The REAL reason I am not attending a 50-year class reunion.

     To be blunt, you people treated me like crap for four years.  I wasn't a "local," or someone who'd lived in Vacaville for a long time, I was somewhere between the military dependents, and the people who were drawn to town by CMF; I was actually both, because my dad was retired from the Navy and worked at CMF.

     I wasn't an athlete, at age 14, I had a nicotine addiction, but I did know a little about wrestling.  I "lettered" in wrestling for three years.  I spent a lot of nights keeping score for the leagues at Vaca Bowl, and knew some of ya'lls parents before I got to know you.  I hung out at "The Wall," one full block from campus, and a place where the smokers hung out.

     I went, alone, on Rooter's Busses, and felt like a part of something, until we'd get back to the school's parking lot, and I'd walk home, alone.  I was bullied, even knocked unconscious by a "blind siding," on the front lawn, no one cared.  The office refused to believe that the student who did it "would do such a thing".

     I admit, a lot of my problems were just that, my problems, and looking back, I didn't handle things as well as I could have, and that has nothing to do with you, my classmates.  I have a "back story" that effects my ability to trust people, and I'll leave it at that.

       I have a few friends from high school.  I play golf with a couple of them every week.  I've kept tabs with some of you through Facebook, and hope we can continue those relationships.

       Few people, if any, will notice that I am not there.  I went to 40 and 45, and few people even knew I was there.  Go back into the yearbooks, I'm not in any of the clubs or organizations.  I didn't help build any of the Homecoming floats, or do any of that stuff because nobody asked or invited me.  I'm not bitter.  I don't have any sense of loathing about my high school days, I've just had so many other experiences that have meant so much more to me.

     To my classmates of 1969, I send you my hearty greetings on the passing of another year, condolences for your losses, and my prayers that you will have health and success in your future.

     On vacation, again, at the Welk Resort in Escondido.  Played a round of golf this morning, and shot a 70.  I’d be blasting out boasts about it, except the course is a par 62... Still, it was only 8 over par, for 18 holes, which means that I made 10 pars... At 68, that’s not bad...

     We are in the planning phase for a Hawaiian Cruise in 2021.  We have deposits down with Norwegian Cruise Lines, have room assignments, and the ship’s itinerary for the week.  I’m going  to try and get a room at the Hale Koa for then, maybe for just a couple of days, either before or after the cruise, to spend time on Waikiki Beach, or maybe go snorkeling somewhere off Oahu.

A Pair of Boxing Gloves

     I was 13 when my dad caught my sister and me smoking in her bedroom.  It's a very clear memory, because it was the first time I stood up against being slapped/spanked/beaten/mauled by my dad.  Look, in the '50's, if you screwed up, you got "the belt," or "the paddle," or any of a hundred other things.  My dad would experiment, settling on the small bamboo shoots used to prop up a garden plant, like tomatoes.  A handful of them not only hurt like a mo-fo, but sounded even worse, and didn't leave welts.

     He didn't have time to get his weapon of choice, when he walked in on a room full of cigarette smoke, Pat and I sitting with cigarettes hanging out of our mouths, Dad went nuts.  He pushed Pat against the wall, and proceeded to slap my face, repeatedly, hurling profanities the whole time.  Suddenly, at 13, I'd had enough of that crap, balled up my fist, and punched my dad in the nose, causing it to bleed.  The only evidence was a small blood stain on Pat's drapes (on the bed-side of the room).

     You know how time can go all slow-motion, whenever you are at a near-death event?  The following all happened in the next 10 seconds:  As soon as I threw the punch, I regretted it.  I mean, it was my dad, even if the jerk was slapping me, but I was done with corporal punishment.  In that moment, I knew that I wasn't going to be physically disciplined anymore; Dad took the punch, and stepped back, wiping at his nose, a look of utter shock on his face, Pat was crawling along the wall, trying her best to get out of Dad's line-of-sight, and I saw the blood from Dad's nose, come off the finger he wiped his nose with, and land on the drape; the shocked look turns to something akin to murderous rage, but Dad wipes at his nose again; said something I couldn't hear; stomped out through the kitchen to the front door; got in his car; and drove off.

     Pat gave her condolences, knowing that when Dad got home, he was going to kill me, but I wasn't so certain.  He was wrong to repeatedly slap my face, if for no other reason than all he did to Pat was rudely shove her out of his way so he could get a clear shot at me.  To this day, I cannot stand being patted on the cheek, or anything close to being slapped.  Slap me, it doesn't matter who, or how you identify, you're going to get punched.  I've made it a habit not to punch a woman, but slap me, and you've just grown a set of testicles...

     Obviously, Dad came home and killed me, that's how I'm getting to write this... DUH!  He didn't, but  he brought something with him when he came home... a pair of boxing gloves...

     These weren't "competitive" gloves, they were more like pillows that you could make a fist in.  Dad's theory was, if we got to one of those moments where either I felt "used and abused," or he got to where he wanted to "knock my dumb-arse out," the offended person would place one pair of gloves on the other's bed, and we'd meet in the back yard to "fight it out".  It was a joke, with those gloves, I couldn't swing hard enough to hurt anyone, and the "fights" usually turned into a laugh-fest, as a result.  By the time either of us got to more than a dozen or so punches, the goofiness would get to one of us, and we'd start laughing.  It worked, oddly enough, because it gave us an opportunity to work off some of the steam generated in father-son relationships, but it also gave us a chance to talk, and say why we felt a certain way.  Afterwards, we'd sit on the patio, and work out the difficulties, compromising on both sides, to achieve an equitable solution.

     That was, until I "took a swing" at my mom.

     I really didn't.  I was mad, and slammed the wood paneling on the back of the oven, and the heel of my had broke the wood.  Mom started dancing around, like she'd achieved some goal, talking about how I was "in for it now..."  She told my dad that I tried to punch her.  I was sitting in my room, contemplating how I was going to get along when Dad threw me out of the house, and the door opened.  There was my dad, with a pair of boxing gloves in his hands.  He tossed them on my bed, and said, "Five minutes."

     I picked up the gloves, and headed for the back yard.  I was pulling up the glove, when my dad came out, gloves on, that look of rage on his face.  I put my palms out, trying to get him to listen to my side, and I never saw the punch he threw.  I remember Mom, kneeling over me, saying, "Scott, you might have hurt him."  But that was like a flash, and I was down for the count.  I'd thought that it was impossible to hit hard enough to hurt anyone in those gloves, but apparently, if you aim a sucker-punch at the chin and connect, you can cause blackouts.  Mine lasted three minutes.

     The gloves went away after that.  What had once been a joke, an opportunity to sweat and work out a conflict had become another dominance thing.  When I was a teenager, he was in his forties, 5'10", 210 pounds of Corrections Officer.  He could whip my butt, and there wasn't anything I could do about it... Except wait... 40 years later, when he was in his 80's, I could have... But by that time, I understood him a whole lot better.  Everyone can be an example, and even a bad example is still an example...

When I met Gary Burghoff (aka: "Radar O'Reilly")

     We moved from Vacaville, California to Chico, California in 1994, so I could finish my AA Degrees in Language Arts and Social and Behavioral Science, and transfer to Chico State (aka: CSU-Chico), to get my BA in English.  The design was to finish my Degree, do the teaching credential program, and come back to Vacaville.  That it didn't work out was not surprising, but the prejudice against Conservative teachers was just beginning.  I have a lot I'd like to forget about my experiences in Butte County (mainly Paradise, Chico, and Oroville), but I have some memories that will last a lifetime.

     One such memory surrounds a gentleman by the name of Gary Burghoff.  Gary is an actor, best known for his portrayal of the character "Walter (Radar) O'Reilly," in M*A*S*H, both in the motion picture, and for more than seven seasons in the TV series.  Gary lived (lives) in Magalia, a little town just up the Skyway from Paradise.  Magalia is a small place, mostly retirees and people who want to get away from the urbanity of urban life, a few shops, a gas station, but no real retail stores.  The closest thing to that was K-Mart in Paradise.  Both Mary and Tyffany took jobs there, right after we moved up to Paradise.  Tyffany came home one day, and told us about an incident between the aforementioned Mr. Burghoff and a cashier at K-Mart that day.  Apparently, the cashier said something like, "You were 'Radar,' right?"  At which point Gary kind of lost his temper, because, "No one remembers [him] as Gary, just 'Radar'."  Apparently, Gary had long viewed the character as a drag on his acting career, and finding it hard to find acting parts because he played the role.
     I used to go up there, every so often, while I was in school, and when I graduated, I became a Department Manager there for Sports, Toys, and Lay-Away.  While my employment there is one of the things I'd like to forget, it did give me an opportunity to get to know Gary, a little.  He'd come through the store, browsing around, looking at stuff that barely moved during the 15 months I worked there, a couple of times a week.  Some of the employees used to think it was to find someone to call him "Radar," so he could vent.

     I have never been "star-struck," or in any way am I awed by being in the presence of celebrities.  When you've spent as much time with people with real power, actors, musicians, and such just don't seem so imposing.  Gary Burghoff is the very definition of unimposing.  I made a habit of seeing him, whenever he came into the store, and over a period of several months, we developed a bit of friendship.  It got to where he'd come into the store looking for me, to come by and just "chat" for a couple of minutes.

     One afternoon, as I was leaving the store, I ran into Gary in the parking lot.  We greeted each other and shook hands, and I was moved by the urge to talk to him about his alter-ego, Radar.  We had gotten close enough that he didn't "blow up," it helped that that was the first time I'd ever said the name to him.  Because of what Tyffany had said, I figured I'd do it his way, and hope that I'd get a chance (and the nerve) to tell him how I felt about Radar.  Now that I was making the opportunity happen, it was just really wonderful how it all turned out.  I could tell that this wasn't one of Gary's favorite topics, and he tried to avoid it, but I wasn't going to lose an opportunity to say something he needed to hear.

     I started by listening to him, and hearing his frustration at not being able to work because he was irreparably tied to the character of Radar.  I sympathized, knowing what it's like to be seen as something (or someone) I'm not, and that I hate any system which fails to allow for any growth.  That got his attention, so I said, "Let me tell you what 'Radar' means to me."

     I told him that when the series started, I thought it was really cool that they brought Gary Burghoff over from the feature film to play the part of "Radar" (he was the only actor so honored), because the character was important to the flow of things.  In the midst of all that insanity, a young guy from a small town, held one of the most important jobs, and kept that unit running.  As the series developed, "Radar" gained even more importance, but it never really interfered with his home-spun wisdom, nor did it steal his innocence.

     When the series came out, I was a young guy from a small town, who held important jobs, and while I didn't keep my unit running, I continually surprised my supervisors with my ability to anticipate questions, and to readily supply the correct answers, just like "Radar".  Unfortunately, my experiences robbed me of any innocence I may have retained, but "Radar" was someone I could look up to.

     I told him, that 20 years from then, 1998, people would remember "Radar," and probably remember the guy, Gary Burghoff, who played him.  No one would remember that I had once been the manager of three departments at K-Mart in Paradise.

     After that chat, I think Gary changed.  I am happy if I had any part in it.

Callipygian...

     To start, this is a definition from an old Webster's New World Dictionary, copyright 1972:

     "cal*li*pyg*I*an (kal'ə pij'ə an) adj. [Gr. kallipygos < kallos, beauty + pyge, buttocks] having shapely buttocks."

     It's hard to know, exactly, when I learned this word.  I'm going to say it was 1974, or so.  I do remember who it was that introduced me to it, a guy I worked with named Angelo Olivo (such a good Irish name...).  We were walking past the "Quarterdeck" (actually the main entrance to Fleet Combat Direction Systems Training Center, San Diego), and Angie stopped at a big, unabridged dictionary that stood on a pedestal on the Quarterdeck.  "Lemme show you a great word."

     I would chuckle throughout the day, thinking about this addition to my vocabulary, but the unspoken challenge, "Now try to use it appropriately" kept coming to mind.   How does one use the word?  What variations are there?  Most modern dictionaries do not contain the word, and Rogert's Thesaurus has no synonyms.  It would be considered "sexist" today, yet the word is not gender-specific.

     See, I love words.  I love to ponder them, look at them, understand their origins, to take them apart and see what they're made of.  I was raised to be a reader.  I read Mark Twain's The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, when I was seven, and could have passed any high school test even then.  In 1964, I did one book report on James A. Michner's Hawaii, and another on Arthur Slessinger's The Thousand Days, a non-fiction report of John F. Kennedy's administration, and the assassination in Dallas.  My 8th grade English teacher thought that I'd fail on both, but was very surprised to get clear and concise reviews of both.  That more than made up for not doing much else, I've never really "done" homework, too mundane, too mind-numbing.  Reading assignments, OK, but answering questions?  Particularly the really stupid ones they put in textbooks...  But I digress...

     For six years, I carried this great word with me and didn't have an opportunity to use it.  To someone like me, it was like an itch that can't be scratched.  Just under the skin, you know it's there, but you just can't see it.  I finally found suitable variants like "callipygic," which fit better as an "-ic" than an "-an," and opened up an opportunity for me to use it.  The opportunity came when it was decided that I would "first draft" annual evaluations for the E5's and below.  I did a number of them, and got to an E3 named "Jackie".  Jackie was from Paris, Texas, and lived a few blocks from the bar made famous by the movie "Urban Cowboy".  Petite, blond, cute as all get-out, with this great Texas accent, Jackie was an outstanding worker, and a credit to women in uniform.

     In the late 1970's and early 1980's, one of the criteria in the written evaluation was to describe the personal appearance of the person being evaluated, both in uniform as well as civilian clothing.  I'm starting to write the words, "[Jackie]'s personal appearance, both in uniform as well as civilian clothing is..."  After six years, I was a little slow on the uptake, and didn't see the opportunity for what it was.

     I was stationed at the Enlisted Personnel Management and Accounting Center (EPMAC), New Orleans, LA.  The fact that I was doing draft evals of anyone was something new.  I was a fairly senior E6, but above me in the Chain of Command was an E7 who was 3 units short of his BA in Personnel Management, an E9 with a PhD in Human Behavior and Leadership, an O2 with a BA in business, and an O5 with an MBA.  At the time, I was just a high school grad, who liked to play with words.

     OK, I finally got it, erased the sentence, and re-wrote it, "[Jackie] presents a very callipygic appearance both in uniform and civilian clothing."  I stuck it in the middle of the pile, and turned everything over to the Chief.  He went through them, made a few modifications, and sent it on to the Master Chief.  "Massa" (long story, but he said to address him that way), did the same, and passed them on to the LTjg, who passed them on to the Commander.  Seven days later, I'm at my desk, focused on a task, and a piece of paper with a red circle on it is thrust in front of my face by a hand connected to three gold braids on a blue sleeve, the Commander.  I turn to him, "Sir?  May I help you?"

     The Commander points to the red circle on the page, and says, very sternly, "You can't say that in an eval."

     It just so happened that Jackie was, at that very moment, standing bent-over a desk, writing a phone call note for someone.  I looked over my shoulder, turned back to the Commander, and said, "It's true."

     I watched the Commander's eyes, so I know he looked, but he points at the red circle again and says, "Yeah.  But you can't say that in an evaluation," and we both started laughing.

     I told him that I did it, knowing full-well that someone would catch it, at some point.  The fact that it originated from a guy with a high school diploma, and passed through three college-educated people before it got caught was not lost on my Department Head.

     I voluntarily told the young lady involved what I had done, and had her look the word up so she'd know I wasn't making something up.  She laughed, half turned, and looked towards her rear, and said, "Shapely?  That's certainly nice of y'all, but I always thought it was too skinny."

     I suppose that I can no longer run for public office (not that I've ever considered it), having admitted to making a joke about a woman's butt.

Perhaps a New Tact...

     ...Maybe I'll try publishing a blog entry once per week.  I think I can vividly remember seven days, don't you think?  I mean I am getting pretty stinking old... 67, and that was over a month ago... eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek!  For someone who always believed that he'd be dead before he turned 30, reaching 67 still comes as somewhat of a surprise.

     Let's see, since Monday, August 16, 2018, I've played three rounds of golf, did some housework, played Lego City: Undercover for several hours, taken about three one-hour naps, cleaned my RAV4's headlight cover (by the way, if you're car's headlamps aren't really fogged due to oxidation of the plastic, you can keep them clean by taking Soft Scrub, water in a spray bottle, and two rags, infinitely cheaper than the $40 they charge at the car wash), sprayed all of the door and window edges with bug spray (now that Green Tree is no longer spraying, the bug population in Leisure Town has exploded), and a couple of other things that probably aren't appropriate for my blog.

     In short, it's been a busy, yet enjoyably restful week.  The three rounds of golf are becoming status quo for the "Three Amigos" (Bill Case, John Baranowski, and myself).  Bill and I have a Monday, Wednesday, Friday rhythm going, John plays almost every day, somewhere, but he plays with Bill and me on Wednesdays and Fridays (mostly).  John is 11 months and a day older than me, Bill is 16 months older, so I'm the young-un when we play.  John is also an 8 handicap golfer, Bill is a 25, and I'm somewhere between 18 and 22.  I was, long ago, a 9, but that ended with my stroke in '02.  I forgot to mention that we've all known each other for over 50 years, much longer than I like to admit.

     Lego City: Undercover is my little "secret pleasure".  I can lose 2, 3 hours playing the PS4 version, trying to find places where the designers hid stuff.  On the surface, I'm on Level 15, I have all of the people, with all of the skills I need to go anywhere in the Lego City complex, except the statue in the Harbor.  I put it on mute, sometimes, and listen to some music, and have my characters run around, trying to find all of the little doo-dads.  I'm supposed to be rescuing my old girlfriend, Natalia, but she's on a space ship, headed for the moon, and the ship can't leave until I get there.  It's really good for hand/eye coordination (which helps in golf), and it keeps me mentally active, trying to figure out how to get to the items I find in the game.  Seriously, if you're afraid you are deteriorating mentally, try gaming.  Most of the games are violent, or have some aspect of violence associated with playing.  Lego City allows you to stun people, and run over them with vehicles, but they get back up, or, since your character (Chase McCain) is an undercover policeman, get arrested.  There are fights, where you must use your Karate skills to subdue gang members, but they must be arrested (handcuffed) if you are to proceed.

     The one-hour naps are great.  Usually done on golf days, because it takes a lot out of me to play 18 holes of golf anymore.  I will play nine holes, very occasionally, like when I've been ill, or sore, or tired, or whatever, I'm not such a purist to only play 18 hole rounds.  In fact, I am such a non-traditionalist, that I've created my own golf association, The "Old Hippie's Golf Association," or the OHGA.

     The first rule of the OHGA is that if you aren't enjoying yourself, you should go and be miserable somewhere else.  The second rule is that the Rules of Golf, as determined by the members of the Royal and Olden, and the USGA, are merely guidelines, as often, their use as a means of determining penalties violates the spirit of the first rule.

     Now you know why I like to play golf.  I'm not playing for anything, I don't report my scores to anyone, and I'm way beyond playing in tournaments.  I used to play for the walking, but since I can no longer walk 7,000 yards anymore, I play because it's always been a part of me.  People call what I'm doing "cheating," and I say, it's only cheating if the score really means something.  The way we play, it's more like fun.  After all, "If you aren't enjoying yourself..."

   

No April Fooling...

     We are somewhere around 23 degrees 34' 20" N, 81 degrees 38' 47" W, placing us directly North of Havana, Cuba.  We're traveling on a course of 261 at a little over 36 knots.  Tomorrow morning, we will dock in Cozumel, Mary and I will spend most of 6 hours on a beach/ snorkeling excursion, and return to the ship (hopefully not too sunburned) for an overnight sailing to Belize.  We're going to rest-up on Tuesday, visit Mahogany Bay (on the Isla Roatan, off the coast of Honduras, where we will again spend some time on the beach there, on Wednesday.   Thursday is Costa Maya, where we will, again, be spending the day aboard this wonderful ship, before spending another day (Friday) transiting back to Port Canaveral, FL, and a full afternoon/evening on American Airlines, Orlando-to-DFW-to-Sacramento.  It's been quite a full 5 days, so far, with 6 days left.

     It took a lot for this old Sailor to go on another Cruise, but this has been great fun, so far.  The Carnival Magic is a great ship, a totally different way of "plying the oceans blue".  When this is over, and we've had some time to regroup (and recoup), I might even think about going on another...