Old Socks

I have enough clothes to go at least two weeks before I have to do laundry.

I have a large drawer full of socks and underwear. On socks alone, I could probably go a month, but certain socks have specific purposes. I have my everyday socks, my winter socks, and ankle socks, for when I wear shorts or am on my bike.

Same with t-shirts. I could easily go a month before I ran out of them. Pants are another matter, because depending on my level of activity, I can wear the same pants for several days, so I have enough pairs to go at least a month.

I know that I'm running low on underwear when I get down to the four pairs of travel undies, which are lightweight and are able to hang dry in less than a day. I brought them with me to Peru and was laughing for 16 days: I'd wear a pair, wash a pair and hang them up to dry, and still have two back-up pairs available, just in case the humidity levels slowed down the drying time or I had an emergency.

At this time of year, I know that I'm desperate for socks—everyday socks, not the winter or ankle socks—when I get to the back of the drawer and pull out a black pair of old, polyester socks.

I dislike these socks and try to keep my laundry up to date so that I don't have to wear them. They're hot and make my feet sweat, and I pride myself on having feet that don't stink.

Well, on Monday, I realized that I had run out of socks as I got dressed and pulled out these old socks. And when I put them on, I noticed a tiny hole under the big toe on my right foot.

Because they were the only 'normal' socks that I had and because it was too warm to be putting on winter socks, I kept them on but told myself that this would be the last time I wore them. Like a pair of the cotton Tommy Hilfiger socks that had also developed a hole near the heel, last week, I'd be throwing this pair out.

When I realized that I was finally getting rid of these socks, I started thinking about when I had originally acquired them. I know I wouldn't have bought them myself because I don't like polyester as a rule, and especially not for my feet.

The socks were a simple black with a vertical ribbing that helped keep them up. Practical but as basic as they come.

And then the memory of getting them hit me like a ton of bricks.

In my youth, I had enlisted in the Canadian Armed Services with my best friend, Stuart. We were going to be weekend warriors, in the militia. We trained on Thursday evenings and on weekends at the drill hall near city hall, and during the summer we would be spending time at the base in Petawawa.

We were in the Cameron Highlanders, a proud outfit with strong Scottish roots. As part of our kit, we were issued a kilt, tam-o'-shanter, and special knee-high socks for when we wore the kilt. We also had green fatigues that we wore most of the time.

I wrote about my kilt in another blog post many years ago.

As part of our dress kit, we were provided with several pairs of socks, which we had to wear as part of our uniform. They were basic-black polyester socks.

The same pair that I wore this week. Folks, this pair of socks is 43 years old. I've had them since I was 17.

I mustered out of the Cameron Highlanders a few weeks after joining, after breaking my leg while playing soccer at school, just a week before we were going to be let out for the summer. I had to return all of my kit but was told to keep the socks. Understandably, they wouldn't be reused.

I kept the socks with my others, only wearing them when I dressed for occasions such as weddings and funerals. I had better socks for when I worked in sales and at a bank, but the military-issued socks would come out every once in a while.

Over the decades, they would eventually wear a hole and be discarded. But because I had enough socks that I would wear regularly, the last pair of these black socks stayed tucked away at the back of my sock drawer, pulled out only when I was desperate for socks and hadn't done laundry in a while.

On Monday night, I took the socks off and took a final photo of them before chucking them out. After 43 years, the last evidence that I had been a soldier—albeit for only a month—was gone.

Of course, I still had the photos that my mom snapped.

Happy Thursday!

Regimental

It was the summer job that wasn't.

When I was 17, my best friend, Stuart, and I decided that for a summer job, we would join the militia, where we would learn valuable skills, such as discipline, and we'd also get in shape, so as to get the attention of the ladies.

And, we'd learn how to kill.

(I used to tell people that when I grew up, I was going to be an assassin: the militia was my gateway.)

Stu joined the Cameron Highlanders and a couple of months later, I joined him. Sadly, because we didn't enlist at the same time, we were placed in different groups. We would have to learn how to kill, separately.

In following Stuart, however, I learned some of the rules of the military ahead of my group, because Stuart went to the drill hall on one night early in the week and I would go on another, a couple of days later, and Stu would tell me what he learned.

It was almost like getting cheat sheets to an exam from a buddy who had already written it.

Because we were with the Cameron Highlanders, our company followed Scottish military traditions, including the wearing of kilts. We would wear a traditional green shirt of the Canadian Army, but instead of slacks, a tartan kilt and Tam o' Shanter with Saint Christopher distinguished us from the company that shared space in the drill hall, the Governor General's Foot Guards.

Anybody who knows anything about Scottish tradition knows that a Scotsman wears nothing under his kilt. I knew this, but Stuart also taught me that if anyone was suspected of wearing undergarments, he could be challenged.

A challenge meant that the accused must raise his kilt up high, thereby revealling whether he was regimental or not. If he wasn't, if he wore anything under his kilt, he must buy everyone in attendance a round of beer in the mess hall. However, if the accused raises his kilt and it is discovered that he is, in fact, regimental, the challenger had to buy the round of beer.

Whenever I was in my kilt, I was regimental. Those suckers are thick, and hot, and you don't want your boys overheating.

One weekend at the drill hall, my group lined up for inspection, where our commanding officer made sure our tams sat properly on our heads, our boots shone, and that our shirts were tucked properly into our kilts, and didn't bunch up at the waist. Our commander taught us that if we needed to tuck our shirts in, the best way to do it was to reach under the kilt and tug the bottom of the shirt down.

I remember this, because we had a few women in our group, and whenever we had to tuck in our shirts, the women would lean so they could try to catch a glimpse at what else may hang underneath.

The women, however, were allowed underwear with their kilts and could never be challenged.

On our lunch break, we all went to the mess hall to eat and have a beer. Even though we were under-aged, we were allowed to purchase beer in the mess hall: when we were receiving a promotion, we were allowed, and even encouraged, to get shit-faced.

I ate my sandwich and sipped my bottle of Blue at a sofa, sitting next to the newest recruit to the group. William Bennett was tall and skinny, with dark hair and a freckled face, and was not the sharpest took in the chest. Our Master Corporal was always chewing him out for some misdeed, and enjoyed making him do pushups in the parade square.

Bennett sat on the sofa with his feet planted on the coffee table, his knees far apart. It was an unsightly position to be sitting in, and our Master Corporal came up to admonish Bennett, when, instead, he yelled, "Private Bennett, I challenge you!"

Bennett had no idea what our commanding officer meant, but thought it had to do with his feet on the table, and so he moved them onto the floor. But that didn't stop the Master Corporal.

"No, you stupid shit, I challenge you."

The ladies gathered around. The other men laughed, knowing what was to come. I, having been warned by Stuart, also knew that I had a free beer coming to me, and so I joined in the laughter.

And that got the Master Corporal's attention. "You too, Brown. You're probably just like him. I challenge you, too."

"Master Corporal, with all due respect, no. I assure you, I'm regimental."

Bennett told the Master Corporal that he didn't know what he was being asked, and was met with, "Like this," and with a flaunting raising of his own kilt, our commanding officer showed all who looked that he was absolutely regimental. "Show us what's under your kilt, Private Bennett. If you're not swinging like I am, you owe everyone in the mess a beer."

Reluctantly, Bennett's kilt went up, revealling not only underwear but a pair of gym shorts.

"Now you, Private Brown."

I received two free bottles of Blue during that lunch break.

My time with the Cameron Highlanders would be short-lived. I enlisted at the beginning of June, but by the end of the month, I was gone. Just a few, short days before school was out for the summer, I broke my leg, playing soccer. The doctor ordered me in a full-length cast for 12 weeks.

The evening before my accident, I had learned how to field-strip an assault rifle. I was the fastest at it in my group: in drills, we would lie on the ground with our weapon, at one end of the hall, on the far end from another soldier with a similar rifle. When our Master Corporal blew a whistle, we had to fully dismantle our weapon and then run towards our opposite partner, whose weapon would be also dismantled by then.

We then had to reassemble our partner's weapon as fast as we could and test the weapon by firing it (no bullets) at the partner. We stood up when we heard the firing pin click.

I was the first to my feet. My career as an assassin was taking shape.

Until the following day, when I broke my leg and had to quit the Cameron Highlanders.

Stuart had a great summer: he fired a machine gun. He threw grenades. And he was never challenged, though he would have passed, had he been called upon to prove himself.