OK, so I think I might have mentioned that life in Georgia is just a little bit different than the San Francisco Bay Area, which is where I am from. Example 4,379: The profusion of camouflage clothing.
I’ve already noted the fact that you can find cars and trucks in Georgia sporting camouflage racing stripes (or even find whole trucks wrapped in camo). And it doesn’t stop at automotive detailing. You can’t swing a (insert your metaphor here) without hitting someone wearing camo something; a hat, a T-shirt, overalls, cocktail dress.
So, the other weekend I took the boy on a Cub Scout camping trip and after the kids went to bed, the parents sat around the campfire trading kid stories. One that was told went like this:
The father was sitting in his home office one day and heard a THWACK! THWACK! THAWCK! on the side of the house. He went outside, turned the corner and found his 10-year-old and 7-year-old driving golf balls off the side of the house.
Now, I guess I should say that the house in question is in the Sugarloaf Country Club, right on the golf course, and the yard sports several trees and a lot of shrubbery.
Stunned, he stood there watching as the boys each took another drive before he managed to unleash a primal “Hey!”
The kids stood stunned for a moment, frozen in abject fear. After a couple of beats, the older boy—who happened to be dress head-to-toe in camouflage—bolted into the greenery, disappearing from sight. The father turns to the younger boy, still frozen in his tracks, still in full backswing, and points to the house. The younger boy drops his club, and his chin, and heads into the house.
Now, to find the older kid, who is nowhere in sight. Try as he might, the father cannot find the kid, who has melted into the leaves and tall grass. Despite several warnings of dire consequences if he didn’t immediately emerge from the bush, the kid stayed hidden.
Knowing he’d come in when he got hungry, the father went inside the house, went into the boy’s room, threw open the closet and started putting every stitch of camo clothing into big, black garbage bags. The takeaway from this episode was the father’s realization of just how much camo this kid owned. When he was done, he had filled three of those big garbage bags, leaving the odd pair of jeans and a couple sweaters in a mostly empty closet.
Eventually, the kid came in out of the shrubbery and was resigned to hear that his clothing pattern of choice was vestitus non grata in that particular house for the foreseeable future.
My kid has one camo T-shirt, and I really have no idea where it came from. I guess we’re not assimilating fast enough.
And for those of you who love shrubbery, enjoy: