A Pocket of Resistance | Writer

The last of us are a fading breed. Perhaps there are some groups of old men somewhere who are like us, but they, like us, i fear, are fading as well. i am pretty sure there are not that many men younger than us (and that’s not too young, mind you) who have our characteristics.

We think our bunch of guys are unique. We grew up in a world different from now. Our parents had seen the First World War, the depression, World War II. America with all of its faults, was still an incredibly wonderful place in which to grow up. We played outside. We bought bubblegum with baseball player cards to stick in our bicycle spokes so the bike would sound like a motor bike (not) when we pedaled. We walked to school by ourselves. We listened to radio with Fibber McGee and Molly, The Great Gildersleeve. Tex Ritter. Fred Allen, Gang Busters until television came along with oaters, The Mickey Mouse Show, Andy’s Gang with Midnight Cat demanding “Plunk Your Magic Twanger, Froggy.” We went fishing in creeks with rope stringers to carry our catch. We hunted squirrels and rabbits with .410 shotguns, graduating to .12 gauge shotguns. We played ball, all kinds, without supervision on vacant fields.

We went to school and chased girls for fun for several years before chasing them for dates and first kisses and wearing our letter sweaters, and hoping for something a bit more.

We reluctantly did our homework and many went to college. Then we went to “our war” as my good friend and OCS roommate, Doc Jarden, called it. It wasn’t our choice, but it was our responsibility, our duty as it had been for our fathers. Some of us actually found it a good life and stayed in. i actually got out and got back in from financial necessity even though there were many other options. i loved the sea.

And we grew up and went to our own war — well, it wasn’t really ours, and we didn’t really want to go, but we wished to be good citizens, we complied and went (while others resisted their responsibility to their country in various ways for various reasons).

And then we retired (or actually “completed our active duty service”) on pensions that would not completely sustain us; so, we went to work after “retirement.”

We played sports until we couldn’t because of age or injury. And we ended up playing golf, a lot of golf. It became a passion. We played every week and added to our group.

After each round, we would gather around pitchers of beer and tell stories and opine about the sad state of the world today. Our group became semi-famous at the North Island Naval Air Station’s golf course, “Sea ‘n Air.” We would sit and laugh and cuss — man, you don’t get a bunch of Navy and Army guys together without barrels of profanity — and we gave each other hell. It was a sport and we laughed.

We prided ourselves on being “assholes” and even found being called one had become a compliment. We realized we were a lot like Statler and Waldorf, the two curmudgeons on Sesame Street. We adopted the title for our group: Curmudgeons. We brought our wives into the gang and would meet every year for at least one or two dinners.

Several years ago, we began to harass one of our members, Pete Toennies, a retired Navy SEAL captain, about never hosting one of our dinners. So Pete accepted the challenge and invited us to his home on Coronado. During one of our conversations before the grand occasion, Pete and i produced the idea of making Marty Linville the honorary head of the bunch. A title was created and Pete came up with the idea of a fez for the group head — being true curmudgeons, i claim and Pete claims we were the original coiner of the title — but Pete took action, acquired a fez and had the title sewn onto the headgear. He rewarded Marty at the party with the fez.

It read “Ancient Order of the Curmudgeons” across the top and arching across the bottom was “Grand Whiner.”

Marty loved it and wore it proudly. He later bragged when he and his wife Linda went on a church trip to Turkey, he wore his fez

It was fitting. Marty stories are legendary. i’ve captured several of them here. He was one of the nicest guys in the world…in his own way. He was everyone’s best friend. And he could be as nasty as was required if the situation called for it, sometimes when it didn’t.

If you read my posts, you already know Marty passed away last July, fittingly the day after Independence Day. i miss him terribly. So does everyone else in our group of Curmudgeons. Before we begin our pitchers of beer every week after our round of golf, we raise a toast to Marty.

The group for the annual dinners has become four couples from the maximum of eight. At the last dinner, three of the four curmudgeons wondered if Linda still had the fez. Rod Stark, who was also from Kansas like Marty, and who had known him longer than all of us including me, said Linda had given the fez to him. We decided to elect the next Grand Whiner. To my surprise, the other three voted for me unanimously. i accepted but inside i was a bit upset. i thought the other three were more curmudgeonly than me. Then i realized being upset was something a true curmudgeon would do.

i consider the honorary position an honor. After all, that means i am at least a bit like Marty.

All four of us have problems associated with old age, Navy service, and some pretty wild living, not to mention diets that would make health experts blanch. In not so many years, we will be gone as happens to all old men.

i don’t think there will be any like us following in our footsteps. The world has changed. For example, i don’t think any of us ever had long hair. i know none of us had or have tattoos. We danced with our ladies, never in a Mosh Pit.

That is not to say the folks coming after us are bad, just different. i like the way we were better. i just don’t think folks coming after us will be like us.

And i guarantee there will never be anyone like Marty Linville, the original Grand Whiner of the Ancient Order of the Curmudgeons.

You may notice there have been some changes to my websites. We are in the process of catching up with the world of technology. It turns out you don’t catch p in this new world of the web in the cloud thing by fixing what you got because you have to throw out the old and replace it with the new because the old don’t work anymore, can’t be fixed. i suspect it’s the techie’s finance czars figuring out how to make more money off of me.

Proving age is not a friend of new technology, i sought help in the usual place to get me over the hump. i called and went to visit Walker Hicks. We are working together, that is, Walker is working, and i watch and try to learn what he’s doing.

i sit in the small office he and his wife Marcie share in their townhome here in the Southwest corner. i watch the wizard at work as he resolves problem after problem, leaning back in his chair to think about the problems and what might cause them. Their two corgis lie asleep at Walker’s feet after a robust and fun greeting to me.

You can see Walker has thought of a possible solution and moves toward his computer, mousepad, and keyboard. There, he deftly moved around at speeds that fools my eyes, opening menus, changing code, enquiring in places i have never been, reading things that were more foreign than foreign languages.

Bang. All problems solved. Okay, Okay, it took something over an hour, but it was impressive.

i have known Walker for almost twenty years. He never ceases to amaze me with his immensely impressive capability in a plethora of disciplines. Perhaps his most impressive talent is identifying and encompassing an old man from a different world into his work and as a friend.

You see, Walker Hicks is just one superb human being.