Any guy raised in the 40s and 50s had to just have a WASPY last name, blue eyes and a degree, any degree. Then, just show up on time, catch the 5:53 home, mow the lawn, cruise through the 60's, 70's, 80's, and on to retirement. Unless of course, you didn't do those things. That would've been me.
"A moving target is hard to hit," a Drill Instructor extorted us boots in Parris Island. I knew that already, had always, would always, continue to be a fast-moving target, better yet, a lucky one. So, Dear Reader, hitch hike along with me, back down that ol' memory blacktop; perhaps nudging your own memory, of those; no doubt, often funny, sometimes poignant -- unfortunately -- fading times? Climb under the kindling wood desks of Saint Agnes Catholic Elementary in the 40s, preparing for the inevitable, Russian thermonuclear attack. Join my teen brothers and I, cruising Jersey Shore beaches and Boardwalk dance halls, or with my mates and I, trash talking braggadocio and machismo on the fantail of a Marine troopship or some seedy Carolina, Country Music Roadhouse.
Travail back in time on the back of my noisy Harley, the rumble seat or truck bed of a sputtering old V-8. Hitch hike one more time -- across country in in the 60s. Join my original family of eight in the ex-Bootlegger's Limo in the 40s or later, with my own brood of six.in the mandatory, 70s suburban-designate, green and fake wood Country Squire; strewn with kids, pets, plastic trophies and MacDonald wrappers.
Sorry not much of my recent times -- will have to wait until those times get downloaded from my short term memory to my long term memory-- the one that still works . . . .
