Golden Years and Thumps on the Head

A "Stodghill Says So" blog:
This morning while basking in the glow of my Golden Years my thoughts drifted back to an earlier time. Golden Years, if you don't know, is a phrase coined by someone aged 25 who has yet to learn about aches, pains and parts of your body that no longer function as intended. Legs and fingers, for example. In your Golden Years, legs sometimes go left when it was your intention to go right. At inopportune moments they tend to give out completely or develop an excruciatingly painful cramp. Fingers that seem perfectly normal suddenly turn to stone when you try to make change at a checkout counter.
So this is why my thoughts turned to a time when everything worked properly. Quite naturally my early weeks in the Army came to mind. That is when raw recruits learn that sergeants aren't God. No, they are far more powerful than a mystical, and perhaps mythical, figure in the sky. Sergeants are on the ground right beside you and are there for the purpose of destroying any illusion of joy and happiness in your life.
Take the sergeant who carried a hickory switch that he used to thump recruits on the head. This was not a solid swagger stick carried by a puffed-up officer who hoped to swagger more impressively. The hickory switch was flexible so that it inflicted maximum pain without fracturing a skull.
The sergeant enjoyed using his stick on a helpless head on all occasions, but especially when we were duck waddling. His victims were those who were not quacking loudly enough, at least in his opinion.
While in an uncommonly good mood one day he explained why he carried and used the switch on people unable to retaliate. His exact words were, "I don't use the switch because I don't like you. I use the switch because I hate every bone in your worthless body."
His words were a morale booster. He didn't dislike us after all. In fact, after hearing them I felt almost as good as I do on the average day in my Golden Years.

Dick,

What a guy! Your sergeant was a true motivator. I overlooked this gem. I was in a hurry to leave for Disneyland.

Your point is true, however. The only reason you could abide him was because all of you worked properly.

Now every morning you can wake up and think at least he is not here to harrass me.

I missed this post originally. I was probably not on line that day and the little 'new' icons disappear the next day. (The next day for the forum is actually later at night for me!)

I never got the hickory switch from Mom, it was always either from a willow or whatever was handy--hair brush, coffee pot cord, wooden spoon or what have you. But now I know why!

My mom's favorite was the comb she would use to pull the tangles out of my hair, generally after she told me if I didn't stop crying, she would give me something to cry about.

Ann

Why, Why, Why?
Now you have set me to thinking

Why on earth did everything have to be so awful when we were young?

Zada and Ann, Why on earth did your mother and mine go to such lengths to straighten us out? We weren't that bad.

Why did Dick's sergeant hit everyone for not quacking loudly enough?

This is ridiculous--I am glad life has improved.

Did anyone like this way of living?

Just curious?

As a result, I used lots of tangle releaser whenever I washed the girls' hair. Come to think of it, I made a habit of working to release all kinds of tangles they could manage to get themselves into. Today they say I was too permissive. Go figure.

Ann

All I know is that we were wrong.

Somehow we were wrong. If we spanked our kids we were wrong--if we didn't wrong, again.

If we cleaned our houses we were wrong--if we didn't we were wrong.

If we cooked balanced meals we were wrong--taught our kids to eat too much.

If we made our kids work we were wrong--if we didn't they were lazy and we were wrong.

I have never seen one child that was properly reared. Yet they all seem to turn into suitable old people. How come?

More..

This morning I awoke early. and wondered why it was that we (my childhod family) lived out in the middle of nowhere and had no running water in the house could only listen to classical music.

Whereas my husband's family lived in town had running water and could listen to virtually anything,

My husband was very quick to point out every defect in the construction of his house and said mice and rats dwelt there.
He claims to have heard them chewing in the walls,

I don't see how he survived it and wanted to ask his mother, but she would get too testy about it.

She was the perfect mother--I agree with her results --just not her methods.

My own mother only required perfection in thought word and deed and speech.

Alice,

Your childhood family sounds a bit like my mom's. They lived out in the country with no running water. They had no electricity either, so they couldn't listen to music - if they coud have, it would have been limited to the Methodist Hymnbook hymns. They did read all the "masters" of literature. Sometimes my grandfather would read to them, so that's a bit like listening to classical music. My Uncle Tom grew up to be a writer. In one of his published short stories he wrote: "In my childhood home, there were always more books than dollars."

Ann

Dick,

When you write about "your" war and military experiences, I always think of my uncles, one in each branch: James, Army, stayed in Africa throughout, and wote home about "this d**ned war," even though he never saw any real action; Feagin, a Marine, who wrote funny letters home from places like Iwo Jima. The humor in his letters, usually about the troubles he had washing his skivvies, or something similar, were written in striking contrast to the news about those locations. The aforementioed Uncle Tom, Air Force, learned aerial photography in Alaska, where, among other duties, he took photographs of the USO visitors like Yasha Heifetz, Errol Flynn, Martha O'Driscoll, and Ingrid Bergman. It seems that O'Driscoll told Bergman about him, so when she (Bergman) was there, she asked him to do a photo shoot. His family still has the proofs of her, with her handwritten comments on the back: "I like this one," "This one stinks, Tom." When he came home, photography became his "day job," while he wrote short stories for outdoorsmen's magazines and worked on his great novel, East Texas, which publishers rejected for being too farfetched, even though every bit of it was true.

Dick,

Now you have me riled up. Where is this monster sergeant?
Is he still ALIVE?

He belongs in jail or the nut house. How on earth could any decent woman be married to such a brute?

Can you imagine their dinner conversation.
"How was your day today?"

"Oh so,so, Kind of dull--I spent it thumping recruits on the head and screaming that I was doing it becaue I hated them."

"Was there a riot or what?"

"Naw, they would not quack loud enough!"

What a revolting, absolutely disgusting situation--I cannot abide it

Maybe we should show up at Congress and demand reparations.
It probably wouldn't cost much--a few billion or so, then the Vets would have money to spend and it would stimulate the economy.

We will go by helicopter--who will come?

By the way, Zada and Ann you are coming too. I will throw your sufferings into the appeal.

We should do better thsn the auto makers.


This will save the economy.

What an opportunty--I can hear it knocking

Alice, he was one of the more friendly sergeants I have known. Good sergeants are like good city editors; they aren't supposed to be nice. Ask Don Stephens. When I later was a sergeant I wasn't at all nice. A nice sergeant gets you killed.

Ann, if ever a man had the perfect military assignment it was your Uncle Tom. Ingrid Bergman, no less. Wow!

When you were a sergeant you weren't nice. You mean you've changed?

Ho-ho, that's rich. Thanks a lot, Shelagh, and after I almost said something nice about you on another thread.

Years ago when my husband was in the Marines, I went to Parris Island for groceries and the drill sergeants would shop there as well. They scared me even in the grocery store and I was careful not to run into their grocery carts.

Carol

Dick Stodghill wrote:

Ho-ho, that's rich. Thanks a lot, Shelagh, and after I almost said something nice about you on another thread.

Well, you see, almost just isn't good enough. Actually, come to think of it, almost saying something leaves me to imagine all kinds of nice things that you might have said.

Carol,
You are the voice of reason--I am so glad you finally showed up.

Dick,

Please post the nice things you almost said about Shelagh--I want to read them.

Thank you
A nice sergeant gets you killed--well a mean one kills you himself--isn't this worth a bilion or so to you?

If not,, who were you a sergeant to? Maybe they would like...need reparations!

Reparations!

Alice I think that you've hit (pardon the pun but this is a head thumping thread) the nail on the head of perception. If we look back on it as all wrong, hard and painful, then it was.
If we look back on it as growing up, living in the moment wherever we were, then that's what it was.

My mom used a wooden spoon, a belt, or threw milk (which made me laugh - stories for another thread). My dad always liked to bonk us on the head with his pipe. As a youth, I adsolutely hated them for it, but as an adult I understand that actually, they were absolutely crazy and so they responded in the only way they knew how -- much like their own parents had. Now that they are older and much more mellow, I actually enjoy talking and hanging out with them

Alice wrote:

A nice sergeant gets you killed--well a mean one kills you himself--isn't this worth a bilion or so to you?

A nice sergeant has a troop full of soldiers who can end up dependent on their leader and unable to look after themselves, but who love their sergeant. A mean sergeant develops a troop of independent thinkers, all leaders, all skilled and able to look after themselves, their mates, and their sergeant if need be.

Sounds a bit like raising kids, come to think of it...

In fact, it sounds a lot like raising kids, Pam. But my mother always got upset when I did my own thinking. She STILL gets upset with me. That's why we don't discuss too much of anything important!

My mother raised me to think for myself, in response to her mother who was possessive and controlling.

My father never hit me, or anyone. He was the gentlest man I have ever known. My mother punished me most when I'd be "unpleasant" at the dinner table. Then she would send me to bed without any dinner, which was weird because most meals were spent with everyone trying to get me to eat potatoes or broccoli or whatever.

My kids drove me crazy and vice versa. There are six of them, all grown up now. One good thing is that they were never afraid of me, I guess. Darn, fear would have probably gotten me a whole lot more help with stuff. One time I was taking them on a trip and asked them to put their suitcases in the car. They hadn't closed the tailgate properly and it was rattling. I was so mad at them. i pulled into the first driveway I came to and told them we were taking all the suitcases out and putting them in right so the tailgate could close. They told me years later that afterwards they spent the next half hour trying not to laugh.

Carol

My Mother reared me to do exactly what she wanted, when she wanted it to be done and to do it perfectly.

She never told me anythig twice. She never raised her voice. The madder she got the more controlled she spoke. It was downright scary.


I, on the other hand, took after my father. He had infinite patience, but when it was gone--it was all gone. I never pushed him to the edge of his patience.so we got along fine.

I hate to admit it but, I am wrong.. If Dick liked his sergeant, then who am I to complain?

That was a war and they were training soldiers not choir boys.

If everything were done the way I wanted it--what a bore!
The men like this--we women love our childbirth stories.

I've been wrong before wrong again

Anyway, Dick's sergeant helped me sleep last nght. I went to bed at 10:30 and was wide awake.

I thought of Dick's sergeant and imagined him outside my door .

I told myself that if I dared to get out of my bed he would burst in, hit me on the head and roar that he hated every last bone in my worthless body.

Would you believe--I fell asleep until 2:00 am today.

Thanks for a great story, Dick --I don't need Don Stephens to verify it--I believe you.

Alice,
are you saying that Dick has become a therapist of sorts?

Abe,

It worked! I can't argue wth results.

In the olden days teachers were not nice fuzzy folks.

The teachers were so mean, but noone shot anyone.

I had a teacher scare the daylights out of by telling me how she would torture me if I did not learn my fractions.
Guess what? I am a whiz at fractions.

Also, the military is adept at teaching anything--there is no such thing as not learning.

They do not concern themselves for even so much as a fraction of an instant on your well-being or self-esteem-- all they care about is if you are learning what they are teaching you.

I cannot argue with undeniable facts.