Grandpa George leaned over to me one day and asked, “Did I ever tell you about the time we got caught smoking during our patrol in the Marines?” Knowing well that whenever grandpa George leans in to whisper to me it’s going to be either a modest dirty joke or an interesting tale, I take the bait. “Well, I didn’t get caught but my buddy did, now, what was his name again…” I can’t be expected to remember it when he can’t. “Anyways, we were sharing a cigarrette during partrol and sure enough,” George rolls his eyes, “out came our commanding officer around the corner right as my buddy was pulling a drag.”
“So what happened,” I queried, “what was the punishment?” George turns his Marine Insignia Cap backwards on his head and leans back as he folds his arms, recalling the experience. “That son of bitch grabbed the cigarrette right out of my buddy’s hand and ordered him to start digging a grave right then in front of our barracks.” “Your kiddng?” I asked. “Every man in every Unit at the whole base was called to stand along with our’s at full attention and watch as my budy spent the next eight hours digging that grave.” “Seriously?” “Eight hours, at full attention, while he dug a six foot deep, four foot wide grave,” grandpa George said.
“So what happened when he finished digging?” This time George turns his cap back around to respectable and leans forward, looks me dead in the eye and says, “The commanding officer gave the cigarrette back to my buddy and said to him, Now Burry It… and the entire base remained standing there at full attention and watched on four another four hours while my buddy burried that damn cigarrette.”
DEFINITION: “To Sand to attention/stand at attention’
When people stand to attention or stand at attention, they stand straight with their feet together and their arms at their sides. Soldiers in full combat gear stood at attention. Now, having to stand in one spot for eight hours without a single word being spoken, without being allowed to fiddle, scratch, chide, yawn, or anything else, without being allowed to take a pee or eat something as you watch a fellow solder dig a full grave in full, well… cearly the commanding officer wanted to make a point.
Feb 24, 2017 My grandfather, George, asked me a week ago if we could shoot some pool one of these days. Well, today was one of these days so he and I went to the Senior Center to play on a free table. Walking out of the building as we’re walking in are two other seniors, grandfathers themselves no doubt, both wearing marine insignia baseball caps matching my grandfather’s. What followed was a series of “Thank you for your service,” handshakes and WW2 era camaraderie. We continue on, meandering, on account of George’s bad leg accentuated by the growing twilight of his golden years. In the billiard room I’m introduced to Paul and Tom, two more grandfathers just finishing their game.
I stand by quietly; quietly I stand by, disinterested in their chitchat about weather, about politics, about bowel movements. As Paul and Tom are packing their ques and making ready to leave George leans over and whispers, “You should have seen how packed this place used to be, you’d have to wait in line to get a table.” Elders require dialogue and so, despite my dislike of asking dumb questions, I risk one anyway. So what changed? “They all died,” he said flatly, no joke intended. Of course they did, but then of course I dislike asking dumb questions in the first place.
Paul and Tom leave us after much more WW2 era toodoo and “Thank you for your service,” handshakes and then, we’re up. “I’ll rack ‘em, you break ‘em,” he says. In that case, I’m going for a smoke and quick pee, I’ll be right back. I should have smoked two because he was still racking them up when I returned. Eventually I make the break and the balls scatter, but not before he offers a friendly wager; “Five dollars to the winner,” he suggests and we both lay our money down. I’m solids, he’s stripes and I pocket a couple before yielding my turn.
And then my grandfather George, bum legged in the twilight of his golden years, steps up. He puts down his cane and picks up his pool stick, adjusts his cap, chalks the tip, clears his throat, licks his thumb to check the direction of the wind, complains about the temperature and the current price of stamps and then calls his first shot; corner pocket, which he makes. Then he calls his second shot, and then the third, and then the fourth and then suddenly he says “Eight ball, side pocket.” Folks, I’ve rarely lost a bet faster but it was worth it to watch him play.