We've been on a State-mandated, self-policing, self-isolation. Apparently, the Goofenor has read his Edgar Rice Burrows, particularly the John Carter Martian series, as he talks about "cohorts," a term Burrows uses throughout the series, to describe a fully functional, self-sustaining unit of Martian troops. Suposedly, because we've spent a lot of time with our youngest grandson, Caleb, it's cool for our daughter to come in, drop off Caleb, and go back out, and for us to be with him. In itself, that is a blessing for both of us, as we get to know this little bundle of pure joy. He loves his Grandma and Grandpa. Grandma takes care of his needs at both ends; Grandpa talks to him, sings to him, and tries like heck to make him say, "Pa".
First Digression: "Pa" is not short for "Papa," it's short for "Pops," which is what the young men on the USS MCKEE started to call me, as we got to Commissioning Day. It's a story in itself, but not right now. I don't want a "cute" grandpa name. I want it less than I wanted to go through a CPO initiation when I was in the Navy. They called my sister's second husband "Pop Pop," and I'd never be able to publish where he stands with me. I don't want "PawPaw," "Gampa," "Gramps," and Heaven forbid, "Umpa".
Second Digression: About "Pops"... In 1980, I was transferred from New Orleans to a pre-commissioning unit for a submarine tender, the USS MCKEE (AS-41). I was a "Plankowner," meaning that I had reported for duty prior to Commissioning, and was, according to Navy tradition, entitled to a "plank," or a piece of the deck, when the ship de-commissions. MCKEE de-commissioned several years ago, and I'm still waiting... Anyway, I was the oldest guy (at almost 30), in the apartment complex the Navy rented for us (not only paid rent, but $50 per diem, over and above our regular pay). I'd see these kids, four of them, all under 21, all out on their own for the first time, packed into a two-bedroom apartment. Fully furnished, complete with cookware, dinnerware, and a small, but fully-functional kitchen. They'd go down to the liquor store, or the mini-mart down the street, and buy microwavable burrito's, and the like, day-after-day-after...
I don't claim to be a great cook, but I can brown hamburger, so there are a host of things I can do, and these kids needed to know that. I'd invite them to have dinner with me, all four of them, they'd bring the hamburger and an extra saucepan, and I'd get the spices/mixes to make a bunch of things. I would teach them, give them a chance to try what I was doing themselves, and have enough food to feed a fleet (a lot). The first time I did it was with the youngsters in my own Division. Word got around quickly, and soon the lines at the liquor store and mini-mart disappeared. I was the acting S7 Division Officer/LCPO, and the Division LPO (Leading Petty Officer) by assignment. I started to put in Transportation Requests, to get a vehicle(s) to make Commissary runs from the apartments in Pacific Beach. The base transportation office wouldn't give us a regular, Haze Gray, Navy van, but they would authorize us to rent a van, two days a week, from a dealership near us, to make runs down to get food and necessities. The young'uns took to calling me "Pops," not because I was more than 10 years older than them, but out of respect, because I looked out for them.
Most recently, when my eldest got married, my new son-in-law confided that he didn't know if he could ever call me "Dad," out of respect to his own father. I told him that it was okay, that he could call me "Pops" if he wanted, gave him a bunch of derrogetory greetings as potential options, and used the old, "...just don't call me late for dinner." (It's a freaking Dad Joke, it's supposed to be a groaner)
Back to Self-Isolation: I would call myself bored, except I've done a lot around my house. I took down a decorative brick wall around the 12 X 12' front patio. It really opens things up (okay, okay), but seriously... It wasn't much, the only thing holding it up were two pairs of 2 X 4's (to make a 4 X 4" post) that were rotting at ground level. Once I took out the corner post, it went down with a push. It broke up, some, when it hit the ground, after all, it was a "decorative" brick structure that was 40+ years old, otherwise I'd just leave it where it was. Who knows, I may decide, once I get it broken down into manageable pieces, dig under it, and put it back as an extension to the front patio... Hmmm...
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