Call of the Rain Crow

This summer the Colonel and his father -- the wise and strong-hearted Mister Vernon -- have fallen into a comfortable routine, spending more time with each other in the past year than in all of the previous fifty combined.  As he reflects on the last fourteen months that the passing of his mother made him his father's closest family, the Colonel realizes the enormity of the loss that those fifty years represent.  He is amazed at all that he has learned.

Several times a week, Mister Vernon drives the short distance from his home on the outskirts of Oxford, Mississippi to the Colonel's vast holdings at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere, and he and the Colonel sit over strong coffee and talk.

The Colonel has many gaps in his knowledge of his parents' history.  They were always very private people. But the reality is whenever he was with them, the Colonel was shamefully more interested in telling them what he was up to than in asking about their lives.

The Colonel is a bore.

He'd much rather educate than learn, more often than not.

His loss.

This year, however, he has learned to ask questions.  Dad's answers have wondrously filled massive gaps in the Colonel's understanding.

As has been their custom this summer, coffee time has been shared in the shade of a small pavilion in the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's gardens behind the Big House.  The ostensible reason is to watch the antics of the dozens of ruby-throated hummingbirds attracted to feeders into which a small fortune of sugar is poured daily.  The Colonel's ulterior motive is to get his father talking.

Mister Vernon is normally a quiet man.  He reminds the Colonel of the character played by John Wayne in the movie by that name.  So, it takes some gentle probing to stir the memories stored in his ninety-year-old mind.  He's still sharp, and once he starts, the details are amazing.  

The two old men have covered the waterfront.  The Colonel has learned about his dad's life from earliest memories living with his Methodist preacher grandfather in Tunica, Mississippi to exploits in Vietnam.  

The two old men share a love for wildlife, and spend much time discussing the changes in deer, quail, and duck populations over the years.  Mister Vernon's insights into reasons for declines would make game biologists slap their foreheads. 

The other day, a quail whistled nearby as they sipped their coffee.  

"That's the first bobwhite I've heard in several years," the Colonel observed.

Dad took the bait, "When I was a kid, you couldn't walk anywhere without jumping a covey."  Memories connected to flushes flowed behind.  Then, quiet sips of coffee.

A bird called from the pine and brush ringing Miss Brenda's gardens.  It was a low whooping, like water dripping in a well.  The Colonel has wondered for years what bird makes that sound.

"Dad," the Colonel asked. "What is that bird?"

"Rain crow," was the quick answer.

"C'mon, Dad! You just made that up!"

"It's a rain crow."  Dad didn't offer anything else.  Sometimes he does that to make the Colonel ask more stupid questions.

While his father sipped his coffee and studied hummers, the Colonel surreptitiously fished his smart phone from his pocket and thumbed in a search.  

"Rain crow" is colloquial for the yellow-billed cuckoo, Google told him.  The Colonel told his dad.

"Could have told you that.  Ever seen one?"

"Yessir.  Had one fly into a window several years ago."

"They're real shy," Dad offered.  "You won't see 'em in the woods.  But, you'll hear 'em when the weather is hot and humid.  Means it's likely to rain."  

Raining this morning.  The rain crow called it.  

There's been a lot rain in the Colonel's life lately.  The rain crow's call has been nearly omnipresent.

But, a good rain clears the air.  The bad stuff washes out.

Keep callin', rain crow.   

  

          

 

The Colonel's Cabin on Lake Brenda

The Colonel is building a cabin.

As he, and several of his immediate family and not-so-immediate friends, have toiled on the project for the past several months, said project has been identified, mostly by the Colonel, as "The Colonel's Cabin on Lake Brenda."

The name is, frankly, meant more as irritant than identifier.

The Colonel's winsome bride -- the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda -- takes issue with the name.  Honestly, she takes issue with the entire project.  Several months ago, she caught the Colonel drawing up plans on his project clipboard.

"What are you working on now, Knucklehead?" The Colonel could tell that Miss Brenda was genuinely excited about the Colonel's newest building plans, because she was standing with her hands on her hips and scowling at the Colonel in that loving way she always disguises her excitement over the Colonel's newest building plans. 

"The Colonel is planning on building a cabin down on Lake Brenda," the Colonel answered, not looking up from his architectural labors.

"I wish you wouldn't do that," Miss Brenda intoned in her special way of disguising her excitement over another of the Colonel's unending building projects -- you know: hands on hips, scowl. 

"But," the Colonel responded, "what else am I going to do with all that lumber in the solar kiln?"

"That's not what I'm talking about, Knucklehead.  I wish you wouldn't refer to yourself as 'the Colonel.'  It's like fingernails on a chalkboard every time I hear it."  

"Oh, Sweetie!  The Colonel just adores the way you lovingly disguise your true feelings.  You are SO funny!"

"Okay, Knucklehead.  Whatever.  Now, what is it you're planning on building?"

"Gonna build a cabin on Lake Brenda."

"I really wish you wouldn't do that."

"Why not?  It'll be fun. Besides, there's a couple dozen logs at the sawmill waiting to be cut and there's no room left in the solar kiln.  Gotta do something with the lumber."

"That's not what I'm talking about.  I don't think you can seriously call that mud puddle down there a 'lake.' And, I'm not too keen on it being named after me."

"Well, 'Lake Brenda' wasn't the Colonel's first choice, either.  But, you didn't like it when I tried to call it 'Colonel Rebel's Reservoir.'  And, you refused to let me call the dam 'the Colonel's Causeway.'"

"Whatever.  Just don't refer to that scum-covered waterhole as 'Lake Brenda' in public.  It's hard enough holding my head up in town after the Memorial Day speech you gave last year.  You're lucky you haven't been sued for slander."

"What part of the speech was 'slanderous'?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe when you called the Mayor a 'woke revisionist'."

"Well, she is!"

"You are incorrigible!"

The Colonel was stunned by the word.  "Wow!  Great vocabulary word, Sweetthing! And, not only did you use it correctly in a sentence, but you also correctly identified the Colonel's greatest character trait."

"Well," Miss Brenda replied, "let's not get on to the subject of your character.  I don't have my Funk and Wagnull handy."   

"Wow!," the Colonel exclaimed.  "You are on fire!  A great vocabulary word and a 'Laugh-In' reference!  Oh, how I do love our witty repartee!"

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. You know you love it, too."      

"No.  Thank you for not referring to yourself as 'the Colonel.'"  

"Oh. Pardon the Colonel for his lingual lapse."

The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda let out a long, low sigh in that way she feigns exasperation with the Colonel, when he knows she is really just disguising her inexpressible love and admiration. 

"Well," she asked finally, having exhausted her feigned exasperation disguising her inexpressible love and admiration, "why do you need a cabin?

"Need?  The Colonel doesn't 'need' anything.  He just wants to build a cabin."

"Well, Knucklehead, your cabin is going to need a bed.      

 

The REAL Volunteer State

Some of the Colonel's early Mississippi ancestors settled in a corner of what is now Chickasaw County, over 150 years ago.  The now-unincorporated community is called Buena Vista.  And, it is just about as remote as any like spot in the Magnolia State.  

The Colonel's knows a bit about remote.  He's been to some pretty far- flung and isolated corners of this big blue marble.  His own vast holdings here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere vie for inclusion on that list.

But, that's not even remotely germane to the topic of this post.

What is important, and is the record-correcting nature of this missive, is the fact that one particular state, which will go un-named (but whose name is spelled with a collection of double consonants and replicated vowels) lays claim to the moniker "Volunteer State" as if it's the best or only example of crisis volunteerism.

The Colonel would like to propose that another state whose name is spelled with a collection of double consonants and replicated vowels is in fact just as, if not more, deserving of recognition for its historic volunteers.

(For the LSU and Bama grads struggling to keep up, the Colonel's paragraphs above refer to the states: Tennessee and Mississippi.)  

And now, the history lesson:

In 1836, Texas won its independence from Mexico after a sharp little fight on the banks of the San Jacinto River.  Over the next decade, the Mexican government continued to contest the boundary separating their country and Texas.  Once Texas was admitted to the Union, the United States claimed the Rio Grande River as the international boundary; Mexico claimed the Nueces River further to the north and east as the limit to their territory.

By 1846, the disagreement over the international boundary had degenerated into a series of escalating military clashes between the U.S. and Mexico.  President Polk -- in the Colonel's not so humble estimation, the greatest U.S. President of the 19th Century (don't take his word for it; look up Polk's accomplishments, in just one term, and decide for yourself) -- stationed half of the U.S. Army's regular troops, some 3,600 men, on the Rio Grande to defend the U.S. claim.  Mexico answered this provocation with force, killing American soldiers in a couple of forays north of the Rio Grande.  

The die was cast.

President Polk asked congress to declare war with Mexico and requested that 50,000 volunteers be called into service for a twelve-month enlistment to augment the small regular army for what was expected to be a quick defeat of the Mexican army in order to force Mexico's acceptance of the Rio Grande border.  

When the call went out for Mississippi volunteers, 17000 (seventeen thousand!) men descended on the Mississippi River port of Vicksburg to enlist.  To put that number in perspective, the free male population of Mississippi at the time was less than 100,000.  In other words, one in every six men in Mississippi volunteered to fight for the United States against Mexico. Factor out the older and physically unable and the ratio is nearer to one out of every three.  

Great.  The rest of you states can send your young men home.  Mississippi will lick Mexico all by itself.

But, the U.S. War Department said that Mississippi was limited to only one 1000-man regiment.  So, a competition of sorts was held in Vicksburg for a couple of weeks, at the end of which one of the finest bodies of American volunteers to ever assemble for combat stood up as the Mississippi Rifles -- so named because they were primarily armed with highly accurate rifled weapons vice the regular Army's and other volunteer state regiments' smooth bore muskets.

According to the custom of the day, most militia's and volunteer units chose their own officers by ballot.  West Point graduate and Mississippi congressman Jefferson Davis was elected commanding officer of the Mississippi regiment.  Davis had been reluctant to vote for war with Mexico, but when he went to war at the head of the Mississippi Rifles he did so without hesitation.

General Zachary Taylor, previously in command of the 3600 regular troops in the area between the Nueces and the Rio Grande, saw his force swell by 3X with the arrival of the volunteer regiments, and he was particularly pleased with the addition of the Mississippi Rifles (commanded by his son-in-law, Davis) to his command.  Once Taylor's force was assembled and equipped to his satisfaction, he marched south into Mexico intending to strike deep and bring the bulk of the Mexican army to a climatic battle.

The Mexican army had other plans.

Astride Taylor's route of march south lay the city of Monterrey with a formidable citadel commanding its approach.  Taylor did not have the resources to mount a lengthy siege, so he endeavored to weaken and reduce the defense of Monterrey through a series of attacks too complicated to tell here.  But, the garrison of Monterrey eventually surrendered the town -- the Mississippi Rifles playing key roles in many of the Monterrey engagements.

Remember, the town of Buena Vista, Mississippi the Colonel mentioned earlier? Well, it wasn't called Buena Vista when it was first incorporated.  In fact, news of Taylor's victory at Monterrey (the first capture of a major foreign city in U.S. history to that point) and the Mississippi Rifle's heroics arrived back home coincident with the incorporation of the little town in remote Chickasaw County and the founders named their new town Monterrey in commemoration.

Key to the surrender of Monterrey was General Taylor's offer of a two month armistice in return.  This allowed the Mexican defenders to evacuate Monterrey relatively intact and to join with a larger Mexican force assembling to the south.  President Polk was not happy with Taylor's decision, told him to hold at Monterrey, and sent a force under General Winfield Scott to land on the central Mexican coast at Vera Cruz and advance west on Mexico City.

In the meantime, Santa Anna (who had recently been allowed to return to Mexico under the pretense that he would help negotiate a settlement of the boundary dispute) prepared to retake Monterrey.  By the middle of February, 1847 he had assembled a force of nearly 20,000 men, albeit not as well armed and equipped as the much smaller American force.  That the date on which Santa Anna began his attack coincided with George Washington's birthday became a point around which the Americans took offense and they rallied in defense of their positions south of Monterrey at a narrow pass near the hacienda Buena Vista.  The fight that followed was a desperate one for the Americans.  Outnumbered and on several occasions outflanked by the Mexican troops, several volunteer elements of Taylor's force melted away under the onslaught.  Into one particularly dangerous breach in his lines, Taylor committed his reserve -- the Mississippi Rifles.  Colonel Davis's exhortation to his regiment, "Stand fast, Mississippians!," remains to this day the motto of the U.S. Army National Guard's 155th Regiment, of which the Mississippi Rifles was the forerunner.    

The Mississippians stood fast.  Taylor held Monterrey.  Winfield Scott later took Mexico City.  The rest is history for another blog post.

Remember the newly incorporated town of Monterrey, Mississippi?  When news of the Mississippi Rifles' stand at Buena Vista reached home, Monterrey, Mississippi was shortly thereafter renamed...

Buena Vista, Mississippi.  

The Colonel's great grandfather, Methodist minister, and namesake, Thomas Edwin Gregory, was born in Buena Vista, Mississippi 35 years later.

The Colonel wonders whether the Reverend ever knew the significance of his birthplace's name.   

The Colonel also wonders why Mississippi is not the "Volunteer State."                                        

The Great Shagginess

The Colonel hasn't been out in public much lately, but current photographic evidence perused on social media indicates that it has gotten a little shaggy out there.  

The Chicom Cold has shuttered our barber shops, and we've become so starved for any novel stimulation, intellectual or not, that head hygiene and grooming experimentation has become a widespread epidemic...

...too soon?

    

And..., the Colonel has to admit... he's become part of The Great Shagginess.  

There once was a time that the Colonel's haircut motto was "once a week, whether needed or not."  In fact, early in his career as a ruggedly handsome soldier of the sea, he bought a set of electric hair clippers and began cutting his own hair (or, at least what was left of it due to early onset follicle failure) every Monday morning shortly after reveille.  Set on the lowest level, the Colonel's clippers cropped his blond mane so tightly against his shiny grape that on sunny days he was occasionally buzzed by search and rescue helicopters.   

That $20 investment paid for itself in the first month.  The Colonel has been plowing the savings on barber shop visits (and comb purchases) back into his gunpowder addiction ever since.  He hasn't counted either recently, but the Colonel is relatively certain that the number of hairs left on the top of his brain housing group are greatly outnumbered by the lead launchers in his gun safe.

It occurred to the Colonel the other day that he had the wherewithal to be of service to his fellow man and do his part to fight back against the scourge of The Great Shagginess.

The Colonel's best friend -- the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda -- came looking for the Colonel the other day,

"There you are, knucklehead," she cooed, finally finding the Colonel sitting in a chair at the end of the long drive winding from the Big House down to the county road.

(Some may think her tone was more condescending that coo, but most don't know the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda like the Colonel does.  One man's condescension is another man's coo.)

"What are you doing?  And, why do you have your generator down here."

"Silly dear," the Colonel cooed (the Colonel doesn't dare condescend to the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda), "they won't run without electricity."

"What won't run?"

"These," the Colonel answered, holding his hair clippers aloft in his palms as if presenting an offering to the gods of shorndom.  

"Your hair clippers?  You haven't touched those in over two months?  Why are you cutting your hair down here at the road?"

"The Colonel is not cutting his own hair, dear."

"Well, why not?  You're starting to look like you just staggered down out of the mountains at the end of a long winter."

The Colonel ignored the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's lack of geographic knowledge -- there's not a mountain anywhere near staggering distance from his vast land holdings here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere.  Instead, he addressed her query regarding his operational pause in the grooming standards attack, 

"Haven't had a reason to get a haircut or shave, lately.  You know the Colonel only shaves when he goes to church, and we haven't been allowed to meet in person for the past two months, so..."

The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda stood in front of her man with her arms crossed in that endearing way that the Colonel knows means that she's trying very hard to fathom the depths to which her love for him dives.

"I'm trying very hard to remember why I love you," she stated in the matter of fact way she reserves for the moments when she attempts to control her emotions.

The Colonel was beginning to grow uncomfortable with his bride's struggle to find the right words to express her love and admiration for her man, "That's okay, dear.  The Colonel knows you love him.  But, as important as that is to you at this moment, there is a much more important mission on tap."

The Colonel stood and gestured to the scrap of plywood propped up by a feed bucket at his feet.  In the Colonel's practiced military all-caps he had printed,

FREE HAIRCUTS

The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda looked at the sign and then back at the Colonel.  The light in her eyes dimmed ever so slightly as if something in the very depths of her soul had just been placed on life support.  She uncrossed her arms and let them fall to her sides in the dainty way that the Colonel knows means she is surrendering to his superior logic and intellect.

"Knucklehead, you aren't a barber.  You can't give haircuts without a license."

The Colonel raised his right index finger in his time-worn signal that he is about to achieve and maintain argument superiority, "Don't need a license -- ain't chargin' nothin'.  Besides, it's a free country."    



       

Pandemic Precedence

The Colonel and the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda are hunkered down in social isolation on the Colonel's vast land holdings here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere.

The current pandemic has nothing to do with that.

They've been "isolated" for 13 years.

Egeebeegee, the unincorporated capital of the Tallahatchie Republic (a virtual government founded tongue-in-cheek and hand-on-wallet), was established here in North Central Mississippi in March of 2007.  The Colonel and his bride were looking for a place to put down roots after wandering rootless for the first half century of their lives.  They found it quite by accident.  A turn down a lonely narrow road led them to a piece of land that immediately felt like home.  Nowhere else on the globe had felt like that in the previous half century. 

The road on which Egeebeegee perches is not a thoroughfare to or from anywhere.  From his rocking chair on the front porch of the Big House, the Colonel might count no more than a half-dozen vehicles passing by on a hours long afternoon rock.  Rush hour is two pickups, a tractor, and a four-wheeler in a two hour stretch.

With the foregoing as preamble, the Colonel is acutely aware that he is one of the most fortunate men on the planet.  "Quarantine" ain't a hardship for him.

The rest of humanity has the Colonel's sympathy. This viral pandemic is going to be hard on the rest of you.

But..., the Colonel promises you, our nation will weather this storm.

Let's put it in perspective, shall we?

The seminal event of the lives of those alive at the beginning of the last century was the First World War.  Initially confined primarily to European treaty entanglements, that war quickly spun out of control and then collapsed into a trench-work black hole that drew the rest of the world into its gravity well.  By the time the United States joined the fight in earnest, the cream of a European generation had been lost in three years of horror.  

The United States sent a three-million man expeditionary force to France; more than triple the deployment of forces in the Desert Storm drive-by, and far, far larger still than any deployment of force since 9/11.     

And then, when the horror and sacrifice seemed it could plumb no further depths, a particularly virulent strain of influenza broke out.

Historians call it the "Spanish Flu," but it didn't originate in Spain.  It just so happened that the only nation that didn't censure news of the epidemic, that manifested itself with the most prevalence on the battlefield, was Spain; and because the Spanish press was the primary reportage of the outbreak, the virus became the "Spanish Flu."

Many historians and epidemiologists now believe the virus took hold originally in crowded Army camps in the United States and then was transported by American soldiers to the trenches in France.  

Much is being made about the fact that there is "much we don't know yet" about the current virus -- COVID-19 (COrona VIrus strain D -- first identified in 2019).  Even though we are indeed playing catch-up in our attempts to contain, treat, and immunize against COVID-19, we are light years ahead of where the world was in 1918 dealing with the Spanish Flu pandemic.

First of all, medical science in 1918 did not know what caused influenza.  It was still believed to be a bacterial -- vice viral -- infection.

In fact, in 1918, scientists had only just identified a bacterial infection in the lungs of influenza victims that they attributed as the cause of the disease.  It wasn't until just before World War Two, that the virus that causes the flu was identified.  For centuries prior to the Twentieth Century, the accepted science was that influenza was caused by the influence of things other than germs -- the word "influenza" is Italian for "influence," because Renaissance scientists attributed outbreaks of the disease to the influence of astronomical events such as alignment of planets.    

The Colonel kids thee not.

The particularly virulent strain of influenza that swept the world -- by definition, a pandemic -- in 1918/1919 killed tens of millions across the globe.  The official death toll in the United States was 650 thousand.  When you consider the decentralized nature, and lack of uniformity in reporting and record-keeping 100 years ago, the actual mortality numbers are likely much higher. 

The population of the United States in 1918 was just north of 100 million souls.  It is now north of 330 million.  The Colonel will allow you to do the math...  

The Colonel's intent is not to scare or incite panic.  Panic, although understandable, is unreasonable.  

There is ample reason for reason.

We are in so much better of a position to fight and defeat COVID-19 (early stumbles and bumbles in testing notwithstanding) than we have ever been in any other viral outbreak.  The speed at which we have been able to isolate and discern the make-up of this virus (thanks to super-computers) is, to use a word far too much in use today, unprecedented.  

To our Federal government's credit, it has engaged the incredible resources and capabilities of the commercial sector, and gotten out of their way.      

To be sure, this is a generation-defining crisis; much more so than the misnamed and fecklessly fought (strategically) "Global War on Terror."  The past two decades have been a walk in the park for the vast majority of Americans -- even given the economic hardships suffered during so-called "Great Recession."  Only a fraction of a percent of the American population has had to make any serious sacrifice over the last twenty years.

Get ready to sacrifice, America.

Sacrifice builds character. We will come out of this stronger.

If nothing else, this will help us to identify those on whom we can count (and not count) in a future real, existential, crisis.    
        

Viral Vicissitudes

The Colonel, ever attentive to his vast and slightly less than onerous duties as chief executive for life of the Tallahatchie Republic -- a semi-autonomous virtual republic established tongue-in-cheek and hand-on-wallet -- headquartered aboard (but not necessarily limited to) the Colonel's vast land holdings here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere, has been keeping a close eye on the latest viral pandemic.

Loathe to add any restrictions to the personal liberties of citizens, temporary residents, and invited visitors beyond those which currently fit -- handwritten with a partially eaten crayon -- on a post it note, the Colonel would be remiss in his slightly less than onerous duties if he were to not make adjustments appropriate to the health threat posed by the Wuhan Virus.

Last evening, at an emergency session of the Congress of the Tallahatchie Republic, the Colonel addressed the assembled citizenry and announced temporary preventive measures to be instituted immediately:

"My fellow citizens, the Wuhan Virus threat to the health and well-being of all who call the physical headquarters of the virtual Tallahatchie Republic home cannot be ignored.  There is no need for panic -- the Colonel is in charge here and remains vigilant to any and all threats to your security.  We will, however, need to make a few changes to our standing operating procedures."

"First of all, we must begin to practice 'social distancing..."

The Colonel's best friend and second most important TR citizen -- the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda -- slammed her needle-point down on the couch beside her (the action that often signals her desire to participate in the debates of state), "Social distancing?!?  Knucklehead, what are you rambling on about now?  And why are you swinging that stick around."

"The Colonel never rambles!," the Colonel retorted.  "He may pontificate.  He may lecture.  He may even occasionally offer extended correctional criticism.  But, the Colonel never..."

"Just stawwwp!," the Colonel's bride obviously needed no further explanation. 

"Stop what, dear?"

"Stop referring to yourself in the third person and stop swinging that stick around.  If you put a scratch on my piano, you're gonna be in deep stink!"

"It's not a 'stick'."

"What?"

"It's not a 'stick'.  It's the Colonel's treasured walking cane procured at great personal risk from the deep interior of the snake-infested  cane brake back at the far reaches of the Colonel's vast land holdings here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere."

"It's a stick.  And if you don't stop swinging it around, I'm gonna snatch it from you and break it over my knee."

The Colonel recoiled in horror, clutching his treasured walking cane to his formerly robust chest.  "You wouldn't dare!"

"Oh, I dare, Knucklehead, I dare. Put the stick down, now!"

The Colonel stood clutching his treasured walking cane to his formerly robust chest and considered his options.  

"What is wrong with you, now, Knucklehead? If you keep biting your tongue and crossing your eyes like that I'm gonna have you admitted."

"I'm considering my options."

"Well, stop it.  You look ridiculous.  Even more ridiculous than usual."

The Colonel slowly relaxed his tensed posture, uncrossed his eyes, and assumed the position of parade rest. "Maey tha Koernal pleath esplane..."

The Colonel remembered he was still biting his tongue.  

"The Colonel is using his treasured walking cane to describe the arc of distance at which citizens, temporary residents, and invited visitors must remain from each other in order to significantly reduce the communication of the Wuhan Virus.  Each citizen, temporary resident, and invited visitor will be issued a replica of the Colonel's treasured walking cane with which they will maintain social distancing." 

Because the Colonel had ceased describing the arc of social distance with his treasured walking cane, and therefore ceased to present a clear danger to her treasured piano, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda returned her attention to her needle point.

The Colonel resumed his address.

"In addition to social distancing, citizens, temporary residents, and invited visitors will vigorously wash their hands and feet at least hourly."

"Feet?"  The comely and kind-hearted looked up from her needle-point and fixed her loving gaze quizzically upon the Colonel.

(Well, most people wouldn't recognize it as a "loving gaze," but the Colonel sees it a lot, and knows that the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda loves him a lot, so...)

"Yes, you heard that right.  Feet will be washed hourly, at the top of each hour.  And, since the Colonel's infantry-ravaged back no longer allows him to reach his own feet...,"  the Colonel paused and looked expectantly at his loving bride.

"Dream on, Knucklehead," the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda didn't even look up from her needle point.  "I wouldn't touch your nasty feet with your stupid stick."

The Colonel detected that the natives were getting a bit restless and began to wrap up his address on Wuhan Virus emergency measures.

"It's not a 'stick.'  It's the Colonel's treasured...  Never mind.  The last change to our standing operating procedures regards restrictions to travel to and from the physical headquarters of our virtual republic.  Effective immediately, and until further notice, all travelers from the Colonel's vast land holdings here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere will prepare by washing hands and feet..."

The Colonel paused to judge the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's reaction.

"Dream on, Knucklehead," the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda said without looking up from her needle point.

The Colonel pressed on, "Travelers will also carry a replica of the Colonel's stick... err..., he means treasured walking cane, with which they will maintain an effective social distance from others."

The Colonel closed his address by assuming the Tallatchie Republic salute stance -- a modified position of attention with tongue planted firmly in cheek and right hand clutching wallet in right rear pocket.

The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda registered her overwhelming approval of the Colonel and his outstanding leadership with her customary head shake and well-worn term of endearment,

"Knucklehead."          


        
                                 

Height Supremacy

It always surprises the Colonel when he hears complaints about white "supremacy" and the actions of supposed white "supremacists."

He for dang sure ain't never known or seen one in action.  Not during his career in the Marines, nor during his retirement here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere. 

But, the Colonel can testify for hours on end about the egregious endeavors of countless height supremacists.   

That's right.  You know who you are.  You and your not-so clever jabs and nicknames thinly disguising your bias toward someone of lesser physical stature.

You didn't think you were height supremacists, but your words spoke volumes.  Consider the following not all-inclusive sampling of nicknames the Colonel lived with -- and he's not making one of them up.   

"Short round."

"Inky-dink."

"Half-pint."

"The Fly."  Well, that one may have been hung on him by the members of his first rifle platoon because (and the Colonel quotes),  "The Lieutenant eats (barnyard excrement) and bothers people."

"Guilder."  You know, because the Colonel could have been a member of the munchkin lollipop guild. 

"Mini-me." 

"Small-fry."

"SU."  Pronounced "sue" -- acronym for "short and unimpressive."  Actually hung on the Colonel by a boss.  That boss was projecting a bit -- he towered over the Colonel by no more than an eighth of an inch.  The Colonel supposes height supremacy knows no altitude limits. 

"Edapolian."  Hung on the Colonel by his seminar group at the Air Command and Staff College, supposedly for his views on imperialism and territorial expansion.  Not so bad, you say.  They could have picked a taller imperialist...; say, Genghis or Attila.  Frankly, if you're gonna hang a height supremacist moniker on the Colonel for his unabashed imperialism, he would much prefer a nod to the great (and quite diminutive) James K. Polk whose nickname, "Little Hickory," would be far more preferable.  (Then again, Polk's other nickname -- from his campaigning -- was "Napoleon of the Stump," so...)  

"Little Doug."   The Colonel shares Douglas MacArthur's birthday -- January 26--  and the latter's penchant for dramatics.

"Pup."

"Knee-high."

The Colonel could go on -- his list of growth-impaired grievances is long -- but, you get the picture.

Or, maybe you don't.  Maybe you secretly harbor your height supremacists views.  Maybe you think there ought to be a separate world for those of us whose existence below your sight plane pose a dangerous trip hazard.

Or, maybe..., you aren't a mere height supremacist at all.  Maybe you're just an out and out heightist -- someone who views all of us below your sight plane as (no pun intended) beneath you.

Someone just not as capable as you.

Someone whose outward genetic appearance prompts your disdain.

Whatever, dude.

That's your problem.

It was never the Colonel's.  In the long-run, it didn't stop him.

The Marines don't grant honorary colonelcys. 


Now, if you will excuse His not-so Highness, the Colonel has some trouser legs to hem up...      



   

Confessions of a Carbaholic

The Colonel has a confession to make public.  The guilt of his transgression is growing inside of him like an alien in Sigourney Weaver's belly and he has to fess up early, or later give unnatural birth to a monstrous scandal.

The Colonel had a chocolate chip cookie for dessert last night. 

There! 

Whew!

The Colonel can feel the beast dying inside, dissolving in the second mug of black coffee-induced gastric juices flooding past the check valve missing since his cholecystectomy.

(For the proud GED-holders who make up the vast majority of the Bama and LSU fan bases, a cholecystectomy is the surgical procedure in which one is liberated from a malfunctioning gall bladder and then is subsequently relegated to a life of measuring distances to the nearest restroom.)

The Colonel knows, one chocolate chip cookie isn't the dieters'  crime of the century, but..., for a carbaholic like him, chocolate chip cookies are a gateway drug.  

The sugar high from a fistful of cookies cannot be replicated by just another fistful.  

Next comes ice cream.

And, not just a taste of ice cream in a small desert goblet -- we're talking a medium sized mixing bowl of straight, uncut vanilla, garnished with a fistful of chocolate cookies.  

Oh..., did the Colonel mention that, during his retirement physical sixteen years ago, he was diagnosed as a Type II Diabetic?

Could've had a little something to do with a life of self-medication for his career's physical and mental stress with massive amounts of sweets.  The Colonel is painfully aware that he has no one to blame but himself.  

Here's the point where folks who know the Colonel well say, "But, but..., you are so skinny and stayed so physically active as a Marine!  Didn't you get enough stress relief from the 'runner's high'?"

Runner's high?  You mean the other gateway drug?

The first thing the Colonel did after a long run was accentuate the "runner's high" with a candy bar or three. 

The sheer mass of sugary empty calories the Colonel has ingested over his lifetime, if placed in a pile in the middle of one of his fields here aboard his vast holdings at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere, would implode to the density of a singularity at the center of a tiny black hole that would easily consume the planet.

Okay..., the Colonel exaggerates.

The sucrose singularity of the tiny black hole wouldn't consume the whole planet -- just the northwestern quadrant of the globe, leaving the big blue marble looking like the not-quite completed death star in the movie, "St...

You get the picture.

The day after last Thanksgiving, the Colonel stepped onto the bathroom scales...

He quickly stepped off and went looking for his reading cheaters.  

The cheaters didn't change the number on the scale's digital readout.  Well..., maybe they added an ounce or two...  

The Colonel was a good twenty pounds in excess of his "fighting weight."  He immediately placed himself on the Army of Northern Mississippi's (for which organization he is the commanding general..., and one-man fighting force) Weight Control and Physical Appearance Program. 

The Colonel had an appointment with his doctor a couple of weeks later...

"Colonel, your weight is up a few pounds since your last visit, and your A1C is north of 8.  Are you still staying active?"

"Active?  His scales indicate the Colonel has been actively ingesting any and all foodstuffs within reach."

The doctor looked over his shoulder, "Who are you talking about?"

"Using the third person to self-refer, Doc.  It's the Colonel's verbal version of nails on a chalkboard -- keeps potential threats on edge."

"Not working," Doc pointed at the A1C number on the Colonel's chart.  "We need to get that number down below 7." 

"We? Doc, appreciate your empathetic participation in the Colonel's health care," Doc reflexively looked over his shoulder and then back at the Colonel -- now slightly on edge, "but, this is all on the Colonel.  Started a diet two weeks ago." 

"You picked the wrong time of year to do that." Doc's usually soothing bedside manner was replaced by a more edgy delivery.  The Colonel resisted taking advantage of a "told you so" moment.

"Well, Doc," the Colonel drew himself up to his full 5 foot 6 and 3/4s (don't ever forget the 3/4s), "the Colonel ain't smart and you can't make him." 


Seven weeks into his self-imposed torture regimen (aka: low-carb diet) the Colonel is halfway back to his fighting weight.  He's experiencing serious sugar-withdrawal symptoms this morning, but at least the guilt beast in his belly won't have so much fat to burst through.