I remember as if it was yesterday. I was a sixteen year old kid who just quit high school. My mother and father were divorced, my brother and I were living with our Dad. He was a good guy, heck he was a great guy; he was more like a friend than a father. Dad, we called him by his name, Rudy, was pretty much a kid himself. He grew up in an orphanage in New York City during the depression, as did my mother. They married young, moved to Colorado with an entire exodus of family and friends from the East Coast. They hoped to find true happiness in the Rocky Mountains.
I was a smart sixteen year old. My friends were all adults for the most part. Okay, I did have peer friends but I always prided myself on being very mature. I was not a trouble maker. I didn't steal or vandalize; I was not angry; I just lacked parental direction. I was taking ROTC at East High in Denver. Taking ROTC meant you did not have to take gym. I was never big on running around the track, getting naked in the locker room with a bunch or guys; trying to smack you in the ass with a rolled up wet towel.
While taking ROTC you had to wear a wool Army uniform once a week; perhaps it was on Thursday. The ROTC Sargent was a real enlisted Army guy. He had been in WWII and Korea. He was a no bull shit, behave or else Sargent. If you "forgot" to wear your uniform on "uniform day," you would have to wear it for two days in row. Whenever you wore it, the cool kids, the ones taking gym, would make fun of you. I decided not to wear the itchy god damn thing at all! The Sargent, his name evades me, took me to the Principal's office. The Principal said that I would have to wear the uniform for a solid week, for not obeying the rules. I told him, the Principal, and the good Sargent, to have a nice day and I was quiting this ridiculous High School; studying for half the year, what you already had learned the year before! I was going to get a real job.
After working for a few months, sacking groceries for a buck and a quarter an hour, working as the maintenance boy at a health club; another whole saga on that; I had been convinced, steered and coerced in to joining the Navy. My Grandmother said, "join the Navy, we are a Navy family." "Really now, who in the hell was in the Navy?" Okay Aunt Jean, Aunt Eileen and Uncle Roger and some distant relatives I never met. I will join the Navy!
The Navy it was. The recruiter had me take some tests. He said I was really smart and because of that he would guarantee me that I would be in Naval Air. I said "like a pilot?" "Not exactly," was he reply, "but you will like it."
Now to the "Relative" part. After boot camp I went to Memphis Tennessee. There was a Naval Air Station about 25 miles from Memphis, in Millington Tennessee. This was the Navy's Technical Training Center. Aviation Electronic Technician! That is what I was going to be. Nineteen weeks of electronic fundamentals and ten weeks of whatever your specialty was; mine was navigation.
It was I recall, May of nineteen sixty four. Our instructor, who likely had been in the Navy for six years, or so, was asking us about numbers. "Is one thousand a lot?" "Sure, one thousand is lot," I thought. "Is it a lot compared to ten million?" "Hmmmm, no it's not," my seventeen year old brain decided "How about compared to one?' "Yes, now it is a lot!" I was right after all! He explained that this is an important concept; being relative to what? In electronics you have little milli, micro and pico numbers. You have large and larger, kilo and mega numbers. This made a real impression on me--it has been part of me ever since. It is all relative!
In recent years I have had a lot of shoulder problems; both right and left. I had the left surgically repaired this past August. The right one needs to be done and is a constant source of pain. Back to the "relative" concept. Who ever is working with me at the time on my latest shoulder event; the Doctor, PA, Physical Therapist, all ask what is your pain number. Pain number? What is that? The reply is, "between 1 and 10, 10 being the worst pain you have ever had, what is your pain number?' I don't know why, but this really makes me crazy. What if I say 6, and it is really a 7; will they over prescribe my Percocets? "Try to be exact," they request. I will say, "It is about a seven point three six five." That doesn't cut it, they don't want decimals; nothing that exact! There is not a way to prescribe pain killers with that precision.
Temperature is also a relative issue. My wife will come home from walking the dog when it 5 below zero out. When she gets in the house she will say, "damn it is hot in here!" "Well honey, it is sixty four in here, and that is not hot--relative to outside, it feels hot, but it is not!" To this she tells me to keep my mumbo jumbo to myself and turn the heat down! ".........ah, it's not on!" I retort. This conversation is going nowhere fast and I am going to lose no matter what!
The point being, you may benefit from my experience without going to a Navy school; "it is all relative!" Relatively hot, cold; rich, poor; relatively stupid, really friggen stupid; stacked, not stacked; happy, sad; relatively tired of the bull shit; the long winter; bad TV; screwed up relationships; relatively bad breath, really bad breath ; and relatively reasonable co-pays!
....and if you can't stand it, move in with your relatives!
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