thedrifter
06-15-08, 08:39 AM
June 15, 2008
'Dad' to many who served
Maggie Downs
The Desert Sun
It was a modest four-bedroom house in Huntington Beach.
A gangly teen in a crewcut snoozed on the stiff red couch, too exhausted to change out of his fatigues.
Outside another kid threatened to toss the youngest child into the pool, the girl he always called "Punkin."
They weren't family. But they were the next best thing.
During the Vietnam War, the simple home was where Marines found shelter, guidance, love and pot roast from Robert Tilt, the man they called Dad.
As a former Air Force sergeant, Tilt always had a soft spot for servicemen. That's why he and his wife Mary Lou said they invited a couple of Marines from Camp Pendleton over for Thanksgiving dinner.
In the 1960s, Tilt's teacher salary was about $8,000 a year. It wasn't much, but it was enough to feed and house him, Mary Lou and their three daughters, Marilee Ann, Roberta Jane and Kathleen.
Certainly they had enough to spare for some Marines who had no other home for the holidays.
They deserved to be with family, Tilt figured. So he would give them one.
The two young men were so thankful, Tilt told them to come back any time they wanted.
The door would always be open, the food always home-cooked.
Word spread. The Marines invited friends who then brought their friends.
Some of those kids had not yet seen war, but they were wounded just the same. Many lacked guidance. They were awkward and frightened. A few came from unstable homes, Tilt said.
So Tilt maintained an open-door policy.
"We didn't ask any questions of them," said Tilt, who now lives in Thousand Palms. "We just said these are our rules, and then we gave them all the love we had."
In all, 27 regulars rotated through the Tilts' home every weekend.
"They always had a bed for us, and there was always food. I can't tell you what they served, but it was the best we'd ever had," said Bobby Hulsey, who was stationed at Camp Pendleton, away from his family in Missouri for the first time.
"They were another family to us," he said. "They probably didn't have a dime of their own, but they gave us everything they could."
Along the way, the Tilt family learned to make do with less so they could share with more.
"We never had fancy dinners. We learned to cut hamburger with a lot of things and make it stretch," he said. "And do you know how much milk teenage boys can drink? About a gallon each, that's how much."
But Tilt never asked for anything in return.
Some gave it anyway. One young man painted the house. Others helped with chores and errands.
The Tilts' daughters often bunked with each other, giving up their rooms for the guys.
When the beds were full, some of the Marines slept on the couch. Others would sprawl out on cots or on the floor.
"Nobody ever complained," Tilt said. "They had found a place where people loved them and asked nothing of them, and that was everything they needed."
Foster sons
A biological connection was never necessary to make this arrangement feel like a family.
Some people referred to the Marines as "foster kids," but "they weren't 'foster' anything," said Mary Lou Tilt. "They were our kids."
It was never Robert Tilt's intention to be such a father figure to so many. He never asked these kids to call him Dad. It just happened, and it felt comfortable and right.
The Tilt daughters, too, accepted the servicemen as their brothers. When neighborhood bullies teased them, it was the Marines who stood up for them.
Years later, some of the men would pass through Southern California with their wives, parents or children. They would always make a stop to see the Tilts.
Many often said that if they didn't know better, they would have guessed Robert and Mary Lou were the Marines' real parents.
"If love had anything to do with it, we were," Mary Lou Tilt said.
Robert Tilt, now 76, just retired from Raymond Cree Middle School in Palm Springs. Altogether, he was a teacher for 51 years. Mary Lou is also a retired educator.
All of the kids are grown now. The Marines are well past active duty. Many have already retired from jobs outside of the military.
When one was killed - hit by a sniper in Vietnam - Tilt said he grieved like any other parent.
Decades later, his eyes still become swollen and red when he talks about visiting the Vietnam Memorial in Washington, D.C., to see the boy's name on the wall.
"He was the only one who said he would be back, and he never made it," Tilt said, his eyes turning red. "You'd think that after so many years it would get easier, but it doesn't."
He has one regret - that his backyard had a swimming pool instead of a guest house.
"I wish we could have taken more kids in," he said.
It was an experience as a young couple that motivated Robert and Mary Lou Tilt to support others.
When one of their daughters was young, she required extensive medical treatment. They took out $10,000 in loans, almost double Robert Tilt's salary at the time.
The Tilts never received a bill, however. The loan was paid in full, and they never found out who did it.
"People invested in us when we needed it most," Robert Tilt said. "It's our duty to invest in others."
Ellie
'Dad' to many who served
Maggie Downs
The Desert Sun
It was a modest four-bedroom house in Huntington Beach.
A gangly teen in a crewcut snoozed on the stiff red couch, too exhausted to change out of his fatigues.
Outside another kid threatened to toss the youngest child into the pool, the girl he always called "Punkin."
They weren't family. But they were the next best thing.
During the Vietnam War, the simple home was where Marines found shelter, guidance, love and pot roast from Robert Tilt, the man they called Dad.
As a former Air Force sergeant, Tilt always had a soft spot for servicemen. That's why he and his wife Mary Lou said they invited a couple of Marines from Camp Pendleton over for Thanksgiving dinner.
In the 1960s, Tilt's teacher salary was about $8,000 a year. It wasn't much, but it was enough to feed and house him, Mary Lou and their three daughters, Marilee Ann, Roberta Jane and Kathleen.
Certainly they had enough to spare for some Marines who had no other home for the holidays.
They deserved to be with family, Tilt figured. So he would give them one.
The two young men were so thankful, Tilt told them to come back any time they wanted.
The door would always be open, the food always home-cooked.
Word spread. The Marines invited friends who then brought their friends.
Some of those kids had not yet seen war, but they were wounded just the same. Many lacked guidance. They were awkward and frightened. A few came from unstable homes, Tilt said.
So Tilt maintained an open-door policy.
"We didn't ask any questions of them," said Tilt, who now lives in Thousand Palms. "We just said these are our rules, and then we gave them all the love we had."
In all, 27 regulars rotated through the Tilts' home every weekend.
"They always had a bed for us, and there was always food. I can't tell you what they served, but it was the best we'd ever had," said Bobby Hulsey, who was stationed at Camp Pendleton, away from his family in Missouri for the first time.
"They were another family to us," he said. "They probably didn't have a dime of their own, but they gave us everything they could."
Along the way, the Tilt family learned to make do with less so they could share with more.
"We never had fancy dinners. We learned to cut hamburger with a lot of things and make it stretch," he said. "And do you know how much milk teenage boys can drink? About a gallon each, that's how much."
But Tilt never asked for anything in return.
Some gave it anyway. One young man painted the house. Others helped with chores and errands.
The Tilts' daughters often bunked with each other, giving up their rooms for the guys.
When the beds were full, some of the Marines slept on the couch. Others would sprawl out on cots or on the floor.
"Nobody ever complained," Tilt said. "They had found a place where people loved them and asked nothing of them, and that was everything they needed."
Foster sons
A biological connection was never necessary to make this arrangement feel like a family.
Some people referred to the Marines as "foster kids," but "they weren't 'foster' anything," said Mary Lou Tilt. "They were our kids."
It was never Robert Tilt's intention to be such a father figure to so many. He never asked these kids to call him Dad. It just happened, and it felt comfortable and right.
The Tilt daughters, too, accepted the servicemen as their brothers. When neighborhood bullies teased them, it was the Marines who stood up for them.
Years later, some of the men would pass through Southern California with their wives, parents or children. They would always make a stop to see the Tilts.
Many often said that if they didn't know better, they would have guessed Robert and Mary Lou were the Marines' real parents.
"If love had anything to do with it, we were," Mary Lou Tilt said.
Robert Tilt, now 76, just retired from Raymond Cree Middle School in Palm Springs. Altogether, he was a teacher for 51 years. Mary Lou is also a retired educator.
All of the kids are grown now. The Marines are well past active duty. Many have already retired from jobs outside of the military.
When one was killed - hit by a sniper in Vietnam - Tilt said he grieved like any other parent.
Decades later, his eyes still become swollen and red when he talks about visiting the Vietnam Memorial in Washington, D.C., to see the boy's name on the wall.
"He was the only one who said he would be back, and he never made it," Tilt said, his eyes turning red. "You'd think that after so many years it would get easier, but it doesn't."
He has one regret - that his backyard had a swimming pool instead of a guest house.
"I wish we could have taken more kids in," he said.
It was an experience as a young couple that motivated Robert and Mary Lou Tilt to support others.
When one of their daughters was young, she required extensive medical treatment. They took out $10,000 in loans, almost double Robert Tilt's salary at the time.
The Tilts never received a bill, however. The loan was paid in full, and they never found out who did it.
"People invested in us when we needed it most," Robert Tilt said. "It's our duty to invest in others."
Ellie