I’m too old for this. This is the summer from Hell. Everytime we turn around we are packing or unpacking. The retirement years are supposed to be relaxing. But it seems like all the good times are somewhere we have to travel to.
Early this month we went to Myrtle Beach so I could participate in the Retired Military Golf Classic. This was my first time. It’s been going on for many years and limits itself to 800 men and 200 women. That constitutes a gaggle. Four days of golf on a different course each day with three new partners.
Before I started I distinctly marked four balls; one for each day (Wednesday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday). On my first shot on my first day, I hit Wednesday’s ball into a lake on the 8th hole at Long Bay (Shotgun start). Thursday’s ball only lasted for about six more holes. As a matter of principle, I refused to play Friday’s ball on Wednesday. I dug out an old, well-used ball and played the rest of the day with it. In fact, I started the next day with the same old ball.
In a scramble, once the team decides which ball they are playing, we pick up the rest of the balls. Consequently, my team mates would pick up my ball. Because of its shabby condition and 18 carefully located black dots, the ball became known as “Black Death.” I refused to take a hint. But halfway through the round, Black Death took a bath. One of my partners, Tom, offered to fish it out of the lake, but I told him to forget about it.
Shortly after that, Tom came up to me and handed me a ball marked just like mine. Same brand, same style and markings. It was my ball! Finally I said, “Tom, this is my ball. Where did you find it?” He told me he had fished it out of the lake on the 8th hole at Long Bay yesterday. Wednesday’s ball had arisen from its watery grave.
The tournament gave out prizes to the top 50 in each flight, but my total score was quite a bit short of being unremarkable.
We got home from Myrtle Beach, unpacked, picked up our dog, Nikki, and washed our clothes. Then we packed, dropped off Nikki and headed for Charlottesville, Virginia. The Retired Army Judge Advocates were holding their annual reunion in Charlottesville, “The Home of the Army Lawyer.” Our JAG School is located on the grounds of the University of Virginia.
What a crowd. We had about 250 people attending. That’s 100 more than we have ever had before. And the Rice theory on RAJA is that once we get JAGs to attend the reunion, they will have such a great time, they will return. So if my theory is correct, we should have a big crowd next year in Fort Worth, Texas. Howdy partner.
Every living former Army Judge Advocate General was in attendance. We actually held our business meeting in one of the School’s classrooms. Then, after the meeting, they took a picture of all the TJAGs. Tim Naccarato called their names for the picture, just in case, because of their senior age they might have forgotten they were the TJAG. They also took a picture of all the former Commandants of the School. There were 11 of us.
We got home, unpacked, picked up Nikki and now we are packing for a family reunion in Branson, Missouri. Nikki is standing around staring at us. She gets that look every time the suitcases come out. This summer, they never get put away. I am getting tired just writing about this.
After Branson comes a 14 day cruise to Kodiak, Alaska with Ron and Judy Holdaway. We have been trying to get together for about four years. This year it worked out.
Then, my double-nickel (55th) high school class reunion get pushed from September to the end of August. We can do it, but it is going to be tight. We may just leave Nikki in the kennel. But don’t tell her. She’s just getting over Charlottesville.
In June, July and August, we will be traveling 45 days. That’s cruel and unusual. My golf team is putting me on probation. The only good news is I don’t have to buy camera film and there’s no luau.
Written by PJ Rice at www.ricequips.com
