Sawa, sawa! Maape!

 

The man behind the Immigrations and Customs counter at Chicago O'Hare asked the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda, "Who is this gentleman with you?"

"Who? Him? That's my husband, Knucklehead."

"I'm sorry ma'am," the 'Denied Entry' stamp grasped menacingly in his bureaucratic fist.  "What did you just call me?"

"Oh, no! Not you! That's my husband.  I call him 'Knucklehead' because, well..."  Miss Brenda rolled her eyes in the Colonel's direction.

A quick glance at the Colonel standing slack jawed and bleary eyed behind her in line explained the appellation.

"I see. And where did you take your husband?"

"We've been on safari in Kenya for two weeks."

"Okay. Anything to declare?"

The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda channeled Scarlet O'Hare, "I do declare that we had the most wonderful time!"

The man behind the counter blinked twice and looked at the Colonel, who, stupefied by 16 hours of air travel in the cheap seats, could only muster a shoulder shrug. 

"Ma'am, I mean any goods purchased. Any trophies?"

"Oh. No, just lots of pictures."

Counter Man stamped the passports, "Welcome, home."

The Colonel and Miss Brenda weren't exactly "home" yet.  But before she could launch into an explanation of where home really was, the Colonel grasped Miss Brenda's elbow and guide her away with a "Thank you, sir." to Counter Man.

Home was still a three-hour flight and a one-hour drive away.  But it was good to be back in the good ole U.S. of A. 

The previous two weeks had been a whirlwind of bucket list checking for the Colonel, Miss Brenda, her twin sister Linda, and the Colonel's brother-in-law Bruce (not to be confused with his other brother, Bruce). After flights from Memphis to Dallas to London to Nairobi, the stay in Kenya began with an 18-hour jet-lag recovery in the Eka Hotel.  The next morning a guide picked up the Mississippi Four (as they later became known) and drove them to the regional airport that services domestic flights. They boarded a 12-passenger Cessna 208 and were quickly airborne over the wilds of Kenya, headed for Porini Maji, the first of four Porini Camps sited on Nature Conservancies. 

After an hour flight, the Cessna landed on a dirt strip in the absolute middle of nowhere and the pilot announced, "Welcome to Selenkay International Airport."

The Selenkay Conservancy was the first unfenced private property established in Kenya as a not-for-profit organization to both preserve wildlife and benefit local tribes.  In Kenya, the conservancy model provides land on the periphery for indigenous tribes.  The conservancy is managed by a board in cooperation with the local village elders, with the agreement that a portion of the conservancy is allocated for grazing of the village's cattle and goat herds, the remaining majority set aside and protected for wildlife.  Partnerships with private companies hosting limited tent camp non-hunting safaris provide employment for the local villagers -- a ten-tent camp hosting a maximum of 20 guests at any one time employs nearly three dozen staff (hospitality and game-drive guides).  Selenkay became the model for several more like conservancies with safari company partnerships.  The Mississippi Four stayed at four of them over the course of 12 days, with flights between adjacent dirt strips.

The company with which the Colonel's group stayed for ten total nights is Porini, which means "in the wild" in Swahili.  Accommodations can best be described as luxury camping.  Some might argue with the "luxury" tag, but the Colonel has slept in a lot of tent camps over the years that didn't have floored tents with flush toilets, showers (albeit by bucket), and electricity; not to mention turn down service including a hot water bottle that perfectly warmed the bed for the rather cool nights.  Game drives started early each morning, preceded by a wake-up call by an attendant with a tray of coffee, tea, and biscuits, as well as a pitcher of hot water for shaving.  Most breakfasts were picnics on the plains after a couple of hours of viewing wildlife from specially modified vehicles.

Each vehicle sat no more than six guests and included a driver and guide who expertly located the animals the guest particularly wanted to photograph, as well as pointing out all manner of flora and fauna along the way.  As the vehicle slowly traversed the terrain, mammal and bird life was often not much further than a stone's throw away, and sometimes even disconcertingly closer, as was the case with lion prides at fresh kills, bull cape buffalo fights, and long-tusked bull elephants in musth.  The guides taught guests the Swahili words for "okay; let's go" -- "sawa, sawa; maape," which indicated that the photographers in the group had their shots, and it was time to go find something else at which to marvel.

   

After a six-hour morning game drive guests were returned to camp to freshen up before lunch.  When not picnicking, meals were served in a luxury mess tent.  Again, one might argue with the term "luxury", but the Colonel has eaten many meals in camp over the years that didn't include tablecloths, three courses, and drinks of choice. Lunch was always followed by a three-hour afternoon rest.  

At around four each afternoon a short "time of tea" prepared guests for the evening game drive.  And, as the sun began to dip toward the horizon, the guides would find a spot to watch the sun set.  This "sundowner" was complete with a table set for snacks and drinks.  And nearly always the atmosphere provided the ingredients for spectacular animal-silhouetting sunsets.  At dark, guests were returned to camp to freshen up for dinner.

Chairs around a campfire provided perfect perches for performing after action reviews of the day, and then dinner was served sharply at eight. Meals included fare familiar to western palates, but also included samplings of local foods.  The Colonel found the goat preparations particularly interesting, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda not so much.

Nights in camp were not quiet. Wildebeest males guarded their mating sites with incessant grunting, the occasional lion roared in much too close proximity, and, in one camp, hippos left a nearby river pool to snort complaints and munch grass surrounding the tents. Hippos kill more people in Africa than any other animal, so the Colonel will admit that having nothing but canvass separating bed and tusks was a bit disconcerting. The Colonel is happy to report that no tourists were eaten, trampled, or otherwise harmed in the making of this trip.

Following introductions with the other guest parties, the Colonel's party quickly became known to the other guests as the "Mississippi Four."  One lady originally from Switzerland would greet us accordingly and the Colonel would respond with "Swiss Family Robinson!"  High hilarity, that.

Escape from Nairobi 

Of course, no long-distance, long-endurance trip by the Colonel and the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda is complete without some drama entailing sickness, missed or delayed flights, or a combination of the two.  Miss Brenda's silent migraine (no pain, just dizziness) decided that the last two days of the trip would be a boffo time to present itself.  She was a trooper, though, and kept to the rigorous game drive schedule with the help of the Colonel's arm.

By the time we arrived at the airport in Nairobi to catch the first of three flight legs home to the Sip, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda was flat wore out.  Seeing the very long lines at check in and security, and seeing Miss Brenda eyeing the situation warily, a wheelchair was requested.

What ensued was the makings of a potential travel nightmare.

The supervisor at the check-in counter wanted to know why Miss Brenda was in a wheelchair.  When told she was experiencing migraine symptoms, he determined that she was not well enough to make the nine-hour flight to London.  A call in to the medical bureaucracy resulted in the recommendation that Miss Brenda spend a few more days in Nairobi, rest and hydrate, and get a doctor's clearance to fly.

As much as we had enjoyed the previous two weeks in Kenya, spending a few more days at the whim of faceless bureaucrats was, in the Colonel's not-so-humble opinion, unacceptable, and he made that forcefully (but just under the threshold requiring the intervention of security) known.  We were given the option of appealing the bureaucrat's decision to the captain of the flight when he arrived to board. Turns out British Airways captains -- at least this particular one -- are possessed with extraordinary common sense as well as command skill, and the Mississippi Four were soon aboard the flight.

Most every trip the Colonel has ever been on has provided a lasting lesson learned on which to reflect and rely on future trips.  

This one?

If someone in an airport asked you if you need a wheelchair..., SAY: NO!

For those of you wondering about the health and welfare of the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda, fear not.  She was home executing her farm chore responsibilities within 36 hours. 

Best Kept Secrets of an SLJO

Thirty-eight years ago -- give or take a couple of weeks -- the Colonel, then a first lieutenant, was aboard a ship anchored in the protected waters of an Indian Ocean atoll called Diego Garcia.

The Colonel was then the junior officer on the staff of a Marine Air-Ground Task Force (today called a Marine Expeditionary Unit) embarked on one of the U.S. Navy's BUGS (Big Ugly Gray Ships).  As the junior officer on that staff, the Colonel had a long list of written primary and collateral duties; none of which superseded his unwritten duties as SLJO --[descriptive expletive deleted] Little Jobs Officer.  [descriptive expletive deleted] little jobs were often menial tasks that senior officers considered beneath the dignity of an enlisted man, but requiring the industry of a junior officer shamelessly protective of his career and willing to do anything to stay in the good graces of his superiors.

[descriptive expletive deleted] little jobs often popped up as events or requirements for which the aforesaid senior officers had failed to plan, and for which the time of the most junior and least experienced officer would not be considered a waste.

Assignment to these pop up [descriptive expletive deleted] little jobs often started the same way, but rarely ended like this one:

"Lieutenant George, come here!"

"Sir! It's Lieutenant Gregory."

"What?"

"My name is Lieutenant Gregory, sir."

"Wha... who?  Where is Lieutenant George?" 

"Sir, there is no Lieutenant George."

"Sure there is!  Short, skinny, balding, smart-[descriptive expletive deleted] with a budding Napoleon complex."

"Uh..., that's me, sir.  Lieutenant Gregory."         

 "Whatever, lieutenant...  What are you doing right now?"

"Well, sir, I was writing the operations report that you told me had to be on your desk by noon, and...

"That's not important right now.  Got another job for you.  There's a C-141 leaving from the airfield ashore in three hours.  Be on it."

"Aye, aye, sir!"  The Colonel (then still a lieutenant) spun on his heel and headed for the door.

"Wait a minute, George!  Where are you going?"

"It's Gregory, sir... I was headed ashore as directed." 

"Gregory?  What happened to Lieutenant George?"

The Colonel (then a lieutenant beginning to believe his anonymity meant he'd achieved his terminal rank) stood quietly at the position of attention and waited for further instructions.

"Take this binder, lieutenant.  The C-141 is going to Perth.  When you get there, go to the Parmelia Hilton and set up everything for our Birthday Ball.  The binder has everything you need to do -- follow it to the letter.  We'll be there in a couple of weeks, and..."      
"Perth, Australia, sir?" 

"Don't interrupt me, lieutenant!  Yes, Perth, Australia.  Do I need to send a lance corporal along to supervise you?"

"No, sir."

"Fine.  Listen carefully.  This is the most important job you'll ever have while assigned to this staff, and..."

"Sir, I thought you said that being assigned as the liaison to the Sultan of Oman's Land Forces for last month's exercise was the most important job I'd ever have..."

"Stop interrupting!  You didn't get that assignment -- I gave that mission to Lieutenant George.  Where is he by the way?  He would do a better job with this."     

"Sir... I'm Lieutenant George."

"Thought so!  You're not going very far in this man's Marine Corps if you can't remember your own name.  Now, when you get to the Parmelia Hilton, follow the checklist in this binder to the letter.  Do not deviate.  Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"We've already made reservations for you.  Get going."

"Aye, aye, sir!"

Twelve hours later...at the front desk of the Parmelia Hilton in Perth, Australia:

"G'day, sah!"

"Huh..., yeah, I'm Lieutenant Gregory, U.S. Marines.  I believe I have a reservation..."

"Hmmm, we have a reservation for a Lieutenant George..."

"I'm Lieutenant George..."

"Right, mate.  No worries.  Could'a sworn you said 'Gregory'.  We've been expectin' you!  Here's your room pass.  Our Events Coordinator will ring you up in the morning."  

A bell rung, a porter grabbed the Colonel's bag, and a long elevator ride and a short walk later they were opening the door to his room.

Only it wasn't a "room."  The Colonel has paid onerous mortgages on spaces far smaller.  He followed the porter back down to the front desk.

"Excuse me.  About my room..."

"Sorry, sah.  Is there a problem with it?"

"No... I mean... yes..., I mean..., I'm afraid you've given me the key to the wrong room."

"So very sorry, sah!  Let me check that...  No, sah.  That's the right room."

"But, it's not a "room..."

"Well..., no, sah!  It's our best suite..."

"Hold on there, now, partner!  There ain't no way my per diem is gonna pay for two weeks in that suite!"

"Oh, no, sah!  It's complimentary!"

"Yeah, I know it's nice.  But, I can't afford it."

"It's complimentary, sah.  On the house.  Y'know, mate... free."  

"Even the fruit basket and bottle of wine?"

"Compliments of the house, mate."

Twelve hours, a fruit basket, a bottle of Western Australia's finest, and a long nap on a very long bed later, the Colonel's phone rang.  It was the Events Coordinator.  The Colonel showered and shaved, and lugged his thick binder down to her office.

Before the Colonel could start wading through the hundred or so pages of checklists, the Events Coordinator opened her own binder, "We've taken the liberty of organizing your event along the lines of the events your organization has held here for the past twenty years or so.  Everything is arranged.  Unless you have any additional requirements, all that is required from you is your signature on the contract."  

The Colonel quickly leafed through the Event Coordinator's binder.  It was identical to his.  

The Colonel signed the contract,

Thomas E. George 

Lieutenant George had a very nice, all-expense-paid, two-week stay in Perth, Australia.  And, that's all Lieutenant George has ever had to say about that...

Leaves, Lighthouses, and Liberty

It's taken the better part of a week, but the Colonel has just about fully recovered from his latest "vacation."

On the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's, and the Colonel's, bucket list was a trip to Maine and New Hampshire in the early fall to look at leaves and lighthouses.  A flight to Boston from Memphis (the nearest airport to the Colonel's vast holdings here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere) got them deep enough into enemy territory to be able to claim operational long-range reconnaissance patrol status, and before the leaf peeping and lighthouse looking could commence in earnest, a walking tour of Beantown was in order. 

Eleven point oh one miles later (not gonna make the Colonel a liar over one one-hundredth of a mile) the Colonel and his bride proclaimed, "Check!", and headed for Portland.

Maine, that is.

"Lobsta."

Lighthouses.

Long, circuitous drives in search of said lighthouses.

Long, excruciatingly stays at the site of each lighthouse while the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda photographed each from every conceivable angle save that of a drowning sailor.

Wait, you want to know why the Colonel didn't talk about what he saw in Boston?  You probably think the Colonel's love of history would have made a walking-tour immersion into mid-18th Century colonial unrest over a distant and tyrannical government's high taxation and restriction of self-governance the highlight of the entire week-long trip.

Meh.  Experiencing enough of that here early in the 21st Century.

In fact, Colonial Americans enjoyed far lower taxation and far greater local political freedom than do 21st Century Americans...  but, that's grist for another post. 

The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda did get her picture taken in Cheers, so the Boston death march was not a total waste.

With the lighthouses of coastal Maine in the rear-view mirror, the Colonel and his best friend drove west into the White Mountains -- the Colonel wonders how long that appellation will withstand the incessant encroachment of political correctness on freedom and common sense -- and settled in for a few days of taking pictures of every single orange leaf, covered bridge, and waterfall in the entire region of central New Hampshire.

The White Mountains are quite picturesque in the fall -- no doubt about it.  The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda has extensive photographic evidence. 

The highlight of the trip -- for the Colonel, anyway -- was a visit to Lexington and Concord on the exfil leg of the patrol.  

The Colonel is pleased to report that his movement from Concord back to Boston went a lot more smoothly than it did for the red-coated regulars on the 19th of April in 1775.   He tried to imagine, at various stops on the route, the terror and frustration felt by the King's soldiers as they were ambushed and harried by a swelling horde of farmers armed with firearms that in many cases were superior to their own.  "Aren't these folks British, too?" they must have wondered.  "How dare they defy the King's authority!"

The Colonel also tried to imagine what motivated thousands of farmers from across middle Massachusetts to converge on the Redcoat column that day.  Why did the man, whose farm and family outside of Bedford were not really threatened by the British regulars' occupation of Boston, answer the call to arms against the King's troops?  What motivated him?  Was he afraid that the Redcoats would expand their occupation of Boston to farms and villages of the interior?  Wouldn't his, and his fellows', act of violent rebellion on the 19th of April make expansion of regular army activity outside of Boston more possible? 

The Colonel doesn't believe that the man from Bedford was animated by some grand notion of American independence or a philosophical principle regarding the inherent rights of man.  No, it is far more likely that the man from Bedford grabbed his firearm and joined his neighbors and friends because they were his neighbors and friends. He wasn't going to be the man to say, "No, son, I wasn't there.  I didn't go when my friends went.  It wasn't my fight."

The Colonel believes -- without a doubt in his military mind, and, without a qualm about the contradiction -- that what really motivates men to acts of righteous violence is love.  Men dress it up in manly terminology -- comradeship..., loyalty..., honor -- but the motivator is love.

And love is local. 

When the next revolution comes -- and it will come, it always does -- the spark may be a single man's action, or a single bureaucrat's over-reach.  But, the fuel for the fire will be the bonds between neighbors and friends.

So it was in the spring of 1775.  The farmers who chased the regulars back into Boston, and who then formed the thousands occupying the heights around Boston, had far more pressing personal requirements.  They had planting to do.  But, the majority stayed on the heights.  Not for American independence -- that notion was still a year away from Jefferson's illumination and the Continental Congress' grudging declaration.  

The man from Bedford stayed on the heights because his friends and neighbors stayed.  

Liberty springs from local love.                              
          

Expeditionary Tourism

Thirty years ago -- give or take a deployment workup period or two -- the Colonel was deployed, along with a couple thousand of his closest friends, to the edge of the Empire as a centurion of the Republic.

Twice, at the end of the decade of Reagan, as a part of a Marine Expeditionary Unit capable of executing ship-to-shore "special operations" at the drop of a hat, the Colonel and a couple thousand of his closest friends went through a fever-pitched preparation phase and then deployed for six months to the Mediterranean area of operations aboard amphibious ships of the greatest navy the world has ever seen. 

The Colonel is convinced, beyond a shadow of doubt in his military mind, that the capabilities and commitment of he and a couple thousand of his closest friends not only maintained peace in the region, but so unnerved the Soviet Union that it collapsed.

Think the Colonel is kidding?  He kids thee not.

The Colonel, with a couple thousand of his closest friends, sailed through the Strait of Gibraltar and into the Med at the end of October, 1989.  Two weeks later, the Berlin Wall fell.

Coincidence?  The Colonel doesn't believe in coincidences!

Look, it's crystal clear to the Colonel -- and, he ain't all that smart -- that there are two reasons the Soviet Union collapsed:  blue jeans and the Colonel (along with a couple thousand of his closest friends).

Blue jeans, you ask?

Yes.  Blue jeans.

The government stores in Moscow didn't sell 'em.  The Muscovites wanted 'em.  Statist socialism failed to satisfy the people's wants.  

Blue jeans, the Colonel, and a couple thousand of the Colonel's closest friends -- someday the history books will get it right.

So..., having trained -- hard and effectively -- for every contingency on the spectrum of military operations, ranging from supplying woeful waifs with MRE gum to marching on Moscow through a battlefield macro-aggressed with nuclear fallout and lethal chemical agents, and... finding neither woeful waifs nor need for seizing Moscow, the Colonel and a couple thousand of his closest friends did the thing that Marines do second most best...

They pulled liberty.

For those not acquainted with the term, "pulled liberty" is a nautical term for having gone ashore to engage in unmilitary conduct both naughty and nice.

The Colonel did the latter, of course...

That's his story and he's sticking to it.  He is also thankful that this was a couple decades before the ubiquitous cell phone camera.

With peace breaking out all over the place -- as it always did whenever the Colonel was in an operational command -- the Colonel had no choice but to act like a tourist.

Oh sure, the Colonel, and a couple thousand of his closest friends, still conducted frequent bouts of training for military operations, but Southern Europe was their oyster.

And, there just weren't that many tourists getting in the way in those days.

From the Costa del Sol, to Provence, to the Riviera, to Roma, Napoli, and the Amalfi Coast, to Mount Carmel, Tel Aviv and Jerusalem, and dozens of points in between, the Colonel -- with Uncle Sam as his travel agent -- sight-saw the extent of the Roman Empire.

For their coincidental 40th wedding anniversary and 60th birthdays, the Colonel and the Comely and Kind-hearted Miss Brenda recreated the Colonel's Mediterranean travels earlier this year -- with just the Colonel's best friend this time.  

The sights were the same, with one exception -- thousands and thousands of tourists.  

Where 30 years ago -- give or take a deployment work-up period or two -- the Colonel had the Piazza dei Miracoli and the leaning tower of Pisa nearly all to his lonesome around which to wander mouth-agape, this summer the Colonel and the Comely and Kind-hearted Miss Brenda stood shoulder to shoulder with thousands of tourists jostling for the obligatory photo shot with the tower in the background.

Where 30 years ago -- give or take a deployment work-up period or two -- the Colonel sat nearly alone on the Spanish Steps, this summer the Colonel had to point them out to the Comely and Kind-hearted Miss Brenda shoulder to shoulder with thousands of tourists from behind a security fence.

Nearly everywhere in Spain, France, Italy, Greece, and Turkey, the experience was the same -- thousands upon thousands of tourists jostling for a position from which to momentarily see a sight.

The Colonel, who has a back-pack crammed full of life's disappointments, was..., well..., disappointed.   

He's sorry that the Comely and Kind-hearted Miss Brenda didn't get to see the Med like the Colonel got to, but the check is in that box -- not going back.

At any rate, the Colonel hopes that the thousands upon thousands of tourists sight-seeing in great selfie-snapping, sweaty packs appreciate that their ability to do so is attributable to a couple of thousand of the Colonel's closest friends sweating under their packs and scaring the Soviets into collapse.   

They probably have no idea.    

       

Sea Story

The Colonel's flurry of activity over the past week or so, tackling long overdue chores and projects, has been reminiscent of the last two times he returned from long(er) "cruises" in the Roman's Mare Nostrum.

While the flurry of catching up on "honey-do's" has been similar, the accommodations aboard the most recent Med cruise vessel were a tad bit better than those the Colonel experienced on the Navy's BUGS (big ugly grey ships) three decades ago.  

At sea the first day the Colonel was reminded of an old Marine saying and shared it with the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda,

"Hey, you know the difference between being on a ship and being in prison?"

"No, knucklehead.  But, I'm sure you're about to enlighten me and then follow up with a largely fabricated and interminably long 'sea story'," she said in the loving way she reserves only for her man.

"Huh?  My sea stories are not interminably long," the Colonel countered.  "Anyway, the difference is that in prison you have cable television and no danger of drowning."

The Colonel's lady was clearly highly amused at his wit, "Whatever.  Now can you quickly sum up the accompanying sea story so I can get back to working on my tan?"   

"Get it?  No danger of drowning."

"I got it.  Why don't you go get some soft ice cream and leave me alone?"

"Soft ice cream?!?  When were you going to tell me about that?"

"I pointed it out to you earlier, but you were busy telling some largely fabricated and interminably long sea story about the last time you were here in the Mediterranean."

"My sea stories are not interminably long!" 

"Go tell that to somebody who doesn't know you.  Now go get some ice cream and give me some peace."  

The Colonel headed for the soft ice cream kiosk, but on the way passed a member of the crew who wished him a cheery "good morning!"  The Colonel noticed the man's name tag had Philippines below his name, "Where in the Philippines are you from?"

"Cabanatuan, sir."

"That's on Luzon, right?  I was at Subic Bay for several short stays 35 years ago.  Great country, the Philippines."

"Very good, sir.  Can I get you something to drink?"

He was clearly excited to hear that he and Colonel had so much in common.

"Eyud!," the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda hollered from her chaise lounge.  "Leave the man alone!  He's got work to do!"

"Yes, dear."

The Colonel clapped the man on his shoulder, winked conspiratorially, and whispered, "Gonna be on your boat for two more weeks.  I'll talk to you later and we can compare notes on the future of Filipino-American relations vis-a-vis the Chinese."

"Eyud!"

"Yes, dear!"   

Conversational Cruise Control

A two-week cruise across the Mediterranean with the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda -- celebrating their 60th birthdays and their 40th wedding anniversary -- provided the Colonel with a captive audience with whom to share his worldview.  

At dinner each evening, seated at a large table with new friends from across America and the globe, the Colonel, inspired by the day's excursion to a ubiquitous fragmentary remnant of some once-great empire -- Carthaginian, Greek, Roman, Moorish, Ottoman, etc. -- inevitably responded to some political inanity with a lesson in historical geopolitics.

Despite the shin-bruising inflicted on him by his adoring bride, the Colonel launched attack after attack on the weak defenses of knowledge and understanding possessed by his table-mates.

It always started so innocently.

"You sound like you are from the South, Ed.  Where are you from? Atlanta?

"No, there ain't nobody but transplanted yankees livin' in Atlanta anymore.  I'm from Mississippi."

You could see the mental images of bedsheets and burning crosses flash in their eyes.  "Mississippi," they would intone with a mixture of haughty superiority, disdainful disapproval, and patronizing sympathy.

The word "Mississippi" always has the same effect on the speech centers of yankees -- they start using smaller words and shorter sentences.  "So..., Ed from Mississippi, what do you do for a living?" 

"Well, George from the North Pole, in between Klan meetings and chasing girls at family reunions, there just ain't much time for work, now is there?"

At this point the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda volunteered, "He's a retired Marine; he's never been to a Klan meeting, and we are only related by marriage."

Introducing the word "Marine" into any conversation always elicits one of three immediate responses:

         -- "Thank you for your service,"

         -- "I almost joined the Marines," or

         -- "Semper Fi!," followed by a round of monosyllabic grunts and chest thumps as two Marines go through a recognition ritual as old as the Corps itself.

In this case, the combination revelation that the Colonel was a retired Marine, from Mississippi, elicited, "Well, you must be a big Trump fan, huh?  Guess you can't wait for him to start building that wall."

"Actually, I despise Trump only a little less so than the Clintons, Alabama, and LSU.  And..., empires that build walls don't last much longer as empires."

"Huh?  Wait, the United States isn't an empire."

Despite three, count 'em, three kicks from the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda, the Colonel bored in for the kill, "You folks up there just short of the arctic circle ever heard of a history book?  The United States of America is the greatest empire the world has ever known.  We don't like to call ourselves an empire, but we got all the hallmarks of one and then some."   

The Colonel's table-mates were now apprising him with looks ranging from that of finding a turd in the punchbowl to that of finding a rattlesnake in the cupboard.

The Colonel was undeterred by neither the looks nor the increasing violence and frequency of kicks to his shins, "Look, the future greatness of our Republic does not lie in the hands of an extra-constitutional executive.  The future greatness of the American Republic lies in the hands of a chief executive who will do two things -- unwaveringly uphold and abide by a strict interpretation of the Constitution; and, unite the nation in a grand mission."

"What kind of grand mission?  Sending a man to Mars?"

"Colonizing Mars would be nice, but the grand mission I have in mind is creation of a pan-hemispheric American republic stretching from the Hudson Bay to Cape Horn."

"That sounds like Manifest Destiny on steroids," one said.  Another snorted, "that's naked imperialism."

The Colonel's shins were absorbing a veritable rain of kicks -- the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda was getting quite a leg workout -- but he was on a roll and nothing short of a mortal wound was going to stop him, "You say that like it's a bad thing.  I thought we had already established that the United States was an empire."

"But, what about a people's right of self-determination?"

"Show me that clause in the Constitution. And, why shouldn't we share the protections of life, liberty, property, and the pursuit of happiness with the rest of our neighbors?  And don't tell me they are happy where they are -- under corrupt and ineffective governments unable or unwilling to provide security and freedom to their citizens.  If their nations were so great, they wouldn't be flocking to our shores by the millions as we speak."  

"But..., but, not all cultures are are compatible with our form of democracy."

The Colonel had them right where he wanted them, "First of all, that is a racist statement and false on it's face.  Our Republic is peopled with folks from every corner of the globe who brought their culture with them when they came to our shores.  Isn't it a classical liberal tenet that our nation's strength is in part derived from our diversity?  Secondly, we aren't a democracy -- the word appears nowhere in our Constitution."

By this time dessert was finished and the Colonel and his bride excused themselves to go avail themselves of other ship-board entertainment, "Pleasure to meet y'all.  Have a nice evening."

For two weeks the Colonel was in heaven.     

Happy Birthday, Miss Brenda!

The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda begins her [number censored]th air-breathing trip 'round ol' Sol today.  Born in the year [number censored], the Colonel's Lady has been witness to momentous marvels and marvelous moments in the history of man on this big blue marble.

During her time on the planet:

Two territorial possessions of the Republic were granted Statehood.

Men walked on the moon.

Al Gore invented the Internet and founded a false religion.

The Cold War ended.

The Culture War began.

Elvis died.  Or did he?

Saddam did the stupid. Three times.

Walter Mondale lost 49 states.  Ronald Reagan found them.

Ole Miss won a National Championship in football.  Really.

The United States gave away a canal it built on the isthmus of Panama to a country it created on territory taken from Colombia.  

The United States invaded Cuba, Grenada, Panama, Iraq, and Afghanistan to depose/arrest their leaders.  Four out of five ain't bad.

More than just a passive witness, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda has been a trend-setter and over-achiever from the moment she and her twin sister disembarked from my favorite mother-in-law. 

She is a world traveler. 

She graced the new state of Hawaii with her pre-school presence; lived in Washington, California, New York, New Jersey, and Tennessee as a kid; and then, as a teen, landed in the Panama Canal Zone happily coincident (dare we call it serendipity?) with the arrival of the Colonel to that tropic. 

As spousal support unit to her Marine, the Colonel's Lady has made spartan dwellings happy homes in Virginia (twice), North Carolina (twice), Mississippi (twice), Georgia, Alabama, Hawaii, Rhode Island, South Korea, South Carolina, and Florida  -- in all, EIGHTEEN different abodes adopted and adapted to serve as wonderful, welcoming homes for the Colonel and kids.

She is an organizer par-excellence. 

No church, community, club, school, nor business has experienced her membership without fundamental transformation -- for the good.  Even the Colonel's hen herd has been subject to her organizational will -- eggs are laid with precision placement and perfunctory punctuality.   

She is a consummate care-giver.

The Colonel's Lady is so constantly concerned with the comfort and confidence of others, that the Colonel's numerical call-sign for the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda is "Twelve"  -- she always feels the need to "tend to" others.

The Colonel feels the need to pause as this juncture for the benefit of the 'Bama and LSU grads among the two dozen of you who regularly waste valuable rod and cone time perusing posts hereon, and explain the punchline in the preceding paragraph.  The Colonel will attempt to use the smallest words he can.

Her nickname is "Twelve" because she thinks she must tend to (ten two) others.  

The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda is a talented musician.

She plays the piano and plucks the Colonel's heartstrings.  She is the Colonel's angel -- often up in the air harping about something or another the Colonel has done, or hasn't.

The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda loves the Colonel.  The Colonel reminds her of this often...

...often coincident with the purchase of a new gun or power tool. 

He could go on and on, but suffice it to say the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda is the Colonel's favorite person in the whole wide world.  

Happy Birthday, Miss Brenda!      

The Year the Music Died

Looking back through the historical haze and geopolitical gunsmoke of the last twenty years, the events at the close of the ninth decade of the twentieth century seem to gain gravitas at each glance.

Not a week into the year 1989, the United Sates Navy provided the exclamation point to the long-running feud between Ronald Reagan and Muamar Qaddafi, when two Libyan MiG-23 fighter-bombers ventured just a tad bit too close to a U.S. carrier battle group operating in the Gulf of Sidra north of the Libyan coast and were summarily shot down by two U.S. F-14 fighters. The Colonel remembers thinking at the time that "this could be an interesting year..." That would turn out to be an under-thought that would have qualified me for award of a Colonel's Monday Morning MOTO Gold Medal had this blog been extant at the time.

The Sidra Smackdown was of particular interest to those of us in the First Battalion, Eighth Marines at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina. We would shortly be redesignated Battalion Landing Team 1/8 (BLT 1/8) and were beginning a grueling training regimen with the 24th Marine Expeditionary Unit (24th MEU) to earn our Special Operations Capable (SOC) designation prior to our upcoming deployment to the Mediterranean. Operations against Libya were among a plethora of contingencies for which we were preparing as the forward deployed military expression of American foreign policy. We were scheduled to sail from the East Coast in October.

Two weeks later, the greatest American President of the 20th Century (a moment of reverent silence, please) left office and left his former political rival and Vice President, George the Elder, holding the reins.

Two weeks later, February the 2nd, the Kremlin announced the departure of the last column of Soviet troops from Kabul, ending nearly a decade of disastrous military adventurism in Afghanistan; said disastrous decade exacerbated by U.S. aid to the Afghan Mujaheddin fighting the Soviets, in return for the Soviet exacerbation of a disastrous decade of American military adventurism in Vietnam.

Two weeks later, February the 14th, the first Global Positioning Satellite was launched--the first in a constellation of satellites whose measurement of elapsed time has revolutionized our civilization in peace and war. By the time we Marines of the 24th MEU (SOC) arrived in the Mediterranean with rudimentary GPS receivers to experiment with, there was a small handful of satellites available for limited hours. The Colonel remembers thinking at the time, "this GPS stuff could be big..." Monday Morning MOTO medal stuff.

Five and half weeks later, March the 24th, the captain of the Exxon Valdez exclaimed to his First Mate, "I said 'Tanqeray on the rocks,' not 'Take her in on the rocks!'" Eleven million gallons of oil spilled into Prince William Sound. Sometime later a sea otter, "saved," cleaned of oil, and rehabilitated, was promptly eaten by a killer whale immediately upon its release, as its releasers watched.

A month later, April the 21st, student democracy demonstrations began in Beijing's Tianamen Square--opposite the gate to the ancient imperial palace, the Forbidden City, over which a huge portrait of Mao anachronistically hangs. As the demonstrations swelled and gained public support, Mao's totalitarian successors finally declared Martial Law--as if Martial Law had not already existed since 1949. (Ironically, the Chinese communist totalitarians had lionized a similar student uprising against an ineffectual and cruel Chinese government on May 4th, 1919.) The students responded to the threats of the Chinese Politboro by unveiling the "Goddess of Democracy," a plaster of paris statue mimicking the Statue of Liberty. Five nights later, 20 years ago today, while the world watched on live television, Chicom tanks and armored personnel carriers rolled over the demonstrators. The western world expressed its outrage by increasing our orders of cheap Chinese-made shirts and tennis shoes.

Ten and a half years after the Tianamen Square Massacre, on a cold, blustery Thanksgiving Day, the Colonel walked the length of the square from Mao's mausoleum to his monstrous mien mounted over the Gate of Heavenly Peace, and marveled that, still on active duty, there I was, strolling unnoticed by a sworn enemy against whom I was still preparing (and am still expecting my nation some day) to go to war.

A month after the Chicoms silenced the students' cry for freedom and a day after America celebrated its freedom and independence, American culture continued its plunge into meaningless with Seinfeld's premiere of his show about nothing.

The year 1989 saw a major hurricane, Hugo, ravage a southern coastal city, Charleston, on the 21st of September, preluding an era of storms savaging southern coastal cities, the cost of recovery from which will pale in comparison following the Cat 3 that someday will sweep the streets of Manhattan.

On the 13th of October, Friday the 13th, the 24th MEU (SOC) and its ground combat element, BLT 1/8, sailed from the East Coast. Commanding BLT 1/8 was, then, Colonel, later Commandant of the Marine Corps, Mike Hagee. I was his Operations Officer. We were ready, willing, and able to go toe-to-toe with the Warsaw Pact or any of its clients ringing the Mediterranean. The knowledge of this struck fear in the hearts of the socialist totalitarians behind Churchill's Iron Curtain, and the East Germans were the first to crack under the strain. On November the 9th, the East German government opened checkpoints in the Berlin Wall allowing their captive citizens freedom to travel to the Western sectors of the city. Jubilant Berliners began tearing down the wall the next evening. As Colonel Hagee and his staff watched this unfold on CNN in the Rota, Spain Naval Base Officers' Club, one of my buddies turned to our battalion commander and asked, "Does this mean we can go home, now?"

A month later, on Malta, at a summit for which one of our rifle companies, trained and equipped to conduct raids from small boats, provided security, President Bush and Premier Gorbachev concluded with the announcement that the Cold War was beginning to end.

The year concluded, while I was, as always seemed to happen, on the other side of the planet, with U.S. combat operations against the government of Panamanian dictator Manuel Noriega. Seemed fitting to me--we helped put him in power; we took him out. The Colonel remembers being frustrated that Marines were fighting their way through some of my old high school days' stomping grounds and a Marine (me), who knew his way around those jungles and had high school classmates fighting against us as part of the Panamanian army, couldn't get into the fight for which I was probably most prepared.

It was a most momentous year and I had a ringside seat. Uncle Sam has been a great travel agent.

Golden Fleeced

There’s gold in them thar tourists’ pockets!

Riding the rails of the Alaska Railroad as I write this; on our way south from Fairbanks to Denali. Day before yesterday was spent on the train—eight hours northbound from Talkeetna to Fairbanks. Yesterday morning we boarded a stern wheeler for an excursion on the Chena River—watched a float plane take off and land, saw a team of sled dogs pulling a four-wheeler, and trooped ashore to be herded through a replica of an Athabaskan Indian Fish Camp. Typical tourist-trap trek.

Yesterday afternoon we boarded a bus for the El Dorado Gold Mine outside of Fairbanks. El Dorado is a “working” gold mine, and although they do extract gold from the hills, they extract a lot more green from the daily trainload of tourists that visit. But, I have to admit that I was pretty excited to find gold flakes in the bottom of my pan when we were given the opportunity to try our luck. The 5.5 grains of gold is probably worth about 11 bucks, but the taste of gold fever was priceless.

When we get to Denali this afternoon, we are taking a white-water raft trip. The prospect of such adventure used to be fire me up. Guess I’m getting old—I’m trying to decide if I would rather ride a rocking chair at the lodge instead.

Denali Denied

As I write this it is a little after 6 in the morning and the sun has been up for two hours. Sunlight leaked into our room past the curtains until after midnight last night. The last time I experienced such lattitudinal effects on sunlight was in Norway in 1987. But, that time, as several previous trips to Norway's arctic, was in late winter, and the sun made a rather brief appearance on the horizon each day--the rest of our training day was conducted in twighlight or darkness lit only by the aurora borealis. This is the first time I've experienced more than 20 hours of sunlight and it is a bit disconcerting.

Out the window this morning Denali's peak is shrouded in cloud. It made a brilliant, snow-capped appearance yesterday evening after dinner, but the weather failed us earlier in the day.

We rode the Alaskan Railroad from Anchorage to the thriving metropolis of Talkeetna yesterday morning. Actually, Talkeetna makes my adpoted hometown, Abbeville, Mississippi, look like a bustling example of modernity. And, Abbeville ain't big enough for a traffic light. Upon our arrival in Talkeetna, we checked into the tourist lodge and caught their shuttle into "town." After seeing the sights for all of 15 minutes, we walked over to the bush pilot airfield and waited for our prearranged flight over the Alaskan Range.

The six of us strapped into the antique aircraft, a De Havilland DHC-2 "Beaver," while the pilot went over the location of survival gear and safety features of the aircraft. He actually managed to do so while not acting bored to tears. He later told us he averages 4 flights a day and has been doing this for nearly 30 years.

Our flight lasted an hour, but seemed to go by much quicker than that. We flew up to the base of the range and worked our way up through passes leading toward Mt. McKinnley's peak--looking for a break in the cloud to allow us a circling view. No break. However, the view on the way up was spectacular. We flew alongside towering rock walls and over gleaming white high altitude snow fields. The second leg of the flight took us back down over the massive glacier that flows from McKinnley to the river below. Still mostly covered in snow, small bright icey-blue pools of meltwater, looking like saphires at a lady's throat, opened tiny portals of light by which we stole a glimpse into the soul of the thousand foot thick frozen river.

Later this morning we catch the train on up to Fairbanks. Hope Miss Brenda gets those pictures of the moose and grizzly bears she wants. I just hope the coffee is hot and plentiful.

North to Alaska

The cruise director wannabes in my family (the comely Miss Brenda and her homely twin sister) have been scheming to get us back on a cruise ship to make a trip to Alaska, and this curmudgeonly cruisaphobe has been resisting mightily. The last cruise I went on failed to improve my very low opinion of ships and sailors. Cramming my backside onto a floating prison for temporary incarceration with a thousand civilians trying desperately to have fun was not at the top, or bottom, of my bucket list. I told Miss Brenda I wanted to take a train tour, instead.

Tomorrow morning, Miss Brenda, her parents, and I will catch a flight out of Memphis and link up with Miss Brenda's sister and her hubby in Anchorage tomorrow evening. For the next nine days we will train and coach (tour group euphemism for "bus") our way across a select slice of the 49th state of these re-United States. Should give me some time to catch up on my reading--I mean, how much time can you spend looking at snow-capped mountains, moose, and icebergs?

The last time I was in Anchorage was January of 1982. I was on a charter flight with a couple hundred other miserable Marines headed for the garden isle of Okinawa. The first leg of our polar arc flight took us from LAX to Anchorage and we were allowed to deplane for a couple of hours while they refueled our bird. I wanted a glass of orange juice but didn't have the $10, so I settled for a $5 cup of coffee.

I can only imagine how expensive my caffeine fixes will be this time around.