Mrs. Brush and the Seven Dwarves

Tibet - photo by JoAnn Sturman

Scott Sturman

fliesinyoureyes.com

During June Week festivities at the Air Force Academy, it was customary to invite a nationally known celebrity to give a speech in Mitchell Hall at a formal dinner hosting perhaps 3000 participants including graduating cadets, their parents, family members, and visiting dignitaries.  One of my responsibilities, in addition to contracting the rock and roll band Sugar Loaf to play for the graduation dance, was to contact and invite a suitable speaker.  Traditionally, those who agreed to participate were politicians, entertainers, or academics who enjoyed a healthy relationship with the military.  The list of candidates varied, but without exception each was a famous person whose name was recognizable to the general American public.

Along with my roommate Mark Kuno, we compiled a list of dignitaries according to category.  Politicians: Richard Nixon, Spiro Agnew, Gerald Ford, Barry Goldwater, Alexander Haig, George Schultz, Secretary of Defense Melvin Laird, and Henry Kissinger.  Movie stars: Bob Hope, Ann Margaret, Jimmie Stewart, and Lucille Ball.  Military: Astronauts Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin, Generals Curtis LeMay and John Ryan, and Secretary of the Air Force Robert Seamans.

In an era before email and faxes I began sending invitations by mail in the autumn of 1971 to insure those attending the ceremony would be entertained by a memorable celebrity.  Since this form of communication was relatively slow by today’s standards, I sent more than one invitation at a time.  I thought naively multiple acceptances would come pouring back through the mail, and the major problem would be to renege on someone who was not used to taking no for an answer.  Bob Hope or Alexander Haig?  Let me see.  “Secretary Haig, we regret to inform you....”

I mailed the first set of invitations and within a month or two the responses began to appear.  All began, “So and so regrets to inform you ...”  Oh, well, these were busy people and this was understandable, so on to the next batch of potential speakers.  I sent a second mailing and received the same discouraging responses; the third attempt yielded similar results.  

It was now well into April, and time was getting short for anyone of any importance to take time from a busy schedule to speak to our graduating class.  In fact the list of possible speakers was exhausted.  I asked my friend,  “Mark, any ideas?  Not one invitation was accepted.”

Having been raised a Catholic, he replied, “You could always ask the Pope.”

A desperate invitation began, “Your Eminence Paul VI:  This letter may come as somewhat of a surprise, but what are you doing on June 7 of this year?”

Since a response from the Pope, let alone a positive one, was remote, extreme measures were required.  It would be a break in protocol, but after so many denials, I decided to give the speech myself.  The subject:  A parody of Snow White and the Seven Dwarves and a description of the manner in which each dwarf depending on their personalities turned down the invitation to speak to the graduating class of 1972.  Sleepy fell asleep while reading the invitation.  Dopey thought Doc was playing a trick on him, as so forth.  Simple stuff, but hopefully the audience would be plied with so much alcohol by this point in the festivities they would be amused at the amateurish effort.

From the podium I recounted all the dignitaries who refused to speak including Paul VI and then extended this litany to the dwarves.  In all it was an unorthodox but surprisingly funny speech.  As laughter from the audience increased, I knew the Mateus was working its magic.   After the presentation some of my classmates and even some adults congratulated me on a most entertaining graduation talk.

Yet one member of the audience was not impressed.  Mrs. Brush, wife of my nemesis Lt. Colonel Brush, was the mother of seven children and saw some nefarious parallel between her family and the Seven Dwarves.  

The Brush began, “That was comical of you, Mr. Sturman.  I always thought Hollywood was more your style than the Air Force.”  Then he winked and added, “That was funny.  How did you ever come up with that?”

Mrs. Brush didn’t think my antics were as amusing as her husband.  She thought I was lampooning her, the Brush, and their seven children.  It was a lucky stroke, for although I was oblivious to the Brush’s family life, perhaps she would give her husband an ear full later that night when they returned home.  I didn’t deny her accusation.  It seemed a small consolation for him restricting me to my room during the last semester and making many of my classmates miserable for much of their Academy experience.      

Now forty years later my conscience has gotten the better of me.  I offer my apologies to the Brush family.   Hopefully, she didn’t leave the colonel with too many bruises that night.  If only John Paul VI would have said "yes," this never would have happened.