Grugger’s Way

Below is a photo from 1982. I am the guy with the sneer on my face in the lower left corner. The guy in the upper right corner was already a Shellback, King Neptune’s Trusty Servant; and the rest of us were Pollywogs, (WOGS). We were crawling around on our hands and knees on non-skid surface of the aircraft carrier’s flight deck. We wrapped rags or foam rubber and duct tape around our knees and hands.

The “weapon” in the Shellback’s hand is called a shillaly*, and is made out of a short length of fire hose, with one end wrapped tightly with tape to make a rigid “handle.” The shillaly was used on our backsides to make us “move along smartly,” as he had us “wog dogs” on leashes. Believe me, this was just to be the beginning of a most “exhilarating experience.”

*NOTE: we pronounced the word as “shill-LAY-lee”

Someone commented that my post on Labor Day camping made me sound like a grumpy old man. Yup.

I am, in many ways, old-fashioned, with habits and dislikes fairly common to people in their sixties, particularly men, I think. We seem less tolerant of other people’s quirks and habits than do women.

Women seem more compassionate, compromising and cooperative.

Men seem more confrontational, combative, and other “C” words, like crass and crabby.

And WHY bring Off-road, four-wheeler ALL TERRAIN VEHICLES to a campground?

I hope these party people are all exhausted from their weekend of drinking, smoking, listening to loud music, rip-roaring around on the ATV’s and generally being a pain in the butt to those of us who were hoping for a little peace and quiet. Perhaps we should stay home on three-day weekends.

Now I understand why retirees enjoy the OFF-SEASON so much!

All I can say is how much I appreciate enforced Quiet Hours in a campground where the Host is actually On-Duty!

Another thing that made this past weekend endurable was the rain. Lots of rain tends to calm things down and confine the noisy kids to their own tents and campers.

There was a pause….I had to think….what the hell? I know what year I was born–1947, that never changes. But my age in years is something I can hardly keep up with.

Is it because my memory is going…going…? Or do the years just speed by so fast that I can’t keep track any longer. Or don’t I really care?

Ah, maybe that’s it! Who does it matter to anyway? Not me. Not my spouse (who HATES to be reminded of MY age because that…ah yes…reminds her of her own).

My kids are now ages 24 through 40. Five of them. They have various ideas of how old I am, ranging from 45 or so…to over 70! Oh, to have such perspective!

I wonder if my Mother has to think for a moment to recall her exact age. It is 82. I remember her age as well as my own….but again, it is because I remember her YEAR of birth….and that has never changed…not since she reached age 39. (Oh, she loved Jack Benny!)

A couple of years ago, the IRS would not accept my federal tax return because my DATE of birth, (the day, not the month or year) that the IRS had on file did not agree with the Social Security Administration. One had the 7th, the other had the 9th. Social Security had it WRONG! I had to make a trip down there with my original birth certificate to get it corrected. THEN I could file my taxes.

I suppose this was good. I wouldn’t want to get into a big brouha with Social Security when the day comes that I want to Draw it. I will have no problem remembering my age THEN, you can be damn sure.