Christmas 1967
Greetings, gang,
Hawkeye here. You might be wondering—as well you should—why I'm the one writing this year's Pierce-Hunnicutt newsletter. Well, I'm afraid the right/writing hand of our dear B.J. is out of commission for a while, as it sustained a nasty injury about a week ago when Beej carelessly cut into a bagel and didn't think to stop before hitting flesh. Good thing I was there to immediately tend to my bleeding, distressed patient. We both had a scare when we thought he'd cut the flexor tendon in his thumb, which of course would've meant the end of his illustrious career as a surgeon. Luckily all of his tendons, if not his brain, remain intact.
I've decided he's not allowed to have bagels ever again.
So obviously, he's not working right now, and he seems to get immense joy from running me ragged with his endless requests, "Can I have the paper? How about a bowl of soup? Don't forget the dog needs to be walked." His left hand works fine, not that you'd know it. Being home all day, he watches some soap opera called The Doctors and then tells me later how silly and unrealistic it is, but I think he's secretly and hopelessly addicted.
Ah well, as for our year gone by… other than Beej's mishap with a sharp knife, we had a wonderful 1967. Would you believe our little girl celebrated her sweet 16 in July? Not so little anymore! She's a beautiful, thoughtful, and intelligent young lady, and she seems set on going to nursing school, which ought to make you, Margaret, very proud. You've been quite a role model for her, and we thank you for that.
As most of you know, B.J. and I successfully talked my dear ol' Dad into finally moving out here to California this past spring. The old buzzard (I can call him that; after all, he tagged me with Hawkeye all those years ago) was so set in his ways out East that I was truly shocked to my socks when he agreed to move. But he's 77 now, and although he's not exactly frail, it was time for him to give up the responsibility of that huge house, not to mention get away from those nasty winters. He's living in a retirement community out here, very close by, and we see him almost daily—
"Hey Hawk?" came the call from the other room.
"Yes, Beej."
"Could you bring me my reading glasses? I left them in the bathroom."
Hawkeye rolled his eyes. "Your feet are not injured, Beej. Get up and get them yourself!"
"It's just that I'm all settled in bed with my hand propped up on the pillow, and I thought you'd be helpful and get them for me—"
"All right, all right." Hawkeye let out a heavy sigh and said sayonara to his train of thought as he headed to the bathroom to fetch B.J.'s glasses. "I'm also doing this other favor for you, by the way," he called out. "Writing the newsletter, remember?"
"You're the best, Hawk."
"Uh huh." He spied the glasses on the bathroom floor (and how dangerous was that? They could've been stepped on and shattered), picked them up, and hoofed it down the hallway to the bedroom. "Here, found 'em." B.J. was indeed all settled in bed, sheets pooled around his legs, a book in his good hand.
"Thanks, Hawk. Sorry if I bothered you."
Hawkeye laughed. "You're not sorry, you love being waited on hand and foot. But that's OK." He leaned down and kissed B.J. "As it happens, I love waiting on you."
B.J. put down the book and used his good hand to grab Hawkeye's shirt so he could help himself to another kiss. "You're too good to me."
"And don't you ever forget it."
B.J. smiled. "Do a good job with the newsletter."
Hawkeye put a hand to his chest in mock indignation. "Uh, excuse me. Do you know who you're talking to? Silver-tongued, silver-penned Hawkeye Pierce… your friendly walking thesaurus, your lovable logophile—"
"OK, OK," B.J. cut him off before he could get too far into one of his rambling rants. "Sorry I ever doubted you. I owe you big for writing that for me."
Hawk's eyebrows bounced up and down in his Groucho Marx leer. "Oh, you owe me, do you?" In the next instant, he was on the bed, scooching B.J. over a little, getting comfortable and snuggling up against him. "No sense in waiting. Why not show your appreciation now?"
B.J. couldn't help laughing. "Weren't you in the middle of writing?"
"You've already derailed my train of thought. You might as well make it worthwhile…" He leaned in and put his mouth softly on B.J.'s, eliciting a moan. Then he gently took B.J.'s injured hand in his, caressing it. "How about if I kiss this and make it better?"
"That sounds nice," B.J. murmured. "And after you're done kissing my hand, you can move on to any other body parts you'd like."
As it turned out, there were a lot of body parts that Hawkeye liked, and he took his good time exploring them. Holiday newsletter be damned.
