Category Archives: A Pocket of Resistance

A potpourri of posts on a variety of topics, in other words, what’s currently on my mind.

Marty Tales: The First Golf Trip

A Pocket of Resistance, Sea Stories

Marty had retired from the Army. He was working for a military contractor in human interface with weapons computer controls. I was getting close to retiring. So we decided to hit the road for a golf outing in the desert.

i had been on several such trips with my friend Jim Hileman and Mike Kelly, telephone guys. We would go out to the Palm Springs area sometime between June and August. With coupons, costs were essentially cart fees. The drawback is the temperatures were always between 110 and 120 degrees. We would play 6-8 rounds in five days.

So Marty and i decided to try it. We would go the mountain route, which included switchbacks with climbs and descents ranging up to 5,000 feet. Naturally, we chose to go in my Mazda Rx7. It was July.

Now, being an Army retiree and a Navy retiree, we naturally put a case of beer in behind the seats with our clubs and minimum luggage. We didn’t drink the whole case, but we downed a number, yes, illegally, on the two-hour plus drive. Consequently, we were stopping at almost every turnoff for one of us to take relief in the bushes. i was happy it was over when we reached Marty’s condominium.

The next morning, we had the first tee time at PGA West’s Jack Nicklaus Resort Course in La Quinta. It was so new, the pro shop was a trailer, no club house yet. They had just finished watering the course. This resulted in a mist over the course. Marty noted it looked like the British moors. That image quickly faded as the temperature accelerated from a comfortable 80 degrees to 115 before we finished. On the back nine, the mist had been replaced by mosquitoes, the only time i encountered them on desert courses.

Being brilliant, we chose to play from the black, championship tees. That meant we played a 7,204 yard course.

Marty commented he had never hit so many drivers, three woods, and wedges on a round.

We drove from PGA West to the La Quinta Citrus Course, a public course. Back then, it was a 7400 yard course from the championship tees, which, of course, we chose to play. By the time we reached the pro shop, it was past noon and over 120 degrees. The only person on the course was manning the pro shop. He was amazed we were playing.

We teed off on a lovely first hole we thought. But when we had holed out, we couldn’t find the number two tee and realized we had played the tenth hole. So we drove back to the pro shop and began over on the first, correct tee.

To say we were beat when we finished the two rounds would be an injustice. That evening, we sat out in the unheated spa, drinking gin and tonics, a signature libation for Marty and me. We calculated the yards of golf we played that day. Because of the extra hole at the citrus course, we had covered over 15,000 yards of golf for our introductory twosome rounds in the desert.

We often laughed at how ridiculous that was. But in our way, we were proud of it.

Thoughts in Year Eighty

A Pocket of Resistance

i’ve been in a dark place for a while, not ready to explain: my privilege at my ripe…okay, rotten old age. i wrote this with the intent of not publishing it, adding to my volumes of stuff for those left behind to decide what to do with it after i crossed the bridge.

But dammit, this is how i feel. So i decided i wanted you all to see it and think about…or just blow it off:

i’ve used most of my eightieth year,
thinking about things,
coming to conclusions
like the undeniable conclusion
i’m going to die…
maybe not tomorrow:
i might even be around for twenty more
or
go bye-bye tomorrow
but
for sure, i’m going to die.

having accepted that fact,
i discovered i have no fear,
not of dying, not of anything
when it seems damn near everyone over sixty
is fearful of something:
fear of going broke;
fear of their children going broke;
fear of being overrun by folks they perceive as alien
(having been to sea for a good chunk of my eighty,
i’ve seen folks of all kinds of folks,
realizing all groups of folks have the same mix of folks
only different in their beliefs, good, bad, saintly, evil);
fear of someone not believing what they believe,
believing their beliefs are fact:
as if their beliefs were fact:
then they would be Truth
and
we are still chasing that Truth thing down;
only Time will tell the Truth,
but
most folks can’t handle that,
almost as if they enjoy slopping
around in their fear, their beliefs
like muddy hogs in the sty:
fearing the unknown,
which
grows into hate,
which
becomes disagreement,
which
becomes conflict,
which
becomes war,
which
begets Death on a grand scale.

so, i no longer fear
anything
and
try to focus on living life as a good man
attempting to do the right thing,
not fearing, not hating,
caring for people regardless of their beliefs
because thinking about things in my eightieth year
i believe (there’s that word again)
treating humans, each one, as a human being
is the noblest thing
a man in his eighties can do.

Marty Tales

A Pocket of Resistance, Sea Stories

As i have previously noted Major Marty Linville was an Army officer. So technically these are Army war stories, not Navy sea stories. But they are kin, and Marty deserves to be included in my sea stories.

Marty Linville on active duty in the Army.

i have written two posts about my friend, an inadequate description for the relationships we had and what many other folks had with Marty Linville after he crossed over the bridge. i plan to post more of stories about him. They are meant to honor him. This is one of my favorite ones:

After Marty finished the Army’s Officer Candidate School and artillery training, he reported to Fort Carson and was in charge of a 105 mm Howitzer unit. A large exercise between Marty’s side and the “Orange” opposition.

On the first day, Marty’s unit was directed to set the battery and conduct a non-live firing operation. As it began, a gas attack was simulated and Marty and his unit donned protection against gas warfare, including gas masks. When Marty began to give his unit orders for operating the system, the soldiers could not understand him, and he couldn’t understand them. Finally, in frustration, he yanked off his gas mask so his troops could understand his direction.

An exercise umpire overseeing the howitzer unit, halted the action. He then proceeded to chew out the second lieutenant, vividly pointing out that all exercises should be treated as if they were actual conditions, not simulated. Marty saluted and snapped, “Yes, Sir,” taking the admonition to heart.

The operation continued the next day. Marty’s unit was ordered to move into a position to fire on the orange forces. They proceeded down a rough road headed for the position when they were confronted with a problem. The orange forces had downed several trees and blocked the road with the logs making the passage through the road impossible. The unit would have to detour, a significant added distance, which would prevent them from reaching their objective on time.

Remembering his chewing out and the direction to treat the war game as if it were real, Lieutenant Linville called his top sergeant to his side. He asked Top what he thought about clearing the blockade with the howitzer. The top sergeant was excited about the opportunity to shoot the howitzer in live fire.

The backed up the big gun up and blew away the blockade.

Marty relates the next morning, he had breakfast with the commanding general. Or rather, the general had breakfast while Marty stood at attention while between bites, the general let Marty bear the philippic in no uncertain terms.

A letter was entered into Marty’s service record noting the general’s reproof of the incident. i’m sure the letter kept from Marty from being promoted beyond major. He proved his mettle and leadership in Vietnam, receiving the Silver Star and Purple Heart for his actions when a North Vietnamese company conducted an attack on Marty’s 13-man Howitzer unit.

Marty is one of the finest military officers i ever met.

The general made a huge mistake.

Way Up in the Wasatch Mountains

A Pocket of Resistance

way up in the Wasatch mountains,
Utah where Mormons claimed
their way was prevalent,
snow covered the pretense
one hundred, fifty years or so ago.
passes to the left coast were few
except in the warm months;
only the hardy would climb so high
with mules, packs, jerky, coffee
to mine the silver,
hunt the plentiful game
in the cold deep white of the mountain.

now the heights are a playground,
cleared groomed slopes skied down after
rides up the mechanized chair
where hunters and miners
persevered in the hard months,
now playtime in the rockies
for the masses.
the old town street running up and down
the hill called Main
was general store, haberdashery,
gin mill, assayer,
probably a red light house or two,
amidst the good, lord abiding citizens;
now
pizza joints butted against
boutiques, fashion salons,
restaurants with high cost haute cuisine;
only the Egyptian theater and saloons
bear some resemblance to their former selves:
instead of grimy miners
swigging down the swill,
home brew out of pails,
rot gut whiskey.
now movie stars,
dressed to the nines
sipping wine
at the festival of cinema
named after an outlaw;
town and tourist drunks
drinking the trendy micro brews.

Still, in the quiet after a late winter storm,
there are tracks
of rabbit, mountain goat, even elk,
if one dares to climb so high.

Coming of Age Redux

A Pocket of Resistance

The Cambridge Dictionary defines “coming of age” as “Someone’s coming of age is the time when that person legally becomes an adult and is old enough to vote.”

Well, before i posted praising golf and dining in the Park City/Midway area of Utah, i had started a post with the above title. i was trying to include too many things. Upon my return, i cut it up into two posts. This one is about my thoughts on where i am and where i’m going.

i am, i believe, coming of age, on the backside of the original definition of the term.

Pete Toennies and i have been on many adventures and misadventures. As noted, we met in Hobart, Tasmania in November in 1979. That deployment when we were both on the staff of Commander, Amphibious Squadron Five, Pete as the UDT advisor for the commodore and me as the “Current Operations,” and “SLJO” (Shitty Little Jobs Officer). It was a glorious deployment. Along with Mike Peck, O.W. Wright, and Al Pavich, we hit Sydney, Australia; Port Moresby, Papua New Guinea; Subic Bay, Luzon, Philippines, of course; Hong Kong; Singapore; and Pearl Harbor, Oahu, Hawaii on the way back to our home port of San Diego.

It was an epic deployment in so many ways.

Upon our return to San Diego, Pete and his wife Nancy put me up in their home on Coronado until, with their help, i found an incredible apartment on the island. Although we were then in different commands, we, along with Nancy, spent a lot of time together. Pete and i played racquet ball for hours on end, and the three of us found a bunch of good places to eat. Pete and i ran, like running distances, together and even played golf.

Pete went off to do Seal things. i went to sea. Then after about 15 years, we reconnected at his retirement from the Navy. We’ve been doing our thing ever since.

This trip turned into an Old Boys’ Quest. After all, we are old. i hit 80 seven months ago. Pete trails me by five years. He’s still old. But we decided to ignore that for this quest.

In addition to age, infirmities abound between the two of us. Pete is a hero, a Navy SEAL who has put up with injuries getting worse with age. He remains an amazing athlete and, i confess, a much better golfer than me. Amazingly, all of my infirmities remain mostly annoying. Boy, are they annoying.

i knew this old man might be on his last adventure. i will be going home in a bit more than a month. Lebanon, Nashville, Vanderbilt, and possibly MTSU, old haunts, old friends, too many old places vanishing. But this will be a nostalgia trip, no athletic pursuits to accomplish, no quest.

In the mountains, when not resting, i.e. long napping, i thought of the great times here up in the Wasatch Mountains (i will re-post my poem i wrote years ago about these mountains and Park City later today). i learned to ski there in 1987 with Maureen. Following that first time on the slopes, she and i skied there with Blythe, Sarah, and a host of friends and family until 2017. To ski again, we would have had to buy new ski bindings, new boots, and my expanding width would require new ski outfits for me. It dawned on me that even though one of my greatest ski assets was the ability to fall without hurting myself, i am now 80 and falling is not a good thing regardless of how well you do it at 80 and beyond. There will be no more skiing for this old boy.

i didn’t realize when i decided not ski that is was really my first step in coming of age redux.

After Pete and i celebrated success in our quest, i admitted to myself it probably shouldn’t have been attempted, not with that amount of golf in such a short time (i played six rounds of golf in eight days). i’ve still not completely recovered. But we were determined to play as much as we could and even had another round scheduled, six in six days, but demurred, taking Saturday off.

i have realized my second coming of age.

There are creaks, aches, and pains for me on a pretty regular basis. My skin is splotchy, wrinkled and thin. Any contact with a corner of furniture, branch, bush, etc. can produce a bruise that lasts long and a cut that bleeds, requiring a bandage. My balance and strength, or lack of, are starting to impact what tasks i undertake. Oh yeh, i am bald.

Each creak, ache, and pain has to be evaluated for being a symptom of something much worse. Now, i have to consider the risks and benefits of everything i do based on my age limitations.

My dear Mazda 3 hatchback will probably be my last car. They don’t make them with standard transmissions anymore. The only cars with standard transmissions now are sports cars — when i was in my late thirties through mid-forties, there were two Rx7s as my transportation. They fit me at that age. Now, i would look ridiculous in a sports car at my age, but i think i drive better, pay more attention with a stick. So, i’m hanging on to this 2012 wonder

My running is now walking. i find i think too much and finding the world as i know it filled with lemmings, and myself removed from it.

i have come of age. And. you know what? i’m fine with that. i can adjust. i just need to ensure i do things the rest of my in the right way.

…but i will still play golf, and i’m thinking of when i might consider pursuing another quest.