How Long Can Three Minutes Be?
1/26/2022

The end of June, 1968, Pat and I with our two sons, Patrick almost five and Tim almost 2, and a large St. Bernard dog moved to Arkansas to be near family and friends while Pat was in Viet Nam for the next year. This was a particularly difficult move for all of us, and we tried to get through it in our different ways. Patrick seemed to have figured out first how he was going to meet each day missing his daddy.

Every morning for the first three weeks, he would wake up and say, “Do you know what I’m going to do today, Mommy?” I would answer him the same every day,” What are you going to do today?” His consistent reply, “I’m going to miss my daddy.” Having said it out loud, he could get on with his day. Then, it was OK to have fun and be happy.

A few weeks after we had settled in, I played bridge with college friends and was asked how long Pat would be gone. I said that he would be away from us for at least a year, and one friend replied that the time would probably fly by. She had never lived more than fifty miles from her childhood home and was separated from her husband only when he went hunting for a few nights each year. After thinking for a few minutes, I told her it would not fly by and that the boys and I would miss Pat 365+ days until he came home.

The first of December a local TV station asked for anyone who had loved ones in Viet Nam to send in a postcard requesting a time to come to the station and video a three-minute-Christmas greeting. They would then send the greetings to our loved ones. Well, I thought how long can three minutes be? I immediately sent in my request.

Since Patrick was going to pre-K, he had a wealth of songs and poems that he rehearsed over and over to show his daddy what he was learning. Even at that age Patrick was an entertainer. Then all three of us worked on our best Christmas greetings and sang over and over a birthday greeting for Pat’s Christmas Day surprise.

At this point let me digress. The beginning of November my mother let the boys each bring home a small, painted turtle in a plastic bowl. The rule was that Patrick and Tim could not play with the turtles and absolutely could not put their hands in the water bowls without my supervision. They then had to immediately wash their hands. Tim did not follow the rule and in about two weeks started breaking out with horrible boils. After many trips to the doctor and doses of antibiotics, it was the consensus that the turtles had been infected with a tropical disease, and that was the reason for boils. Needless to say, the turtles under mysterious circumstances disappeared.

Now back to December, 1968, and our big TV debut, and I’m still thinking how long can three minutes be? I had timed our message to Pat over and over, and we were right on the mark. The problem was that Tim had a large, ugly boil on the left side of his face. Since Pat knew nothing about the problem, I decided that Tim would sit on my lap with only his right side facing the camera. Patrick wanted to stand on my right so he could do his thing.

We arrived at the studio on time and learned what all the hand signals meant--pointing to us when filming would begin, three fingers held up when there was only 30 seconds left of filming, and slice across the director’s throat to mean that filming had ceased. I was also told there would be no stopping and no retake. We settled in our spots for our big moment.

When the hand signal to begin was given, Tim immediately slid off my lap and turned to the camera and pointed to his facial boo-boo and to where he had other boo-boos. Trying to divert attention from Tim, I turned to Patrick and asked him if he was ready to do his show. His answer was NO. Didn’t he want to sing his special song with all the movements, and the answer was still NO. After a lot of prodding and a big smile that I hoped would convey to him that this was the big time, and he needed to rise to the occasion, I began to sing “The Itsy, Bitsy Spider” and both did join in. But Tim continued to move around paying no attention to either one of us. Patrick did manage a few more songs.

At last, I saw the three fingers go up, and we proceeded to our big finale, a big Happy Birthday and Merry Christmas with kisses! The boys did do well on that part.

At last, the slice across the throat. I immediately pulled the boys close to me and chastised them for being rotten little boys for not following with the plan, and that I was not happy with them. I guess that I was throwing a hissy fit. After the dust settled, I heard a great deal of laughter coming from the crew, and was told that it was so funny that nothing was working out for me, that they tricked me, and that “chastising the boys” was the best part. I pleaded with them to erase that part, but it was sent on to Pat uncut.

When it arrived in Viet Nam, Pat had to play it on the projector that was used for movies during evening entertainment. The troops loved it and requested it every time the projector was set up. Much laughter came from the viewers, so our big flop spread a little joy in a most unusual place.

Many times I have asked myself, “How long can three minutes be?”I always answer myself: “A life time when little boys unconsciously turn to sabotage.” And yet, we’re still laughing about it more than 50 years later.

Katherine Ann Hoy