Woulda, Coulda, Shoulda

Three times in the last 150 years these re-United States had the opportunity to rule the world--1865, 1945, and 1991.

In the summer of 1865, the War for Southern Independence petered to an end after Lee abandoned Petersburg. At the moment Grant and Lee agreed to the terms by which the Army of Northern Virginia became extinct, the Army and Navy of the United States was the most modern and powerful force on the planet, by far. In fact, the economic power of the United States, and the natural and manpower resources available to it, were beyond peer in the Western World. Noted Civil War author (and Mississippian) Shelby Foote observed that, indeed, the Union fought the war with the Confederacy "with one arm tied behind its back." When Great Britain considered recognizing the Confederacy, Washington's representatives in London warned that if they did so, Great Britain would be the next target after the fall of Richmond.

Frankly, we had a few scores to settle on the other side of the Atlantic. British forces had burned Washington fifty-three years earlier and France had meddled in neighbors' affairs in our hemisphere. We eventually went to war with Spain in 1898 to strip them of possessions in the Caribbean and the Pacific. We could have been the masters of both the Pacific and Atlantic in 1865 or shortly thereafter. But, instead petty politicians kept the re-United States' aggression turned inward and spent the next several decades punishing the southern population of our great nation. The greatest Navy and Army in the Western World was disbanded and the re-United States entered yet another period of self-imposed isolationism--always a sure way to quickly lose the eternal state struggle for preeminence.

Sixty-three years ago, today, the re-United States declared attainment of world preeminence in military, economic, and technological power when a single B-29 bomber (technology for which in itself was unrivaled in the world) dropped an atomic device on an enemy city, and thereby ushered in an era of nuclear nightmare that disturbs our sleep to this day.

Had the re-United States subdued the rest of the world in a few short years following 1865, established an empire governed by the principles of democratic republicanism (little r, little d), one can make the case that the tragic wars of the 20th century might have been prevented. Sure, we would have fought insurgencies against our empire across the globe, but the loss in lives and treasure would have been minuscule in comparison to that wrought by the carnage of what is ironically called the "American Century." Think of the advances such an empire could have made in science and medicine with half of what was spent on building the armies, navies, and air forces (and outrageously expensive nuclear weapon stockpiles) in one century.

And, don't get me started on the opportunities lost in the 90's with the collapse of the Soviet Union!

Sorry, need to put my INTJ personality back in its box and go drive my tractor for awhile.

Credit Where Due

Ten years ago this month, I gave up the last really fun job I ever had. For eighteen fleeting months I commanded the 1st Battalion, 3rd Marines, comprised of upwards of a thousand of America's best, bravest, and brightest. I assumed command on the 14th of February, 1997, and a year and a half later, to the day, I handed the colors and command of "the best battalion in the Marine Corps" to an old friend, saluted him, and wished for all the world that I could be in his boots.

It will sound like MOTO (mastery of the obvious) to any Marine who reads this, but the rest of you need to know that any and every officer worth his salt dreams of, yearns and strives for, and otherwise actively seeks the opportunity to command, even though the responsibility of command is a crushing load of care in which the lives and welfare of those in your charge weigh on your shoulders and in your mind 24/7. Command of a Marine rifle company or infantry battalion both makes you younger and ages you--your mind and body works overtime to keep up with the ability and antics of 150 or 800 hard-chargers all much younger than you, by decades in some cases. Even the soundest slumberers find themselves rendered sleepless by the demands of command, and yet it is the most refreshing and rewarding experience known to man.

I've mentioned before that most treasured of all of my plaques and other "I love me" memorabilia from my career in the Corps are the two with pictures of the officers of Charlie Company, 1st Battalion, 8th Marines and the officers of the 1st Battalion, 3rd Marines during my tenure as commanding officer of each. More and more often lately I pause to look at those two pictures and reflect on just how lucky I was to have had such dedicated and talented men on my leadership team. I brag that Charlie 1/8 was the best rifle company in the Marine Corps twenty years ago, and that 1/3 was the best battalion in the Marine Corps in 1998, with the only credit claimed that I recognized my good fortune to be surrounded by greatness and let them run. These are my heroes:

Company C, 1st Battalion, 8th Marines 1988
1st Lt Brad McCulloch, XO
1st Lt Tony Wells, Weapons Platoon
1st Lt Joe Davis, Forward Observer
1st Lt Al Adler, 1st Platoon
1st Lt Pat Hollis, 2nd Platoon
1st Lt John Burk, 3rd Platoon

1st Battalion, 3rd Marines 1998
Maj D. E. Liddell, XO
Maj A. H. Smith, Ops O
Maj J. J. Wanat, CO, Weapons Company
Capt S. K. Moore, XO, Weapons Company
Capt J. W. Ross, Heavy Weapons Platoon
1st Lt R. J. Rizzo, 81mm Mortar Platoon
2nd Lt N. T. Perkkio, Dragons Platoon
Capt J. L. Day, CO, H&S Company
1st Lt J. C. Star, XO, H&S Company
1st Lt V. V. Gerald, Adjutant
CWO2 T. J. Sukalski, Personnel Officer
Capt R. Rochelle, Intelligence Officer
1st Lt F. P. McDowell, Scout/Sniper Platoon
Capt M. A. House, Asst Ops O
Capt G. R. F. Brown, Air Officer
Capt C. L. Christopher, Forward Air Controller
Capt T. K. White, Forward Air Controller
CWO2 G. E. Lawson, Jr., NBC Officer
Capt C. G. Cabaniss, Logistics Officer
1st Lt S. Cavazos III, Asst Logistics Officer
1st Lt G. W. Lewis, Maintenance Management Officer
1st Lt P. J. Moreno, Jr., Supply Officer
1st Lt P. A. Reeves, Motor Transport Officer
Capt G. A. Wynn, Communications Officer
Lt M. R. Hendricks, Chaplain
Lt R. Pickard, Battalion Surgeon
Capt C. R. Henderson, CO Company A
Capt E. T. Card, XO Company A
1st Lt G. W. Johnson, Weapons Platoon, Company A
1st Lt B. J. Hamlet, 1st Platoon, Company A
2nd Lt M. A. Haley, Jr., 2nd Platoon, Company A
2nd Lt J. H. Keller, 3rd Platoon, Company A
Maj K. M. Detreaux, CO Company B
1st Lt A. K. Ledford, XO Company B
1st Lt G. Anikow, Weapons Platoon, Company B
1st Lt P. E. Zambelli, 1st Platoon, Company B
1st Lt T. B. Noel, 2nd Platoon, Company B
1st Lt B. F. Harley, 3rd Platoon, Company B
Capt S. P. Kaegebein, CO Company C
1st Lt B. T. Fulks, XO, Company C
1st Lt D. A. McCombs, 1st Platoon, Company C
2nd Lt J. J. Zavaleta, 2nd Platoon, Company C
2nd Lt J. C. Fitzhugh, 3rd Platoon, Company C
2nd Lt C. B. Lynn III, Weapons Platoon, Company C

Semper Fi, Gentlemen!

Car Kin

The lovely and long-suffering Miss Brenda and I celebrated the accumulation of 32 years of marital (ahem) bliss this past week. I often marvel that she put up with even 32 days of my shenanigans. I definitely got the better end of this partnership agreement!

For anniversary presents this year I got a tractor and a workshop, and Miss Brenda got a new car. While getting a new car is a significant emotional event for most everyone, in Miss Brenda's case it is both a rare treat and traumatic experience. She believes that when you buy a car, it becomes a member of the family; and, that such a purchase is a long-term commitment.

This tendency first manifested itself fully when we finally traded in her much used and teenage boy abused van on a new SUV for which our boys had lobbied hard and long ("Dad, when you see a family go by in a van, you say to yourself 'they're going somewhere'''--"when you see a family go by in an SUV, you say to yourself 'they're going somewhere and they are going to have fun when they get there!'"). Miss Brenda's van had carried kids and kit to untold sports practices and events, suffered the indignity of being the vehicle in which two teenagers learned to drive (with scars to testify), and bore all of this with grace and the good manners to not break down on long road trips between duty stations. For nearly ten years Miss Brenda's van endured and earned membership (if only in Miss Brenda's mind) in our clan. While I was in the salesman's office signing paperwork on the new vehicle, I looked out the window and burst out laughing.

Out in the parking lot Miss Brenda was hugging the van goodbye. I kid thee not.

Her current seven year old four-wheeled child is still with us despite having been replaced in Miss Brenda's half of the garage by a brand spanking new model. Miss Brenda wants to make sure it gets to a good family.

The Colonel's Legs Ain't For Show

I'm no clothes horse. Nor am I, in my estimation, an uptight prude. But, I have to say that one of my greatest critiques of current American society is the incredible depth to which the standard for acceptable public dress has fallen. I think the point at which my disdain for society's sartorial slouch crossed the line into disgust was the occasion of President Reagan's death. As I watched coverage of the crowds filing past his flag-draped coffin in the capitol rotunda, I was, frankly, angered by the shorts, t-shirts, and flip-flops worn by the majority of those who believed they were "paying their respects" to Reagan. There was no difference between that crummily clad crowd and the one waiting in the line for Space Mountain at Disney Whirled. It was as if Passing of a President was on par with Pirates of the Caribbean.

Contrast the dress of those filing past Reagan's coffin with pictures of those who filed past Kennedy's in November of '63--all of the men were in suits and ladies wore dresses. I don't think a coat and tie should have been required for entrance to Reagan's repose, but had I been in charge of the capitol police that day, I would have at least refused entry to the man wearing the t-shirt with a picture of a rhinoceros and the caption "I'm Horny!" underneath. That was just plain disrespectful.

As I travel through airports each week, or shop at a mall, or go out to dinner, I am amazed at the number of adult men in shorts and t-shirts. I admit I wore shorts and t-shirts in such public places--until I was TWELVE!!

For crying out loud, people, have a little self-respect.

Gains and Losses

The flight from Columbus, Ohio to Charlotte Wednesday evening was a rough one in more ways than one. The lady sitting next to me sat quietly until we were diverted to another airport because of weather and low fuel, and then she began to cry. As we sat on the tarmac at Raleigh-Durham waiting for thunderstorms to clear she began to talk.

Anyone who knows me well, knows that there is not an empathetic bone in my body. Even some of my closest friends (two out of the three) have told me that I can be a cold-hearted sonuvagun. I used to think it was a character flaw. Then, I was tested on the Myers-Briggs personality battery and pegged as an INTJ--evidently INTJs have no feelings for the plights of others. Famous historical INTJs include some rather notorious emperors, dictators, and autocrats. Not a very esteemed group with which to be associated--but at least I have an excuse for being so indifferent to my fellow man. Lucky for the world this personality group is the smallest of the sixteen identified.

So, there I was, stuck on a grounded flight next to a teary-eyed woman who felt the need to share her misery. Turns out, she had a right to cry and I subsequently told her so. She was returning to her present home in Florida after burying her mother in her family's hometown in Ohio. Her father had died two years ago, all the rest of her family had left Ohio years ago, and the site of so many of her happy childhood memories was no longer reachable as a touchstone. As we talked (I drew on some counseling lessons from the Marine Corps leadership manual) she related that her husband had survived a bout with cancer and her daughter's fiance had recently been killed in Iraq. I got the feeling she didn't normally share her grief with strangers and I was suddenly overcome with the strangest sensation--like someone was squeezing my blood pumper and my eye wash reservoir at the same time.

I'm beginning to realize that, despite my numbness, this life is hard for most folks. Losing friends and loved ones is painful stuff.

I lost a fellow Marine, with whom I had served on a number of occasions, in Iraq a couple of weeks ago. Lieutenant Colonel Max Galeai was commanding the 2d Battalion, 3rd Marines and was deployed to the area near Mosul, north of Baghdad. While Max was attending a meeting with several tribal leaders, a terrorist entered and blew up the bomb he carried. Max and the two Marines with him, along with a dozen Iraqis, were killed.

I first served with Max when I was the operations officer for the 1st Battalion, 8th Marines and he was a platoon commander in one of the rifle companies. He wasn't flashy, but he was very effective--a leader who put his men first and got the most out of them. Max rose through the commissioned officer ranks, commanding at greater and greater levels of responsibility and was destined, I am sure, for further advancement.

Sad thing is, I don't think, in all of the times we served together, I ever told him I thought he was doing a great job. Shame on me.

Semper Fidelis, Max.

Swallow Start

This spring, under the eaves at the corner of our front porch, a pair of barn swallows occupied a long-dormant mud nest, refurbished it a bit, and raised a brood of five young'uns. A barn swallow's nest is an engineering marvel, if not atheistically pleasing. And, while it doesn't necessarily complement Miss Brenda's garden-ringed porch, there was never a consideration of removing it--birds are passion of mine.

A month ago, when Caleb and little brother Taylor were visiting Eegeebeegee, I positioned a step ladder where I could haul them up to peek at the young birds in the nest. They didn't seem all that fascinated with them--at least not as much as I was--but when his mother (she of the high and exalted position of "Bearer of Grandchildren") arrived to regain charge of her brood, Caleb drug her over to the ladder and implored her to climb up and take a look, "I put ladder for you, Mommy."

Yesterday evening, as a summer thunderstorm, bringing blessed rainy relief to our parched parcel, wound down to a drizzle, I stepped out on the front porch to enjoy the cool. As I always do, I glanced up at the swallow nest to see if I could see the chicks' heads poking up. What I saw was five fully fledged birds crowded onto their now too small adobe abode. Must have been more than a week since I last checked on them--they had grown up fast. I eased over to the corner of the porch to get a closer look, and as I got nearly directly underneath them, they exploded from the nest like a feathered frag grenade and spilled into the dusky sky over our front yard.

I sat in a rocker until dark, watching them chase chatteringly through the evening air and bid them good luck and happy hunting.

Blackberry Picking 101

It's berry picking time again and Miss Brenda and I have the purple hands and scratched forearms to prove it. But the stain and pain is worth the taste of a spoonful of Miss Brenda's blackberry jam on a hot buttered biscuit. I'm quite sure that in a simpler, less civilized time wars were fought over this particular resource. I know my dander gets up at the sight of Miss Brenda giving away a jar from her larder.

It occurs to me that not all of you, who waste precious rod and cone time perusing my rambles, may have an appreciation for the fine art and hard science of blackberry picking. Therefore, in my never-ending quest to educate my dear readers, I provide below a primer on the subject:

1. Find a blackberry bramble. These nearly impenetrable labyrinths of thorny canes harbor the mature plants upon which fruit is found. Blackberry brambles exist in those places that most sane and snake-fearing people dare not tread...until they have sampled a spoonful of Miss Brenda's jam. Blackberry brambles are renown in deer hunting circles, where they are commonly referred to as "them #$%&! sticker bushes." As in "I trailed that deer through a couple hunert yards of them #$%&! sticker bushes and came out lookin' like I went three rounds with a bobcat."

2. Approach the bramble with the sun to your back. This allows for the accomplishment of three important tactical objectives. First, a ripe blackberry glistens in the sun like a flake of gold in a prospectors pan. Second, the sun on the back of your neck allows for enhancement of your redneck image. Third, attacking from the sun allows you to sneak up on the berries.

3. Move slowly and purposefully. This allows for the accomplishment of three more important tactical objectives. First, charging headlong into a blackberry bramble will result in inextricable ensnarement--reach slowly to pluck the berry in your sights and retract your hand and arm in the same plane and trajectory. Second, charging headlong into a blackberry bramble does not give the folks with no shoulders time enough to slither out of your way. Third, charging headlong into a blackberry bramble causes ripe berries to fall from the canes. A berry that falls is lost to the picker--blackberry bramble labyrinth density increases exponentially with proximity to the ground.

4. Always carry a smaller bucket than everyone else. This allows you to fill your bucket faster and allows you to disdainfully empty your full bucket into your partner's half-full bucket to lighten your load.

Next post: Home remedies for chigger bites.

On Patriotism

It is telling when a major party nominee for President of these re-United States believes it necessary to give a major speech devoted to allaying the fears of his fellow citizens regarding his patriotism. That any party, other than the American Nazi or American Communist (yes, they exist), would nominate a candidate about whom love of country is an open question is in itself a damning indictment of a significant portion of our citizenry's judgment. No one who would vote for or support someone purely on his passionate eloquence should ever cast aspersions on the good people of Germany circa 1934--1945.

The word patriotic has been bandied about a lot lately by the clamoring class (more like classless clamorers--but I digress). In the process, wholly new definitions of what it means to be a patriot have sprung up like noxious weeds in the garden of accuracy. Let's take a look at Webster's definition:

patriotic: pa·tri·ot·ic \pā-trē-ˈä-tik\ adjective
1 : inspired by patriotism 2 : befitting or characteristic of a patriot
— pa·tri·ot·i·cal·ly \-ti-k(ə-)lē\ adverb

Not much help there, Mr. Webster. Kind of like telling me that the definition of liberal is "one who is inspired by liberalism, or having the characteristics of a liberal." Let's see how Webster defines "patriot":

patriot: pa·tri·ot \ˈpā-trē-ət, -ˌät\ noun
1: one who loves his or her country and supports its authority and interests

Now, there's a definition to sink our teeth into! Love of country. Support of its authority and interests. That's not what I hear when someone says they can vehemently disagree with our country's statutory authority and stated interest, and still be a patriot. What I hear them saying is "I'm a revolutionary." And, I make no judgment here--if you want to be a revolutionary, say so. Now, here's where I'll lose many of you--those who fought against the British crown 1775--1783 were revolutionaries (rebels), not patriots, despite our version of history. The true "patriots" were those (nearly half the population of the colonies) who remained loyal to Great Britain. Before you start screaming at the screen, let me add that I would have probably fought the British had I been an American colonist--I am a Rebel, after all.

My point in this meander is that if you want to wear the patriot's cloak, you need to put your money where your mouth is. I will go a step further out on this rhetorical limb--unless you have served your nation, or willingly sacrificed for it, you have no room, right, or reason to claim personal patriotism. My apologies to all of you for whom someone else served so that you didn't have to.

If you have to wear a flag pin to prove you are a patriot, you ain't one. You're just a citizen.

Why We Fumble

It is a very long read, even for someone like me who would rather read than eat, but the article found at this link: http://www.commentarymagazine.com/viewarticle.cfm/special-preview-br--why-iraq-was-inevitable-11456 is the best historical treatment of the run-up to the 2003 invasion of Iraq and toppling of Saddam Husein's Bathists I have seen to date. It is even-handed and very well researched--two things lacking in most commentary these days.

To sum up, for those of you with READ (Reading Enjoyment Attention Deficit):

1. We were technically at war with Iraq since his invasion of Kuwait in 1990. Our 1991 combat operations to dislodge Iraqi forces from Kuwait ended in a cease-fire, the conditions for which Iraq continually and increasingly breached in the ensuing decade.

2. Nearly every politician, pundit, and positor of any weight at either end of the political spectrum called for the end of Saddam's Bathist regime--most citing his clear desire to develop weapons of mass destruction, his mistreatment of people other than his own Sunni tribal cousins, and the harboring/support of terrorists groups. The latter got the attention of the likes of John Kerry, Hillary Clinton, and a host of others on the left following the terrorist attacks of 11 September 2001, and their "get-Saddam" rhetoric matched the most vehement of the Neo-Cons in the Bush II administration.

3. Despite their "opposition to the war" today, nearly every politician of any weight on the left supported the 2003 invasion aimed at toppling Saddam's Bathist regime.

4. To paraphrase the pre-invasion advice of Colin Powell: "We broke it--We own it."

5. Rumsfeld and company at the Pentagon mismanaged the aftermath of the fall of Saddam. This should not have been a surprise, he mismanaged similar events in his previous stint at SecDef.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again: We have fought this Global War on Terrorism, or whatever it is that we are calling it this week, as if it were just another federal project at which we could throw tax dollars but for which we would not make the effort to muster the public support without which success is rarely achieved. Despite the price tag we hear daily in the media, we have tried to fight this war "on the cheap." No sacrifice called for from the American people. No ramping-up of American industry (with the notable exception of the MRAP--a purely defensive vehicle) to provide the material necessary for prosecution of a war. No declaration of war--just platitudes about fighting a war for decades, the end of which we may not recognize.

Ridiculous. See why I left active duty early?

Pass the Pander, Please

It is shaping up to be a very frustrating summer and fall for the Colonel.

I don't think I have felt this at odds with the prevailing attitude of the bulk of my fellow citizens since I don't know when. Guess I shouldn't be surprised at the lack of acceptance of the philosophy of American Exceptionalism. Most everything we shallowest of people on this planet read, hear, and watch is filled with defeatist derision of the ideals that propelled this great nation on its triumphant trajectory from colonial backwater to preeminent planetary power.

From where I sit and watch (and maybe therein lies the problem), I see a people led only by their desires for the next "fix." I don't see the sleeves-rolled-up determination to overcome the obstacles that allowed our ancestors to carve a world-class civilization out of a wilderness; that drove them to dream big and literally die by the tens of thousands trying to reach lands further west, over mountain and across desert plain, on which to fulfil those dreams; that brought them together in the cause of freedom and national survival in the world wars (and the intervening economic collapse) of the first half of the twentieth century; and that placed our team, not the Soviets', on the surface of another world.

All I hear from pundits and political panderers are hollow references to the programs and projects that propelled us through those tough times--WPA, Manhattan, Apollo... What is missing in most of the calls for that kind of national rallying of will and wealth is the third leg of the stool of success--sacrifice.

All I hear from our leaderless people is whining about the high price of gas, groceries, and games. And, the two men who would be king are doing nothing but tickling our ears with pernicious platitudes.

Going to be a long, frustrating next few months. Just hope my Rebels will win a few in the fall to make me forget.

Grandsons Gone

The twin tornadic tots boarded a mini-van for the coast this morning and quiet reigns once again on Eegeebeegee. Shortly after they left Miss Brenda crawled back in bed and took a seven hour "nap." I actually got a few chores done around the place. Tomorrow we'll start missing our grandsons again. Tonight we'll sleep long and uninterrupted. Well, I will--Miss Brenda will be up all night after sleeping all day.

A two and a half-year old and a six-month old will consume every waking minute. There is no rest. How Miss Brenda raised three without my help, back during my deploying days, is a wonderful mystery. A week like this last one reminds me just how special she (and thousands of military wives like her) was and is. She is my hero.

Don't misunderstand me--I love my grandsons more than anything I have ever loved (Miss Brenda excepted). But, I look forward to the time a few years from now when Caleb and Taylor will come visit and not require constant supervision, regular diaper changes, and pacifier hunts. Of course, when they reach teenage I'll want them to be toddlers again. But, for another decade or so nearly everything ole Pop does will be magic to them and everything they do will make me proud. Hope I live long enough to see them become human again after the brainless 15 to 25 decade.

Out-Clintoned?

It's reminiscent of the scene in the first, and best, Star Wars movie when Darth Vader and Obie Wan Knobe meet in a student versus master death match. Two masterful politicians, a generation apart locked in mortal combat for control of the known universe--Darth Obama versus Old Gal Clintobe. At first it seemed this would be just a tune up match for Old Gal. She would quickly dispatch Darth Obama and then go on to the main event with the Evil Emperor's heir apparent.

But to every one's shock and the Clintonians' horror, Darth Obama matched every swipe of Old Gal's political light saber. Like Obie Wan, Old Gal Clintobe could have continued the battle indefinitely, hogging the show--she is a Clinton after all--but, in a self-sacrificing gesture she laid aside her weapons and allowed Darth Obama and his force of wavering super-delegates to easily apply the coup-de-grace. Even the most naive political observer has to be suspicious of Old Gal's seeming surrender--she is a Clinton after all. Will she appear later in this horror show, whispering use of force direction in Darth Obama's ear?

One thing is for sure, Old Gal, like her puppet, Bill, will not go away. Obama may have out-Clintoned Bill and Hillary this time--but, never, never, never turn your back on a Clinton.

Two for All

Children are a blessing and a gift from God. Grandchildren are a treasure and a treat. Combine the two and you get something else entirely!

Number 1 son and his wonderful wife (she of the exalted and protected position of provider of grandsons) are in Vegas this week to attend a friend's wedding. Grandsons Caleb and Taylor are staying here on Eegeebeegee with Miss Brenda and The Colonel for the week. One of the undeniable truths of life is that parenting is a young person's job! Did you know that a two year old has the ability to be in three places at once? Did you also know that a six-month old can fill an entire house with refuse, debris, and diminutive detritus without leaving a three foot square of carpet?

The week would have been taxing enough just maintaining situational awareness over Messieurs C and T. But, throw in the fact that our church is hosting its annual Vacation Bible School and the additional data point that Miss Brenda volunteered the two of us to help and you have the makings of an exhausting experience ranking right up there with a twenty-five mile Marine Corps Combat Readiness Evaluation hike.

What age group are we teaching, you ask? Why, the two-year olds, of course! Miss Brenda needs counting lessons. She does the roll each evening and claims we only have twelve young-uns in our class. My counting ability has been clearly degraded due to exhaustion, but I would put the number somewhere closer to thirty-five or forty.

You would think that someone who successful managed and lead a regiment of testosterone-laden mostly-teenaged Marines could handle a squad of two-year olds without breaking a sweat. To be honest, I'm breaking into a cold sweat just writing this and contemplating entering the lions' den again this evening.

Gotta go--Mr. C is claiming he has a bear cornered under the couch. Knowing him, there just might be.

Shuffling Stuff

When I left the northern end of southern nowhere Monday morning for a week long business trip behind enemy lines (anywhere north of the Tallahatchie River suffices for that appellation) my new garage/workshop was only several 5 x 5 posts ringing a bare patch of ground across the parking pad from our home. As I drove up the drive on Eegeebeegee Friday afternoon and rounded the corner at the top of the ridge, my tired eyes beheld one of the most beautiful sights a man can see--the shell of an empty building, complete with concrete deck, waiting for my finishing touches.

Yesterday, as my father-in-law and I built in stud walls, ran wiring and began hanging the grid for a drop ceiling, I kept pausing to admire the 1100 square feet of room for all my stuff (present and future collected). It's hard to imagine filling that space with enough things in it as to make it unusable and a needed item unfindable amid the packed jumble. Even more unimaginable is the fact that our present garage may actually be used for the parking of both Miss Brenda's car and my truck. At present, our garage brims with so much stuff that there is little room for passage, let along parkage.

It dawns on me that I need a plan. Actually, I need two plans. Plan A will be marked unclassified--the load plan for the new building. I'll enlist Miss Brenda in the drafting of this plan--she is a wiz at organization. This should also make it easier to accomplish Plan B. Classified TS/SCI (Truly Secret/She Can't Imagine)--Plan B will be the plan for making the actual cross-parking-pad transfer of previously mentioned stuff Miss Brenda's chore.

I feel another business trip coming on.

"So, you say you want a revolution..."

They both say they want to give us change, but change isn't given--it is accomplished. And, real change ain't never easy. Most often it is a messy, deadly dangerous undertaking--particularly when delayed for want of past resolve.

I wholeheartedly concur with both Senators McCain and Obama that our country's current trajectory through tomorrow's history lesson requires some significant mid-course corrections. What I don't agree with them on, is the direction in which either of them think, as best as I can tell from their amorphous pandering, that they believe we must set our sails. More discouraging is their failure so far to challenge us to take the hard actions and make the serious sacrifices necessary to arrest our plunge toward the dustbin of empires lost to insolvency, invasion and irrelevancy.

Life is not a "let's pretend" game. Every current action has a future consequence. The course on which my generation of politicians has set our nation fails to recognize that unavoidable truth. Politically expedient current, and recent past, actions have the effect of high angle artillery rounds fired above our advance and landing danger-close as we plunge headlong in the attack of hedonistic objectives. And, like irretrievable artillery rounds whose impact and effect is inevitable, the consequences of poor national leadership decisions cannot be avoided. The best that can be hoped for is that crisis will be met by heroic leadership that will rally the survivors and lead then out of the kill zone, and on to mission accomplishment. The worst result is leaderless paralysis of the people under fire and collapse of their national will--leaving them ripe for assimilation by a neighbor, irrespective of the height of their former power and glory. This is not conjecture--it is history.

So, let's change--we need to.

Let's change the way we treat our enemies. Let's either kill 'em or kiss 'em--but let's stop just talking tough and letting them continue to kick sand on our picnic blanket. Otherwise, we better start learning how to speak their language and pray to their god.

Let's change the way we treat the new neighbors moving into our neighborhood. Let's assimilate them before they assimilate us. Let's give them the privileges of citizenship and expect from them the full responsibility of loyalty and patriotism.

Let's change the way we choose our governmental representatives. Actually, let's change back to the way our constitution originally said to do it before professional political panderers amended it. Grab a copy and see the real political genius that began our great republic. A republic--not a democracy.

Better yet, let's change the system by which citizenship is granted. One of my favorite authors, Robert A. Heinlein, had it about right when he described a society that only gave the franchise to vote to those who had first given service to that society. "Enlist and earn the right to vote."

If you really want change, you had better be ready for the pain. Revolutions (that's what real change is after all) require sacrifice. If your idea of change is an easier life, you'll either be killed or enslaved by those whose idea of change is the accumulation of greater power.

Careful what you ask for.

Ed's Edifice

For most of my adult life, including the period between my 18th and 30th birthdays during which I was an adult in name only, I have wanted to have a large workshop in which to attack projects large and small. For thirty years I have envied the workshop my father-in-law built in his back yard following his retirement from the Air Force. Whenever we had quarters with a garage, I was always limited to building a workbench along one wall--said workbench inevitably became so cluttered with tools, underway projects, and other stuff lacking appropriate storage space elsewhere as to be practically useless. It wouldn't be until we moved to another set of quarters and I built my new workbench that I would have a space (at least initially) on which to tinker and build.

Last month I broke ground on my dream building. Twenty-four feet deep and fifty feet wide, it will possess two completely empty garage stalls (with separate overhead doors) in which to park boat and tractor. The other half of the building will be (trumpet fanfare here) Rebel's Workshop (capitalization required). The front of the workshop will have it's own overhead door and personnel door and the workshop will be separated from the garage by a wall with it's own personnel door providing inside throughway between the two spaces. In order to "soften" the looks of this testament to testosterone fifty feet away from her garden-encircled home, Miss Brenda insisted I have the builders put a porch on the end of the building facing the same direction (toward the road) as the house's front porch. She can put all the flowers and such in front of it that she wants--but there ain't gonna be nuthin' but man stuff allowed inside!

A "pole barn" company is aboard Eegeebeegee as I write this, putting up the building's roof and shell. I will finish out the inside of the building myself--with a lot of help from my general contractor (Miss Brenda's dad). Yesterday afternoon, in 95 degree heat, we dug the trenches for and installed water and electrical lines.

As I have alluded to in previous posts, the ground here in my corner of the planet at the northern end of southern nowhere is just short of the consistency of concrete. After nearly killing ourselves trying to dig the trenches by hand--with little to show for hours of pick and shovel work--we broke down (quite literally) and headed for town to rent a Ditch With 2000 walk-behind trenching machine. After wrestling with that beast for two hours, my fly-weight behind was wore slam out. But the trenches were carved in the Confederate Concrete to an appropriate depth and we began the tedious task of tapping into the water line at our well and power at the junction box, gluing together sections of PVC pipe, and determining the exact place that these lines would exit the ground (and four inches of concrete) inside walls that don't yet exist.

Sometime Wednesday, two truckloads of 3500 PSI concrete will be poured into the form created by the building that is going up as I write this, and additional concrete will connect the building to the parking pad that already exists outside my current attached garage. Once the building shell and concrete work is complete, a fuse box will be installed and electrical wiring will be run to receptacle locations throughout, a double deep sink will be installed, and overhead lighting will be hung temporarily pending future installation of drop ceilings.

Notice I wrote "will be" before each of the tasks in the paragraph above. To ensure that this phase of the project is going to be completed correctly, I'm entrusting it to Miss Brenda's dad and leaving town for the week! At the conclusion of a week spent behind enemy lines in Chicago, I fully expect to return to Eegeebeegee late Friday afternoon with nothing left to do except admire the handi-work.

Shelter in the Swelter

When we left for Alaska at the end of the third week of May, it was still springtime at the northern end of southern nowhere. Warm and wet; a thrill to be outside all day long watching flora and fauna respond to lengthening days and nourishing rains. Three weeks on the road--Anchorage, Fairbanks, Orlando, San Diego--and I have returned to find Eegeebeegee baking under a scorching summer sun. The good news is that my dock, submerged early in the spring by above average deluges of liquid sunshine, has reappeared above the surface of Lake Brenda--just in time for the arrival of THE GRANDSONS later this week.

The major project aboard Eegeebeegee this summer is the addition of a detached garage and workshop to the compound. Our attached two car garage is slam full of my stuff--tools, project materials, man toys, etc.--leaving no room for parking vehicles. The new addition--a 24' by 50' building, the shell of which will be erected this week--will provide parking for boat and tractor and a 24' by 24' workshop. Brenda's dad is here acting as my general contractor, plumber and electrician. An ambitious schedule has the building erected, electrical and plumbing lines laid, concrete poured, and wall built dividing garage from workshop, by the end of the week. Meanwhile, I'll slip off up north to Chicago and conduct some business behind enemy lines. With any luck, I'll have a functioning garage and workshop into which to move my stuff next weekend.

Mississippi Marine Missile Men

From the melting snows of the Alaskan wilderness to the sweltering shores of Florida’s Space Coast, my weekend was quite a juxtaposition jaunt. As my outlaws, Miss Brenda, and I concluded our eight-day excursion through a slice of Alaska last week, I parted company with them a day early and caught the red eye from Anchorage to Orlando (via Seattle) Thursday night (actually early Friday morning). I linked up with my business partner and his family in Orlando Friday evening, and then, Saturday morning, escorted a couple of clients over to the Kennedy Space Center to see the launch of STS 124 to the International Space Station.

Thirty-three years ago, when I was a rising sophomore (and 3rd Class Midshipman in the Naval ROTC at Ole Miss, I welcomed aboard a freshmen class (4th Class Midshipmen) of a half dozen new aspirants to commissions as Marine officers. My fellow “old hands” and I were given the responsibility of showing these new freshmen the ropes and helping them make the transition from high-schooler to college man, and, more importantly, help them assimilate into one of the more exclusive fraternities on campus—the Ole Miss Marines.

That small, tight-knit and tightly wound fraternity, particularly the year groups that graduated in the late 70’s has some remarkably accomplished alumni (present company excepted, of course). Three of that half dozen future Marine officers in the class of ’79, Dan, Joe, and Bill are a group I refer to as the Mississippi Rocket Club. Dan and Joe, like me, were liberal arts majors, had therefore more prospects as career military men than as businessmen, and made 20+ year careers out of our commissions as Marine officers. Bill, on the other hand, had an engineering degree, and left the Marine Corps, shortly after his service obligation was up, to put his degree to work at something a little more useful than determining the range and elevation of an infantry weapon system. Soon enough, Bill was hired by NASA, and, due to his leadership and management expertise, began a rather rapid rise up through the leadership of mankind’s most ambitious agency.

When Dan retired from the Marine Corps in 1999, he joined Bill at NASA, serving at the Johnston Space Center as the public affairs officer and then as Executive Assistant to the Director of JSC (yet another Marine).

As the rest of us proudly kept track, Bill continued to move up into successively greater positions of authority--Director of Operations at the Stennis Space Center (rocket test center) on the Mississippi Gulf Coast and then Director at Stennis. When the Space Shuttle Columbia broke up on re-entry and NASA plunged into its greatest self-examination since the Space Shuttle Challenger's launch failure, Bill was hand-picked to shepherd the shuttle program back to successful flight status. Upon successful completion of that mission, Bill was reassigned from his post as Shuttle Program Director back to his post as Director at Stennis. Shortly thereafter he was reassigned to the Kennedy Space Center as Assistant Director. A couple of years ago he was appointed Director at KSC.

Joe commanded the First Marine Regiment in the Race to Baghdad in 2003 and then retired from active duty as a colonel, a couple of years later. When Bill took over as Director at KSC, he brought Joe on as his de facto chief of staff to exploit Joe's talents at teaching staffs to lead and manage. One of Joe's current responsibilities is oversight of the public events at KSC surrounding a launch. I shamelessly exploited that connection to get me and some clients invitations to view the launch from the closest public vantage point--three miles from the pad.

Another accomplished alumna of that Ole Miss Marines class of '79, Dana--now running a collection of VoTech schools in California--joined us for the launch. To complete the Mississippi Marine rocket reunion, the senior member of what he refers to as the "Mississippi Club" (Marines with a Mississippi connection), Major General Tom "Tango" Moore, helicopter pilot-extraordinaire and current Chief of Staff at CentCom) was on hand. Tango is not an Ole Miss grad--Delta State, instead. But, the Mississippi connection is clearly there. Both Joe and I served with him and consider him a mentor of the first rank.

There was entirely too much Marine testosterone gathered in one place! The brilliance of that collection of egos was eclipsed only by the bright flare of Discovery as she leapt from the pad right on time.

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.

Polecat Predicament

When you set a trap for a nuisance critter, you better be prepared for what happens if you actually catch something.

I bought a couple of live-catch traps at the local feed store to see if I could catch the varmint--suspected to be an armadillo--that had been digging up my back yard. I placed them out in the middle of the back yard, and after no action for a few days moved one of them back onto our back porch. I neglected to take the bait out and disarm it.

This afternoon I stepped out back to refill the bird feeder, and detected a whiff of something at the opposite end of the scent spectrum from a bar of Irish Spring. A quick glance at the trap confirmed via my optic nerve what my olfactory sense was hinting at. There was a skunk in the trap. There was a skunk in the trap, on my back porch. There was a skunk in the trap on my back porch, right next to my back door.

Luckily, Pepe hadn't le pewed yet. But, I didn't know how I was going to free the little bugger without getting sprayed in the process. I reckoned that I would gently move the trap off the back porch and as far away from the house as possible--if I could. I changed into some clothes I wouldn't mind burning, grabbed an old towel and eased up to the trap. I draped the towel slowly over the trap, gingerly picked it up by its handle and headed for the back forty--expecting to get perfumed at any moment.

There was no explosive emanation forthcoming. I set the trap down, put on a pair of gloves to protect against a bite, opened the door of the trap, locked it in place and stepped away expecting our unwanted guest to leave at his earliest convenience. Instead of departing the premises, the little stinker backed further into the cage and tripped the trigger springing the door closed again with a clang. I sucked in a deep breath and went into my sprinter's crouch, certain I could outrun stink molecule propagation should the skunk be startled into fumigation. Pepe sat calmly curled up against the back of the trap. I eased the trap over on its side and locked the door open again so that he wouldn't step on the trigger if and when he decided to leave.

At dark this evening the skunk was still crouched in the trap. Hope he'll make good his escape under cover of darkness. If not, I'll have to call in the Skunk Whisperer--Miss Brenda.

Just Another Brick in the Walk

Thirty years ago today, I graduated from the University of Mississippi and was commissioned a second lieutenant in the United States Marine Corps. Seems like only thirty days ago--not thirty years. I hadn't really mentioned this particular milestone to anyone in the family, but Miss Brenda, wonder woman that she is, knew the significance of the date.

About ten years ago, Ole Miss bricked in a Walk of Champions leading from the plaza in front of the student union and across the Grove toward Vaught-Hemingway Stadium. More importantly for me, the walk also begins in front of what was McCain Hall--named for Senator McCain's father--housing the Naval ROTC unit from 1949 to 1988. I spent more of my time, and learned the most valuable lessons of my college education, in that building than in any other during my four years at Ole Miss.



As a fund-raiser, the Ole Miss "M" Club, sells (at a steep price) and places personalized bricks in the walk. On a game weekend a few years ago, I casually remarked to Miss Brenda and one of my sons that I'd like to see The Colonel's brick in the walk someday. To be honest, I didn't expect that particular wish to be granted--I daily wish out loud for things to my family that rarely get granted.




This morning, Miss Brenda asked me to take her to lunch in town at our favorite sandwhich place. After lunch she told me to drive through the campus, and then told me to park next to the Union. She had her camera with her and I dully figured that I'd have to stand around while she took pictures of squirrels, blades grass, or odd tree bark formations--there's a long story behind that...grist for another post. So, I got on my phone and started conducting business.

When I finally got off the phone, Miss Brenda said, "Let's take a walk down memory lane," took my hand and started down the Walk of Champions. At the end of the personalized bricks she stopped and I looked down to see...THE COLONEL'S BRICK!

Now that it's there, I'm not sure I like the idea of being trampled on by the masses.

Tractor Pull

One glaring difference between me and most of my neighbors--my lack of a tractor--will be remedied today.

For the past year Miss Brenda and I have worked several major projects here on Eegeebegee, by hand. I kept saying we needed a tractor. Miss Brenda kept responding with "We're not farmers!" I began to calculate that the amount of money we were spending monthly on motrin ("grunt candy," as we Marines call it) would come close to paying the note on a decent tractor with a front loader.

But, I have learned from long experience with Miss Brenda that all I need do is plant the seed of my want in her mind and then shut up. So, I shut up and we dug up trees and walkway forms and moved gravel and sand and trees and bricks--mostly by hand. We popped copious amounts of motrin and awoke each morning with stiff backs.

One morning last week as I was struggling to eject myself from the rack, Miss Brenda opened one eye and muttered, "Let's go get you a tractor." I pretended not to understand, "I'm sorry, Sweetie, what was that?" But, she had already fallen back asleep.

About 10 that morning, Miss Brenda sprung from the bed and immediately began to shout orders as if I were the one who had been burning daylight. "Let's go! Get movin'! Goin' to town! Gonna go get you a tractor!"

"Sweetie," I replied, without a hint of sarcasm, "we don't need a tractor. We're not farmers."

I got the look that can cook steak in reply.

My tractor is supposed to be delivered out here some time today. Wonder if Miss Brenda will let me ride it.

Thanks, Mom!

To be honest, I'm not a big fan of special "Days." Seems to me that if you can't make someone you care about feel special more than one day out of the year, you aren't gonna have much luck with a card, flowers, and lunch out. Now, I freely admit that you will find my name at the very bottom of any list of people who do a good job of making loved ones feel special all year 'round. But, hey, I believe in the political science maxim that competence is not a commentary prerequisite.

For those of you who rank just above me at the bottom of the list of considerate sons, this is your Mother's Day wake up call. For those of you who have caused and graced our collective existence with your motherhood, this is a heartfelt "Thank you" from a calloused curmudgeon who knows enough to give credit where credit is due. As I pause this weekend to honor the ladies whose proper presence in our lives provide blessed balance and temper to what otherwise would be masculine mayhem, there are four to whom I am especially indebted and who deserve much more than the meager recognition I will accord them below.

My mother, born in rural Mississippi in the Great Depression, possesses an awe inspiring combination of grace, grit, good manners, and sense of style that quite frankly has always been an intimidatingly high standard by which to measure myself. So, I've taken the easy way out and quit trying. She is matchless. To her I owe what sense of propriety I possess in my often impolitic manner--I shudder to think what low level my behavior would attain were it not for the appropriate-living lessons she gave me. There was never any doubt that she loved my brother and me deeply and unconditionally--had she not, she would have early-on thrown up her hands in disgust and despair at the gross pair of boys behind whom she picked up and for whom she prayed. She once told me, when I was a young teenager, that she prayed for me every morning after I had gone off to school. Brings tears to my eyes, even today, remembering how much that simple statement meant to me. Dad was a great dad, but Mom made the men that my brother and I became.

My best friend in this world raised my children almost single-handed while I was off making the world safe for democracy. She did a spectacular job. She doesn't think she did, but our children now live their lives in ways for which my pride cannot be contained. The credit is all Miss Brenda's.

Miss Brenda's mother is one of my favorite people. Her wisdom and discernment is amazing. Case in point: she saw enough potential in her future son-in-law to adopt me as a son when other mothers were warning their daughters to steer clear of me. She raised a great daughter, without whom I would be lost--that's a life-changing accomplishment.

The newest mother on my list of favorites is she who holds the vaunted and hallowed position as the mother of my grandsons. She is a great mate--I couldn't think of one better--to Number 1 son, and she has given me two of the most special boys on the planet over whom I am completely and unashamedly crazed.

Ladies, I thank you.

Stormy Weather

Under a tornado watch this morning and this is starting to get old. We had tornadoes scouring their way across our neck of the woods last week, and after the hit we took back in February everyone in our community gets as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs every time the skies get dark. Heavy thunderstorms rumbled over us last night and television news reports this morning that a tornado is on the ground east of us over in Tupelo.

I'm starting the reconsider my decision not to build a storm shelter.

Reminiscences to a Road Warrior

I'm not one to ordinarily go out of my way to call attention to myself. Those of you who know me well may disagree, but my self-perception is of a terribly introverted boat-stabilizer. There is one thing I do, however, to advertise who I am to others. When on business trips, I wear a small Marine emblem lapel pin on my sport coat. Invariably, that miniature eagle, globe and anchor catches someone's eye and they comment with either a "Semper Fi!" or a question about my service. What I love most is the short stories I hear from complete strangers about their connection with the Marine Corps--their own service, a child's, a spouse's.

A flight attendant on one recent flight pointed to the Seventh Marines pin on her apron and proudly told me her son was in 1/7 and in Iraq. She was enormously proud of him, a huge fan of the Corps, and terribly worried about his safety. I told her to pass on an "ooorah" from me, and then I told her she was now on two of my lists--my personal hero list and my prayer list.

A gentleman in his eighties tapped me on my knee as I sat in a terminal waiting for a flight, and volunteered quietly, "I was in the Sixth Marine Division." "Iwo?," I asked. He nodded and his voice seemed to lose six decades of age as he commented, "I can still smell that stinking island." Then his age returned as he remembered, "Lost a lot of good friends on Iwo." As I always do, I thanked him for his service and told him it was the exploits and sacrifices of his generation of Marines that made it so honorable to be a Marine in my day.

Occasionally, folks with no Marine connection, will volunteer a story about their service in one of the other branches of the military. Recently, a gentleman asked me how long I had been in the Corps. He laughed at my stock answer, "25 years, 5 months, and 17 days--but who's counting," and then told me that he was in the Army Reserve and had commanded a tank battalion in Desert Storm. He told a quick story about training hard in Saudi Arabia and wanting to reward his soldiers in a special way. We officially and strictly obeyed the kingdom's ban on alcohol, but this commander had an idea. He contacted his golfing buddies back home--one of whom owned a beer distributorship and was owed some favors by a local soft drink bottler. A pallet of high octane cokes was shipped to Saudi Arabia, a savvy sergeant major traded for some ice, and a battalion of tankers enjoyed a surreptitious cold one (or three) on the eve of their battle with the Republican Guard.

I really should start writing all these stories down.

Evolutionary Full Circle

Thirty years ago this week, I was sorrowfully engaged in the final examinations that would culminate my undergraduate career. For the majority of my time beneath the oaks at Ole Miss, I had longed for the time when I would see the statue of Johnny Reb at end of University Avenue in my rear view mirror and finally get on with my adult life. Not a natural student, mostly due to a severe case of ADHD--for which I would have most likely been drugged into a zombie had I been born 30 years later--I detested the prison of the classroom. For the first couple of years at Ole Miss, I struggled to stay in good standing.

But, beginning in my Junior year, a certain transformation began to take place in my outlook. I was becoming a Mississippian. Like an ancient amphibian emerging from the ooze of a vast primordial swamp, I was evolving from a lower life form that had existed as a nomadic denizen of the deep into a citizen of an island of higher consciousness. After spending my previous life as a military dependent unable to claim a hometown, I was beginning to identify with North Mississippi and thereby reconnecting with my lineage. Now I was not so anxious to leave.

I did leave, in body, if not totally in spirit. Thirty years ago, next week, a diploma was handed to me and the gold bars of a second lieutenant were pinned to the epaulets of my Marine officer's dress whites. For the next three decades I resumed my itinerant life, wandering between temporary abodes. But, I had a patch of territory to call home, and I touched base with it more and more often the longer I was away from it. My sons' matriculation at Ole Miss, beginning eleven years ago, gave me even more reason to return regularly, and the more I returned the deeper the reconnection became.

My neighbors most likely still, and will for some time I'm sure, consider me an outsider--a newcomer to these hills. That's okay. I know I'm home--I have arrived back at my Life's (with a capital "L") starting point.

Rein in the Rain

When you pray for rain, it's a good idea to be prepared for a flood.

Last summer nary a drop of rain fell here at the northern end of southern nowhere, and Lake Brenda's water level dropped precipitously. By the time the leaves started to fall, the shoreline had receeded by at least twenty feet and the water level had fallen at least six feet from where it had been when Miss Brenda and I dropped anchor here at the end of March last year. As the water level dropped, I decided to take advantage of the siutation and built a dock on dry land that had hitherto been underwater. As the water level dropped and the shorelined receeded even further, I added on to the end of the dock.

There were two different high water marks along the dam at the northern end of my impoundment and I reckoned that as dry as the weather had been and seeing that global warming was going to desertify the southeastern re-United States anyway, it would probably take many years, if ever, to refill the lake to its maximum capacity. So, I built the dock with the the top of it just above the lower of the two high water marks. Mind you, the dock was completely on dry land during its entire initial and additional construction. In fact, after its completion, the gap between the dock and the water's edge continued to grow. I felt a bit like Noah, building for a flood in the desert. Except that my faith in the water's return was not complete enough.

Six weeks ago, a week of steady, heavy rain dramatically raised the water level--up and inches over the top of my dock. Not to worry, I told myself, it'll drop again. And it did. Then last Friday we got another 5 inches of rain and my dock is under water again.

Guess I'll be raising the top of my dock this summer--wonder how I'm going to do that.

The Coming War with China

Recently I ran my mouth, as I am wont to do, during a dinner discussion with some clients and stated that I believed with a fair degree of certainty that we would go to war with the Peoples Republic of China within the next twenty years. Somewhat taken aback, as most civilians are at my refusal to share in their naive belief that peace is the natural condition of nations vis-a-vis each other, they asked why I would even consider that a possibility. I answered by saying that we would go to war with China for much the same reasons we went to war with Japan in 1941. The incredulous reply was, "They're going to bomb Pearl Harbor?"

Unfortunately, that inane response is exactly the type we should expect from a product of American school systems, in which the teaching of history is limited to events' dates and associated names with no critical examination of the underlying causes of those events. Most Americans' understanding of the cause of our war with Japan (1941 to 1945) is limited to the Japanese pre-emptive attack on our Pacific military forces and facilities in early December of 1941, as if the Japanese leadership woke up with a sake hangover one morning in mid-November 1941 and decided to send their fleet to destroy ours in Hawaii. The actual reasons for our conflict with Japan date back several decades prior to the "date that will live in infamy."

Japan really came of age on the world scene 104 years ago with a victory over the Russians in a war in which trench warfare, use of machine guns and barbed wire, and battleship engagements presaged the battles of the First World War. The Treaty of Versailles at the conclusion of WWI stripped Germany of its colonial possessions in the South Pacific and granted control of many of those islands to Japan. We had previously seized control of the Hawaiian Islands (in 1893) and wrested control of the Philippines and Guam from Spain (in 1898), and control of the Pacific was now an American--Japanese contest. American military planners saw the imminence of war with an increasingly imperialistic and expansionist Japan as early as 1920 and by 1922 had developed War Plan Orange as our strategy for a war in the Pacific with the Empire of Japan. The first "disarmament conference" in modern history resulted in the Washington Naval Treaty of 1922 and placed limits on signatories' (the U.S., U.K, Japan, France and Italy) capital ship construction. The US specifically sought to limit Japanese battleship construction and Japan (grasping the war-changing nature of airpower) built aircraft carriers on the capital keels already laid. Further, we missed the point that Japan's expansionist designs on Manchuria and China were as important to her as her Pacific naval capability, and after Japan invaded China in the mid-1930's, we reacted with economic sanctions aimed at throttling Japan's access to industrial resources (oil, iron, and rubber; prominently). Japan's atrocities in China were followed shortly thereafter by Hitler's invasion of Eastern Europe and by 1939 the world was at war (the United States involved as a "neutral" providing war material and support to Great Britain, and later the USSR following Germany's invasion of Russia).

So, Japan's aerial attack on our bases in Hawaii and the Philippines on December 7/8, 1941 may have been the proximate event that led to our formal declaration of war on Japan, but our participation in what became known as the Second World War had been going on in a support role for nearly three years, and the seeds for our war with Japan had been planted as far back as the end of the previous century. In the end, it was all about who would exercise hegemony in the Pacific--Japan or the United States. And so it is today with China.

For the first 50 years of its existence the People's Liberation Army, while huge, was laughable with regard to military capability. When politicians began to hyperventilate in the early 90's about the possibility of a PRC invasion of Taiwan, US military professionals derisively dismissed the potential as "the million-man swim." The Chicoms didn't have a significant amphibious capability. Today they do.

Twenty years ago, the People's Liberation Army Navy (how about that for an oxymoronic appellation?) had little capability to counter US naval power in their own littorals, let alone across the Pacific. Today, the PLAN is strong enough to stand toe-to-toe with the US Navy anywhere in the Pacific. They are even building aircraft carriers. Their growing fleet of nuclear powered ballistic missile submarines will soon expand their land-based ICBM threat to our West Coast to include a credible nuclear threat to our entire homeland.

At current rates of economic growth the PRC's GDP will eclipse that of the United States sometime in the next decade. PRC presence and influence worldwide, in places once the United States' unrivaled stomping grounds (particularly since the fall of the Soviet Union) is growing alarmingly. Case in point: our attempt to establish an Africa Command HQ on the dark continent. Every "friendly" African nation we have approached to allow us to establish this "equivalent" to EUCOM and PACOM, has given us a polite "No, thank you." Ten years ago, there would have been a wild competition among several African nations for the honor of hosting such a Command. Today, the PRC (flush with cash from American markets) lines the pockets of those nations' decision-makers and whispers promises of swelling Swiss bank accounts for continued refusals of US overtures. And, oh, by the way, Africa is kinda important to us because that continent provides over 95% of the world's supply of raw materials necessary for the production of critical strategic materials like titanium--used in nearly every advanced weapon system we possess.

To those who would point to the Beijing Olympics this summer as proof that China is learning to play nice in the world, I would remind that Hitler's Germany hosted the Olympics in 1936.

Republican Rome Redux

I have often lamented the fact that there has not been a presidential candidate worth voting for since 1984--the last time the Gipper stood for office. That we have not had a true conservative champion of republican (little "r"--in the mold of Thomas Jefferson) ideals behind whom our nation's true independent character could rally, for a quarter of a century, does not bode well for these re-United States. We are fast becoming a nation of hand-out hold-outs, lulled to sleep by the velvet-gloved tyranny of an entrenched central government political caste and it's increasingly unchecked bureaucracy. It's a Rome redux--a great empire, it's reach and influence unrivaled in the known world, forgetting its republican roots and turning its focus on morally destructive selfish behavior and accepting the tyranny of the dole rather than the freedom of self-sufficiency.

A nation as powerful and important as ours, never mind the rights of the PEOPLE our Constitution so eloquently and unequivocally protects, needs truly enlightened (not the fake "enlightenment" of socialist "liberalism") leadership at the top to ensure against the trampling of the rights of our people to live free. That freedom, guaranteed by our Constitution, is not a guarantee of the central government's provision of all our wants and needs. Rome's bread and circuses, free to the masses, dulled the citizenry's senses to the excesses of the ruling elite, and bred a weak and whining population unable to withstand the rigors of national defense--Rome fell to relatively weak "barbarian" tribes because it had become so rotten and soft at its population's core. The freedom our Constitution guarantees is the freedom for each of us to make our own way, within the bounds of accepted societal norms. When we depend on other men for our daily bread, we become unable to fend for ourselves, and ultimately unable to defend ourselves and our nation.

While I could never vote for either of the two closet socialists currently engaged in internecine warfare for the presidential nomination of the George Soros party, I am having a hard time squaring my beliefs with those of Senator McCain. I have the utmost respect for the man--he is one of my heroes (read his wikepedia entry and he will be one of your heroes as well--unless you are a Vietnamese communist). But, he has ridden the fence as a moderate "maverick" to gain fame in national office and I'm not certain of his core principles.

But, then again, I voted for two Bushes and Dole whilst holding my nose--guess I can do it again.

Simple Pleasures

It is amazing to consider the choices of entertainment available to homo sapiens at this point in our galactic ride. We can do most anything we can dream of (and can pay for). Those of us with who can afford it (and many, many more who really cannot) spend outrageous sums and travel to great lengths in the pursuit of transitory happiness. What our grandfathers only dreamed of doing (and scrimped and saved for) once in their lifetime, we (particularly in this most affluent nation on the planet) do every weekend--and charge it on a credit card. The largest industries in history are now devoted to separating us from our cash and credit in return for thrills. And, I freely admit to being a member of the "chasing thrills at great expense" club.

But, I gotta tell you, yesterday afternoon, sitting next to Miss Brenda on my dock on Lake Brenda with a cane pole and a carton of wrigglers, catching bream and catfish, was as much fun as I have had in years.

Next month, Miss Brenda and I are going to spend another exorbitant sum of hard-earned cash on a trip to Alaska. We expect to experience a trip (to a place we have long wanted to visit) that will be worth the expense. But, I betcha that during a quiet moment somewhere in the middle of those two weeks and in the middle of the Alaskan wilderness, I'll think of my place at the northern end of southern nowhere... and, well..., I'll want to go home and sit on my front porch and listen to the whippoorwills as the sun sets.

Then, I'll go add another $20 to the Alaskan tourism economy for a glass of orange juice.

Cloning Volunteer

I've been so looking forward to Spring, but find that I wasn't prepared for it. There are so many things to do and so little time! Seems like during the winter, time takes on the viscosity of cold molasses and crawls slowly and drearily along. February, in particular, is a month in which each day seems to stretch exponentially like Stephen Hawkin's object approaching the event horizon of a super-massive black hole. But, then Spring arrives and suddenly time picks up the pace, passing ever more rapidly as each type of bush and tree buds and flowers. All the things I dreamt of doing during the long, dark, bad dream of late winter are now options on a brightly colored pallet and I haven't enough hands to brush paint onto all of the canvasses.

The crappie started biting a month ago and I never made it out to wet a hook once! Turkey season is 2/3 over and I've only been twice--and I hunt on my own property! I bought season tickets to watch my Rebels play baseball and didn't get to a game until last night (Ole Miss won a pitching duel with the hated LSU Tigers and happiness reigns in Rebel Nation). The annual Spring Red-Blue Football game (recently renamed the Grove Bowl) is this afternoon and I'll go--but there are so many other things on my Saturday honey-do and Spring fun-time lists that will go begging as a result.

As the weather began to warm and the days lengthened a few weeks ago, Miss Brenda and I went into a paroxysm of frantic digging and pulling--moving trees and shrubs that the previous occupants of our place had planted way too close to the house. We had fifty to move--had planned to get them moved before they started blooming and budding. We got maybe ten done. The rest will have to wait until later this year in the Fall.

But, then the deer and duck hunting and college football seasons will be upon us and... I need a clone!