On Growing Up.

I grew up in a really small town in Northwest Missouri.  Back in a time when there was no Internet, or 24-hour news cycle, or other attraction to keep us occupied.

Almost Iowa, almost Nebraska and almost Kansas, it was.  And just under 10,000 in population.      

The town, Chillicothe, Missouri, which means "Fork in the river," according to the Ojibway Indians, tried hard for decades to grow above that 4 figure number.  But without success.  It was the Livingston County seat, however, so there was a degree of importance in living there.  Big gray 4-story courthouse in the middle of the town, with banks and jewelry and clothing and grocery stores surounding it.  The kind of place where the farmers come to town on Saturdays to do their business.  In freshly pressed bib overalls.  The ones with the two straps over the shoulders and a couple of pencils in the little pockets in front.  And oh yeah, the straw hat covering their eyes.

Chillicothe was the kind of town where there was literally nothing to do.  There was no water park, or skating rink, or racetrack, or other attraction to keep residents occupied and happy.  Because they weren't.  Occupied and happy, that is.  We had to develop our own kinds of fun.  And God knows, we did.

We hunted, and fished, and camped, and took long walks in the woods.  That was about it.  Except for cars, that is.  Our salvation.

Cars were our way of gaining freedom.  The town was about 5 miles from end to end, and we'd travel up and down its 4-lane highway, burning rubber at each stoplight, and flashing our lights at each other as we passed.  And God help you if you failied to flash.  There would be a whispering campaign against you, wondering why you hated someone or other.

And then we'd park in the Dairy Queen, back in to a parking space, and open our hoods to show off our chrome-laden engines.

And since it was before the 24-hour news cycle and the Internet, we knew nothing about what was happening in the rest of the world.  Or even the town over.  All we could do was read the tiny town newspaper and the magazines to try and stay up.  I recall one of my best friends, Wayne we'll call him, for that was his name, saying that he'd just read about bi-sexuals in the latest issue of Playboy.  He held the issue up in my face and said, "You know Cass, I just learned something.  if I get any sex at all I think I'm gonna' have to buy it."

I swear this is true.  Sorry, Wayne.

About half the town went hunting in the fall.  In fact,  my birthday and my Mom's birthday bracketed November 11th, the day deer season opens.  The school closes, 'cause nobody would come if they didn't.

We didn't know about much of anything, either.  We knew that if you looked 21 you could buy two quarts of Falstaff for a single dollar.  And it would get you nice for the evening.  And I looked 21.  Which made me among the most popular guys in town.  Nobody knew there were drugs you could buy and take.  Except for what we read in Playboy.  We read about undergroud clubs in the big cities, where Black guys played bongos and smoked something called "reefers."  We didn't know what that was, or enough to know we should be finding some for ourselves.  No cocaine, no heroin, no dope, no nothing.  Just beer and fast cars.

My life consisted of getting up late and shooting pool until all hours of the morning.  And then maybe playing a little pot limit poker and drinking beer.  And then heading out to the Old Highway for some drag racing action.

There were 10 National Hot Rod Association record holders in our little bitty town.  Best and fastest cars anywhere near there.  And I managed to win enough playing billiards to buy the newest and latest and fastest car around.  

One of my professors in one of my colleges asked me why I didn't apply myself.  I told him it was because I made twice as much as he did, walking backwards.  He flunked me, BTW.  

So when my draft notice came in the mail I figured my life was pretty much over.  And since I was in charge of my little fiefdom back home, I wasn't anxious to leave it.  I had the fastest car and the prettiest girlfriend and the coolest pool cue, so I was king of my domain.  And being shot by some little Asian guy hanging in a tree, waiting for me to get off the plane, didn't sound good at all.  And this was before anyone had started heading off to Canada to avoid the draft, so I was stuck.  The time had come.

I was whisked off to basic training and was dumped into a melting pot of thousands of other guys from every corner of America.  Black guys, Asian guys, American Indians, Hispanics, Pacific Islanders, Chinese, from big cities and little towns like mine.  We were blended together into a stew.  Watch "Full Metal Jacket" to get a feeling what it was like.  

We were yelled at and marched and ordered around for 8 weeks, and then sent off to our duty stations.  Most went straight to Viet Nam to become cannon fodder.  Some, like me, were lucky enough to wind up with orders to Europe, or maybe Alaska, or maybe Hawaii  Me?  First to Fort Belvoir, Virginia for training to become a spook.  Yep, Army Intelligence had chosen me.

Seems like I did well on my entrance exams.  Well enough that they didn't want me to get blown up in the Nam.  They tapped me for Military Intelligence.  I know, I know.  It's an old joke.  But they actually knew what they were doing as regards intelligence.  The worst part was being stationed near Washington, D.C. at Fort Belvoir.  There were no dates among the local girls unless you pretended you were a liberal.  It was filled with lefties even back then.  And then I headed off to Germany to begin my tour of duty.

I go through all of this because you'll recall I told you I came from a small town.  With small town people.  Who knew not so much about anything.  And all at once I'm mixing it up with guys from all over America and from all socioecomic strata.  Rich, poor, Black, White, and all shades in between.  Smart, dumb, and all I.Q. points in between.  My best friend back in the Army back then was a Black guy from Detroit named Walter.  He thought it was funny my name was Chuck, as that was the negative slang term Black guys used for White guys.  Everytime he said my name he'd laugh.  

Oh course, I had to respond with a slang term of my own for his race, with no malice intended.  We learned that the folks we didn't grow up with were every bit as intelligent and worthy as were we.  We learned that we aren't so special without a helping hand from those around us.  

We learned there are no Blacks and Whites and Reds and Yellows in fox holes.  There are only our Brother Soldiers.  Who just might be called upon to save our lives.  Just like there's no athiests in fox holes.  We all prayed regularly for help in getting past this portion of our lives.  The portion between racing up and down the freeway and drinking cheap Falstaff and shooting pool, and shooting it out with terrorists in God-forsaken corners of the world.  Between growing up in an all White town and then having to depend on a Black guy from Detroit.

I tell you all this because a boy in today's America is considered fully grown physically when he's between 16 and 18 years old.  Girls?  14 and 16  years old.  So your kid is considered an adult at the age of 18.  And we absolutely know that our young men are nowhere near grown at that age.  In fact, I can tell you from my own experience that I wa still a Big Kid at 25.  I'd been doing the same things over and over again for several years without my horizons expanding.  Trust me, enlisting in one of our military organizations will grow you up.  Macht Schnell!  They will beat your name out of you and replace it with your service number.  Take you apart and rebuild you to become a lean, mean, fighting machine.  You'll lose what remains of your baby fat and replace it with muscle.  And tendons and sinew.  You'll gain weight and strength and speed.  You'll be conditioned to operate at full strength for hours and hours.  You'll lose your small town self and gain a worldly outlook.  You'll gain mastery over your own body.  And mind.  And you'll grow up.  Fully.

Your job, Fellow Patriots, was to birth your kids and then keep them safe as they aged.  Until they become Tall Children.  That's what I call our 18 year-olds.  They're nothing but hand grenades just waiting to go off.  Do yourself and them a favor.  Take them to the Recruiting office and help them sign up.  You'll send them off as brash, untamed, unfocused kids and welcome them back as hard, straight, well manered and sophistocated young men and women.  They'll get to see the world, rub shouldeers with other men and women their age and capabilities, and then gain confidence.  Confidence borne of proven performance.   

I speak from personal experience.  I was a smart ass pool pro with a fast car who didn't need and didn't want what the Army wanted to give me.  But I learned pretty damn quick that it's not what you want, it's what your Country wants.  And you'll learn fast that's more important.

Fewer than 1% of our population gets to serve in our militaries.  It's an all-volunteer service now.  No more draft.  And the men and women who now serve are slightly older than before, much smarter, far better educated and more able to protect us, you and me.  Whatever you think about the military, 22 countries demand 2 or more years out of their young men and women.  To give something back to the country that raised them.  I served.  Your kids can as well.  It made me who I am.  I shudder to think what I would have become had I not been drafted.  And I thank God it forced me to become who I now am... 

P.S.  Oh yeah, the Gubmint will pay for your kids' education after they come back from serving.  You won't have to spend a load to get them a degree.  Let Uncle Sam do it.  Use your savings for an RV so you can drive all around our beautiful Country.  It makes sense to do so.  Dollars and cents.  Call me if you need further convincing...