND. We were getting ready to cycle back to the Med, and I was absolutely inconsolable. Looking over the edge into the bottom of the dry-dock, the thought came to me like lightning, "Drop over the edge, and your misery is over." Even today, decades later, I still get a chill when I think about it. It sounded like the most logical thing in the world, because no one gave a crap for me, and I was just a waste of skin. I was hurting, and I wanted it to stop.
The first two times I didn't hear him. "Martin? Are you up here? Time to change the watch." The third time, I guess I looked at him like I wasn't understanding, because he jokingly turned around joking, "...hey, who am I to tell a guy he HAS to get off watch...". I laughed, and joked, "Jimmy you saved my life." I'm the only one who knows how true that really was.
Jimmy must have talked to the LPO, and some discussions went on from there, and the LPO sat me down and said, "I don't care where you go for Christmas. I don't care how you get there, or how you get back, but you have ten days that you have been ordered NOT to spend here." There were "Thanks!" given generously, promises to serve future generations of the LPO's children, and I thought about airline tickets. I had about half of what I needed to get home, and the Holidays were rapidly approaching. I called my dad. He tried to sound all cheap and miserly, but I could tell that it would be his pleasure to bring me home for Christmas. He paid for the tickets in San Francisco (which, in 1972, meant that he had to go to the San Francisco Airport, and pay for the tickets in person; wait for the transaction to be processed, and a credit for the tickets was posted at the Norfolk Airport a few hours later in my name). It was the first time, according to the ticket clerk, that she had processed a transaction that had been paid for in another city. That explained how I almost missed the flight to Atlanta, to stand-by on a 747 to SFO via DFW, but not the kindness I would be extended at ATL.
Despite the near frantic pace of the first leg of my trip (NOR - ATL) on Piedmont Airlines, I had a bit of time to wait in ATL, but I checked in as quickly as I could, still in uniform. The guy at the gate looked at me and said, "When were you home last?" I told him, "Two years." He moved my stand-by ticket to near the top of the list, and said something to the woman next to him that caused her to smile and say, "I think we can help out a little." During my stay at ATL, I saw a ton of people in uniform, trying to fly stand-by, and I started to get a little disappointed at my chances of making it on the Delta flight to SFO. I started paying a little attention, and these were all SR's, or SA's, all undesignated, and figured that they were coming from the Recruit Training Center in Florida.
Time, particularly unplanned "dead time" can actually be a great time to think. The more I thought, the more the actions of the ticket clerks, and the words, "I think we can help out a little," started to come into focus. They (the ticket clerks) were going to make sure I got on the plane. As it turned out, I was the last person to get on the plane. There was one seat available, up in the First Class Lounge behind the cockpit, but it was mine. The seat was like a high-backed bar stool, mounted on a post to the floor, and we had to face forward for both take-off and landing. I had a drink (or two) on the flight from ATL to DFW, and got to wander around, taking in how full the flight was, and thinking about how grateful I was for a couple of ticket agents who helped me out.
When we got to DFW (Dallas/Ft Worth for all of you who don't travel), it seemed like everyone got off the plane but me. We weren't on the ground long, and very few people got on for the flight to SFO. In fact, I had the First Class Lounge all to myself, with four flight attendants. It didn't last very long, I was given a seat in the lower First Class seating, and all of the First Class amenities (open bar). Before I moved down from the Lounge, I got to change out of my Blues, and get into civilian clothing. While I was up there, alone, I smoked a little hashish, and got pretty-well F-ed up. Add the two (or three) more drinks I had between DFW and SFO, I was pretty well toasted when my dad found me wandering the baggage claim area.
I don't know when it was, most likely the Piedmont flight, but I sat in proximity of someone with the flu. Between that, the dope, and the alcohol, my system was pretty well weak, and the flu hit in a big way. My first few days at home were spent laying on the couch, eating apple sauce and drinking ginger ale, half-hoping I won't die, the other half hoping I will. It was a lousy way to start the first three days. Gradually, I started to feel better, and I started thinking about people to call to let know I was in town, maybe get invited to a couple of parties, so I had a list of people to call. When I picked up the phone, all that "went out the window," so to speak. Instead, I called a girl I used to know... you know, the one who scared me so badly... yeah, her name was Mary. Still is.
I was in a pretty sorry place when I left Norfolk, VA. When you realize that suicide is among the candidates for your future, and actually gaining in popularity, you are in a pretty sorry place. I wanted to go out among people I knew, and party my brains out, because I knew I didn't leave my problems in Norfolk, and alcohol was only exacerbating my problems, because no one wanted to be around me when I was drunk. So, what do I do? I call an old girlfriend, scratch open some old wounds, wallow in some old guilt, that will make everything hunky-flipping-dorey, huh? Except for one thing... this old girlfriend was my friend. Probably the best friend I'd ever had. She always seemed to be so grounded. I guess that's why I called Mary first.
I'm not sure how much she remembers about that telephone call, but I remember every bit of it. I was sitting on the couch at my folks house, thinking about who to call, and not thinking of anyone in particular. I got up, crossed the room to the phone, and dialed 448-5987, the phone number of Mary Gardner. Mary's mom (who had no love lost for me) answered the call.
"Hello?"
"Hi, is Mary at home?"
"Who's this?" I thought I detected an almost growl in the voice.
"Don't tell her, but this is Steve Martin." I said it as nicely as I could.
"Ugh. Wait."
After a minute, or so, "Hello?" It was her. She sounded great. I almost stuttered my reply.
"Hi Mary, this is Steve Martin."
"Really? REALLY??" The second one was really loud. "Where are you?" she asked excitedly.
"Uh, I'm at my parents house."
"How soon can you come over? Can you come in an hour?"
"Uh, I guess so."
"Can you be here in half-an hour?"
"Uh, yeah, I guess."
"Good, see you in fifteen minutes." She hung up.
For a moment, I thought I had screwed up. I mean, she sounded like she was happy to see me again, but I began to wonder "to what end?" Our break-up was rather brutal, and she might be excited to show me an engagement ring, or to kick me where I deserved it; I almost didn't go. Almost.
Driving across Vacaville was easy in 1972. The town was still under 20,000 people, and we only lived a short distance apart, so I was actually early. I walked up to the house, and knocked on the door. When it opened, I wasn't prepared to actually see her again. When last I had seen Mary Gardner, she was still wearing her hair in this "Page Boy" kind of do, and sporting black rimmed "granny glasses". The person who greeted me had long flowing brown hair, stylish gold-rimmed glasses, and -- to me -- gorgeous young woman.
 |
| Mary in 1973 |
By New Years Eve, I decided that I did love her, and declared my love early New Year's Day, to which she returned, "How can you say that?"
My hopes for an "I love you, too." went down in flames, and I thought I might have misjudged what had happened between us. I didn't know what to say for a moment, and then it hit me. Mary had always treated me with love and affection during our time together, and no one since then ever really gave a damn about me. Because of our time together, I knew how men should be with their ladies, and how the ladies should be to their gents. When women failed to reach that level of civility, I'd walk away. It dawned on me that I had always loved the way Mary treated me, and I said, "I have always loved you." Our survey says...
DING! DING! DING! It just happened to be the #1-answer.
When I went back to Norfolk and the Navy, on January 2, 1973, I went back a changed person. I was in love, and everything I did I did to get to see her again. I also had an assignment: to contact the Mormon Missionaries, and initiate the pre-baptismal discussions. That was easily accomplished because the guy who relieved me from watch that night was in my division, and a Mormon.
I don't remember much about the discussions, they were quite different in '73, but I can remember the feelings, the warmth, and the security I gained from hearing about the beliefs of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. They handed me a book called The Book of Mormon. They said, "Read this book. Pray to Heavenly Father (in the name of Jesus Christ) to know if what you are reading is true." At our discussion the following week, I gave the book back and said, "I know that this book is true, or at least that it contains the Word of God." The missionaries looked at me, incredulity etched in their faces, "You've read the entire book?" "Yeah, it's only 500 and some-odd pages." "And you understand it?" "No, no more than any other first-time reader. The book will take some study, but it is, indeed, at least in my mind, scripture." They called me their "Golden".
We covered the Church's belief in "The Word of Wisdom," which establishes the abstinence from tobacco, alcohol, coffee, and tea. It was given "by way of suggestion," but was voted in as a commandment by the Church hierarchy. This was a big problem for me, because I would have to give up all the things I really enjoyed. It was also problematic because, to me, it was an example of men interpreting the Word of God for man's devices. The Church got the Elders to stop spitting tobacco on the floor of the temple, and the members get screwed out of a possible rich blessing from voluntary obedience. Battles with this would haunt my Membership in the Church for more than 30 years.
Nonetheless, I consented to be baptized on the 19th of April, 1973. Out of sheer coincidence, that was the day after Mary, and her BYU roommate Marja, arrived in Norfolk, by bus, from Provo, UT. The Elders told Mary that they wanted me to witness a baptism, so she had no idea it was mine. Unfortunately, in 1973, once you got "dunked," you pretty much were forgotten. I had lots of questions, but because I was on a ship, I kept getting referred to my Group Leader, an officer in my division, who happened to be the procurer of pornographic films for the INDY, hardly the go-to guy for spiritual advice. We departed Norfolk in July 1973 for the Mediterranean Sea, and a six-months deployment, a month after Jimmy transferred off the ship, and the only other Mormon I knew of on the ship was Mr. Pornography. Right before we left, we (Mary and I) a Church Picnic, and got into a scene with the Elders Quorum President over something totally trivial, but
I tried to study the Scriptures, and pray regularly, but it got hard to do in a 50-man berthing compartment, and I gave it up. I was a Member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, but my testimony went stagnant, and I got back to drinking and smoking again. From this point on, I became an "inactive member". There would be flurries of activity, seemingly always followed by an incident with someone who objected to something I would do, or say. Either that, or I'd get hung up by the "Every Member A Missionary" thing. I couldn't do it. My testimony was pretty much dead, remember.
Besides, I am an alcoholic. For 22 years, I was raised to believe that having a drink, in moderation, was OK. Granted, it was my choice to try to give it up, but my brain wasn't buying it a bit. When I started to drink again, I started drinking with guilt. I knew I shouldn't; I just couldn't stop, then I'd feel guilty, and then I'd drink to get the voices in my head to shut the heck up. Vicious cycle; hard to stop once it gets going. Three DUI's and one dismissal later, I finally got the idea.
Oh, there were other problems. Most of them of my own making. I thought everyone in my Ward knew I smoked and drank, and were judging me. In my mind, they knew everything, and needed only an opportunity to expose me. When you are doing things you know you shouldn't be doing, you spend a lot of time in self-condemnation and self-loathing. In fact, you end up hating yourself.
To tell the truth, it was all in my mind. I had prayed, almost constantly, to be forgiven for my transgressions, and, like a dumb-ass, never stopped long enough to find out if I was "good". One afternoon, in Spokane, WA, I was praying (again) for forgiveness, and suddenly I couldn't talk. I felt like I used to feel when I'd come out of the principal's office after doing something stupid. I felt like I had been rebuked, and the words kept running through my mind, "How many times do you want me to forgive you for this "stuff"? You were forgiven a long time ago, so get on with your life. I'm over it...".
I talked that one over with my High Priest Group Leader, and he related a similar incident from his own life. After 31 years of being a Member, I realized that I wasn't the only one with a "seedy past," and was taught, for the first time in my entire Membership, that the Atonement of Jesus Christ wasn't a one-time deal. "Bob," my Group Leader, taught me a lot about the Atonement, and planted the mantra in my head, "Are you better today than yesterday?" As long as I could answer "Yes," I was worthy of the Covenants I have made. A "new" Steve emerged. I was certain of my status with my Heavenly Father, and I didn't give the furry crack of a rat's butt what anyone thought.
This all happened between July of '03 and January of '04. In December of '03, my eldest child, Tyffany, became engaged, and planned to have a Temple Wedding in May of '04. As January came, the "new" me began to emerge, and after a couple of decades of not having a Temple Recommend, I was able to get one without having to lie to get it on May 1st. We decided to take the opportunity to go to the Spokane Temple, prior to going down to the Bay Area for the wedding. The date was May 15th, one I am not likely to ever forget.
May 15th is the day that school districts must decide which teachers stay, and which may go. In a tenured state (like California), it doesn't effect a teachers employment status, but it can be a harbinger of changes. Idaho is a "Right-to-Work" state, and doesn't offer tenure. Teachers are hired for periods of 1 - 3 years, and must re-interview for the position at the expiration of the contract. I had been hired for the 2003-04 school year. On May 15, 2004, the Assistant Principal at Coeur 'd Alane High School stopped me and asked me to come into his office. He asked if I was dead set on getting a three-year contract, which I assured him I was, and felt that I had earned over the year, and had test data to prove it. He said he was sorry, but they were going to have to let me go. Just like that.
Mary and I were supposed to go to the Spokane Temple that evening, and I would be taking some pretty pointed questions with me to The House of the Lord. It was my first time in thirty years that I had been to the Temple, and I hardly expected that I would get the answers I was looking for, but I would have to ask them in prayer (it's not like we have an "Ask God" booth, or anything, but there's a very serene atmosphere in the Temple that fosters spiritual impressions). Personally, to that point, I had never felt anything particularly moving in the Temple, but I figured if I was going to ask my Heavenly Father what the "frack" I would be doing, now that I had less than a month of employment left.
That evening, while I was in the Men's locker room at the Temple, a calm descended on me, and I realized that I was doing the right thing in attending the Temple that night. As I waited for the session to start, I got a distinct impression to pay my utmost attention to what was going on during the next couple of hours. I had been to the Temple a number of times before I went inactive, and the presentation was, pretty much, just how I remembered it, but I learned more that night than ever before. I know why... why is because I felt I belonged there for the first time; but what happened that evening is nothing short of a miracle in my life.
After the Endowment, we were sitting in the Celestial Room, and Mary had identified an old high school friend, so I had some time to contemplate and organize my thoughts before I started my prayer, and to be alone. I have always been taught to develop a personal relationship with my Heavenly Father, and in my own way, I have done that. To me, if He is truly my Heavenly Father, he understands that the "thee's" and "thy's" and the archaic language of Elizabethan England is not my Native tongue. I'll do it in public prayer, because it is expected, but I never talked to my Earthly Father in such a way, and if I'm going to develop a personal relationship with my Heavenly Father, respect can never be an issue. So I speak to my Heavenly Father much the same as I used to talk to my Pop.
I said something like, "Dad, I'm in real trouble here, and I need your help." I then proceeded to lay it all out for him, like I would with my Earth Dad, as though that were really necessary. As I finished my prayer, another thought stuck in my head, "Wait for an answer this time." I was amazed at how quickly the answer came, and how clear the words were. I can't say if they were spoken in my ear, or in my mind, because I don't remember hearing them, but they were clear as a bell in my mind, "Take care of your family, first, and then your Priesthood Responsibilities, everything will work out."
Since that time, I have been faithful to my twin tasks. The changes that were wrought in me in Spokane continue to astound and amaze my daughters. My son has chosen to cast his parents aside because he's ignorant, and if that's the life he chooses, let him live it. I'm not going to force him to think about me, the way his mom does, if he ever comes around, I'll think about it, but I'm not going to rush to welcome home the "prodigal son".
I have also been attentive to my Priesthood duties, particularly as it pertains to being a Home Teacher. We have maintained contact, on a monthly basis, with everyone on my list, as well as Mary's Visiting Teaching list. We have gained some new friends in the process, as well as some new "family".
Somehow, everything has worked out. Even a six year period where I was unemployed. We kept focused, and things just clicked into place.
Funny what a little faith can do, huh?
