I‘VE MENTIONED LT. RUSSELL BATES before in this column, a Marine pilot, my friend Pete Hamilton’s nephew. Pete and his wife, Marcia, brought their four girls out from Connecticut and stayed with us last Thanksgiving, and his sister, Trish, another pal forever, made everyone a fabulous meal at her place (“faboo,” as she would say). Russell came up from Miramar to join everyone. In case you’ve never done it, it’s actually great fun when that many people stay with you, assuming, of course, you don’t detest them. We have a four-bedroom house (the bar is its best feature, for good or ill), and every couch and pull-out was filled. And there was always someone padding around with a bowl of cereal.
The next day we all drove down to Russell’s base, and had enough cars in procession to look like the picnic in “Citizen Kane.” We climbed all over the planes and helicopters, and put on the too-big helmets–the kids, anyway; the grownups just took pictures. Everyone got coated, literally, with the ever-present oil mist, and was disgusted by it–the adults, this time; the kids loved it. Then we all checked into a hotel not too far away for the night, with an eye on their renowned brunch the next day. (You know the ones, where you fill up on the first thing you see, and they have an entire room just for rolls. I think the profit margin on those brunches slightly edges out Las Vegas.)
