Armistice Day Salute

The Colonel never really knew his maternal grandfather.    Eubanks McCrary was not much more than a name, a few faded photographs, and a handful of anecdotes -- the Colonel was a mere toddler when the man died.

The one thing about the man that had always been intriguing was the fact that he had served in the First World War.  Shame on the Colonel, but only of late has he begun to research the history of his grandfather's service. 

A few years ago, the Colonel's mother granted him custody of a small clutch of her father's documents.  When she handed them to him in a legal envelope, it felt to the Colonel like being entrusted with a most fragile fragment of our family history.  Of no inherent value in and of itself, but, to this increasingly sentimental soul, a treasure trove of not-so-trivial trivia about a man with whom the Colonel wishes for all the world to have spent acknowlegeable time.    

On the Colonel's desk this morning rests the contents of that envelope: a photograph of Grandmother and Grandfather McCrary taken several years before his death; a copy of their marriage license (married on Christmas Day, 1923); and a non-descript, paper-thin leather envelope with the faint embossing of an eagle and the words "Honorable Discharge from the U.S. Service." 

Protected within that folded leather is a two-sided document.  On the front above the seal of the United States (appropriate to this day that the eagle's talons grasp both the arrows of war and the olive branch of peace -- our nation's enemies still have a choice) are the words, "Honorable Discharge from the United States Army."   On the reverse, a summary of Private McCrary's service under the words, "Enlistment Record."
 
There are terse, handwritten blank-fillers to the right of line headings such as Name:..., Grade:...; Date and Place of Enlistment:...; etc..., but from them a quick snapshot of the man can be gleaned.
 
Eubanks McCrary, from Columbus, Mississippi, was inducted into the United States Army on May the 27th, 1918.  He was 22, single, and by vocation, a farmer.  Upon his discharge a year later he was described as in "Good" physical condition and of "Excellent" character.

Near the bottom of his Enlistment Record are four tight lines available for "Remarks." Into that small space the practiced hand of a military professional entered a shorthand account of Private McCrary's service to his nation in the Great War:

No A.W.O.L.  No absence under G.O. 45 WD 1914
Co. D. 4th Tr. Reg Camp Pike, Ark5/27/18 to 7/10/18.  Co L C.P. July ARD 7/10/18 to 9/22/18.
Co. B. 161st Inf. 9/22/18 to 10/7/18. Co. B. 137th INf 10/7/18 to 5/6/19. Cas Det 4th Rc Bn 162nd DB
5/6/19 to date of discharge.  Served in France.  Sailed for France 7/18/18. Arrived U.S. 4/28/19 Entitled to travel pay to Columbus, Miss.  

Immediately following his induction into the Army, Private McCrary reported to Camp Pike, outside of Little Rock, Arkansas and was assigned to Company D, 4th Training Regiment until his completion of basic training on July 10, 1918.  Within the next week he traveled by troop train for the East Coast, from which he sailed aboard a troop ship to France on the 18th of July, 1918. 

From what was known about the casualty rates of the horrific meat-grinder that had gone on in France since 1914, he likely never expected to see home again. 

Upon arrival in France, Private McCrary was assigned to Company B of the 161st Infantry Regiment.  That regiment, in the 81st Infantry Brigade of the 41st Division, had been one of the first units to go to France with the American Expeditionary Force in the fall of 1917.  Upon arrival in France, the 41st Division was designated a "Replacement Division" and its men were subsequently distributed as replacements to other divisions when their ranks were depleted during fighting.  The 41st Division then assumed the role of training new arrivals to France prior to their assignment to the front.
   
The Colonel's grandfather arrived in France just as the great Allied Meuse-Argonne Offensive of the war against Germany was kicking off.  One of the divisions at the forefront of that offensive -- the 35th Division -- had been in the attack for four days when, short of food and ammunition and its fighting strength sapped by heavy casualties, it was counterattacked by the better part of four of the best-trained divisions in the German army.  The 35th Division ceased to exist, for all practical purposes, as a fighting force and its remnants were withdrawn from the line.

Private McCrary was among the soldiers, newly arrived in France, who replenished the ranks of one of the 35th's four infantry regiments, the 137th Infantry.  The 35th Division was sent to the relatively quiet Somme Dieu sector on the southeastern end of the Allied front.  There, it went into defensive trenchworks and so remained until the Armistice went into effect and the guns fell silent...

... one hundred and three years ago, today.

For two decades, Americans celebrated the 11th of November as Armistice Day, in remembrance of the victory over Germany and the American fighting men who helped bring an end to "the war to end all wars."

Only, that war didn't do any such thing.

American men in uniform knew little peace during those next two decades.  Combat in defense of American interests in Latin America and even in Russia (grist for a future post) kept a sharp edge on the small cadre of American warriors who would form the backbone and animating spirit of the mighty force called on to defeat the Axis Powers during WWII.

So, after that war, and the one that followed, America began to focus it's remembrances on the 11th of November not so much on the end of what had become known by then as the First World War, but on the living men and women who had honorably served our nation in uniform. 

Armistice Day became Veterans Day.

Eubanks McCrary arrived back in the United States on the 23rd of April, 1919, less than eleven months after joining the United States Army and reporting for training at Camp Pike. Less than two weeks later he was honorably discharged and back on the farm.

He is buried in the small cemetery at Mt. Vernon Baptist Church on the eastern outskirts of Columbus, Mississippi.  Not far from his farm, now a subdivision.

A simple marker reads:

B. Eubanks McCrary

Mississippi 

Pvt Co B 137 Inf

World War I

4 Mar 1896 – 9 Oct 1958

The Colonel knows that the three dozen of you who regularly waste valuable rod and cone time perusing posts hereon may indeed be remembering that one of the Colonel's pet peeves is the aggravating and undisciplined habit of a majority of Americans to mix up the meanings and observances of Memorial Day (initially known as Decoration Day, and first celebrated by the fair ladies of Columbus, Mississippi at the conclusion of the War for Southern Independence), Veterans Day, and Armed Forces Day.

For the record: Memorial Day is reserved solely for the solemn remembrance of those who died in battle in our nation's wars, Veterans Day is reserved solely for the recognition of living veterans of the United States military, and Armed Forces Day is reserved solely for the recognition of those currently serving in the armed forces of these re-United States.  Period.  No room for discussion or latitude for mix-matching.

So, the three dozen of you who regularly waste rod and cone perusing posts hereon may mistakenly believe that you have caught the Colonel in a rare mistake  -- recognizing a deceased veteran on Veterans Day.

The operative word in the sentence above is "mistakenly."

The Colonel, sole arbiter of said (and unsaid) matters both in posts hereon and actions hereabout his vast holdings here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere, is exercising the rights vested in him, by him, to declare today Armistice Day, here aboard Eegeebeegee, capital of the Tallahatchie Republic; and, therefore, takes this opportunity to come to the correct position of attention and execute a hand salute to the memory of his grand progenitor.

Joshua Bradley Gregory, H21CC - 3

The Colonel is proud to announce the birth of his third grandson -- Joshua Bradley Gregory -- aka: the Hope of 21st Century Civilization, Dash 3 (H21CC - 3).

The latest manchild in the Gregory lineage began his air-breathing ride 'round Ol' Sol shortly after noon yesterday, 1815Z 04182013.

H21CC - 3 weighed in at 8 pounds, 3 ounces; 20 and 1/2 inches.

The Colonel's daughter-in-law, she of the high and exalted position of Provider of Grandsons, executed her duties in an exemplary manner with which the Colonel takes great pride and relief.

Dozens of family and friends are now taking turns cradling and cooing at the young man.

They had better get their fill in quickly.

The Colonel has announced loudly and repeatedly, lately -- to any one who would listen and to many who would prefer not to listen -- that all such cradling and cooing will soon come only at the Colonel's pleasure.

For the Bama and LSU fans, who have felt a tremor of dread foretelling the birth of yet another future Ole Miss Rebel who will one day carry the Gregory name into gridiron battle, and who have come fearfully and reverently searching for him, the Colonel would have you understand that what he means by the above is that NO ONE except the Colonel gets to hold H21CC - 3 if the Colonel is in the room -- unless the Colonel decides otherwise.

The Colonel further decrees and announces that the Tallahatchie Free State will hold welcoming ceremonies this weekend, replete with manifold gunfire from select semi-automatic, high-capacity magazine-fed firearms from the Colonel's vast Constitutionally-protected collection.   

Raising the Next Greatest Generation

Here in a couple of weeks the Colonel will welcome another air-breathing resident to the Tallahatchie Free State. 

The Hope of 21st Century Civilization, Dash 3 (H21CC - 3) -- the Colonel's third grandson -- has been present and accounted for in a gestative state for nearly three quarters of a trip 'round Ol' Sol and all the legal residents and citizens (one not to be confused with the other, owing to strict citizenship requirements) of the representation-restricted republic here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere (established with tongue firmly planted in cheek and hands tightly gripping any one of a large assortment of firearms) are anxiously awaiting his birth. 

No one more than the Colonel.

Grandchildren, grandsons in particular, represent many things to many people.

To some, a grandchild represents an opportunity to exact revenge through spoilage on the intervening generation.

To others, a grandchild represents an opportunity to correct mistakes made in the parenting of the fore-mentioned intervening generation.

Yet to others, a grandchild represents an opportunity for proud comparison with the grandchildren of peers and siblings.

To the Colonel, a grandson is an opportunity to do all of the above... and more.

To the Colonel, a grandson is an opportunity to build another in the long line of family patriots.

To the Colonel, a grandson is an opportunity to educate and produce one of the most rare humans on the planet -- one who knows, appreciates, and understands history.

To the Colonel, a grandson is an opportunity to train and produce another increasingly rare human -- a gentleman who places the life and security of women and children above even his own dignity; knowing that no manly dignity is attainable otherwise. 

To the Colonel, a grandson is an opportunity to pass on the increasingly rare belief that there are indeed things worth fighting for; and that following Jesus does not mean forsaking the responsibility to fight -- with weapons as well as words.

Find that last clause troubling?  

You may find it so because you have been mistakenly led to believe that Jesus preached and practiced "non-violence."

News flash -- Jesus was Almighty God in the flesh; not a pre-incarnate of Gandhi.  Today, Jesus is Almighty God.  Tomorrow, Jesus will be Almighty God's war-bringing judgement for the nations.

The Colonel invites any self-professing Christian who believes otherwise to read Revelations 19: 11 -- 16.    

Raise your grandsons to be politically correct, "tolerant" followers, if you wish.  

The Colonel's grandsons will be prepared to fight in the company of a principled few for the protection of the many whose upbringing without virtue hamstrings their ability to even defend themselves, let alone others.         

Eggs Etouffee, Anyone?

The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda cooked fried eggs for the Colonel's breakfast yesterday morning. 

Remarkable, why, you ask?

Well, if you were ever lucky enough to have visited Eegeebeegee -- capital of the Tallahatchie Free State -- and were even luckier to have been invited into the Colonel's humble abode without first being challenged for the security countersign at gunpoint, you would have undoubtedly noted the sign prominently posted at the entrance to one of the Colonel's Lady's least favorite rooms:

"The only reason I have this kitchen is it came with the house."

Even more remarkable is the consumption of a breakfast meal by the Colonel. 

Unless you count his ritual morning-kick-starting three mugs of coffee.

And, given the strength and thickness of the Colonel's morning joe, one might very well count it so.

The Colonel, and spare him the lecture on it being the most important meal of the day, has never been much of a breakfast eater. 

Unless there was chocolate cake or a slice of pie left over from the night before. 

However, that may be changing.

As the thousands of you who regularly imbibe of the literary libations ladled out liberally, if irregularly, on posts hereon will remember, the Colonel has a burgeoning hen herd extant upon the domesticated portion of his vast, mostly wild, holdings here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere. 

Said hen herd has grown from an inauspicious beginning wherein the hen (note singular form of the female fowl noun) was greatly outnumbered by roosters.  The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda has been relieved of all chick-sexing duties following that near derailment of the entire egg-production enterprise.  The Colonel's hen herd now numbers fourteen, and one cock-eyed top-kick rooster -- Smedley.   

And one side-kick rooster, Mason, who seems to be growing into his role as -- ahem -- heir apparent to the duties and responsibilities of top-kick rooster.

Did you know that a chicken hen lays an egg..., every day?

A dozen + fresh eggs are collected daily from the Colonel's critter-proof chicken coop.

And, given that the investment cost in chicken feed and construction materials for the Colonel's critter-proof chicken coop make each egg worth just slightly more than their weight in silver bullion, not one egg goes to waste.  

The Colonel is fast becoming the Benjamin Buford Blue of eggs.  Much like Forrest Gump's shrimp-cook savant army buddy, the Colonel knows all the different ways to prepare eggs for human consumption.  

Fried eggs.

Scrambled eggs.

Poached eggs.

Boiled eggs.

Two-egg omelets.

Three-egg omelets.

Fried eggs on toast.

Rocky Balboa eggs.

Papal eggs (Eggs Benedict)

Deviled eggs.

The Colonel's cholesterol count has spiked a good hundred points, but at least the cookware he bought his curiously not-so-appreciative bride for their 35th wedding anniversary is finally getting used.         

Semper Facetious

Amid appropriate trumpet fanfare (okay, it’s just his two grandsons -- the Hope of 21^st Century Civilization, Dashes One and Two -- on kazoos) the Colonel proudly precedes this post with preamble proclaiming that it is the 600^th time, since the inception of the “The Colonel’s Corner,” that he has subjected the thousands of you, who ingloriously imbibe, to the literary libations ladled out not-so-liberally hereon. 

To mark such an auspicious occasion, the Colonel feverishly fleeced the few remaining fertile cognitive cells lying fallow in forgotten recesses of his boney brain-housing group for a topic appropriate to the importance of the milestone.

He found nothing.

No witty repartee between the Colonel and the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda.

No hijinks of the Hope of 21^st Century Civilization, Dashes One and Two.

No feathered fable from the predator-safe environs of the Colonel’s Hen Herd House.

No legislative legerdemain of the Congress of the Tallahatchie Free State.      

No Biblical revelation.

No reminiscence from his career as a steely-eyed, roguishly handsome, amphibiously expeditionary minister of mayhem management in the service of his nation.

But, the Colonel must leave you with something…

So, he’ll leave with this to ponder:

Umm…

Okay, the Colonel admits he ain’t got nuthin’.   

So, this post will henceforth and forever be known as a total waste of your precious time.

Pretty much like the 599 that preceded it.

Limitation Lamentations

One of the Colonel's favorite movie lines is the observation made by Clint Eastwood's character, "Dirty" Harry Callahan, in the cinematic tour de force, "Magnum Force." 

"A man's got to know his limitations."

The Colonel has rarely been one to follow that advice.  And, with regard to the Colonel's physical limitations, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda knows no... well, let's just say she's never been a Dirty Harry fan.    

Take the Colonel's latest forays afield in agriculture, landscaping, and animal husbandry, for example.

The Colonel, as the thousands of you who hang on his every written word in posts hereon have by no difficulty ascertained (except for the LSU grads who think the Colonel just used a naughty word), has been on an involuntary writing hiatus of late. 

Part of it has been his fault.

Part of it has been the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's fault.

Let's start with her.

Now, far be it from the Colonel, whose occasional lack of judgement, frequent loss of situational awareness, and catastrophe-defying clumsiness is the stuff of local legend, family lore, and several not-so-flattering semi-annual Marine Corps officer fitness reports, to cast aspersions on the judgement of his blushing bride of nearly 36 years (although the last part of this sentence prior to the parenthetical pause you are now perusing does call her matrimonial decision-making into question).  However, even she has a hard time refuting her reputation for underestimation of project scope and resource requirements.

Case in point: Renovation of the flower beds and lawn in front of our church.

Six weeks ago, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda approached the Colonel during one of his frequent reverse prone strategic planning sessions and, in her ever-so-loving and gentle way, gained the Colonel's attention.

"Hey! Knucklehead! Wake up! You're burning daylight and I've got a small project I need your help with."

The Colonel opened one eye and regarded his soul-mate with apprehension bordering on stark terror.  He attempted to divert the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda by engaging her in loving small talk.

"Dear, one should never interrupt a steely-eyed Marine in the midst of deep thought, and one should never end a sentence in a preposition.

"What?!?"

"Dear, you said you have a project, and the Colonel quotes, 'I need your help with.'  You used the preposition 'with' at the end of the your sentence.  Not good grammar.  Let's try the sentence, again -- this time placing the preposition in the sentence correctly."

"Buddy, if you don't get a move on, you're gonna be black-eyed instead of steely-eyed.  I've just got a little project up at the church I need your help with..."  

"Ah, ah, ah..."

"...Jerk!"

"That's better!  Now, what is this little project on which you need the Colonel's help?"  

"Grrrr!!  Get up and get in the truck.  We're just going to move a few bushes and some clumps of monkey grass.  Shouldn't take the two of us more than 30 minutes with a shovel."

Four weeks of 10-hour physical labor-intensive days (involving the removal of two acres of monkey grass, moving forty-seven holly bushes, installation of an irrigation system and the laying of ten pallets of sod) later, Miss Brenda stood astride her prostrate man (collapsed in a mud puddle created by his own sweat) and proudly pronounced, "Phase I is complete!"

"Phase I ?!?," the prostrate Colonel croaked through dehydrated vocal chords.  "Just how many phases does this 30-minute project have?"       

Lest anyone get the impression that the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's projects have been the sole reason for the Colonel's absence from his appointed place of duty enlightening and entertaining the masses via the written word, the Colonel must admit that he shares some responsibility.

A few days prior to the initiation of the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's landscaping project / reenactment of the physical labor involved in the construction of the Panama Canal, the Colonel and Grandson #2, aka: H21CC-2 (Hope of 21st Century Civilization, Dash 2), loaded up the truck and headed into the center of the southern cultural universe, and home of the Harvard of the South -- Oxford -- to stimulate the economy at the local garden shop.

Said local garden shop was supposed to be receiving a shipment of Barred Rock chicks that morning and the Colonel was desirous of increasing and diversifying his monochromatic Rhode Island Red hen herd by the acquisition of one half dozen of said Barred Rock chicks. 

Alas, upon their arrival at said local garden shop, H21CC-2 and the Colonel were disappointed to learn that the shipment of said Barred Rock chicks had yet to arrive.

"Not a problem, little buddy," the Colonel reassured his third favorite person on the entire planet, "we'll go over to the Tractor Supply Store and pick up a few things and then come back and get the chicks later."

Upon arrival at the second stop in the Colonel's economic stimulus trip, the keen ears of H21CC-2 picked up the peeping of chicks.

"Pop!  They have some chicks!  We can get our chicks here!"

The Colonel bets you didn't know that four-year olds do not have a very keen appreciation for the differences between fuzzy yellow chicks that will become non-descript plain ol' white chickens and fuzzy black chicks that will become beautiful Barred Rock hens with which the Colonel was desirous of increasing and diversifying his heretofore monochromatic hen herd.  

To a four-year old, a chick is a chick.  And this particular four-year old wasn't budging from his position adjacent the wash tub full of chicks until he had some of his own.

Bottom line?  Instead of six, the Colonel now has twelve new mouths to feed. 

And water. 

And feed, again. 

And water, again.

And check on every 30 minutes.

Between landscaping and chick raising, who's got time to write?

Oh, and there's the garden.

Well..., gardens.  

The small garden up here on the hill next to the Big House aboard  Eegeebeegee -- the Colonel's vast holdings here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere and the capital of the Tallahatchie Free State -- has been wildly successful at the production of tomatoes and squash.  So much so that the Colonel felt emboldened last year to open up, down in the bottom behind the Big House, another quarter of an acre to cultivation wherein he raised a bumper crop of corn, okra, and cantaloupes.

And cantaloupes.

And more cantaloupes.

Countless cantaloupes.

Cantaloupe for every meal, cantaloupes.

Cantaloupe for every neighbor within a three mile radius, cantaloupes.

The Colonel invites you, at this juncture, to revisit the opening lines of this missive and recall the point he made regarding his frequent failure to heed Dirty Harry's advice on personal knowledge of limitations.

The garden in the bottom behind the Big House has trebled -- nay, quadrupled -- in size this year, replete with rows and rows and rows of beans, peas, spinach, onions, potatoes, okra, corn, squash, cucumbers, watermelons...,

And cantaloupes.

So, pardon the Colonel for his blogging truancy.  He's been a little busy...

Oh, and did the Colonel mention he got to go on vacation last week with his in-laws?  Wait until you read about that.

Of course, it might be a week or two before the Colonel gets back to his keyboard...               

Hummingbird Holocaust Harbinger

The first ruby-throated hummingbird arrived here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere late last week -- none too worse for the wear after his long flight across the Gulf of Mexico from his winter home in the Yucatan.  He is the first of a flock that will eventually number in the several dozen, over-summering and taking advantage of the Colonel's sugar largess aboard the vast lands of the Tallahatchie Free State.  

The first hummingbirds normally arrive here after the 1st of April each year. 

However, this calendar year has started off anything but normal.

Although the first three months of the year were supposed to be Winter, the icy-breathed old man stayed in Canada and Spring sprung in January.

Among the loyal legions of you who regularly imbibe of the irregular literary libations ladled out in periodic posts hereon, there are certainly several who have just leaned back in their ergonomic chairs, taken a swig of their lattes, and exclaimed,

"Aha!! Global Warming!!"

Among the loyal legions of you who regularly imbibe of the irregular literary libations ladled out in periodic posts hereon, there are certainly several LSU and 'Bama grads who have just leaned back, scratched the peak of their hat racks, and asked,

"Whatsa ergonomic chair?"

Start drinking lattes and it will come to you.  That, and an insatiable desire to purchase anything with Barak Obama's likeness plastered on it.

Little known fact: Lattes cause liberalism.

The Colonel digresses. 

The Colonel is not a Global Warming (or Climate Change, or Environmental Evolution -- call it whatever you wish) denier.  Nor does he strongly contest the contention that modern man's carbon fuel effluence has contributed to the increasingly effective carbon dioxide greenhouse surrounding this big blue marble.  

He just doesn't think it is really anything over which to commit collective suicide.

The Colonel can accept the bases of most of the theories and notions about the consequences of the Earth's atmospheric temperature fluctuation -- whether amplified by modern man's actions or not.  

He is just not ready to discard the adjective "modern" in order to attempt arrest of the amplification.

The Colonel wonders, with what is left of his rapidly diminishing cognitive abilities, "Wouldn't it be much more modern for man to figure out ways to adapt to the change in climate to our advantage, rather than frantically cutting off our collective post-modern proboscis to spite ourselves?" 

Even the most casual review of the history of man reveals clearly that among his greatest attributes are his abilities to shape, and adapt.

Still, there is an even deeper and more worrisome problem with the climate change fear-mongers.  The fear they purvey is a spirit-killing spear to the heart of man.  

In his 1950 Nobel Prize for Literature acceptance speech, William Faulkner eloquently expressed the point toward which the Colonel has heretofore ineloquently bloviated,

"Our tragedy today is a general and universal physical fear so long sustained by now that we can even bear it. There are no longer problems of the spirit. There is only one question: When will I be blown up?"

Faulkner spoke generally to a world gripped by the fear of impending and seemingly unavoidable nuclear holocaust. 

He spoke specifically to young writers who, accepting the prevailing conventional wisdom that man's minutes were irrevocably numbered in the shadow of runaway nuclear fission mushroom clouds, had, in his words, 

"...forgotten the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself which alone can make good writing because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat." 

Faulkner warned that man, generally, and a writer, specifically, 

"...must teach himself that the basest of all things is to be afraid: and, teaching himself that, forget it forever, leaving no room in his workshop for anything but the old verities and truths of the heart, the universal truths lacking which any story is ephemeral and doomed--love and honor and pity and pride and compassion and sacrifice. Until he does so, he labors under a curse. He writes not of love but of lust, of defeats in which nobody loses anything of value, and victories without hope and worst of all, without pity or compassion. His griefs grieve on no universal bones, leaving no scars. He writes not of the heart but of the glands."  

Faulkner spoke to the young writers of his age, but his words hold the power of universal inspiration today.  He summed up his firm faith in the God-given spirit of man with,

"I decline to accept the end of man. It is easy enough to say that man is immortal because he will endure: that when the last ding-dong of doom has clanged and faded from the last worthless rock hanging tideless in the last red and dying evening, that even then there will still be one more sound: that of his puny inexhaustible voice, still talking. I refuse to accept this. I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail. He is immortal, not because he alone among creatures has an inexhaustible voice, but because he has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance."

To which the Colonel need only add,

Ditto.
  

Hail March!

The loud, celebratory music emanating this morning from the ecologically diverse environs of the Colonel's vast holdings here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere is in recognition of an annual calendar event hallowed by all the voting citizens of the Tallahatchie Free State -- namely, the Colonel.

The scourge of the Julian and Gregorian Calendars, the month known as (the Colonel loathes to even give it mention by name) February, is dead and buried; its page on the calendar ripped clear and cast into the smokey fires of Gehenna like the clothing of a plague victim.

Named for the Latin term februum, meaning purification, [the month the Colonel loathes to even give mention by name] was called Februa for the ancient Roman mid-winter full moon ritual of atoning for sins. 

Appropriate. 

The Romans elevated sinful excess to an art form and [the month the Colonel loathes to even give mention by name] is, in the Colonel's not-so-humble opinion, the most miserable month of the year; and, therefore, entirely fitting as a calendar setting for rumination and reflection on one's imperfection.

But, [the month the Colonel loathes to even give mention by name] is dead for another ride 'round ol' Sol.  It shall receive no more attention.

The loud, celebratory music referenced in the opening lines of this missive is not so much for the deceased, as for the arrival of a new month pregnant with promises of rebirth and victory.

The name of this wonderfully manly month is March, aptly named for Mars -- the Roman god of war.  Spring begins in March, and with Spring came the start of the traditional Roman military campaigning season.  

Mars..., Martial..., March. 

Pardon the Colonel for a moment while he pauses to beat his gnarled fist upon his hoary chest and utter monosyllabic grunts signifying reconnection with the long-slumbering, war-like sliver of his soul hidden deep within the shrivelled lump of barely viable tissue formally known as his heart.

The Colonel also feels compelled to extend his pause in this paucity of purposeful prose to ensure that the 'Bama and LSU grads are keeping up with the rest of the thousands of you who loyally lap up literary libations ladled out in posts hereon.

For you T-town pachyderms and Red Stick kitties who may have stumbled upon this blog in your continuing search for hounds-tooth hats and Mardi-Gras beads, respectively, the above use of the term "martial" is not a reference to the inhabitants of the Red Planet.

March, beyond the martial references above, is also a favorite of the Colonel's for the following reasons:

1.  It is not [the month the Colonel loathes to even give mention by name].

2.  It contains the beginning of the turkey season.

3.  It contains the beginning of Spring Football (or at least the close approximation of that sport played by the Ole Miss Rebels). 

4.  It contains March Madness.  Make no mistake, the Colonel is no fan of that girls' game.  The sooner March Madness begins, the sooner it ends.

5.  The crappie (please pronounce with a short "a" or the Colonel will hurl anti-yankee epithets in your general direction) start biting.

6.  Did the Colonel mention that it is not [the month the Colonel loathes to even give mention by name]?

Eegeebeegee Building Boom

The Colonel's priority project this wimpy winter is preparing the Big House aboard his vast holdings here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere for the inevitable disastrous weather of a future tilt of the northern hemisphere away from Ol' Sol.

The Big House, built ten years ago by the previous owners of the fair land now known as Eegeebeegee, the capital of the Tallahatchie Free State, has several shortcomings.  Chief among these is the lack of an integral heat production system with combination combustion chamber and carbon effluent elimination tower.

For the typical 'Bama and LSU fans who refer to the fifth grade as "my senior year," the Big House ain't got no fireplace and chimney.

Oh, it has an alcove in which a set of gas-fired faux logs sit quite unsatisfyingly.  But, c'mon, the Colonel ain't no sissy.  He's gonna burn real logs or nuthin'.  Besides, natural gas has not been discovered on his vast holdings, yet.

Wood, on the other hand, is in great abundance.

For the 'Bama and LSU grads whose lack of education misleads them to believe that wood comes from Walmart, the Colonel has a lot of trees.  Wood comes from trees.  Multiple weekly visits to Walmart results in mental atrophy.

No, LSU fans, the Colonel didn't just say you can find a trophy for your football team at Walmart.  You gotta find the fifty yard line, first. 

The Colonel has researched several options for installation of a wood-burning furnace, all of which have failed to receive approval of the final arbiter in all matters regarding additions and renovations to the Big House -- the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda. 

For some reason, she has a problem with the Colonel wielding a sledge hammer in close proximity to her nest.  It's as if she has some sort of knowledge of some sort of disaster that may or may not have occurred the last time the Colonel wielded a sledge hammer in close proximity to her nest. 

There is no photographic proof.

The Colonel's Lady did, however, give preliminary planning approval to the Colonel's concept of construction for the walling-in of the already roofed and wired back porch.  The Colonel's plans currently call for installation of a wood-burning stove in the new space.  The Colonel has been in the planning stages of this project for roughly twenty-seven and one-half  months.

Many of the thousands of you who regularly imbibe of the literary libations ladled out in posts hereon may indeed be wondering at this particular project's planning paralysis.  

The Colonel would have you know that what looks like operational procrastination on his part is, in fact, a strategic pause to accumulate resources.

If you really have nothing better to do with your time and have persevered to this point in the present post, you will remember that previous paragraphs pointed out that there is no paucity of pine on the Colonel's place.

Four years ago, in a rare moment of exceptional mental clarity occasioned by the random accumulation of several of the few remaining synaptic connections within the grey goo congealed in a forgotten corner of his cranial cavity, the Colonel realized that, with the abundance of timber aboard his vast holdings, a sawmill would serve to obviate the need for multiple monthly economic stimulus trips to the local lumber yard to acquire materials for his building projects.  The Colonel's sawmill, Semper Filet, star of the YouTube viral sensation of the same name, has since produced prodigious amounts of both lumber and sawdust from timber harvested aboard his vast holdings.  

The Colonel intends to build the addition to the Big House using only timber -- pine for stud walls, cedar for outside lap siding, and cypress for inside panelling -- harvested and converted to lumber aboard Eegeebeegee.  The Colonel has calculated (without removing his footwear) that the lumber needed for framing the stud walls of the new addition to the Big House will necessitate the harvest of approximately six pines -- the last of which was felled yesterday in an egregious violation of Tallahatchie Free State blue laws.

The lumber produced from the first five of the six pines is currently drying in the Colonel's Man Toy Storage and Sawdust Production Facility adjacent to the Big House.  

The Colonel estimates that the lumber should be dry enough for commencement of construction sometime mid-Summer.

Completion is tentatively scheduled for no later than the commencement of the Mayan calendar-calculated civilization collapse and resultant zombie apocalypse.

Tallahatchie Free State 2012 Gift Catalog

Christmas 2011 will be celebrated here aboard the Colonel's vast holdings at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere with all of the joy and familial...

*** We interrupt the Colonel's latest literary libation to bring you the following crass commercial message.***

Due to overwhelming demand and underwhelming supply, the following Eegeebeegee Christmas Gift and Tallahatchie Free State Souvenir items have been sold out for this season, but will be available for advance ordering beginning in late Spring 2012:

The Comely and Kind-hearted Miss Brenda's Wild Blackberry Jam Sampler.  Spoon a dollop of Miss Brenda's Wild Blackberry Jam on a hot buttered biscuit and take your taste-buds to a whole 'nuther existential plane.  Blackberries lovingly hand-harvested by the citizens and legal residents of the Tallahatchie Free State at the height of their finger-staining ripeness.  A six ounce jar for only $29.99, plus S & H.  A bargain at twice that price!

The Semper Filet Souvenir Sawdust Display Board.  Keep your family, friends, and the many guests in your home entertained with the ultimate conversation piece.  A half dozen samples of the most prodigious product of the Colonel's sapling to sawdust process mounted on a rustic mill-sawn foot-long 1 x 6 board.  All logs converted to lumber and sawdust come from timber harvested by the Colonel on the Colonel's timber plantation at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere.  For a limited time only... $299.99 each, plus S & H.  (The Colonel's signature $0.37 extra.) 

The Colonel's Carbon Creator Special.  For that special person on your gift list who has everything, but needs to leave a lasting legacy for his or her progeny.  Prior to harvesting, the Colonel will name a tree in honor of the giftee.  The tangible gift (in addition to the intangible personal knowledge of making a tree-hugger cry) is a framed collage of photographs depicting the Colonel's death-defying and maim-missing chain-saw dance 'round the base of the standing tree, the Colonel's death-defying and maim-missing chain-saw dismemberment of the fallen tree, the conversion of the tree's logs into lumber and sawdust, and the bonfire consummation of all tree products not converted to lumber and sawdust.  Personalized with placards in each photo on which the giftee's name will be scrawled in a special ink composed of kudzu extract, loblolly pine charcoal, and North Mississippi red clay (aka Confederate Concrete).  $499.99, plus S & H.

The Colonel's Bucket List Headliner.   The trip of a lifetime!  An all expense-paid working vacation aboard the Colonel's vast holdings at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere.  Your stay will include 1/4 star accommodations and a customizable smorgasbord of chores aboard the Eegeebeegee Timber and Wildlife Plantation.  Drive the Colonel's muddy red tractor, Semper Field.  Operate the Colonel's toothy sawmill, Semper Fillet.  Skinny-dip in Lake Brenda.  Attend an ad hoc meeting of the Congress of the Tallahatchie Free State.  Pick-up bed tour (in the back of the Colonel's rusty red pick-em truck, Semper Fillit) of Ole Miss and the cultural center of the southern universe -- Oxford, MS; available.  $1999.99 per day.  Photos with the Colonel at a small extra charge.

*** We now return you to regular programming...***    

National Coffee Day

By whose proclamation the Colonel knows, nor, frankly, cares not, but today in the good ole U.S. of A. is National Coffee Day.

The Colonel can't speak for the rest of the nation, but here, on the grounds of Eegeebeegee, capital of the increasingly less whimsical and increasingly more plausible Tallahatchie Free State, every day is Coffee Day.  Each and every day, seven days a week, thirty (give or take one or two) days a month, twelve months a year.  No day is gainfully begun until the contents of a steaming cup of joe are coursing through the Colonel's bloodstream.

And, here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere the coffee is consumed without pollutants.  No sissified sippers here.  Straight and strong, thank you very much.

The Colonel's preferred mug?  Of the scores in his collection, he's a mite partial to the red one with the gold eagle, globe, and anchor emblazoned on its side.

National Coffee Day, huh?

That ain't near good enough.

By the power invested in him, by him, the Colonel declares that henceforth here in the Tallahatchie Free State every day from daybreak til noon is National Coffee Morning.

Public Enemy

The Colonel has found out a great deal about himself recently and would like to thank the kind folks who so civilly and courteously enlightened him.

1.  The Colonel is a terrorist. 

Of all the "ists" he has been called, this one comes as quite a surprise.  Still the Colonel would like to extend his thanks to an unnamed member of the Democratic Caucus of the House of Representatives for making him aware of this fact.  It must be a fact, because the Vice President of the United States was the person to whom the comment was directed and he not only did not chide the congressman (as he surely would have done, were the Colonel not a terrorist) but he is reported (by another Democrat congressman in the room) to have agreed with the assessment.  The Colonel is a terrorist.

2.  The Colonel has Democratic Congresswoman Maxine Waters' permission to take a noncircuitous trip to Hell. 

The Colonel was heretofore not aware that Congressional permission was required for such a trip, and thanks the gentlelady's gracious grant of such.  Heck, Hell can't be much worse than Mississippi in August..., or California anytime, for that matter. 

3.  The Colonel is a hostage-taker.

There was a time when he was part of an elite organization whose missions included in-extremis hostage rescue, and the Colonel is chagrined to learn that he must now retrain. 

4.  Jesse Jackson says the Colonel is actually a neo-klansman.

This, too is quite disconcerting.  Heretofore in posts hereon, the Colonel has vociferously denounced the Ku Klux Klan and it's mouthbreathing, sister-chasin' members. 

(Good thing the Colonel doesn't have a sister.) 

5.  The Colonel is really an enemy of the state.

Democratic Representative Frederica Wilson, she of snappy red cowboy hat wearin' fame, says that the real enemy is the Colonel.  The Colonel assumes she means that he is no longer bound by the oath he took nearly four decades ago to "support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies foreign and domestic."  If this is true, it actually comes as quite a relief -- there are so many churlish characters currently undermining our Constitution that the Colonel has been in quite a quandary over where to start to "defend the Constitution against all enemies" and was beginning to feel a bit guilty about his inability to prosecute an adequate defense.

There has been one recent description of the Colonel that he already knew about himself.  President Obama described the Colonel a while back as clinging to his faith and his guns.

He got that right.

Borrowing is for the Birds

The Colonel's ornithological passion and enlightened desire to provide help for the least among the residents of his rump republic is beginning to reveal unintended consequences.  There is palpable fear here aboard the Colonel's vast holdings at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere that currying favor with the feathered fauna on the grounds of Eegeebeegee is creating a dependency class for whose provision the resources of the Tallahatchie Free State are increasingly stressed to sustain.

Take, for example, the state bird of the Colonel's virtuous and less and less virtual republic, founded as much hand-on-wallet as tongue-in-cheek: the ruby-throated hummingbird.

From the first of April through the end of October each year, the grand gardens adjacent to the Big House play host to a hummer host whose natural numbers have swollen to unnatural levels due to several large sugar-water feeders that attract veritable buzzing clouds of the diminutive hovering jewels.  So many hummingbirds have habituated to the handout that the Colonel's grocery bill swells seasonally with the addition of several tons [literary license warning light blinking] of sugar with which he daily replenishes the dole. 

With so many handout-habituated hummingbirds hovering hungrily [abnormal alliteration alarm sounding] above the grounds of the capital of the Tallahatchie Free State, their notorious territorially anti-social behavior is manifested exponentially.  Above the ever-present hum of scores of pairs of wings, a shrill chatter of complaint about disrespect rises and falls as the tiny birds crowd in constant contention at the limited leads to the Colonel's largess.  It is a good thing that hummingbirds are of such limited mass and without the means to ignite flames or carry markers, else the Colonel would fear for a feathered flash mob of arson, looting, and vandalism.  

"Cut 'em off!," the callously conservative, yet otherwise kind-hearted Miss Brenda cries.  "They can fend for themselves quite well!" 

"Too cruel!," the Colonel counters.  "Besides, they love me.  See how they flock around me when I refill the feeders?"

"They're eating us out of house and home!," the Colonel's consort complains.

"Don't worry," the Colonel mollifies his mate, "I'll go borrow some sugar from the neighbors."

"They'll eventually stop loaning you sugar," the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda warns.

"Have no fear, my dear, I'll plant some sugar cane."

"Where?"

"Why, in the fenced-in garden, of course.  Can't have the critters eatin' all the cane."

"Where are we going to grow our vegetables then?  We have a lot of mouths to feed, right now."

"C'mon, Miss Brenda, we'll worry about that next year..."

Berry Nice

One of the most abundant and valuable natural resources aboard Eegeebeegee--the Colonel's vast holdings here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere; and capital of the Tallahatchie Free State--is a berry.  Blackberries.  Rubus fruticosus.  The soil here in this forgotten corner of Dixie--viscous, boot-sucking mud when wet, and shovel-dulling Confederate Concrete when dry--grows little well but loblolly pine trees and blackberries. 

Due to the Colonel's careful cultivation, blackberry brambles thrive throughout his heavily guarded territory and dominate the edges of most of the fields.  To the untrained eye of the casual observer, the Colonel's careful cultivation might seem more like benign neglect.  Some brambles might even seem to encroach willy-nilly upon the otherwise clear fields and glades of the Colonel's campus.  Nothing could be farther from the truth.  There is sheer brilliance in the apparent madness of neglect.

"Brilliance" hard to accept on the part of the Colonel? 

Those among the two dozen of you regular post-perusing wasters of valuable rod and cone time who are displaying disdain at the thought of the Colonel demonstrating brilliance in any endeavor have obviously never tasted a hot, buttered biscuit, slavered with a generous helping of the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's homemade blackberry jam.  The Colonel has tasted upwards of two million hot, buttered biscuits, slavered with a generous helping of the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's homemade blackberry jam, and is, therefore, the self-proclaimed, world-class expert on the topic of the most delicious food on the planet.   

The Colonel sticks to his self-assessment of brilliance.

Want further proof of the Colonel's brilliance?

While he is inside in the air-conditioned cool on this sweltering summer day, the Colonel's fair lady is out in the heat picking blackberries.  

Better go turn the A/C up a notch--it's gonna get hot in the kitchen when Miss Brenda comes in and starts cookin' jam...   

Daniels Down

The Colonel has allowed the balance of a standard calendar week to pass before proffering his assessment on the decision by Mitch Daniels not to seek the Republican Party nomination for the Presidency of these re-United States. 

As the dozen or so of you who regularly participate in egregious wastes of valuable rod and cone time perusing posts hereon will remember (and recoil in regret at the remembrance), the Colonel has, for the balance of a standard calendar year, vociferously promoted the candidacy (if undeclared) of the current Governor of Indiana.  One or more of the dozen of you would be quite correct in asking why the Colonel has not addressed Governor Daniels decision not to embark on the national rescue mission, the leadership for which the Colonel felt the Governor had the foremost qualifications.

Frankly, the Colonel has yet to work his way tortuously through the lengthy and laborious grieving process.

The Colonel just can't believe that Daniels has really decided not to run.  Maybe he'll change his mind.

How dare the Governor make such a decision!  The Colonel has invested the last remaining shreds of his public and private credibility in promotion of Mitch Daniel's candidacy.  The Colonel wants to grab the man by the scruff of the neck and shake him like a rag doll!

C'mon, Mitch.  Please.  The Colonel will spend every waking moment from here on extolling your virtues, if you'll just get in the race.  The Colonel promises he'll deliver the Tallahatchie Free State.   

This is so hard.  The Colonel just feels numb.  There's no reason to even care about the political process anymore.  The Colonel will just lose himself in his sawdust production chores.  Even that seems pointless.

Well, the Colonel guesses the Governor has his own good reasons.  Running for the Presidency of these re-United States takes an incredible toll on a candidate and a candidate's family.  Being President sounds cool and all; but the job is relentless and thankless, perks notwithstanding.  Probably best for him and his family that he not run.  He'd probably win, and then he would really be in trouble.  

Okay, the Colonel will review the field of Republican candidates for a few days and let the dozen or so of you who regularly waste rod and cone time perusing posts hereon know, in short order, just who you should next support for the nomination. 

Apologies for getting you all excited about Mitch Daniels, but you are not alone in your pain.

He broke the Colonel's heart, too.   

First Natural-born Citizen of the Tallahatchie Free State

The Colonel now has first hand knowledge of the veracity of the saying, "One should not count their chickens before they hatch."

One of the Colonel's hens went, as they say, "broody" nearly four weeks ago.  With a little help from her sisters, Silvia, so named for a speckling of silver in her speculum feathers, quickly amassed a mound of eggs and assumed the setting position. 

Once a hen assumes the position, she is pretty much there for the duration.  And, supposedly, the duration of incubation for a Rhode Island Red egg is 21 days.

So, Silvia set.  Not sat.  Set.  

The Colonel feels positively farmerish usin' the farm lingo.

"Yup," he tells his friends and neighbors, "Ah gotta hen settin' on a whole mound'a aigs.  Gonna have me a huge hen herd, now."  

And, Silvia set.

And, she set some more.

That hen set right there on that mound of eggs, unmovable, day and night, rain and shine.

Pine stump unmovable.

War protester unmovable.

Twenty-one days passed.  Twenty-two.  Twenty-three.  Twenty-four.

The Colonel checked and re-checked the calendar. 

Twenty-five days passed.

Just about the time the Colonel had decided to take ol' Smedley the rooster in to the vet for a fertility check, one egg hatched.

You have got to be kiddin' the Colonel!  Silvia is setting on a mound of eggs the height of which rivals that of an early Egyptian step pyramid and only one egg hatches?  

Luckily, the Colonel's hen herd egg production costs have decreased steadily over the past several months and the cost per egg is now down to just shy of their weight in silver, so the investment only rivals the GDP of, say, Luxembourg.

Everything here on the farm (and the Colonel uses that term more loosely than a newborn's diaper deposit) gets a name.  Every piece of machinery, every bend in the creek, every hen in the herd has a proper name.  The new chick was hatched on Good Friday.

It's name is Friday.

This morning another egg hatched.  The Hope of 21st Century Civilization, dashes 1 and 2 (H21CC, -1 & -2) were in attendance, peering impatiently over the rim of the brooder box, as the newest member of the Eegeebeegee Egg Production Platoon struggled to free itself from its shell.  The Colonel turned to H21CC-1 and asked him, "What should we name this one."

"I dunno, Pop," he answered.  "What day is it?"

Constitutional Adoption

More colorless frozen precipitation fell and accumulated yesterday, here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere.  In response, the Colonel declared a state of emergency for Eegeebeegee, the capital of the Tallahatchie Free State.  Said SOE carries with it far-reaching executive powers with which the Colonel took the opportunity to enact regulation unlikely to pass legislatively any time soon.

First order of business was the adoption of a formal constitution.  Upon establishment of the Tallahatchie Free State, a government formed as much hand-on-wallet as tongue-in-cheek, the Colonel appointed himself chair of the Constitution Committee and charged himself with writing a formal constitution by which the Tallahatchie Free State would be governed and the inherent rights of the citizens thereof would be protected.  

The Colonel has been busy, what with all of the critical critter control and forest management requirements of his vast holdings.  So busy in fact, that the draft of the proposed Tallahatchie Free State constitution so far consists only of a preamble.

Well, really just a preamble of a preamble.

Okay, really just the first word: "The..."

Look, constitutions are important documents.  One doesn't sit down to draft such an important document and just crank out drivel.

Cranking out drivel is the preserve of bloggers, as the five of you who regularly waste valuable rod and cone time perusing posts hereon are frantically aware.

But, let's cut to the chase, shall we?  No self-respecting republic goes about in public without a formal constitution with which to cloak itself.  

Therefore, under the regulatory powers vested the Colonel by the state of emergency declaration, the Tallahatchie Free State adopts the constitution of the United States of America, verbatim.

Shouldn't be a problem... the United States government isn't using it at the moment.    

The Citizen Has Spoken

The Colonel apologizes to the five of you who regularly waste valuable rod and cone time perusing posts hereon for the egregious delay in publishing last week's Tallahatchie Free State election results. There have been several recounts and legal challenges, and, pending resolution of the same, the Colonel was loathe to even post a prediction of the outcome. In fact, the Colonel believes that there will be a ballot initiative on the next election cycle's ballot to call for an amendment of the TFS constitution prohibiting any pre-election polling, exit polling, and press prognostication regarding the outcome of balloting prior to the results of said balloting having been certified by the appropriate election supervising official (in this case, the Colonel).

Anyone with the painful familiarity (born of previous wastage of valuable rod and cone time perusing posts hereon) with the establishment and brief history of the Tallahatchie Free State will recall that while residency upon and within the boundaries of the sovereign territory governed by the TFS (a virtual republic established as much hand-on-wallet as tongue-in-cheek) here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere is easily attained and loosely conferred, citizenship is a right earned by honorable service in uniform. As the franchise to vote in the TFS will always and only be granted to citizens, and whereas the Colonel remains the only resident upon and within the boundaries of the sovereign territory governed by the TFS to whom the right of citizenship, by virtue of (relatively) honorable military service, has been conferred, the Colonel likewise remains the sole member of the only voting block participating in TFS elections.

Although challenges and vote recount demands by the non-citizen residents of the TFS have obscured the fact, and besmirched his good name, the Colonel is proud to announce that TFS voter turnout last Tuesday was 100%.

The polls aboard Eegeebeegee, the capital of the TFS here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere, closed promptly at 0705 (local), exactly five minutes after opening, and the Colonel began the ballot count immediately. At 0800 (local), the Colonel (who, in addition to being height and follicly-challenged, is, by proud self-admission, mathematically-challenged, as well) completed the ballot count and announced the results. The Colonel had won by a landslide, swept back into office as the supreme political leader by a tsunami of popular support from the citizenry of the TFS.

The Colonel's lady, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda, looked up from her knitting, gave the Colonel the look that normally precedes the search for the cast-iron skillet more often used as a weapon than cook-ware, and demanded a recount.

Demonstrating discipline born of a military career of immediate and willing response to orders, and cat-like reflexes born of a marriage career of dodging cast-iron skillets, the Colonel began a ballot recount immediately thereafter (heading off the impending skillet search by mere mili-seconds). Endeavoring to prove his commitment to free and open elections, the Colonel invested the better part of two hours--time that he could have otherwise much more fruitfully applied to a supine strategic planning session and eye-lid light-leak inspection--to a slow and careful count. At 1000 (local), the Colonel announced that the ballot cast had indeed been cast by a (in this case, the) bonafide citizen and was unmistakably a (in this case, the) vote for the re-election of the Colonel as the undisputed, beloved, and benevolent leader of the good people of the Tallahatchie Free State.

The Colonel's lady, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda, looked up from her ironing (You don't think the Colonel would let her waste all of her day knitting, do you?) and signalled her acceptance of the election results.

"Idiot."

The Colonel thinks his lady may have missed her calling. Seems to the Colonel that the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda would have fit right in on the set of MSNBC's 2010 election coverage.

The Colonel hears there may be an opening for 2012...

Ducking Responsibility

With absolutely nothing else of consequence on which to opine, bloviate, or remonstrate, catching the Colonel's attention this morning, he will endeavor instead to catch the five of you who regularly waste rod and cone time perusing posts hereon up on the latest fowl news from the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere.

In previous posts, the Colonel mentioned that the population of the Tallahatchie Free State, a virtual republic established as much tongue-in-cheek as hand-on-wallet, has grown considerably over the spring and summer. The first of April saw the addition of a flock of chickens, and, last month, the Colonel's favorite daughter completed her emigration from the Scumslime state to the welcoming shores of Lake Brenda and beckoning kudzu-clad hills of Eegeebeegee and was rewarded by the Colonel for her superior choice of residential locales with the gift of two ducklings.

Ugly ducklings.

Ugly, persistently peeping ducklings.

Ugly, persistently peeping, perpetually pooping ducklings.

The Colonel's favorite daughter spends hours each day cuddling and coddling her ducklings. No pair of waterfowl in the history of avian-human interaction has been more cuddled and coddled. The ducklings, in return, shower their adopted mother with unlimited affection, not to mention prodigious excrement. The Colonel is beginning to believe that there might actually be a government grant-worthy study possible regarding Oedipal Ornithology, with the Colonel's favorite daughter and her ducks as case in point.

The ducklings have outgrown the once spacious confines of the brooder box. The Colonel's favorite daughter believes it is time for her "babies" to have an appropriate pen of their own "like your stupid chickens."

The Colonel's suggestion that the ducks would be just fine released down at the spacious aquarian acreage of Lake Brenda was met with a mixture of scornful scowls and disagreeable discourse the likes of which the Colonel has only been the subject of from one other source--the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda.

Since it took the Colonel the better part of three months to construct and predator-proof the Eegeebeegee Chicken Coop, with Integral Hen House, he was not keen on the prospect of another round of post hole and wire trench digging. The Colonel thought it much more efficacious and labor-saving to allow the ducks to share the chicken's abode.

The chickens thought otherwise.

The introduction of two little ducks to their domicile elicited such a rancorous response from the chickens that one would have thought the Colonel had just let loose a pack of coyotes in the Eegeebeegee Chicken Coop, with Integral Hen House.

Did you know that George Lucas used a recording of an irate Rhode Island Red for the vocalizations of the velociraptors in Jurassic Park?

He didn't really, but sure could have.

The Colonel was not happy with the impolite behavior of the chickens and punished them by declaring eminent domain and appropriating a portion of the Eegeebeegee Chicken Coop, with Integral Hen House, for the duck's pen.

Grand Opening and official ribbon-cutting ceremony to celebrate completion of the Eegeebeegee Recession Recovery Omnibus Regulatory (ERROR) Act-funded Eegeebeegee Chicken Coop, with Integral Hen House and Duck Pen will occur at a time and place of the Colonel's choosing. Invitation only.

Ornithological Broodings

It has been quite a bountiful brood-raising spring and summer so far here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere. The Colonel fancies himself an amateur ornithologist, fascinated by our feathered friends and their free flights and frequent feeder visits, above and aboard Eegeebeegee. Much of the Colonel's leisure is engaged in avian antic appreciation.

Last year, the immediate surroundings of the Big House here at the capital of the Tallahatchie Free State--a virtual republic, founded as much hand-on-wallet as tongue-in-cheek--hosted the nesting activities of several species of feathered fauna. This year, a pair of barn swallows returned to and improved upon last summer's mud nest under the eaves of the front porch.

They brought friends.

Three other pairs of barn swallows joined the first and as the Colonel writes this frantically boring missive, the four parental pairs are busily feeding four identical broods of four ravenous chicks in mud nests under the four corners of the Big House's porch eaves.

A word of warning to the three of you who regularly waste valuable rod and cone time perusing posts hereon and might be interested in hosting your own breeding pair: barn swallow progeny poop prodigiously. In barely a day's time, four swelling swallows can process parental food offerings and manufacture a surprisingly large messy mound of manure below their nest.

It is, however, a small poopy price to pay for pest control.

One of the parental duties of a brood-raising barn swallow is the discouragement of all other creatures from a thirty-foot radius of their nests with a chattering swoop within inches of the interloper's brain-housing-group. Matters not who or what the interloper is. The Colonel's grandsons--The Hope of 21st Century Civilization, Dashes One and Two (H21CC-1 & 2)--are regular dive bombing targets. As are the rabbits which ease up to raid the flower beds guarding the front porch of the Big House.

The Colonel, who has been forbidden from firearmed rabbit removal by the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda, wishes there was a way to surreptitiously arm barn swallows with miniature cotton-tail seeking rockets.

Not to be outdone, eastern bluebirds have already produced one brood earlier this spring (despite an indigo snake's attempted/prevented predation) and three more broods are peeping and pooping in the boxes at the periphery of the Gardens at Eegeebeegee. Unable to poke pooping posteriors out of their nest like the barn swallows, eastern bluebird chicks depend on their parents to carry away the waste product of insects brought to feed them. While the Colonel often envies birds' wings, current grandson diaper duty makes him thankful for hands.

Early in the spring, the first pair of ruby-throated hummingbirds met at a feeder on the back porch. A half-dozen other pairs have since joined them. The Colonel has been unable to find their diminutive domiciles, but has begun to notice their progeny at the sugar-water feeders. How can one tell young hummingbirds from their parents, you ask? Easy. The immature ones are always sticking their tongues out.

In addition to these favorites, a pair of mockingbirds raised a brood in a bush right outside the door to the back porch. The Colonel is not a big fan of mockingbirds. Turns out they aren't big fans of the Colonel. H21CC-1 & 2, however, were able to daily inspect the progress of the mockingbird chicks with impunity. Momma mockingbird obviously did not have the Colonel's clear understanding of the destructive power inherent in two small boys.

At this point in this pointless parade of paragraphs, at least one of the three of you who regularly waste valuable rod and cone time perusing posts hereon is bursting with the question: "What about the chickens?"

The Colonel is proud to announce that his Local War on Barnyard Fowl Predation has kept the Chickens of Eegeebeegee safe for two full months since the last attack. The Colonel would also like to take this opportunity to announce the latest addition to the domestic flock here at the Center of the Universe. Two nondescript ducklings, named Archie and Peyton by the Colonel's Manning-mad daughter, have joined the growing menagerie of mouths aboard the capitol grounds of the Tallahatchie Free State. She wanted them for her birthday.

Interesting side-story regarding the Colonel's favorite daughter's birthday. Born on the 5th of July, she had long lamented that she had not been born a day earlier so that she could share her adopted country's birthday. When she got old enough (21) to understand the concept of the International Dateline--no slam intended; the Colonel didn't figure it out until he was thirty--the Colonel informed his delighted favorite daughter that while it was indeed the 5th of July where she was born (Hong Kong) it had actually been the 4th of July here in the good ole re-United States.

So, last weekend she asked for, and got for her birthday, a pair of ducks to raise here on the farm.

Guess it could have been worse--she initially wanted goats.