The Colonel celebrates completion of yet another air-breathing lap 'round ol' Sol today.
Well, celebrates is probably not the appropriate word.
More like acknowledges.
There was a time, far back in the halcyon days of his youth that the Colonel was of the fairly certain belief that he wouldn't live to see his 30th birthday.
He had no death wish, mind you. Nor even a paranoid sense of doom. Just a firm grasp on the statistics attached to his chosen profession.
So, perhaps the Colonel should be in more of a celebratory mood this morning. After all, his bones are not bleaching white on some forgotten battlefield.
Indeed, there is much to celebrate in the Colonel's life.
Please indulge the Colonel as he devotes a few of the rapidly diminishing cognitive cells lodged in forgotten corners of his cavernous cranium to an accounting of reasons for celebration.
There's strong hot coffee in his mug. That, in and of itself, is a situation that brings cheer to the Colonel when little else does.
He has a chair in which to sit while he composes this post for the perusing pleasure of the three dozen of you who will stumble across it in error. There have been a lot of times in the Colonel's life when a chair was luxury.
There's a roof over his head. It ain't canvass.
The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda is within physical reach. At some point this morning, she will stir from her unneeded beauty sleep and tell the Colonel how much she loves him. That is a very good thing.
The sun is rising over the Colonel's vast holdings here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere. Want to know the best thing about this patch of Mississippi? It's the Colonel's.
The Republic still stands. Despite the best efforts of those who would fundamentally transform it into something far less than the "patriots' dream."
God is still in control of the fires burning at the heart of every star in the Universe and every calorie burning in the Colonel's core.
Yep, much to celebrate.