Honesty Can be Harmful to One's Psyche, Possibly!

Memoirs of a Geezer!

Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth 

to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:             Honesty Can be Harmful to One's Psyche, Possibly *!

Children, as most of us who have progressed beyond a certain age know, can be brutally honest.  True, the utter candor of the very young can be amusing, even refreshing at times. Grandchildren, for example, have a way of expressing whatever's in their sweet little heads that can seem a bit offensive, particularly to geezers who may not always value or appreciate total

Papa receives a mighty blow from Grandson
Seany during a slow-motion, mock fist fight!
(Full video available upon request!)

candor.  
Recently, my grandson, Seany, labeled me the "Great, Grey-Haired Sloth."  The reference was not intended to comment on or make an allegation of slovenliness (a sometimes side-car attached to the definition of "slothfulness"), but rather to the relative speed with which I tend to accomplish tasks or offer an explanation or commentary, when asked!  I am often accused by various family members of being rather slow, of having a deficiency in the alacrity department. I repudiate such unwarranted accusations.  I am merely deliberate!  Seany also does an imitation of what he perceives as my "old man walk," in which I'm bent nearly in half and shuffle at the speed of a mile every two or three days or so.  

Our youngest grandchild, a granddaughter, Phi Phi -- she's six years old -- sometimes calls me "a very old man."  (The modifier "very" is really quite unnecessary!)  I suppose that at my current age, the suggestion is not merely a "suggestion" but an accurate statement. It depends on one's definition of "old" in the context of the current average life expectancy of the human species.   

I looked it up.  One of the sites lists average age expectancy by state.  In ours it's 77.8.  By that standard, I'm really quite a youngster, and still have good years ahead if indeed I make it to 77.8.  I wonder, though, if the average male is expected to drop off the "mortal coil" at precisely that age??!!  This is disturbing!  We'd better make plans!! **   ...But I digress...

In the splendid "Age of Geezerhood," I note that grandchildren have a special manner of reminding one that one is considered a creature of another era, such as the Pleistocene Age, or maybe Paleolithic.  Grandson, Coen, in his sweet way once told me that I look or could be maybe 20 years or so younger than I actually am.  Granddaughter, Lucy, feels she can still jump into my arms without causing me back spasms or broken skeletal parts.  Maybe they're just being polite.  All the grandkids might be more inclined to ask, "Hey Papa, did you ever ride a bucking triceratops?...  Rope a troodon?...

I forget!  When did you last skin a mastodon?..."      

Society, given today's apparent attitudes and preoccupation with the young, reflect the ideas about age that little children seem to prefer:  "Old goat," "ancient baboon," "fossil breath," "mollusk mug," "prune face" and other offensive terms the elderly tend not to embrace willingly.  Persons of high school and post-high-school age seem also to harbor a peculiar notion of older adults.  According to many of our younger citizens, an "elder" is practically deceased or nearly there when no longer in the "20-something" category.  But, one must also bear in mind that, prior to age 30 or 35 or so, the two hemispheres of the brain have not yet collided to form a cohesive unit!!

We've numbered the states in the order
in which we'll move there to prolong
our life expectancy!  Thank you!

** Returning, for a moment, to the "...plans" allusion in paragraph four of this fascinating treatise on...  well whatever the hell it's about...  if we move to Vermont we don't have to drop dead until we're 80.5.  We could stay there a few years until the big gong of time sends us packing once again, and then we can move to Hawaii where we won't drop dead until we're 81.3.  This is exciting!  We may have a real plan, here!!    

It has been said, or possibly written somewhere, that interaction with grandchildren and house pets can prolong our lives.  We have both, sort of, a daughter and friends with doggies we can borrow, and grandkids too.  But what about when the grandchildren grow up and maybe move to New York or Philadelphia and begin selling subordinated debentures?!!  Some other lucrative obnoxious career path, possibly??!!  What then? Will we become former human beings right away, deceased creatures, before they even reach Ohio?

The Grandchildren:  Seany, Phia,
Coen, Lucy (fm. l. to r., of course)!

Well, I guess it's better to live for the moment, enjoy the time we have, allow the young to berate and belittle us as we wrinkle and stoop.  Let them have their little jokes at our expense. We should place pictures of goats and wrinkly elephants on our ice boxes...  embrace the "Era of Geezerhood" with joy and pride in our aging hearts!  We're the survivors, after all.  We are the Solomon's, the towering intellects who have attained the wisdom of the ages, repositories of knowledge through longevity and eye bags!!  ...jowls and veiny noses, maybe, too!... 

But on the other hand...  "Sweetheart!  Call the real estate people!  Pack stuff!  We're moving to Hawaii before it's too late!!..."  (What'd I do with that straw suitcase again?...) 

Special Note of Gratitude and Attribution:    The perpetrator dedicates this posting to his beautiful and incomparable grandchildren -- Coen and Lucy, Seany and Phia.  I thank them profusely for keeping us "young" and balanced and focused on the present!  I must also thank our beautiful and incomparable daughters who did their share in providing such superior grandchildren.  And to Sweetheart, who suggested the topic, my continuing gratitude for that and so much more! Finally, I thank Vermont and Hawaii for making it possible for geezers to live longer!  That's all.  

*  A subtle homage to The Lady in the Van! 

      Humbly Submitted 03-16-16 -- Joel K.                              

  



  

  

  

"...In The Service!"... Are People Actually Melting in That Pot?

Memoirs of a Geezer!

Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth 

to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:    "...In The Service!"...  Are People Actually Melting in That Pot?  

Many a time and oft, I've pontificated -- when engaged in a dialogue with acquaintances of dissimilar attitudes, beliefs and values -- suggesting that each of us becomes his or her "composite self " (for lack of a better descriptor), say at age 30 or 35, some younger, others older -- as a result of a the many and varied elements that inform our lives.  They include, perhaps needless to state, environment, upbringing, role models -- both positive and negative -- education, experience...  These among the factors that mold us, make us who we are.  Experience, I think, is a powerful force in the development of attitudes and values as we traverse our separate pathways.

Above is a graphic depicting a
Melting Pot, or, a "metaphoric
crucible" in which "...all manner of
people can blend together and
co-exhist in peace and harmony..."!
(paraphrased from a statement
by Pollyanna...  maybe?!)  

The absolute jewels of experience are the people we meet along the way, who touch and affect our lives in a positive manner;those who make a negative impact have a certain value too, particularly if we learn something useful as a result of the collision!  Obvious, perhaps, but I'm coming to the point!  

In my own experience, for example, viewed from the exalted elevation of Geezerhood...  a prime example is Military Service (and those who populated its ranks...  a life episode that included extensive travel)!  It was a harvest of diverse thoughts, ideas,  opinions, philosophies, personalities...    

Among "fellow travelers" and intersecting lives was that of Jonas B. whom I met at Goodfellow Air Force Base in Texas, perhaps we were in basic training together as well.  It's difficult and can be misdirecting to sift through memory from a distance of more than 50 years.  


Jonas may have had a small issue with alcohol.  On occasion his breath manufactured a fog of fetid mist.  Odd, I sometimes thought, because he frequently drank Aqua Velva and mouthwash when no other alcoholic "potable" was at hand.   His personality was strikingly potent and memorable.  Jonas was a Native American with a superb mind.  A dark-skinned Oklahoman, fiercely proud of his heritage, his gift to peers was tolerance and acceptance.  I enjoyed him, his stories about warrior ancestors, his humor.  I wonder if he's still among the living, or if alcohol claimed his brain and the oil wealth he was promised.  I hasten to add, Jonas was by no means the only individual whose consumption of alcoholic substances was prodigious and eclectic!  Black, white, red, brown and yellow, we all consumed our share in whatever form was cheap and available.  After-shave lotion was a novel variant, however...  perhaps an acquired taste?      

Air Force Security Service Tech School yielded the next posting...  A day before boarding a plane bound for Karamursel Air Base in Turkey, I had to visit a Philadelphia barber for a much-needed shave, singe, a haircut, a uniform brush up...  Foolishly, I lacked the funds to cover the entire expense of all those tonsorial services.  Jerry S., a former machinist from Chicago, and a fellow airman bound for Turkey, helped bail me out of the shop, rescuing me from the angry barber who held me by my uniform collar.  Tilted at a 45-degree angle from the door of the shop, I beckoning madly at passing GI's until required donations set me free.  

Like all "composite" human beings, Jerry was a paradox, an amalgam of biases and tolerance.  He had few kind words for the "hillbillies" who invaded his beloved Chicago from "The South," but acquired an acceptance of the many Black-, Asian- and Latino-Americans who peopled our shared military orbit.  Conversely, there were many in our ranks and stationed with us, over the course of a four-year enlistment, who clung to their racist attitudes and ideas like thieves clinging to sacks of pure gold coins.      

In Turkey -- a year-and-a-half tour that began in late 1961 -- four of us, typically, occupied each space in a large, concrete barracks.  In my case, an African-American, a young man from Guam, A Texan and myself.  In a room near ours was a Latino named Armando G.  A handsome lad, he collected women as some do baseball cards or stamps.  He challenged us to acts of absurd "bravado" such as placing lighted cigarettes in the hollow of our abutted arms to see who could stand the pain longer.  He  swallowed jars full of jalapeño peppers and dared the rest of us to match his ability to consume those fiery, stomach-destroying missiles.  Armando told us stories of deprivation among his family members, struggles to assimilate into North American "Gringo" culture while preserving their Mexican heritage.  He was impatient to return to family and the women of Corpus Christi, TX.  Armando kept his focus, was eager for the tour to end and considered Turkey an irritating if unavoidable aberration in the cycle of his life.

This, I think, is a photo of Aghia
Sophia, fabled former Byzantine
Church, now a great mosque in
Istanbul, Turkey!  

Following the delights of Turkey, including Turkish friends left behind -- Vahan, Achmet, Hamdi, Nadia, Ishkin and many others -- I reported to McChord Air Force Base in Washington State, a neighbor to the enormous army base, Fort Lewis.  Our circle of friends included enlisted men from four branches of military service -- Army, Air Force, Navy, the Canadian Army, too, thrown in for international flavor.  Upon arrival at McChord, the First Sergeant from the Division to which I was assigned told me the only available barracks space near my new headquarters building was already occupied by a...  he used the "N" word.  He suggested I choose a barracks room in a different part of the base.  Partly, I suppose, due to a a streak of rebellion, partly because I had experienced co-habitation with diverse ethnicities, I told him I'd be happy to room with Shane R., the Black airman about whom he made the offensive reference.

What a dashing figure
he cuts in his (almost)
Full Military (Fatigued)
Regalia (a small, non-
regulation enhance-
ment added!)?!

Shane and I became friends.  I felt myself privileged to meet his family members who lived in the Tacoma, WA area, a number of his friends as well.  It was a revelation.  I came to know bright and talented individuals among Shane's circle who were ignored, overlooked and treated harshly or indifferently because of their color.  Shane's sense of humor, his confidence, optimism and his friendship never wavered.  I often wonder where he is, if he is, and what he's doing now, more than 50 years and many remarkable and life-changing events later.

So many friendships made and forgotten!  Can't possibly do justice...  I'm not sure why this particular subject matter popped up out of the deep recesses of my skull, this flood of "military memory," except perhaps to admit to benefitting from the luck of the draw, to express thanks.  

For me, Military Service was a great teacher, and to my good fortune, I enjoyed experiences from which I could actually learn and benefit.  For me, an irreplaceable moment in time!  Because the driving force of attitudes, beliefs and convictions could easily have turned at the wrong corner, I'm lucky to have gained from it, vs. merely having endured while incubating resentment, building discontent, bigotry and hatred, a fate that befalls too many.  I hasten to emphasize, I know I'm neither special nor superior, merely a fortunate by-product of experience, lucky to have melted in rather than boiled out of the pot, like some gaseous, toxic bubble belched forth to pollute or poison.      

That could be Airman Hackley (second row, second from
right)...  Looks like he's warming up to launch
a crowd murmuring  rebellion (please see para. last)!!   

Interestingly, and not necessarily the sole catalyst, our first "TI" or Training Instructor in the military was a Jew from Brooklyn, NY -- Sergeant Goldman.  He may well have set the tone for many.  Among the first of his pronouncements to new charges, a squadron-full of terrified young enlistees, was this:  "Some will tell you that in military service there's little room for prejudice.  I'm telling you this...  in my 'flight,' in this barracks, among my squads of airmen there is NO room for prejudice or racism.  None!"  That was in 1961.  Extraordinary!  

He may not have realized a legion of converts on the spot, but I know he made a lasting impression on many of us.  I often think of my time in the military, a crucible that helped forge ideas and values that still nourish and sustain.  So many different personalities, from so many different backgrounds and life experiences.  

                   --------------------------------------------------------
Epilogue:   It wasn't all enlightenment and wisdom, of course.  Anyone who ever served in the military no doubt has a similar story!  Lieutenant Peach was our linen supply officer at Goodfellow AFB.  On a rainy Friday he assembled the entire squadon to announce in a voice that could damage the ear drums of humans and dogs alike, "Men, someone's been 'dicking with the system' (his favorite phrase when piqued)!  Alright then," he squeaked on, face glowing crimson, "someone purloined a pillowcase??!!...  My count does not tally!!  We'll stand here all day if necessary until the miscreant confesses!"  

Had it not been for the Captain, we might still be standing at attention listening to the obtuse rantings of Lt. Peach.  Oh, and the brilliance of Airman Hackley who could mimic the murmuring of an angry crowd; it was his talent that probably summoned the Captain to our aid.  And the Peach complaint?  The Case of the Purloined Pillow Cover remains a mystery!  In the end, Lt. Peach was re-assigned to the motor pool in charge of drain-oil disposal and brake pedals.  He was never promoted and died in disgrace, an ancient, oil-stained and squeaky "Second Louie"!  (That last bit might be mere conjecture, part of the legend!)  

Humbly Submitted, May 7, 2015 -- Joel K.