Greetings Patriots. The Colonel bids you well this morning. I am compelled, in light of recent liberal progressive government hyperventilation regarding the resurgence of militia groups here in these re-United States, to point out that, despite tongue-in-check protestations and references posted herein, I am no "'lutionary"--revo nor counter-revo. The Colonel does not and will not associate himself with camo-clad delusionals; the exception being my duck and deer hunting buddies who regularly don camo and indulge in delusional behavior regarding their prowess at apex predation. My assessment of the militia movements in this country is that the vast majority are made up of "wannabes" who failed the American manhood test (failed to volunteer for military service) early in their adult life and use their militia association to either assuage their lack of manhood or as an outlet for their ignorant racial discriminatory beliefs. I harbor neither need. To paraphrase the late Gidget, the Taco Bell Chihuahua: "I'm a real Colonel."
Given the banishment of the Ole Miss athletics mascot by a university administration participating in the intelligence death spiral of "political correctness," the Colonel also feels compelled to point out that he is the "real" Colonel Reb. The evidence is simple and direct. My military "call sign," granted by my fellow operators, was, not surprisingly given my pride of matriculation at Ole Miss, "Rebel." So, I claim, without a tinge of humility, that I am Colonel Reb.
Okay, maybe I am a bit deluded after all.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Friday, August 07, 2009
Guadalcanal--Gettysburg in the Pacific
One of the most bitterly fought campaigns of the Second World War began this date, 7 August, sixty-seven years ago. The island chain eventually wrested from Japanese control was the first in a two-pronged strategy that rolled back the Axis tide in the Pacific. One of the later islands seized in this drive, Tinian, possessed excellent airfields from which the long-range strategic aerial bombardment of the Japanese home islands culminated in the atomic annihilation of Hiroshima and Nagasaki (and the unconditional surrender of Japan) exactly three years (to the week) after this date's 1st Marine Division landing on Guadalcanal.
A few of the Marines who landed on Guadalcanal's beach and began to push inland through the dense jungle had experience with a similar type of terrain--they had fought in the so-called "Banana Wars" of the twenties and thirties. But chasing the likes of bandits like Sandino in the jungles of Nicaragua could prepare no one for the brutal fight that awaited the 1st Marine Division on "the 'canal." The environment's hostility was surpassed only by the fierce tenacity of the Japanese--twenty percent of the Marines fell prey to a severe strain of dysentery within the first two weeks on the island. Guadalcanal lay strategically astride the supply lines to Australia. The fate of Australia and New Zealand would be controlled by whoever controlled Guadalcanal. Japan's expansionist dreams depended on control of the South Pacific (including, eventually, Australia and New Zealand), and they fought ferociously to throw the Americans off of their foothold in the Solomons. Over the next several months, the Japanese landed reinforcements on one end of the island while the Marines dug in and expanded their beachhead on the other. Fierce battles raged on pieces of terrain that would become immortalized in Marine Corps lore--Lunga Point, Alligator Creek, Edson's Ridge, Matanikau River, and Henderson Field. Marines got their first, but not last, taste of the human wave banzai attack. At sea, the American Navy began to stand up to and lick their Japanese naval rivals, and in the air American pilots defending the 1st Marine Division learned valuable lessons in dogfights against the vaunted Zero.
By December of 1942, it was clear to the Japanese that their land and naval forces were no longer a match for the growing American strength in the Solomons and they began to withdraw their forces and retract their strategic perimeter in the Pacific. It was the beginning of the end for the Japanese. Although two and a half more years of horrendous losses on both sides were to transpire, it was only a matter of time before the gathering strength of the "Sleeping Giant" would overwhelm the Empire of the Rising Sun. Guadalcanal was, in a way, the Gettysburg of the Pacific, and marked the high water mark of Japanese expansion.
I have had the opportunity to meet a few of the Marines who fought on Guadalcanal with the 1st Marine Division. The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda even has a great uncle who fought on Guadalcanal. It was their accomplishments and exploits (and those of their brothers in the other five Marine Divisions that swept across the Pacific over the next three years) that made being a Marine in my time such a special privilege and honor.
A few of the Marines who landed on Guadalcanal's beach and began to push inland through the dense jungle had experience with a similar type of terrain--they had fought in the so-called "Banana Wars" of the twenties and thirties. But chasing the likes of bandits like Sandino in the jungles of Nicaragua could prepare no one for the brutal fight that awaited the 1st Marine Division on "the 'canal." The environment's hostility was surpassed only by the fierce tenacity of the Japanese--twenty percent of the Marines fell prey to a severe strain of dysentery within the first two weeks on the island. Guadalcanal lay strategically astride the supply lines to Australia. The fate of Australia and New Zealand would be controlled by whoever controlled Guadalcanal. Japan's expansionist dreams depended on control of the South Pacific (including, eventually, Australia and New Zealand), and they fought ferociously to throw the Americans off of their foothold in the Solomons. Over the next several months, the Japanese landed reinforcements on one end of the island while the Marines dug in and expanded their beachhead on the other. Fierce battles raged on pieces of terrain that would become immortalized in Marine Corps lore--Lunga Point, Alligator Creek, Edson's Ridge, Matanikau River, and Henderson Field. Marines got their first, but not last, taste of the human wave banzai attack. At sea, the American Navy began to stand up to and lick their Japanese naval rivals, and in the air American pilots defending the 1st Marine Division learned valuable lessons in dogfights against the vaunted Zero.
By December of 1942, it was clear to the Japanese that their land and naval forces were no longer a match for the growing American strength in the Solomons and they began to withdraw their forces and retract their strategic perimeter in the Pacific. It was the beginning of the end for the Japanese. Although two and a half more years of horrendous losses on both sides were to transpire, it was only a matter of time before the gathering strength of the "Sleeping Giant" would overwhelm the Empire of the Rising Sun. Guadalcanal was, in a way, the Gettysburg of the Pacific, and marked the high water mark of Japanese expansion.
I have had the opportunity to meet a few of the Marines who fought on Guadalcanal with the 1st Marine Division. The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda even has a great uncle who fought on Guadalcanal. It was their accomplishments and exploits (and those of their brothers in the other five Marine Divisions that swept across the Pacific over the next three years) that made being a Marine in my time such a special privilege and honor.
Wednesday, August 05, 2009
First Monday Miss
The Colonel and his bride, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda, checked another box on our "To See and Do" list last weekend--and, despite an "Awww, look Eyud" and a pouty face, there was no puppy purchased.
Up near the state line with Tennessee in north Mississippi, the little town of Ripley (pop. just shy of 6000) continues to carry on a tradition that began over a century ago. In 1893, the American economy crashed into a depression that was to last for the better part of a decade. The bursting of a railroad investment bubble (one in a long line of investment bubbles to burst--including the recent dot com and housing bubbles) and a credit crunch caused by runs on overextended banks contributed to what is now known as "The Panic of '93." Unemployment averaged 15% for the next six years. A large proportion of the recently enlarged "middle class" lost their life savings in bank failures and, unable to pay their mortgages, walked away from homes that had been purchased well beyond their needs and means. As the depression rapidly deepened, and prices for export crops like corn and cotton fell dramatically, farming communities were hit particularly hard. To help each other combat the crippling effects of the depression, the farming community of Ripley, Mississippi began to hold monthly "swap meets" on the courthouse square. Originally called "Trade Day," the meet was scheduled for the first Monday of each month and soon became known as "First Monday." Farmers brought their produce to exchange with others and also toted along livestock and firearms to trade as well. As the crowds attending First Monday grew over the years the location of the event was shifted further and further out of the town center to locations that could accommodate larger crowds. Today, First Monday is held on the weekend before the first Monday of each month at a fifty acre site south of town.
The Colonel, remembering that last Friday was the 33rd anniversary of our wedding, took the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda out to dinner and a movie--"Squirrel!!--and asked her where she would like to go the next day for Day Trip. She said, "I wanna go see 'First Monday,'" and so bright and early Saturday morning, we snuck out of the house before the hope of twenty-first century civilization (and their parents) woke up and headed for Ripley.
First Monday is pretty much your basic flea market with the added attraction of livestock and dogs for sale. And, you haven't lived until you munch on a corn dog and a funnel cake while watching vendors stuff sold chickens in sacks. As we sauntered along the lane dedicated to dogs for sale, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda sighted a yellow lab puppy on the tailgate of a pickup, yanked her hand out of mine and ran like a ten-year old over to pet the third most destructive force on the planet (behind a platoon of Marines and two grandsons). The man with the dog whipped out a set of "papers" and offered that this "registered, full-bred labbadoor" (sic) could be hers for only $25.
"Awww, Eyud, its so cute! He's got papers and is only $25! The boys would love him."
The Colonel was born at night--not last night. I didn't just fall off the turnip truck. I might not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but I'm not crazy. I didn't just re-enlist of the way to lunch. I didn't just...okay, you get the idea. I wasn't going to buy a papered puppy for just $25. Everybody knows that if you don't pay at least $500--you ain't gettin' a good dawg.
The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda put on her best pouty face, but the Colonel was not swayed. I stood my ground, grasped her hand, and leaned away from the tailgate-soiling pup until Miss Brenda's hand let go of the dog's neck. With her momentum going in my direction, I looked around for something much more appropriate for our attention--"Look, Sweety, that guy's got fishing poles and pocket knives for sale--two for a dollar."
It was a narrow miss. We'll get the boys a dog for a house-warming gift when they move into their own place.
Up near the state line with Tennessee in north Mississippi, the little town of Ripley (pop. just shy of 6000) continues to carry on a tradition that began over a century ago. In 1893, the American economy crashed into a depression that was to last for the better part of a decade. The bursting of a railroad investment bubble (one in a long line of investment bubbles to burst--including the recent dot com and housing bubbles) and a credit crunch caused by runs on overextended banks contributed to what is now known as "The Panic of '93." Unemployment averaged 15% for the next six years. A large proportion of the recently enlarged "middle class" lost their life savings in bank failures and, unable to pay their mortgages, walked away from homes that had been purchased well beyond their needs and means. As the depression rapidly deepened, and prices for export crops like corn and cotton fell dramatically, farming communities were hit particularly hard. To help each other combat the crippling effects of the depression, the farming community of Ripley, Mississippi began to hold monthly "swap meets" on the courthouse square. Originally called "Trade Day," the meet was scheduled for the first Monday of each month and soon became known as "First Monday." Farmers brought their produce to exchange with others and also toted along livestock and firearms to trade as well. As the crowds attending First Monday grew over the years the location of the event was shifted further and further out of the town center to locations that could accommodate larger crowds. Today, First Monday is held on the weekend before the first Monday of each month at a fifty acre site south of town.
The Colonel, remembering that last Friday was the 33rd anniversary of our wedding, took the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda out to dinner and a movie--"Squirrel!!--and asked her where she would like to go the next day for Day Trip. She said, "I wanna go see 'First Monday,'" and so bright and early Saturday morning, we snuck out of the house before the hope of twenty-first century civilization (and their parents) woke up and headed for Ripley.
First Monday is pretty much your basic flea market with the added attraction of livestock and dogs for sale. And, you haven't lived until you munch on a corn dog and a funnel cake while watching vendors stuff sold chickens in sacks. As we sauntered along the lane dedicated to dogs for sale, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda sighted a yellow lab puppy on the tailgate of a pickup, yanked her hand out of mine and ran like a ten-year old over to pet the third most destructive force on the planet (behind a platoon of Marines and two grandsons). The man with the dog whipped out a set of "papers" and offered that this "registered, full-bred labbadoor" (sic) could be hers for only $25.
"Awww, Eyud, its so cute! He's got papers and is only $25! The boys would love him."
The Colonel was born at night--not last night. I didn't just fall off the turnip truck. I might not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but I'm not crazy. I didn't just re-enlist of the way to lunch. I didn't just...okay, you get the idea. I wasn't going to buy a papered puppy for just $25. Everybody knows that if you don't pay at least $500--you ain't gettin' a good dawg.
The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda put on her best pouty face, but the Colonel was not swayed. I stood my ground, grasped her hand, and leaned away from the tailgate-soiling pup until Miss Brenda's hand let go of the dog's neck. With her momentum going in my direction, I looked around for something much more appropriate for our attention--"Look, Sweety, that guy's got fishing poles and pocket knives for sale--two for a dollar."
It was a narrow miss. We'll get the boys a dog for a house-warming gift when they move into their own place.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
The Christian's Fleet of Faith
The Colonel had the opportunity to lead a devotional for Wednesday Evening Prayer Service. Text follows:
As a Marine, I spent a lot of time on Navy ships. My sailor friends reminded me often, that despite the fact that we Marines spent a lot of time wallowing in the mud ashore, I was first and foremost a Naval Officer. They impressed upon me from my earliest training just down the road here in the building on campus that formerly was known as McCain Hall, that I needed to understand the fundamentals of naval warfare just as much as the fundamentals of warfare ashore. So, I learned how to talk sailor--they have a different word for everything: a wall was not a wall--it was a bulkhead, a door was called a hatch, the floor was referred to as the deck, left was port, right was starboard. They didn’t even use the simple "yes, sir"—it was aye, aye sir.
Later on in my naval career, I learned about the capabilities and tactics of navigating and fighting a single ship. I learned that rarely did a single ship sail and operate alone. No matter how powerful and capable a single ship was, it was not near as strong and capable as it was when combined into a balanced fleet of ships each possessing unique characteristics and functions. This fleet team was able to operate farther and influence a much greater patch of territory on the globe than a single ship. At the heart of each fleet is one or more capital ships—a battleship, for example. The other ships in a fleet support, defend, and add their capabilities to that most powerful ship. All of the ships in a fleet, large and small, have critical roles. Lose a particular type of ship and the fleet operates at much less than optimal strength and effectiveness—sometimes loss of a key small ship leaves the fleet vulnerable to crippling attack, or leaves the fleet unable to accomplish an important mission.
There is a Christian Fleet of Faith. It is composed of several separate and distinct “ships,” each of which possess unique characteristics and functions. By themselves, each of these “ships” has some ability to operate and have positive effect on their own. But, each of these “ships” also has functions and characteristics that lend themselves to increasing the effectiveness of the rest of a Christian’s fleet. Let’s look at each one of these ships separately for a minute and see how each one complements the other and makes the whole fleet stronger.
The first “ship”, Worship, is the “battleship” at the heart of your fleet of faith. We find the first instance of man’s worship of God in the book of Genesis—12:7 As the relationship between man and God grew, so did our understanding of worship as our primary function with regard to God. Worship of God is the first thing we do when we accept Jesus as our Savior. In the ninth chapter of John’s Gospel, the disciple tells of Jesus giving sight to a blind man. In verse 35 John tells us that Jesus asked the man “Do you believe in the Son of Man?” Let’s look at the response—verses 36—38. What did the healed man (Can’t call him the blind man anymore!) do immediately upon believing in Jesus? He Worshiped Jesus! Worship is the first and most important thing in our relationship with God. Just as a fleet would be weak and ineffective without its battleship heart, so the Christian’s fleet of Faith is powerless without worship. I won’t belabor this point—it is obvious to you. Instead I want to focus on the other supporting ships in our fleet.
If Worship is the battleship in our fleet of faith, then the twin ships Membership and Fellowship are the heavy cruisers. A heavy cruiser is powerful, but not as powerful as the battleship. A heavy cruiser can operate alone, but not for very long. Its real mission is to defend the battleship so that the battleship can focus on striking the enemy and not waste effort defending itself. Likewise, membership in a church family and fellowship with brothers and sisters in Christ strengthens our worship. From membership, and participation, in a Sunday School class we study scripture and learn God’s will in our lives. In the fellowship of that Sunday School class we share our spiritual and physical needs. In that group of Christian brothers and sisters we share in worship and minister to others. There is no other group in any church family that is as powerful as a Sunday School class. Period. Let me say that again—there is no other group in any church family that is as powerful as a Sunday school class. I won’t argue that point—I’m right. If you are not in a Sunday School class, your fleet of faith is suffering from a weak fellowship. If you are not in a Sunday school class, there is one that, among the many that meets every Sunday at 9 am, is just for you. And since you already know how to find your way to this room, there is a class that meets right here every Sunday morning. Stand up, Miss Brenda. This, for those of you who have never met her, is the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda. Now you know where a class meets and you know someone in that class. Join us in fellowship. This is too easy. So, let’s move on and look at another ship in our fleet-- Discipleship
If Worship is the battleship heart of our fleet of Faith and Membership and Fellowship are the heavy cruisers that support and defend the heart of our fleet, then Discipleship is the Marine landing force of the fleet. Jesus gave several missions to our Christian Family Fleet of faith. In the 22nd chapter of Matthew’s gospel, the disciple quotes Jesus telling the Pharisees the greatest commandment in the Law was “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.” –that’s worship. Jesus went on to say that “the second is…You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” Jesus told us to love and support each other in the Church Family—that’s fellowship. He told us to love others outside of the Church Family—putting that love into action is discipleship. Jesus gave us a mission we call the Great Commission. In the final verses of his Gospel, Matthew quotes Jesus giving this mission to his disciples and by extension to all believers: “All authority has been given to Me in heaven and on earth. Go, therefore, and make disciples of all the nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, teaching them to observe all that I commanded you…” Jesus was very specific about what His mission for us was. Just as it makes no sense for a fleet to exist without a mission, it makes no sense for us to exist as a church family without one. But, the mission of discipleship cannot be accomplished at long distance. A fleet given the mission of capturing a piece of enemy territory cannot accomplish that mission by standing offshore and lobbing shells onto the land. The Marines have to go ashore and get up close and personal with the enemy. Supporting fire from ships and aircraft is important—but boots on the ground win battles. So it is with discipleship. Jesus commanded us to go ashore—not sit safely on the ship.
So, our Fleet of Faith has at its heart the battleship of Worship, it has the supporting and defending heavy cruisers of Membership and Fellowship, and the Marine landing force of Discipleship… there ares two more ships in our fleet of faith we need to talk about.
The least considered but clearly most important ship in any fleet is the supply ship. The other fighting ships of the fleet can only carry so much fuel, food and ammunition. They have to be resupplied often. Without its supply ships, a fleet quickly becomes ineffective. In a Christian’s Fleet of Faith, the supply ship is Stewardship. Without stewardship, the battleship of Worship, the supporting and defending heavy cruisers of Membership and Fellowship, and the Marine landing force of Discipleship are far less effective—often completely ineffective. But, not because God needs a paltry tenth of our money to accomplish his designs. He doesn’t need “our” money. God took two tiny fishes and five small loaves and fed thousands! Do you believe God is Great? Amen? He’s the Mighty Yahweh, the Great I Am. He’s the Divider of the Red Sea, the Deliverer of Israel. He dropped the mighty walls of Jericho; He crushed the camp of a hundred thousand Midianites, both with just the toot of a horn! He’s the God of Abraham to whom he gave a son by Sarah when he was a hundred years old and she was 91! Do you believe God is Great? Amen? Listen to this: My God is so great that He looked two thousand years into the future and saw me, one of billions on this earth, dead in my sin and rebellion against Him, and He sent Jesus, His only son, to give His life as a blood sacrifice to cover my sin from God’s eyes. Do you believe God is Great? Amen? Believe this: Every bit of “our” money, every penny, is God’s to begin with. Can I get an Amen? Do you believe that everything we have comes from God, because God created and owns everything to begin with? Amen? So, God doesn’t need for us to give Him one red cent. It is his already, and believe me, he will take it back if he wants it. God doesn’t need us to give him an offering. But, We Need to give God an offering. Our tithes and offerings are not for God’s needs! Our tithes and offerings are for OUR Needs! And for OUR blessings. Malachi spoke for God when he told the people of Israel “Bring the whole tithe into the storehouse, so that there may be food in My house, and test Me now in this says the Lord of hosts, if I will not open for you the windows of heaven and pour out for you a blessing until it overflows.” I don’t believe there is anything else about which God has given us permission to test him.
Here is my testimony. A Sunday School teacher led me to salvation when I was nine years old. A missionary taught me to eat the meat of the word when I was a teenager. A church family, right here at Abbeville Baptist Church, ministered to me and my new bride for two years starting thirty-three years ago. They loved us, taught us, fed us, and stayed in our hearts as we wandered the globe for the next three decades. Brenda and I believe without a shadow of a doubt that God brought us back here two years ago as part of a blessing to us for exercising the faith we learned here. This church taught us to tithe and to give. We didn’t give much—we didn’t have much. God didn’t need our tithe and our offerings for this church. But, we needed to give it. Folks, we had nothing but each other in those days—and there wasn’t much of that to go around, either! And yet, we never lacked for anything we needed. There was no way our budget supported tithing on paper —there was not enough income to cover our needs let alone to give a tenth off the top to God. We finally stopped trying to budget a tithe and just trusted God. We tithed and then budgeted the rest. Let me say that again, we tithed, and then budgeted the rest. God blessed us with more than we needed, and we lived our lives that way from that time on. Okay, I’ll admit to you that there were a couple of times where we were tempted to skip a tithe in order to get ahead of the budget curve. But, you know what happened? The car broke down. The refrigerator quit working. God disciplined us for our lack of faith and we got right back on the tithe wagon before He started taking anything else back. I am convinced that if we had not continued to tithe first and budget the rest, we would be in debt up to our eyeballs and living somewhere else. From the time Brenda and I began to share our dreams 38 years ago, we wanted to be right where we are now. I am certain that we are blessed with the fulfillment of that dream because of our faithfulness to give back to God. There is no other explanation. That’s my testimony.
Someone taught me a long time ago that the true measure of our faith is not what we say, but what we do? Do you believe this? Amen? If so, what does our giving say about our faith?
The Christian Fleet of Faith has the battleship of Worship, the supporting and defending heavy cruisers of Membership and Fellowship, the Marine landing force of Discipleship, and the supply vessel Stewardship. There’s one last ship in the Christian Fleet of Faith—Leadership.
As Christians we are to discern and subject ourselves to God’s will by the leadership of the Holy Spirit. That’s something we’ve all been taught from day one in our church experience. Further, we are commanded to subject ourselves to the leadership of the man God appoints to pastor his church. We know this. But, did you know that as a Christian you are called to be a leader, too?
Napoleon often remarked that every private in his army carried a marshal’s baton in his knapsack. What he tried to instill in his army was the belief that every man in the army was a leader who could step up and take charge in a given situation that called for that man’s appreciation of an opportunity on the battlefield. We Marines have a similar belief that every Marine is a Leader. All American armed forces believe the same thing. I believe that Jesus considered us all leaders. The Great Commission calls for us to share the Gospel and LEAD others to Christ. Each one of us in this room, beyond the age of accountability, is a leader. Someone in our lives looks to us for our wisdom and example—a child, a sibling, even a parent; could be a co-worker, a neighbor, someone we may not even know by name. Like it or not, you are a leader. And, our Fleet of Faith will not be near as effective as it could be if we do not accept the responsibility as Christian leaders. I’m not talking necessarily about a formal leadership position in the church—I’m talking about the leadership we provide to our children by teaching them about their Fleets of Faith—Worship, Membership, Fellowship, Discipleship, Stewardship, and Leadership. I’m talking about the Christian example of Faith we provide to the new brothers and sisters in Christ who look to us for leadership. In his first letter to the Corinthian church, Paul said “for if the bugle produces an indistinct sound, who will prepare himself for battle.” The context for this was his instructions regarding prophecy and speaking in tongues, but the message is clearly one regarding standard setting and setting the example by leaders. Paul was using the Roman army as an example for his point. The Romans had a series of distinctly different bugle calls by which roman leaders ordered their soldiers’ daily lives. One call woke them in the morning, another told them to stop to eat, another to get back to work, another to put on armor and assemble for battle. If a leader, through his bugler, produced a call that was misunderstood, a soldier might start cooking lunch when his leader needed him to get ready to fight. The lesson for us is that as leaders we must clearly pass on the teachings of Christ and lead by example. If we send mixed messages—saying one thing, but doing something different—then those we should be leading will not be prepared to battle against sin or to grow in their faith to the point that they are receiving the blessings God is prepared to give them. If a fellow Christian is not being blessed, we might do well to look at our leadership example to them. We may be the ones leading them astray. And, I believe that one of our greatest leadership failings is in the matter of stewardship. The example of our giving, and how we manage our finances, is perhaps the single greatest impression we leave on our children and others regarding the strength of our faith in God.
Do you believe God wants you to be a leader? Say Amen, shake your head yes. Do you believe God wants your Fleet of Faith to be effective in accomplishing His work here on Earth? Say Amen, shake your head yes. Is there some “ship” – either Worship, Membership, Fellowship, Discipleship, Stewardship, or Leadership -- that is weak or missing from your Fleet of Faith? Say amen, shake your head yes. My prayer is that God will convict us of the weaknesses in our faith and make us miserable until we bend to his will.
As a Marine, I spent a lot of time on Navy ships. My sailor friends reminded me often, that despite the fact that we Marines spent a lot of time wallowing in the mud ashore, I was first and foremost a Naval Officer. They impressed upon me from my earliest training just down the road here in the building on campus that formerly was known as McCain Hall, that I needed to understand the fundamentals of naval warfare just as much as the fundamentals of warfare ashore. So, I learned how to talk sailor--they have a different word for everything: a wall was not a wall--it was a bulkhead, a door was called a hatch, the floor was referred to as the deck, left was port, right was starboard. They didn’t even use the simple "yes, sir"—it was aye, aye sir.
Later on in my naval career, I learned about the capabilities and tactics of navigating and fighting a single ship. I learned that rarely did a single ship sail and operate alone. No matter how powerful and capable a single ship was, it was not near as strong and capable as it was when combined into a balanced fleet of ships each possessing unique characteristics and functions. This fleet team was able to operate farther and influence a much greater patch of territory on the globe than a single ship. At the heart of each fleet is one or more capital ships—a battleship, for example. The other ships in a fleet support, defend, and add their capabilities to that most powerful ship. All of the ships in a fleet, large and small, have critical roles. Lose a particular type of ship and the fleet operates at much less than optimal strength and effectiveness—sometimes loss of a key small ship leaves the fleet vulnerable to crippling attack, or leaves the fleet unable to accomplish an important mission.
There is a Christian Fleet of Faith. It is composed of several separate and distinct “ships,” each of which possess unique characteristics and functions. By themselves, each of these “ships” has some ability to operate and have positive effect on their own. But, each of these “ships” also has functions and characteristics that lend themselves to increasing the effectiveness of the rest of a Christian’s fleet. Let’s look at each one of these ships separately for a minute and see how each one complements the other and makes the whole fleet stronger.
The first “ship”, Worship, is the “battleship” at the heart of your fleet of faith. We find the first instance of man’s worship of God in the book of Genesis—12:7 As the relationship between man and God grew, so did our understanding of worship as our primary function with regard to God. Worship of God is the first thing we do when we accept Jesus as our Savior. In the ninth chapter of John’s Gospel, the disciple tells of Jesus giving sight to a blind man. In verse 35 John tells us that Jesus asked the man “Do you believe in the Son of Man?” Let’s look at the response—verses 36—38. What did the healed man (Can’t call him the blind man anymore!) do immediately upon believing in Jesus? He Worshiped Jesus! Worship is the first and most important thing in our relationship with God. Just as a fleet would be weak and ineffective without its battleship heart, so the Christian’s fleet of Faith is powerless without worship. I won’t belabor this point—it is obvious to you. Instead I want to focus on the other supporting ships in our fleet.
If Worship is the battleship in our fleet of faith, then the twin ships Membership and Fellowship are the heavy cruisers. A heavy cruiser is powerful, but not as powerful as the battleship. A heavy cruiser can operate alone, but not for very long. Its real mission is to defend the battleship so that the battleship can focus on striking the enemy and not waste effort defending itself. Likewise, membership in a church family and fellowship with brothers and sisters in Christ strengthens our worship. From membership, and participation, in a Sunday School class we study scripture and learn God’s will in our lives. In the fellowship of that Sunday School class we share our spiritual and physical needs. In that group of Christian brothers and sisters we share in worship and minister to others. There is no other group in any church family that is as powerful as a Sunday School class. Period. Let me say that again—there is no other group in any church family that is as powerful as a Sunday school class. I won’t argue that point—I’m right. If you are not in a Sunday School class, your fleet of faith is suffering from a weak fellowship. If you are not in a Sunday school class, there is one that, among the many that meets every Sunday at 9 am, is just for you. And since you already know how to find your way to this room, there is a class that meets right here every Sunday morning. Stand up, Miss Brenda. This, for those of you who have never met her, is the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda. Now you know where a class meets and you know someone in that class. Join us in fellowship. This is too easy. So, let’s move on and look at another ship in our fleet-- Discipleship
If Worship is the battleship heart of our fleet of Faith and Membership and Fellowship are the heavy cruisers that support and defend the heart of our fleet, then Discipleship is the Marine landing force of the fleet. Jesus gave several missions to our Christian Family Fleet of faith. In the 22nd chapter of Matthew’s gospel, the disciple quotes Jesus telling the Pharisees the greatest commandment in the Law was “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.” –that’s worship. Jesus went on to say that “the second is…You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” Jesus told us to love and support each other in the Church Family—that’s fellowship. He told us to love others outside of the Church Family—putting that love into action is discipleship. Jesus gave us a mission we call the Great Commission. In the final verses of his Gospel, Matthew quotes Jesus giving this mission to his disciples and by extension to all believers: “All authority has been given to Me in heaven and on earth. Go, therefore, and make disciples of all the nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, teaching them to observe all that I commanded you…” Jesus was very specific about what His mission for us was. Just as it makes no sense for a fleet to exist without a mission, it makes no sense for us to exist as a church family without one. But, the mission of discipleship cannot be accomplished at long distance. A fleet given the mission of capturing a piece of enemy territory cannot accomplish that mission by standing offshore and lobbing shells onto the land. The Marines have to go ashore and get up close and personal with the enemy. Supporting fire from ships and aircraft is important—but boots on the ground win battles. So it is with discipleship. Jesus commanded us to go ashore—not sit safely on the ship.
So, our Fleet of Faith has at its heart the battleship of Worship, it has the supporting and defending heavy cruisers of Membership and Fellowship, and the Marine landing force of Discipleship… there ares two more ships in our fleet of faith we need to talk about.
The least considered but clearly most important ship in any fleet is the supply ship. The other fighting ships of the fleet can only carry so much fuel, food and ammunition. They have to be resupplied often. Without its supply ships, a fleet quickly becomes ineffective. In a Christian’s Fleet of Faith, the supply ship is Stewardship. Without stewardship, the battleship of Worship, the supporting and defending heavy cruisers of Membership and Fellowship, and the Marine landing force of Discipleship are far less effective—often completely ineffective. But, not because God needs a paltry tenth of our money to accomplish his designs. He doesn’t need “our” money. God took two tiny fishes and five small loaves and fed thousands! Do you believe God is Great? Amen? He’s the Mighty Yahweh, the Great I Am. He’s the Divider of the Red Sea, the Deliverer of Israel. He dropped the mighty walls of Jericho; He crushed the camp of a hundred thousand Midianites, both with just the toot of a horn! He’s the God of Abraham to whom he gave a son by Sarah when he was a hundred years old and she was 91! Do you believe God is Great? Amen? Listen to this: My God is so great that He looked two thousand years into the future and saw me, one of billions on this earth, dead in my sin and rebellion against Him, and He sent Jesus, His only son, to give His life as a blood sacrifice to cover my sin from God’s eyes. Do you believe God is Great? Amen? Believe this: Every bit of “our” money, every penny, is God’s to begin with. Can I get an Amen? Do you believe that everything we have comes from God, because God created and owns everything to begin with? Amen? So, God doesn’t need for us to give Him one red cent. It is his already, and believe me, he will take it back if he wants it. God doesn’t need us to give him an offering. But, We Need to give God an offering. Our tithes and offerings are not for God’s needs! Our tithes and offerings are for OUR Needs! And for OUR blessings. Malachi spoke for God when he told the people of Israel “Bring the whole tithe into the storehouse, so that there may be food in My house, and test Me now in this says the Lord of hosts, if I will not open for you the windows of heaven and pour out for you a blessing until it overflows.” I don’t believe there is anything else about which God has given us permission to test him.
Here is my testimony. A Sunday School teacher led me to salvation when I was nine years old. A missionary taught me to eat the meat of the word when I was a teenager. A church family, right here at Abbeville Baptist Church, ministered to me and my new bride for two years starting thirty-three years ago. They loved us, taught us, fed us, and stayed in our hearts as we wandered the globe for the next three decades. Brenda and I believe without a shadow of a doubt that God brought us back here two years ago as part of a blessing to us for exercising the faith we learned here. This church taught us to tithe and to give. We didn’t give much—we didn’t have much. God didn’t need our tithe and our offerings for this church. But, we needed to give it. Folks, we had nothing but each other in those days—and there wasn’t much of that to go around, either! And yet, we never lacked for anything we needed. There was no way our budget supported tithing on paper —there was not enough income to cover our needs let alone to give a tenth off the top to God. We finally stopped trying to budget a tithe and just trusted God. We tithed and then budgeted the rest. Let me say that again, we tithed, and then budgeted the rest. God blessed us with more than we needed, and we lived our lives that way from that time on. Okay, I’ll admit to you that there were a couple of times where we were tempted to skip a tithe in order to get ahead of the budget curve. But, you know what happened? The car broke down. The refrigerator quit working. God disciplined us for our lack of faith and we got right back on the tithe wagon before He started taking anything else back. I am convinced that if we had not continued to tithe first and budget the rest, we would be in debt up to our eyeballs and living somewhere else. From the time Brenda and I began to share our dreams 38 years ago, we wanted to be right where we are now. I am certain that we are blessed with the fulfillment of that dream because of our faithfulness to give back to God. There is no other explanation. That’s my testimony.
Someone taught me a long time ago that the true measure of our faith is not what we say, but what we do? Do you believe this? Amen? If so, what does our giving say about our faith?
The Christian Fleet of Faith has the battleship of Worship, the supporting and defending heavy cruisers of Membership and Fellowship, the Marine landing force of Discipleship, and the supply vessel Stewardship. There’s one last ship in the Christian Fleet of Faith—Leadership.
As Christians we are to discern and subject ourselves to God’s will by the leadership of the Holy Spirit. That’s something we’ve all been taught from day one in our church experience. Further, we are commanded to subject ourselves to the leadership of the man God appoints to pastor his church. We know this. But, did you know that as a Christian you are called to be a leader, too?
Napoleon often remarked that every private in his army carried a marshal’s baton in his knapsack. What he tried to instill in his army was the belief that every man in the army was a leader who could step up and take charge in a given situation that called for that man’s appreciation of an opportunity on the battlefield. We Marines have a similar belief that every Marine is a Leader. All American armed forces believe the same thing. I believe that Jesus considered us all leaders. The Great Commission calls for us to share the Gospel and LEAD others to Christ. Each one of us in this room, beyond the age of accountability, is a leader. Someone in our lives looks to us for our wisdom and example—a child, a sibling, even a parent; could be a co-worker, a neighbor, someone we may not even know by name. Like it or not, you are a leader. And, our Fleet of Faith will not be near as effective as it could be if we do not accept the responsibility as Christian leaders. I’m not talking necessarily about a formal leadership position in the church—I’m talking about the leadership we provide to our children by teaching them about their Fleets of Faith—Worship, Membership, Fellowship, Discipleship, Stewardship, and Leadership. I’m talking about the Christian example of Faith we provide to the new brothers and sisters in Christ who look to us for leadership. In his first letter to the Corinthian church, Paul said “for if the bugle produces an indistinct sound, who will prepare himself for battle.” The context for this was his instructions regarding prophecy and speaking in tongues, but the message is clearly one regarding standard setting and setting the example by leaders. Paul was using the Roman army as an example for his point. The Romans had a series of distinctly different bugle calls by which roman leaders ordered their soldiers’ daily lives. One call woke them in the morning, another told them to stop to eat, another to get back to work, another to put on armor and assemble for battle. If a leader, through his bugler, produced a call that was misunderstood, a soldier might start cooking lunch when his leader needed him to get ready to fight. The lesson for us is that as leaders we must clearly pass on the teachings of Christ and lead by example. If we send mixed messages—saying one thing, but doing something different—then those we should be leading will not be prepared to battle against sin or to grow in their faith to the point that they are receiving the blessings God is prepared to give them. If a fellow Christian is not being blessed, we might do well to look at our leadership example to them. We may be the ones leading them astray. And, I believe that one of our greatest leadership failings is in the matter of stewardship. The example of our giving, and how we manage our finances, is perhaps the single greatest impression we leave on our children and others regarding the strength of our faith in God.
Do you believe God wants you to be a leader? Say Amen, shake your head yes. Do you believe God wants your Fleet of Faith to be effective in accomplishing His work here on Earth? Say Amen, shake your head yes. Is there some “ship” – either Worship, Membership, Fellowship, Discipleship, Stewardship, or Leadership -- that is weak or missing from your Fleet of Faith? Say amen, shake your head yes. My prayer is that God will convict us of the weaknesses in our faith and make us miserable until we bend to his will.
From Fire to Freedom
Sometimes a severe trial by fire prepares one for an even more demanding crucible.
Thirty-two years ago today, the USS Forrestal, the lead ship in the Forrestal class of true "supercarriers," and named for James Forrestal, Secretary of the Navy during the Second World War, was on "Yankee Station" in the Gulf of Tonkin off the coast of North Vietnam conducting strike operations against communist targets. Just before 1100, as Forrestal's embarked air wing was preparing to launch the second strike of the day, a disastrous chain of events began to unfold that would involve the carrier's crew in a fiery fight for the very life of their ship.
On the crowded stern half of Forrestal's flight deck a score of strike aircraft were fueled and armed and preparing for taxi to the catapults on the forward half of the flight deck. One of the aircraft parked on the starboard side of the flight deck, a two-seat F-4B Phantom II, was armed with a pod of air-to-ground Zuni rockets. As the aircraft switched from external to internal power, an electrical surge inexplicably caused one of the rocket motors to ignite. The rocket shot across the flight deck and into the aircraft parked along the port edge of the deck. The rocket hit and ignited an underwing fuel tank on a single-seat A-4E Skyhawk. As firefighting teams rapidly responded to the fire, fuel tanks on adjacent aircraft overheated and ruptured, adding their fuel the fire. As the pilot of the stricken plane scrambled out of the cockpit and leaped to the deck, one of the bombs slung externally under the aircraft "cooked off" in the intense heat of the fuel fire and exploded. The pilot, and most of the firefighting crew, were killed in that explosion. As other bombs cooked off, pilots of adjacent aircraft also abandoned their cockpits. One, Lieutenant John S. McCain III, rather than climb down onto and then off the wing of his jet (which would have led him into the middle of the growing conflagration), climbed out onto the nose of his plane and jumped clear. While helping another pilot escape, McCain was hit by shrapnel from an exploding bomb but managed to get away from the exploding inferno with his life. It was a miraculous escape, by any estimation.
The fire on Forrestal got much worse before it was gotten under control. With most of the first line firefighters killed in the initial blasts and much of their specialized firefighting equipment destroyed, the remainder of the crew responded with improvisation that in some cases actually aggravated the situation--such as when seawater pumped onto the fire washed away the foam fire retardant initially sprayed on the deck and carried burning fuel below decks. By the time the fire was out, 134 men were dead and scores more grievously burned.
John McCain could have gone with the Forrestal back to Norfolk where months of extensive repairs were required. Instead, McCain and others volunteered to transfer to the air wing on another carrier, USS Oriskany, also conducting strike operations against the North Vietnamese. Almost three months to the day, October 26, 1967, since his escape from the fiery maelstrom on Forrestal's flight deck, McCain was shot down over Hanoi. Severely injured in his ejection and subsequent capture, the North Vietnamese initially refused him treatment and expected him to die. When they realized who McCain was, the grandson and son of admirals, they reluctantly tended to his wounds on the assumption that some propaganda advantage might be gained. When his father assumed command of Pacific Command and the war effort in 1968, the North Vietnamese offered to release McCain as a "humanitarian gesture." McCain recognized this devious ploy for what it was, and refused repatriation until all of the POWs shot down before him were released. The communists of course refused this and McCain would languish in agony from his wounds and frequent torture until all of the POWs were released in 1973.
In the summer of 1977, the Colonel was experiencing the not-so desperate, yet grueling non-the-less, crucible of Officer's Candidate School at Quantico, Virginia. Sometime in July of that year--the date escapes the few remaining cognitive cells lying fallow in the recesses of my brain housing group, but had to be near the tenth anniversary of the Forrestal tragedy--then Commander McCain, still on active duty, was invited to speak to our class. I don't remember many of the details of the hour he spent on stage in front of the 250 of us seeking to follow in his patriotic footsteps. I was impressed, however. Not much else from that sweltering summer on the banks of the Chopawamsic remains as indelibly marked in my consciousness as the humble seriousness of the man who quietly recounted, not so much his heroics, but the heroics of the others who shared the incredible privation of imprisonment at the hands of the communist Vietnamese sadists. There was no empty sloganeering--just a plain spoken recounting of men enduring a crucible their civilian contemporaries safely back at home could not conceivably comprehend nor appreciate.
The man is no saint. But he is an American hero, from a generation that shamefully produced too few. He and his comrades sacrificed their very freedom so that the rest of us could enjoy ours. And now he is enjoying the freedom only a fiery trial can peacefully provide.
The Colonel has a sneaking suspicion that the Senator may be almost relieved not to be imprisoned by the office he sought last year.
Thirty-two years ago today, the USS Forrestal, the lead ship in the Forrestal class of true "supercarriers," and named for James Forrestal, Secretary of the Navy during the Second World War, was on "Yankee Station" in the Gulf of Tonkin off the coast of North Vietnam conducting strike operations against communist targets. Just before 1100, as Forrestal's embarked air wing was preparing to launch the second strike of the day, a disastrous chain of events began to unfold that would involve the carrier's crew in a fiery fight for the very life of their ship.
On the crowded stern half of Forrestal's flight deck a score of strike aircraft were fueled and armed and preparing for taxi to the catapults on the forward half of the flight deck. One of the aircraft parked on the starboard side of the flight deck, a two-seat F-4B Phantom II, was armed with a pod of air-to-ground Zuni rockets. As the aircraft switched from external to internal power, an electrical surge inexplicably caused one of the rocket motors to ignite. The rocket shot across the flight deck and into the aircraft parked along the port edge of the deck. The rocket hit and ignited an underwing fuel tank on a single-seat A-4E Skyhawk. As firefighting teams rapidly responded to the fire, fuel tanks on adjacent aircraft overheated and ruptured, adding their fuel the fire. As the pilot of the stricken plane scrambled out of the cockpit and leaped to the deck, one of the bombs slung externally under the aircraft "cooked off" in the intense heat of the fuel fire and exploded. The pilot, and most of the firefighting crew, were killed in that explosion. As other bombs cooked off, pilots of adjacent aircraft also abandoned their cockpits. One, Lieutenant John S. McCain III, rather than climb down onto and then off the wing of his jet (which would have led him into the middle of the growing conflagration), climbed out onto the nose of his plane and jumped clear. While helping another pilot escape, McCain was hit by shrapnel from an exploding bomb but managed to get away from the exploding inferno with his life. It was a miraculous escape, by any estimation.
The fire on Forrestal got much worse before it was gotten under control. With most of the first line firefighters killed in the initial blasts and much of their specialized firefighting equipment destroyed, the remainder of the crew responded with improvisation that in some cases actually aggravated the situation--such as when seawater pumped onto the fire washed away the foam fire retardant initially sprayed on the deck and carried burning fuel below decks. By the time the fire was out, 134 men were dead and scores more grievously burned.
John McCain could have gone with the Forrestal back to Norfolk where months of extensive repairs were required. Instead, McCain and others volunteered to transfer to the air wing on another carrier, USS Oriskany, also conducting strike operations against the North Vietnamese. Almost three months to the day, October 26, 1967, since his escape from the fiery maelstrom on Forrestal's flight deck, McCain was shot down over Hanoi. Severely injured in his ejection and subsequent capture, the North Vietnamese initially refused him treatment and expected him to die. When they realized who McCain was, the grandson and son of admirals, they reluctantly tended to his wounds on the assumption that some propaganda advantage might be gained. When his father assumed command of Pacific Command and the war effort in 1968, the North Vietnamese offered to release McCain as a "humanitarian gesture." McCain recognized this devious ploy for what it was, and refused repatriation until all of the POWs shot down before him were released. The communists of course refused this and McCain would languish in agony from his wounds and frequent torture until all of the POWs were released in 1973.
In the summer of 1977, the Colonel was experiencing the not-so desperate, yet grueling non-the-less, crucible of Officer's Candidate School at Quantico, Virginia. Sometime in July of that year--the date escapes the few remaining cognitive cells lying fallow in the recesses of my brain housing group, but had to be near the tenth anniversary of the Forrestal tragedy--then Commander McCain, still on active duty, was invited to speak to our class. I don't remember many of the details of the hour he spent on stage in front of the 250 of us seeking to follow in his patriotic footsteps. I was impressed, however. Not much else from that sweltering summer on the banks of the Chopawamsic remains as indelibly marked in my consciousness as the humble seriousness of the man who quietly recounted, not so much his heroics, but the heroics of the others who shared the incredible privation of imprisonment at the hands of the communist Vietnamese sadists. There was no empty sloganeering--just a plain spoken recounting of men enduring a crucible their civilian contemporaries safely back at home could not conceivably comprehend nor appreciate.
The man is no saint. But he is an American hero, from a generation that shamefully produced too few. He and his comrades sacrificed their very freedom so that the rest of us could enjoy ours. And now he is enjoying the freedom only a fiery trial can peacefully provide.
The Colonel has a sneaking suspicion that the Senator may be almost relieved not to be imprisoned by the office he sought last year.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
"Raindrops are falling on my head..."
A steady rain has fallen here at the northern end of southern nowhere for the better part of the last eighteen hours, and the weather guesser says he thinks it will continue to do so for the rest of the week. The persistent precipitation has not, and will not be allowed to, dampen the Colonel’s spirits for the following reasons:
First Hug. Number One son and his bride, she of the highly exalted and fiercely protected position of Provider of Grandsons, are staying with the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda and the Colonel while they prepare for transition to their own abode. As a result, the Big House here at Eegeebeegee, capital of the virtual republic, The Tallahatchie Free State, has perceptively shrunken in its accommodation of the Colonel’s two grandsons, and the hope of 21st Century civilization, Caleb and Taylor. Caleb and his “Pop”, as the Colonel has chosen to be addressed by his granchillin’ (in tribute to my grandfather, Vernon “Pop” Gregory), are, thanks to much time spent together in the first year and a half of his life, bonded buddies who share loving hugs at greeting and farewell. Different story with his little brother. Taylor demonstrates perhaps a much more finely tuned judgment of character than his big brother and has heretofore refused, rebuffed, and otherwise denied the gruff ole Colonel’s request for a hug. Until this morning. Mr. T graced the Colonel with a warm, albeit brief, hug at first greeting this morning. Heart melting stuff—even for the man curmudgeoned before his time. Let it rain!
Filling the Lake. Number Two son and the Colonel belong to a brainless brotherhood known as duck hunters. Said brotherhood participates in perhaps the most idiotic and masochistic endeavor (outside of following Ole Miss football) known to man. Duck hunting is best described as interminable hours of cold, wet, windy, muddy misery, infrequently interspersed with brief moments of feathery delight. Said pursuit is made even more idiotic and masochistic when our ever-changeable climate produces years of below average rainfall necessitating arduous decoy bag-hauling and brush-busting to reach shrunken water holes to which a paltry few waterfowl venture from the flyway to frequent. The best duck seasons are those preceded by prodigious precipitation that fills our local flood-control reservoir to overflowing. Let it rain!
Tempering the Temperature. The Colonel’s temper has, with the accumulation of orbits round Ole Sol, cooled significantly from the white hot intemperance of youth to the simmering stew of older age; except when the outside temperature climbs above ninety. There was a time when I gloried in a bath of sweat while laboring or working out in temps pushing triple digits. Not so, no mo’. Interrupt the Colonel on a hot summer day whilst in the midst of a strenuous task and you are likely to witness an eruption rivaling Vesuvius, complete with explosive molten exhalations and fiery rain. Not bragging, mind you—the foregoing is more of an embarrassing admission. Needless to say, the Colonel’s temper has embarrassed him fairly regularly during the first stifling hot days of this summer. A rain-bearing cold front is, therefore, a welcome relief to the Colonel as well as to those around him. Let it rain!
Of course, I might get a case of the “red eye” if my driveway gets washed out.
First Hug. Number One son and his bride, she of the highly exalted and fiercely protected position of Provider of Grandsons, are staying with the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda and the Colonel while they prepare for transition to their own abode. As a result, the Big House here at Eegeebeegee, capital of the virtual republic, The Tallahatchie Free State, has perceptively shrunken in its accommodation of the Colonel’s two grandsons, and the hope of 21st Century civilization, Caleb and Taylor. Caleb and his “Pop”, as the Colonel has chosen to be addressed by his granchillin’ (in tribute to my grandfather, Vernon “Pop” Gregory), are, thanks to much time spent together in the first year and a half of his life, bonded buddies who share loving hugs at greeting and farewell. Different story with his little brother. Taylor demonstrates perhaps a much more finely tuned judgment of character than his big brother and has heretofore refused, rebuffed, and otherwise denied the gruff ole Colonel’s request for a hug. Until this morning. Mr. T graced the Colonel with a warm, albeit brief, hug at first greeting this morning. Heart melting stuff—even for the man curmudgeoned before his time. Let it rain!
Filling the Lake. Number Two son and the Colonel belong to a brainless brotherhood known as duck hunters. Said brotherhood participates in perhaps the most idiotic and masochistic endeavor (outside of following Ole Miss football) known to man. Duck hunting is best described as interminable hours of cold, wet, windy, muddy misery, infrequently interspersed with brief moments of feathery delight. Said pursuit is made even more idiotic and masochistic when our ever-changeable climate produces years of below average rainfall necessitating arduous decoy bag-hauling and brush-busting to reach shrunken water holes to which a paltry few waterfowl venture from the flyway to frequent. The best duck seasons are those preceded by prodigious precipitation that fills our local flood-control reservoir to overflowing. Let it rain!
Tempering the Temperature. The Colonel’s temper has, with the accumulation of orbits round Ole Sol, cooled significantly from the white hot intemperance of youth to the simmering stew of older age; except when the outside temperature climbs above ninety. There was a time when I gloried in a bath of sweat while laboring or working out in temps pushing triple digits. Not so, no mo’. Interrupt the Colonel on a hot summer day whilst in the midst of a strenuous task and you are likely to witness an eruption rivaling Vesuvius, complete with explosive molten exhalations and fiery rain. Not bragging, mind you—the foregoing is more of an embarrassing admission. Needless to say, the Colonel’s temper has embarrassed him fairly regularly during the first stifling hot days of this summer. A rain-bearing cold front is, therefore, a welcome relief to the Colonel as well as to those around him. Let it rain!
Of course, I might get a case of the “red eye” if my driveway gets washed out.
Monday, July 27, 2009
The Korean Case
Precedents established in exhausted expediency always complicate future endeavors.
Fifty-six years ago today, the antagonists arrayed against each other in bloody stalemate on the Korean peninsula agreed to an armistice to halt active combat operations and bring an end to the three year war that had begun with a communist North Korean attack of South Korea. The communists’ goal was to reunite the Korean peninsula, divided by the Russians and the Americans at the end of the war against Japan in late summer of 1945. The June 1950 Northern aggression, at least tacitly approved of by the Russians and Chinese, quickly routed the over-matched Southerners and the few American forces diverted to the melee from their cushy occupation duties in Japan. In a matter of weeks, the remaining effective South Korean and American units had retreated to a small perimeter around the southern port city of Pusan--ceding virtually the entire peninsula to the communists.
The United States, who eight and a half years previous had answered Japan's aggression with a formal, unilateral declaration of war, went this time to the newly created United Nations for a mandate to conduct "police actions," as Harry Truman called it. There was no formal, unilateral American declaration of war (as mandated by OUR CONSTITUTION). Instead, we experimented with a world government (in violation and ignorance of OUR CONSTITUTION). The results were just as unsatisfactory at this first attempt to change human nature and subvert nationalism as they have been at every juncture since. Without a formal declaration of war, the United States attempted to win the Korean conflict “on the cheap.” No formal declaration of war meant that there was no basis for rallying the American people and marshaling American resources for the express goal of defeating an enemy. Whereas during the Second World War, in which a formal state of war existed between the United States and the Axis Powers, the American economy was virtually entirely devoted to the production of war material (there were NO private vehicles produced by American car companies; sugar, gas, and rubber were rationed), during the three years of the Korean conflict, the American population experienced virtually no sacrifices at all.
A “surge” of limited American military power reversed the North Korean gains in the fall of 1950. American forces not only liberated the South Korean capital, Seoul, but pushed the communists all the way to the Yalu River—the border with China. When the Chinese entered the war against American forces on their doorstep in December of 1950, destroying the better part of two US divisions, the United States should have formally and unilaterally declared war on the Communist Chinese. Instead, American politicians, caring more for their re-election prospects than for the good of the American nation, demurred of definitive action and sought to prevent another round of the public privation it took to achieve victory in the recent war with Germany and Japan. The result was stalemate and wastage of American blood and treasure.
After two and half more years of meat grinding along the trenched front stretching across the Korean peninsula, newly inaugurated President Eisenhower sacrificed the communist enslaved peoples of China and North Korea to the ease and comfort of the American people. The Armistice, not a Peace Treaty, signed by China, the United States, and the two Koreas in the late summer of 1953, did bring a Peace, of sorts, to the Region. The cost to the United States was high—a permanent American “trip-wire” presence in South Korea against the prospect of a resumption of hostilities. The cost to the Koreans was even higher—the two continued to squander a vast proportion of their respective GDPs on armies squared off against each other across what became, and is still, the most dangerous border in the world. Lucky for the South Koreans, their American allies developed an insatiable desire for cheap goods the production of which eventually spurred the development of their economy to the point that it vaulted from the primarily agrarian to the rapid standard-of-living-raising industrialized nation ranks. The personality cult-oppressed people of the northern half of the peninsula were not nearly so lucky—they just continued to starve. And China? Well, Mao’s subsequent “cultural revolution” had a death toll second only to the infanticide since Roe v. Wade. And, ultimately, Communist Chinese (and Soviet) support of the nationalist socialist designs of Ho Chi Minh resulted in the near destruction of American society in another undeclared war American political leaders (and I use that word loosely) attempted to fight on the cheap rather than sacrifice domestic goals (see Johnson’s “Great Society”).
Since the end of the Second World War, and following the horribly unconstitutional precedent of our Korean experience, the illegal war-making of the United States has continued with alarming regularity. Without formal declarations of war (required by OUR CONSTITUTION), the United States has dabbled in open-ended military adventurism the world over without much to show for it beyond frustration and embarrassment. The case can be made that every American president from Truman to Obama has committed the impeachable offense of extra-constitutional war-making. But, don’t take my word for it, break out a copy of your American Citizen Owner’s Manual (aka: United States Constitution) and see for yourself.
Short of that larger point, however, is these re-United States' currently quagmired quest to eliminate (or at least marginalize) radical Islamic terrorism—the so-called War on Terror. Because there was no formal, Constitutional, unilateral declaration of war against the nations employing terrorism as a political weapon, or aiding and abetting those who were, there was no basis for rallying the American people and marshaling American resources for the express purpose of defeating an enemy of America. As the Colonel’s kids can quote with eyes rolling, near term sacrifice is the only sure route to long term gratification. Attempting to fight a war on the cheap, without marshaling the nation for victory, may prevent public privation in the short term, but having never achieved victory it actually results in much longer delayed fulfillment of our ultimate gratification goals.
It's clearly a case of pay me now or pay me more later. We continue to pursue the latter course of action--to our nation's great detriment.
Fifty-six years ago today, the antagonists arrayed against each other in bloody stalemate on the Korean peninsula agreed to an armistice to halt active combat operations and bring an end to the three year war that had begun with a communist North Korean attack of South Korea. The communists’ goal was to reunite the Korean peninsula, divided by the Russians and the Americans at the end of the war against Japan in late summer of 1945. The June 1950 Northern aggression, at least tacitly approved of by the Russians and Chinese, quickly routed the over-matched Southerners and the few American forces diverted to the melee from their cushy occupation duties in Japan. In a matter of weeks, the remaining effective South Korean and American units had retreated to a small perimeter around the southern port city of Pusan--ceding virtually the entire peninsula to the communists.
The United States, who eight and a half years previous had answered Japan's aggression with a formal, unilateral declaration of war, went this time to the newly created United Nations for a mandate to conduct "police actions," as Harry Truman called it. There was no formal, unilateral American declaration of war (as mandated by OUR CONSTITUTION). Instead, we experimented with a world government (in violation and ignorance of OUR CONSTITUTION). The results were just as unsatisfactory at this first attempt to change human nature and subvert nationalism as they have been at every juncture since. Without a formal declaration of war, the United States attempted to win the Korean conflict “on the cheap.” No formal declaration of war meant that there was no basis for rallying the American people and marshaling American resources for the express goal of defeating an enemy. Whereas during the Second World War, in which a formal state of war existed between the United States and the Axis Powers, the American economy was virtually entirely devoted to the production of war material (there were NO private vehicles produced by American car companies; sugar, gas, and rubber were rationed), during the three years of the Korean conflict, the American population experienced virtually no sacrifices at all.
A “surge” of limited American military power reversed the North Korean gains in the fall of 1950. American forces not only liberated the South Korean capital, Seoul, but pushed the communists all the way to the Yalu River—the border with China. When the Chinese entered the war against American forces on their doorstep in December of 1950, destroying the better part of two US divisions, the United States should have formally and unilaterally declared war on the Communist Chinese. Instead, American politicians, caring more for their re-election prospects than for the good of the American nation, demurred of definitive action and sought to prevent another round of the public privation it took to achieve victory in the recent war with Germany and Japan. The result was stalemate and wastage of American blood and treasure.
After two and half more years of meat grinding along the trenched front stretching across the Korean peninsula, newly inaugurated President Eisenhower sacrificed the communist enslaved peoples of China and North Korea to the ease and comfort of the American people. The Armistice, not a Peace Treaty, signed by China, the United States, and the two Koreas in the late summer of 1953, did bring a Peace, of sorts, to the Region. The cost to the United States was high—a permanent American “trip-wire” presence in South Korea against the prospect of a resumption of hostilities. The cost to the Koreans was even higher—the two continued to squander a vast proportion of their respective GDPs on armies squared off against each other across what became, and is still, the most dangerous border in the world. Lucky for the South Koreans, their American allies developed an insatiable desire for cheap goods the production of which eventually spurred the development of their economy to the point that it vaulted from the primarily agrarian to the rapid standard-of-living-raising industrialized nation ranks. The personality cult-oppressed people of the northern half of the peninsula were not nearly so lucky—they just continued to starve. And China? Well, Mao’s subsequent “cultural revolution” had a death toll second only to the infanticide since Roe v. Wade. And, ultimately, Communist Chinese (and Soviet) support of the nationalist socialist designs of Ho Chi Minh resulted in the near destruction of American society in another undeclared war American political leaders (and I use that word loosely) attempted to fight on the cheap rather than sacrifice domestic goals (see Johnson’s “Great Society”).
Since the end of the Second World War, and following the horribly unconstitutional precedent of our Korean experience, the illegal war-making of the United States has continued with alarming regularity. Without formal declarations of war (required by OUR CONSTITUTION), the United States has dabbled in open-ended military adventurism the world over without much to show for it beyond frustration and embarrassment. The case can be made that every American president from Truman to Obama has committed the impeachable offense of extra-constitutional war-making. But, don’t take my word for it, break out a copy of your American Citizen Owner’s Manual (aka: United States Constitution) and see for yourself.
Short of that larger point, however, is these re-United States' currently quagmired quest to eliminate (or at least marginalize) radical Islamic terrorism—the so-called War on Terror. Because there was no formal, Constitutional, unilateral declaration of war against the nations employing terrorism as a political weapon, or aiding and abetting those who were, there was no basis for rallying the American people and marshaling American resources for the express purpose of defeating an enemy of America. As the Colonel’s kids can quote with eyes rolling, near term sacrifice is the only sure route to long term gratification. Attempting to fight a war on the cheap, without marshaling the nation for victory, may prevent public privation in the short term, but having never achieved victory it actually results in much longer delayed fulfillment of our ultimate gratification goals.
It's clearly a case of pay me now or pay me more later. We continue to pursue the latter course of action--to our nation's great detriment.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Uplifting Lift-off
What a difference a decade makes.
Forty years ago today, the most ambitious mission of exploration ever attempted by man left the launch pad and rocketed moonward. At the tip of one of the greatest controlled explosions ever created, and at the apex of one of the greatest technological efforts ever attempted, three men carried the fascination of the world and the pride of a nation away from the Good Earth toward a rendezvous with what for most of man’s history had only been a strangely shape-shifting light in the sky. Armstrong, Aldrin, and Collins placed their names at the bottom of the world’s list of explorers whose names are immortalized for taking a chance—Jason, Zhou, Yang, De Gama, Erickson, Columbus, Magellan, Polo, Lewis, Clark, and Pike, to name a few.
Thirty years ago today, the most ineffective and embarrassing American president since Grant accused the American people of slumping into a self-absorbed “malaise.”
In ten years’ time, the psyche of the American people plunged from pride at the penultimate achievement of man’s innate drive to know the other side of the mountain to self-pity and national loathing. A nation tired and leery of strong, purposeful leadership in the office of President voted for change and elected a pseudo-intellectual populist, and the nation drifted from prominence to purgatory. A desultory dance with a sputtering economy and a hapless response to events in Iran doomed the Carter administration and relegated it to an embarrassing one-term footnote in American presidential history.
In another ten years the nation was back on its feet, the sole survivor of the super-power struggle between socialist tyranny and free-market republicanism. Here’s hoping history continues to repeat itself.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Monday MOTOs; Vol II, Ed. 4
A good and kind Monday morning to one and all from the northern end of southern nowhere. The Colonel is ensconced in the highly esteemed Chesty Puller Chair of Curmudgeonly Commentary topside at the Big House aboard Eegeebeegee, capital of the Tallahatchie Free State, a virtual republic and government in opposition established as much hand on wallet as tongue in cheek, and this morning brings the latest regularly irregular Monday installment of the Colonel's awards for Mastery of the Obvious (MOTO), as displayed by the great, near great, and ingrate to such an inane degree as to be impossible for the Colonel to spare commentary thereupon.
The Colonel's MOTO Bronze Medal this week goes to Senator Barbara Boxer of the Peoples' Republic of California who, according to Rob Hotakainen of McClatchy Newspapers warns that "if the Senate doesn't pass a bill to cut global warming, there will be dire results: droughts, floods, fires, loss of species, damage to agriculture, worsening air pollution and more." This fear mongering would be nearly enough to cause the Colonel to call his senator in support of the legislation were it not for one tiny little detail--droughts, floods, fires, loss of species, damage to agriculture, and worsening air pollution have been occurring, with the exception of damage to agriculture, since Creation, and including damage to agriculture, since man cultivated the first plant. Senator Boxer and her ilk demonstrate the height of hypocrisy, worshiping on the one hand at the altar of "undeniable" Darwinism and refusing on the other to allow nature to take its course. Survival of the fittest, Senator (I dare not call you "Ma'am" as I understand that term—considered one of respect in every other locale in these re-United States--offends the sensibilities of the political--ahem--ladies from the soon-to-be-bankrupt state of California) applies to ALL organisms and species on the planet (man, and his institutions, included) or it applies to none.
The Colonel's MOTO Silver Medal is bestowed this week upon the Apologist in Chief for his trap-like grasp of the situation in Afghanistan. In an interview with Britain's Sky News, President Obama opined regarding current operations that "...we still have a long way to go. We've got to get through elections. We've got a serious fight on our hands and we've got to deal with it smartly but we've got to deal with it effectively." The Colonel's not-so-humble opinion, provided ad nauseum to anyone he cornered and to anyone who has wasted valuable rod and cone time perusing posts on this weblog, is that we would not have had such a "long way to go" had we fought this war brought upon us nearly seven years ago like a WAR and not pussy-footed our way with minimal application of power and treasure as if our fight against Islamic extremism were only a weekend hobby. If we had fought our war against Japan and Germany like we have pursued this fight, the year 1949 would have found us still mucking about on Guadalcanal--seven years after our first landing on a Japanese-held island--and would have found us still participating in the minuscule and ineffective air raids against German targets we began with a paltry force of bombers flying from British airfields in 1942. Further, in the last sentence of the quote above the President contradicts himself and displays an unfitness for warfighting rivaling that of his predecessor. The so-called, and grossly misnamed, War on Terror, could have been and should have been wrapped up three years ago, following a ruthlessly effective series of campaigns against the supporters of the terrorists. Remember, we CRUSHED Germany and Japan (who possessed the largest and most effective military forces in the world at the beginning of that conflict) in 3 and 1/2 years and they have been among the strongest of our allies since. But, alas, Americans no longer have the stomach for winning.
And finally, the Colonel's MOTO Gold Medal is awarded to Senator Connie Mack of Florida for his criticism of the Obama administration's stance regarding the situation in Honduras. During a House Foreign Affairs Committee hearing during which the members discussed the forced removal of the Honduran President by that nation's military and congress for his attempt to illegally change his nation's constitution, Senator Mack opined that, "By calling this a coup and by early statements insisting on the reinstatement of Mr Zelaya, the administration now stands with the likes of (Hugo) Chavez, (Evo) Morales and (Daniel) Ortega, and not with the Honduran people." Even the most casual observer can readily ascertain that the Obama administration, in league with the liberal leadership of the party in power in Congress, stands with anyone who would dismiss even the most sacrosanct of constitutional laws and principles and drive their nations clearly into the socialist lane. No surprise here, Senator.
The Colonel's MOTO Bronze Medal this week goes to Senator Barbara Boxer of the Peoples' Republic of California who, according to Rob Hotakainen of McClatchy Newspapers warns that "if the Senate doesn't pass a bill to cut global warming, there will be dire results: droughts, floods, fires, loss of species, damage to agriculture, worsening air pollution and more." This fear mongering would be nearly enough to cause the Colonel to call his senator in support of the legislation were it not for one tiny little detail--droughts, floods, fires, loss of species, damage to agriculture, and worsening air pollution have been occurring, with the exception of damage to agriculture, since Creation, and including damage to agriculture, since man cultivated the first plant. Senator Boxer and her ilk demonstrate the height of hypocrisy, worshiping on the one hand at the altar of "undeniable" Darwinism and refusing on the other to allow nature to take its course. Survival of the fittest, Senator (I dare not call you "Ma'am" as I understand that term—considered one of respect in every other locale in these re-United States--offends the sensibilities of the political--ahem--ladies from the soon-to-be-bankrupt state of California) applies to ALL organisms and species on the planet (man, and his institutions, included) or it applies to none.
The Colonel's MOTO Silver Medal is bestowed this week upon the Apologist in Chief for his trap-like grasp of the situation in Afghanistan. In an interview with Britain's Sky News, President Obama opined regarding current operations that "...we still have a long way to go. We've got to get through elections. We've got a serious fight on our hands and we've got to deal with it smartly but we've got to deal with it effectively." The Colonel's not-so-humble opinion, provided ad nauseum to anyone he cornered and to anyone who has wasted valuable rod and cone time perusing posts on this weblog, is that we would not have had such a "long way to go" had we fought this war brought upon us nearly seven years ago like a WAR and not pussy-footed our way with minimal application of power and treasure as if our fight against Islamic extremism were only a weekend hobby. If we had fought our war against Japan and Germany like we have pursued this fight, the year 1949 would have found us still mucking about on Guadalcanal--seven years after our first landing on a Japanese-held island--and would have found us still participating in the minuscule and ineffective air raids against German targets we began with a paltry force of bombers flying from British airfields in 1942. Further, in the last sentence of the quote above the President contradicts himself and displays an unfitness for warfighting rivaling that of his predecessor. The so-called, and grossly misnamed, War on Terror, could have been and should have been wrapped up three years ago, following a ruthlessly effective series of campaigns against the supporters of the terrorists. Remember, we CRUSHED Germany and Japan (who possessed the largest and most effective military forces in the world at the beginning of that conflict) in 3 and 1/2 years and they have been among the strongest of our allies since. But, alas, Americans no longer have the stomach for winning.
And finally, the Colonel's MOTO Gold Medal is awarded to Senator Connie Mack of Florida for his criticism of the Obama administration's stance regarding the situation in Honduras. During a House Foreign Affairs Committee hearing during which the members discussed the forced removal of the Honduran President by that nation's military and congress for his attempt to illegally change his nation's constitution, Senator Mack opined that, "By calling this a coup and by early statements insisting on the reinstatement of Mr Zelaya, the administration now stands with the likes of (Hugo) Chavez, (Evo) Morales and (Daniel) Ortega, and not with the Honduran people." Even the most casual observer can readily ascertain that the Obama administration, in league with the liberal leadership of the party in power in Congress, stands with anyone who would dismiss even the most sacrosanct of constitutional laws and principles and drive their nations clearly into the socialist lane. No surprise here, Senator.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Spirit of the Pioneers
The Colonel is proud, and a bit jealous, of his #1 son and daughter-in-law team. They don't realize, and would quickly assume a glazed-eye stuporous state were I to indulge my desire to provide them an hours-long dissertation on the historical context, that they embody the spirit that centuries ago animated freedom-seeking American pioneers to leave behind the comforts of the East, load their worldly goods in wagons, and trek into the relatively unknown West to begin again.
For #1 son, pulling up stakes and plunging into the unknown is of little terror, given the bi-annual practice his father's career in the Marine Corps forced on him. Uprooting and replanting comes almost naturally to him. My daughter-in-law, she of the highly exalted and fiercely protected position of provider of grandsons, has been uprooted from the only hometown she has really ever known, has boxed her every possession and treasure, and has followed her husband from the comfortable sandy shores of the Redneck Riviera to the hills at the northern end of southern nowhere. This is no small event. Despite our best attempts, the Colonel and the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda have not been able to identify with the trauma and trepidation she is experiencing, and our encouragement, born of our nomadic wanderings the first fifty years of our lives, that this move is no big deal and that she will survive it and thrive, does not seem to reassure her. Understandable--I'm sure Rebekkah Boone gave ole Dan'l the gimlet eye the first time she was uprooted and transported westward into the wilds.
But, the Colonel is of the envious belief that they are embarked on a grand adventure that will strengthen them like it steeled their pioneer forebears, not to mention this old bear and Miss Brenda. Further, the Colonel is convinced that the greatest blessings come to those who seize God's hand and plunge into the unknown. And that they have done.
Two centuries ago American pioneers faced hardships unimaginable to the comfortable, spoiled generations currently occupying beakers and Petri dishes on the laboratory desks of the American experiment. They endured the physical challenges of hunger, hard labor, and lawlessness. They also withstood the emotional challenges of isolation and culture shock. Many succumbed. Most survived. Most of the survivors thrived. There is a lesson in this for today's Americans.
If they would only read a little history beyond the public school pablum.
For #1 son, pulling up stakes and plunging into the unknown is of little terror, given the bi-annual practice his father's career in the Marine Corps forced on him. Uprooting and replanting comes almost naturally to him. My daughter-in-law, she of the highly exalted and fiercely protected position of provider of grandsons, has been uprooted from the only hometown she has really ever known, has boxed her every possession and treasure, and has followed her husband from the comfortable sandy shores of the Redneck Riviera to the hills at the northern end of southern nowhere. This is no small event. Despite our best attempts, the Colonel and the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda have not been able to identify with the trauma and trepidation she is experiencing, and our encouragement, born of our nomadic wanderings the first fifty years of our lives, that this move is no big deal and that she will survive it and thrive, does not seem to reassure her. Understandable--I'm sure Rebekkah Boone gave ole Dan'l the gimlet eye the first time she was uprooted and transported westward into the wilds.
But, the Colonel is of the envious belief that they are embarked on a grand adventure that will strengthen them like it steeled their pioneer forebears, not to mention this old bear and Miss Brenda. Further, the Colonel is convinced that the greatest blessings come to those who seize God's hand and plunge into the unknown. And that they have done.
Two centuries ago American pioneers faced hardships unimaginable to the comfortable, spoiled generations currently occupying beakers and Petri dishes on the laboratory desks of the American experiment. They endured the physical challenges of hunger, hard labor, and lawlessness. They also withstood the emotional challenges of isolation and culture shock. Many succumbed. Most survived. Most of the survivors thrived. There is a lesson in this for today's Americans.
If they would only read a little history beyond the public school pablum.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Objective: Project
Old habits and other learned behaviors die hard with a traditionalist like the Colonel. Take, for example, the methodology by which projects are identified and attacked here aboard Eegeebeegee, capital of the Tallahatchie Free State, secretively situated at the northern end of southern nowhere.
At the beginning of my career in the Corps I was taught the military method for identifying mission objectives and their subordinate supporting intermediate goals. Way up the food chain from my position at the pointy end of the spear, some ancient Marine with stars on his collar would wave his wrinkled hand across a map and squads of colonels and majors would translate his grand gesture into circles on the map identified as Landing Force (LF) or Marine Expeditionary Force (MEF) objectives; e.g. LF A or MEF B. By the time orders for the capture of these valuable pieces of real estate reached my level as a rifle platoon commander, I was normally tasked with securing a left or right portion of a small hill or road junction on the long way to accomplishment of the star-studded ancient and wrinkled Marine’s ultimate objective. Early on in my career, the Marine Corps philosophy for mission assignment was, in a word, autocratic, and seemed, in another word, arbitrary. You got your mission with no explanation for why. During the 1980’s the Corps’ warfighting philosophy underwent a revolution of sorts guided by the nebulous and amorphous tenets of what became known as Maneuver Warfare. Among the many not-so valuable concepts foisted upon Marines by the “Maneuverists” in and out of the Corps, was what, in the Colonel’s not-so humble opinion, was the most valuable component of this new philosophy—the explanation (Commander’s Intent) of what the star-studded ancient and wrinkled Marine wanted to accomplish by securing the objective a squad of majors had deciphered from the wave of his hand across a map. Every subordinate commander down the chain added their intent for the objectives they assigned to their subordinates. In theory, a lance corporal in the last rank of the last squad in my rifle platoon would understand why the star-studded ancient and wrinkled Marine wanted a particular objective taken or enemy unit attacked, as well as the reason for the accomplishment of all of the subordinate objectives of the commanders between the lance corporal and the star-studded ancient and wrinkled one. Just as Napoleon asserted that every private carried a field marshal’s baton in his back pack, we Marines began to bandy about concepts like General Krulak’s “Strategic Corporal,” positing that even the smallest unit leader could take action that might be decisive to accomplishment of the largest military, or even political, objective. Finally, I was taught to look to the “desired end-state” whenever deciding on how to prosecute targets of opportunity.
Later I learned the military method for identifying and attacking known or suspected enemy targets. During the planning for an operation, we would develop a List of Targets. The List of Targets identified and enumerated every conceivable fixed location at which an enemy force might be located or from which an enemy force might need to be denied access. From this list was drawn the targets to be attacked to accomplish the results desired in the particular mission at hand. This mission-specific Target List (confuse the two at peril of a butt-chewing) became the reference document in a fire support plan that prioritized, integrated, and scheduled the fires of all of the weapon systems (those with effective ranges and power beyond the organic small arms of the maneuver unit) available to deliver lethal doses of lead poisoning in support of the maneuver unit tasked with accomplishing the mission. Each significant element of the maneuver element, tasked with a distinct objective in the overall mission, was assigned a block of alpha-numeric target identifiers; e.g. AW001 to AW010 by which to identify and request fires on particular targets. The maneuver unit’s Fire Support Coordinator would, in consonance with the commander’s intent for the operation, schedule, prioritize, and allocate specific fire support means (artillery, aviation, naval gunfire, etc.) for attacking each target.
A couple of stints as an instructor, first at the Marine Officers’ basic pre-assignment training (known as TBS, for, I kid you not, The Basic School) and later as the Marine representative on the staff at the Air Force’s Command and Staff College, necessitated attendance at each Service’s Instructional Management Course where I learned to break down each task or lesson to be taught into subordinate tasks or learning objectives.
The Colonel’s apologies for the frantically boring droll above, but it helps explain my methodology (and the pathetically warped mental processes) by which even the most mundane tasks and projects are identified and accomplished. A little over two years ago, the Colonel and the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda established our latest, and last, in a long line of operational bases here in the kudzu-clad hills of north Mississippi. Before the dust from the truck that had delivered our well-traveled worldly belongings had fairly settled on the gravel drive, we began to survey the piney-woods and clay bank blank canvass surrounding the big house on the hill, and the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda, not to be confused in any way with the afore-mentioned star-studded ancient and wrinkled Marine, waved her hand grandly over the grounds and issued her commander’s intent to her assembled staff—me (and I can out-staff a whole squad of majors!)
“This place will be our place. It will be covered in flowers in beds, shaded by broad-leafed trees and augmented by ornamental shrubbery. It will have dressed paths and walkways. That pond you insist on calling a lake will have a dock and an adjacent tree-shaded sitting area. You may have that area adjacent to the house for your Man Toy Storage and Saw Dust Production facility—however, it must match the house and not be an eye-sore. The drive from the road to the house will begin with a pleasing entry and will be lined with trees and ornamental shrubbery from beginning to end. There will a vegetable garden protected from unauthorized deer and rabbit browsing. While you many not intentionally bait deer and turkey into the back yard, you may have the fields below and behind the house for your wildlife foodplots and attendant apex predatory pursuits. There will be a place for everything and everything in its place—and I want everything under a roof and behind a door. There is no desired end-state beyond the realization, which I hope makes an impression somewhere in your thick skull, that there shall be no end to the improvements and beautification projects aboard Eegeebeegee. Are there any questions? I didn’t think so—move out!”
With that commander’s intent and the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda’s desired end state firmly ensconced in the few remaining cognitive cells lying nearly fallow in the deep recesses of my bald-pated brain-housing group, I began the tedious staff work of converting said intent into primary and intermediate objectives by which the broad (No, I didn’t say, the broad’s) commander’s intent and desired end state might be accomplished. A thorough mission analysis (accomplished in much the same manner in which the Colonel conducts his strategic planning sessions—eyes closed meditatively while remaining in a well-disciplined stationary semi-reclined position) revealed the stated Comely and Kind-hearted Miss Brenda (MB), and implied Eegeebeegee Work Force (EWF), objectives; a very small and random exemplary sampling of which is provided below:
MB Objective A: Beautification of the immediate Big House grounds.
EWF Objective 1: Move all twelve mature crepe myrtles from their incorrect positions immediately adjacent to the house to more aesthetically pleasing positions anchoring flower beds.
EWF Objective 2: Build flower beds.
EWF Objective 3. Move all ornamental shrubbery from incorrect positions immediately adjacent to the house to more aesthetically pleasing positions in flower beds.
EWF Objective 4. Protect crepe myrtles, ornamental shrubbery, and flowers from cold and dry conditions by surrounding with mulch.
EWF Objective 5. Stimulate the economy via purchase of a chipper with which to make own mulch out of Eegeebeegee’s prodigious brush and tree prunedge.
MB Objective F: Beautification of the Colonel’s Man Toy Storage and Saw Dust Production Facility.
EWF Objective 55: Build porch on front of the CMTSSDPF (CoManToyStoSawDuProFac for you Navy types).
EWF Objective 56: Harvest cedar for conversion to lumber for the CMTSSDOF porch. EWF Objective 57: Stimulate the economy via purchase of saw mill for conversion of cedar logs into lumber.
EWF Objective 58: Stimulate the economy via purchase radial arm saw and thickness planer for conversion of rough cedar lumber into finished boards for stringers and deck planks.
EWF Objective 59: Stimulate the economy via purchase of compressor and pneumatic nail gun for securing deck planks to stringers.
It goes on for volumes to which I will not subject the meager readership of this wanton waste of rod and cone time. Suffice to say, the Colonel is bogged in an operational quagmire, extraction from which cannot be imagined accomplished in what remains of this ancient and wrinkled Marine's lifetime. And I wouldn't have it any other way.
At the beginning of my career in the Corps I was taught the military method for identifying mission objectives and their subordinate supporting intermediate goals. Way up the food chain from my position at the pointy end of the spear, some ancient Marine with stars on his collar would wave his wrinkled hand across a map and squads of colonels and majors would translate his grand gesture into circles on the map identified as Landing Force (LF) or Marine Expeditionary Force (MEF) objectives; e.g. LF A or MEF B. By the time orders for the capture of these valuable pieces of real estate reached my level as a rifle platoon commander, I was normally tasked with securing a left or right portion of a small hill or road junction on the long way to accomplishment of the star-studded ancient and wrinkled Marine’s ultimate objective. Early on in my career, the Marine Corps philosophy for mission assignment was, in a word, autocratic, and seemed, in another word, arbitrary. You got your mission with no explanation for why. During the 1980’s the Corps’ warfighting philosophy underwent a revolution of sorts guided by the nebulous and amorphous tenets of what became known as Maneuver Warfare. Among the many not-so valuable concepts foisted upon Marines by the “Maneuverists” in and out of the Corps, was what, in the Colonel’s not-so humble opinion, was the most valuable component of this new philosophy—the explanation (Commander’s Intent) of what the star-studded ancient and wrinkled Marine wanted to accomplish by securing the objective a squad of majors had deciphered from the wave of his hand across a map. Every subordinate commander down the chain added their intent for the objectives they assigned to their subordinates. In theory, a lance corporal in the last rank of the last squad in my rifle platoon would understand why the star-studded ancient and wrinkled Marine wanted a particular objective taken or enemy unit attacked, as well as the reason for the accomplishment of all of the subordinate objectives of the commanders between the lance corporal and the star-studded ancient and wrinkled one. Just as Napoleon asserted that every private carried a field marshal’s baton in his back pack, we Marines began to bandy about concepts like General Krulak’s “Strategic Corporal,” positing that even the smallest unit leader could take action that might be decisive to accomplishment of the largest military, or even political, objective. Finally, I was taught to look to the “desired end-state” whenever deciding on how to prosecute targets of opportunity.
Later I learned the military method for identifying and attacking known or suspected enemy targets. During the planning for an operation, we would develop a List of Targets. The List of Targets identified and enumerated every conceivable fixed location at which an enemy force might be located or from which an enemy force might need to be denied access. From this list was drawn the targets to be attacked to accomplish the results desired in the particular mission at hand. This mission-specific Target List (confuse the two at peril of a butt-chewing) became the reference document in a fire support plan that prioritized, integrated, and scheduled the fires of all of the weapon systems (those with effective ranges and power beyond the organic small arms of the maneuver unit) available to deliver lethal doses of lead poisoning in support of the maneuver unit tasked with accomplishing the mission. Each significant element of the maneuver element, tasked with a distinct objective in the overall mission, was assigned a block of alpha-numeric target identifiers; e.g. AW001 to AW010 by which to identify and request fires on particular targets. The maneuver unit’s Fire Support Coordinator would, in consonance with the commander’s intent for the operation, schedule, prioritize, and allocate specific fire support means (artillery, aviation, naval gunfire, etc.) for attacking each target.
A couple of stints as an instructor, first at the Marine Officers’ basic pre-assignment training (known as TBS, for, I kid you not, The Basic School) and later as the Marine representative on the staff at the Air Force’s Command and Staff College, necessitated attendance at each Service’s Instructional Management Course where I learned to break down each task or lesson to be taught into subordinate tasks or learning objectives.
The Colonel’s apologies for the frantically boring droll above, but it helps explain my methodology (and the pathetically warped mental processes) by which even the most mundane tasks and projects are identified and accomplished. A little over two years ago, the Colonel and the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda established our latest, and last, in a long line of operational bases here in the kudzu-clad hills of north Mississippi. Before the dust from the truck that had delivered our well-traveled worldly belongings had fairly settled on the gravel drive, we began to survey the piney-woods and clay bank blank canvass surrounding the big house on the hill, and the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda, not to be confused in any way with the afore-mentioned star-studded ancient and wrinkled Marine, waved her hand grandly over the grounds and issued her commander’s intent to her assembled staff—me (and I can out-staff a whole squad of majors!)
“This place will be our place. It will be covered in flowers in beds, shaded by broad-leafed trees and augmented by ornamental shrubbery. It will have dressed paths and walkways. That pond you insist on calling a lake will have a dock and an adjacent tree-shaded sitting area. You may have that area adjacent to the house for your Man Toy Storage and Saw Dust Production facility—however, it must match the house and not be an eye-sore. The drive from the road to the house will begin with a pleasing entry and will be lined with trees and ornamental shrubbery from beginning to end. There will a vegetable garden protected from unauthorized deer and rabbit browsing. While you many not intentionally bait deer and turkey into the back yard, you may have the fields below and behind the house for your wildlife foodplots and attendant apex predatory pursuits. There will be a place for everything and everything in its place—and I want everything under a roof and behind a door. There is no desired end-state beyond the realization, which I hope makes an impression somewhere in your thick skull, that there shall be no end to the improvements and beautification projects aboard Eegeebeegee. Are there any questions? I didn’t think so—move out!”
With that commander’s intent and the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda’s desired end state firmly ensconced in the few remaining cognitive cells lying nearly fallow in the deep recesses of my bald-pated brain-housing group, I began the tedious staff work of converting said intent into primary and intermediate objectives by which the broad (No, I didn’t say, the broad’s) commander’s intent and desired end state might be accomplished. A thorough mission analysis (accomplished in much the same manner in which the Colonel conducts his strategic planning sessions—eyes closed meditatively while remaining in a well-disciplined stationary semi-reclined position) revealed the stated Comely and Kind-hearted Miss Brenda (MB), and implied Eegeebeegee Work Force (EWF), objectives; a very small and random exemplary sampling of which is provided below:
MB Objective A: Beautification of the immediate Big House grounds.
EWF Objective 1: Move all twelve mature crepe myrtles from their incorrect positions immediately adjacent to the house to more aesthetically pleasing positions anchoring flower beds.
EWF Objective 2: Build flower beds.
EWF Objective 3. Move all ornamental shrubbery from incorrect positions immediately adjacent to the house to more aesthetically pleasing positions in flower beds.
EWF Objective 4. Protect crepe myrtles, ornamental shrubbery, and flowers from cold and dry conditions by surrounding with mulch.
EWF Objective 5. Stimulate the economy via purchase of a chipper with which to make own mulch out of Eegeebeegee’s prodigious brush and tree prunedge.
MB Objective F: Beautification of the Colonel’s Man Toy Storage and Saw Dust Production Facility.
EWF Objective 55: Build porch on front of the CMTSSDPF (CoManToyStoSawDuProFac for you Navy types).
EWF Objective 56: Harvest cedar for conversion to lumber for the CMTSSDOF porch. EWF Objective 57: Stimulate the economy via purchase of saw mill for conversion of cedar logs into lumber.
EWF Objective 58: Stimulate the economy via purchase radial arm saw and thickness planer for conversion of rough cedar lumber into finished boards for stringers and deck planks.
EWF Objective 59: Stimulate the economy via purchase of compressor and pneumatic nail gun for securing deck planks to stringers.
It goes on for volumes to which I will not subject the meager readership of this wanton waste of rod and cone time. Suffice to say, the Colonel is bogged in an operational quagmire, extraction from which cannot be imagined accomplished in what remains of this ancient and wrinkled Marine's lifetime. And I wouldn't have it any other way.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Who's "the king," now?
The Colonel is sinking rapidly into a state of deep depression. Michael Jackson has just assumed room temperature and the entire world, addled by a fawning obsession with celebrity, thinks that is the most important story on the planet. If H comes out with a statement about this drug addicted, pernicious pedophile's passing, I just might submit my secession papers.
For the record, I have never owned any recording, in any medium, of Michael Jackson's (ahem) music. There aren't many (ahem) artists whose estates, record labels, and agents I have so subsidized. In fact, I rarely submit the few remaining cognitive cells lying fallow in the recesses of my bald-pated skull to the mind-numbing assault on my not-so delicate sensibilities that has masqueraded as music for the past five decades; with the exception of the occasional dalliance with Boston or the Eagles--hey, you have your vices, I have mine.
The Colonel's point in this rambling rant is that the superficiality of popular culture and the mindless crush at the rope line of celebrity has reduced our capacity to think critically about what is actually of the most import in our lives and our times. There is a bloody revolution taking place in the name of freedom in Iran, and my bet is there will be more sympathy expressed today by talking heads and pandering politicians regarding the passing of a degenerate so-called king of pop, than will be uttered in support of the freedom fighters in Iran.
Besides, I thought the drug-addicted musician from Memphis was "the king."
For the record, I have never owned any recording, in any medium, of Michael Jackson's (ahem) music. There aren't many (ahem) artists whose estates, record labels, and agents I have so subsidized. In fact, I rarely submit the few remaining cognitive cells lying fallow in the recesses of my bald-pated skull to the mind-numbing assault on my not-so delicate sensibilities that has masqueraded as music for the past five decades; with the exception of the occasional dalliance with Boston or the Eagles--hey, you have your vices, I have mine.
The Colonel's point in this rambling rant is that the superficiality of popular culture and the mindless crush at the rope line of celebrity has reduced our capacity to think critically about what is actually of the most import in our lives and our times. There is a bloody revolution taking place in the name of freedom in Iran, and my bet is there will be more sympathy expressed today by talking heads and pandering politicians regarding the passing of a degenerate so-called king of pop, than will be uttered in support of the freedom fighters in Iran.
Besides, I thought the drug-addicted musician from Memphis was "the king."
Thursday, June 25, 2009
An Untenable Position
The Colonel's first reaction to Governor Mark Sanford's political and personal train wreck playing out painfully this week was a mixture of disgust, disappointment, and disbelief. Upon further review, prompted by my gracious God's gentle reminders, it occurs to me that there are some very valuable lessons to be drawn from this debacle.
First though, let's make something clear--I hold no death grip on any claim of moral superiority over anyone. When you look in the margin of the illustrated Good Book, you will find a likeness of the Colonel alongside Paul's Roman attention-getting moral equalizer, "For all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God."
That said, the Colonel has come to the belief that cultural conservatism, as opposed to its platform plank-mate, fiscal conservatism, at the right of the political spectrum, is a politically untenable position. Politics, from what this interested observer can tell from the sidelines, is a no-holds-barred, to-the-death, full-contact sport. If you take a stand, it will be assailed by your opponents and they will not attack your strengths--your weaknesses (see Paul's quote above) will be discovered and exploited. Politics is, in fact, an amoral pursuit. Politics, has at its core, the thinly disguised objective of the accumulation, maintenance, and exercise of power. As far as my faith is concerned, reconciling that objective with the teachings of my Lord and Savior is a difficult proposition.
I'm not advocating intemperance and infidelity as a political position. I'm just saying that we should not be surprised when even the presumably strongest of our leaders demonstrate human frailty. But, I will go out on a limb and posit that perhaps "family values" (whatever that means--and we have lumped a lot under that rubric) should not be a political position. It should be a personal position.
I quickly lose patience with those who supposedly share my faith when they stand up to their knees in their own personal pig stys and point indignantly toward the immoral leadership in the ranks of our state and national politicians. I have been convicted of late that the needed revival of faith that we pray seizes the hearts of our national leaders, must begin in our own hearts first.
First though, let's make something clear--I hold no death grip on any claim of moral superiority over anyone. When you look in the margin of the illustrated Good Book, you will find a likeness of the Colonel alongside Paul's Roman attention-getting moral equalizer, "For all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God."
That said, the Colonel has come to the belief that cultural conservatism, as opposed to its platform plank-mate, fiscal conservatism, at the right of the political spectrum, is a politically untenable position. Politics, from what this interested observer can tell from the sidelines, is a no-holds-barred, to-the-death, full-contact sport. If you take a stand, it will be assailed by your opponents and they will not attack your strengths--your weaknesses (see Paul's quote above) will be discovered and exploited. Politics is, in fact, an amoral pursuit. Politics, has at its core, the thinly disguised objective of the accumulation, maintenance, and exercise of power. As far as my faith is concerned, reconciling that objective with the teachings of my Lord and Savior is a difficult proposition.
I'm not advocating intemperance and infidelity as a political position. I'm just saying that we should not be surprised when even the presumably strongest of our leaders demonstrate human frailty. But, I will go out on a limb and posit that perhaps "family values" (whatever that means--and we have lumped a lot under that rubric) should not be a political position. It should be a personal position.
I quickly lose patience with those who supposedly share my faith when they stand up to their knees in their own personal pig stys and point indignantly toward the immoral leadership in the ranks of our state and national politicians. I have been convicted of late that the needed revival of faith that we pray seizes the hearts of our national leaders, must begin in our own hearts first.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Time to Stand for Freedom
President Obama has so far responded to the events in Iran with what one commentator has called a "nuanced approach." Presumably, the concern within the corridors of the White House is that the perception of American "meddling" in the internal affairs of the Islamic Republic will be counterproductive to the cause of reform. If that is indeed the motive in the Obama administration's muted announcements, then the Colonel is willing to give the President the benefit of the doubt and patience to allow his strategy to play out.
The Colonel, however, would ask you, gentle reader, to entertain and critically examine another possible motive in the refusal of President Obama to unequivocally stand with those who have taken to the streets in opposition to the one of the most repressive regimes on the planet--a regime that publicly stones women caught in adultery; a regime that actively finances terrorist organizations; a regime that provided arms and training to insurgents who fought against our forces in Iraq; a regime whose stated policy is that the State of Israel should be destroyed; a regime that believes that the entire world should eventually be encompassed in a grand caliphate governed by the Shia version of Sharia Law. The Colonel would have you consider that perhaps President Obama and his cadre of naive socialist progressives really believe that, just as they sweet-talked their way into the White House, they can convince the mad mullahs in Teheran to acquiesce to the Obama world order. It seems to the Colonel that the Obama administration is taking great pains to maintain a position conducive to open dialogue with the Islamic dictatorship in order that they might have the best opportunity to reach an accord with ayatollahs. This odd mixture of foreign policy naivete and hubris on the part of the Obama administration makes the odd mixture of foreign policy naivete and hubris displayed by the neocons in the previous administration look downright pragmatic by comparison.
Let's be clear--the leadership in Iran is fanatically committed to its world view and its goal of a region-wide and, ultimately, world-wide Islamic caliphate. The Colonel feels rather comfortable in his assessment of this fanaticism, being a fanatical believer in his positions on faith and politics. The dictatorship in Iran will no more back down and grant the reforms demanded in the street than would the Nazi, Stalinist, Baathist, and Maoist regimes with whom their grip on the Iranian population can be most closely compared.
To believe that the Iranian Islamic dictatorship can be negotiated with is the height of idiocy. To refuse to stand publicly with the people yearning for freedom and self-determination, and instead worry about offending the criminal dictatorship repressing those people, is, dare we say it, an impeachable offense.
The Colonel, however, would ask you, gentle reader, to entertain and critically examine another possible motive in the refusal of President Obama to unequivocally stand with those who have taken to the streets in opposition to the one of the most repressive regimes on the planet--a regime that publicly stones women caught in adultery; a regime that actively finances terrorist organizations; a regime that provided arms and training to insurgents who fought against our forces in Iraq; a regime whose stated policy is that the State of Israel should be destroyed; a regime that believes that the entire world should eventually be encompassed in a grand caliphate governed by the Shia version of Sharia Law. The Colonel would have you consider that perhaps President Obama and his cadre of naive socialist progressives really believe that, just as they sweet-talked their way into the White House, they can convince the mad mullahs in Teheran to acquiesce to the Obama world order. It seems to the Colonel that the Obama administration is taking great pains to maintain a position conducive to open dialogue with the Islamic dictatorship in order that they might have the best opportunity to reach an accord with ayatollahs. This odd mixture of foreign policy naivete and hubris on the part of the Obama administration makes the odd mixture of foreign policy naivete and hubris displayed by the neocons in the previous administration look downright pragmatic by comparison.
Let's be clear--the leadership in Iran is fanatically committed to its world view and its goal of a region-wide and, ultimately, world-wide Islamic caliphate. The Colonel feels rather comfortable in his assessment of this fanaticism, being a fanatical believer in his positions on faith and politics. The dictatorship in Iran will no more back down and grant the reforms demanded in the street than would the Nazi, Stalinist, Baathist, and Maoist regimes with whom their grip on the Iranian population can be most closely compared.
To believe that the Iranian Islamic dictatorship can be negotiated with is the height of idiocy. To refuse to stand publicly with the people yearning for freedom and self-determination, and instead worry about offending the criminal dictatorship repressing those people, is, dare we say it, an impeachable offense.
Friday, June 19, 2009
"So, you say you want a revolution..."
Revolutions have a way of yanking the reins out of the hands of the riders who first leapt upon the back of the change steed. The men who first put spurs to the mount are often thrown and trampled. To remain in the saddle, a revolutionary leader must often adapt to the evolving strength and movement of the beast beneath him. Revolutions are also subject to horse-thievery--a masked pretender usurps the rightful rider's place or steps into a leadership vacuum created by a revolution's thrown and trampled rider.
For the sake of this discussion, we will forsake study of the so-called American Revolution as it was more a civil war than a revolution. But, the French Revolution, inspired by the American experience, is a great case in point. The French monarchy lost touch with the plight of the people and fell prey to an uprising initially led by members of the aristocracy. The guillotine, whose appetite was whetted by royal blood, soon thirsted for the blood of the aristocracy and finally devoured most of those who were at the forefront of the initial insurrection. Even Lafayette, a hero of France for his role in the defeat of the hated English in the American colonies, narrowly escaped with his head. As the French Revolution feasted upon itself, and exhausted its supply of civilian leadership, it ripened for martial harvest. Into this power vacuum stepped a 30 year-old military genius who plunged the world into what many historians have called the true first World War. Ironically, Napoleon, on his deathbed in exile, lamented that "they wanted me to be another Washington."
Revolutions often play themselves out in a series of acts, the scenes in which feature the best and worst of men, and differ radically from opening to closing. The final scenes of the French revolution saw a Bourbon monarch back on the throne, but at the head of a political system that was to continue to evolve over the next century into a true democratic republic.
Exhausted by years of the Czar's war against Germany, the Russian people overthrew their monarch in 1917 and installed a "provisional government" intended to bridge the gap to a democratic republic. The Marxists had a different idea and hijacked the Russian Revolution to create the socialist dictatorial "workers' paradise" (a copy of which American progressives today believe they have the opportunity to establish). The "workers' paradise" model neither worked nor was Eden-like by any stretch of the wildest imagination. The Soviet Union survived as long as it did, thanks to ruthless repression accepted by the Russian people as the cost of surviving the Great Depression and the Second World War, victory in which served until the 1980's as enough of a rallying memory to dull the popular pangs of hunger for freedom. But, as increasingly pervasive and uncontrollable information technology displayed the discrepancy between the freedoms and standard of living enjoyed by the West and the people of the Soviet Union, the pressure for reform became too much for the Kremlin to ignore. When Gorbachev began to respond with changes aimed at satisfying the people, the lid came off of the steam kettle. Boris Yeltsin, a rising star in the Communist Party, shrewdly detected the direction of the popular movement and adopted the mantle of populist reformer. When communist hardliners attempted a coup to oust Gorbachev, with the intent of putting the lid back on, Yeltsin vaulted to popular prominence by standing up against and putting down the reactionaries. Unfortunately, Yeltsin failed (one wonders whether on purpose) to prevent the drift back to Russian dictatorship represented by his hand-picked successor, Putin. The Russian Revolution may yet have an act or two to play out.
Which brings us to the mid-play act whose scenes are enfolding on the streets of Teheran. A 1979 popular uprising against the American-installed (circa 1953) Shah Reza Pahlavi's repressive, if rapidly modernizing and pro-western, regime was hijacked by the Ayatollah Khomeini, who installed an Islamic Republic over which the clergy maintain "supreme leadership" and power via Sharia Law (the law of Allah). The Iranian mullahs managed to maintain their grip on power while sacrificing a generation in human wave attacks on Saddam's forces during the eight year Iraq-Iran war which began in 1980. The Iranian people have only recently recovered from the exhaustion of that conflict. The Iranian population is very young and hungry for the tastes of western modernity discouraged and denied them by Sharia Law. They are also tired of being represented to the world by the likes of Mahmoud Ahmedinejad--the front man for the ayatollahs. Mir Hossein Mousavi, a former front man for the ayatollahs, seems to be pulling "a Yeltsin," riding the popular movement galloping toward ultimate confrontation with the Islamic Republic's ruling clergy. Mousavi has claimed that the election he lost to Ahmedinejad was "rigged." And he should know, having rigged a few in his past. "Supreme Leader" Ayatollah Ali Khamenei has drawn his line in the sand, declaring Ahmedinejad's election the final will of Allah and threatening to crush any further street demonstrations.
It remains to be seen whether the Iranian military will side with the Ayatollah or the people. The Colonel's assessment is that if the people do return to the streets in disobedience to the Ayatollah, the mad mullah will have no choice but to respond with force fearing eventual loss of power. The Ayatollah will attempt to "Tiananmen" the uprising with military units and security forces most loyal to him. My guess is that if he tries this, there are moderate elements of the military that will not stay in their barracks, and a civil war may ensue.
Revolutions are such messy affairs--fun to watch; dangerous to join; predictably unpredicatable.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
"The first thing we do, let's kill all the..."
In Shakespeare's "Henry VI," several shady characters opine upon the state of the world and one, Jack Cade, waxes eloquently, to the increasing appreciation of his gang, on the timeless set-up "if I were king,":
JACK CADE: Be brave, then; for your captain is brave, and vows reformation. There shall be in England seven half-penny loaves sold for a penny: the three-hoop'd pot shall have ten hoops; and I will make it felony to drink small beer: all the realm shall be in common; and in Cheapside shall my palfrey go to grass: and when I am king,- as king I will be,-
ALL: God save your majesty!
JACK CADE: I thank you, good people:- there shall be no money; all shall eat and drink on my score; and I will apparel them all in one livery, that they may agree like brothers, and worship me their lord.
At this point one of his felonious fellows, Dick, leaps on the bandwagon and interjects with, "The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers."
Little did he know, Shakespeare, via the mouth of one of his characters, had provided us one of the three key actions required to heal our health care "crisis" in particular and many of our societal ills in general. A proliferation of litigation, spurred by greedy, unethical, advertising ambulance-chasers, has contributed to the skyrocketing cost of our health care system. But, lawyers would have little to profit from were it not for an even more unethical gang of ne'er-do-wells--Insurance salesmen.
Insurance companies are the cash cows to which injury lawyers run bleating like hungry calves. The cash cows are grazing our best fields, yet providing the best milk only to the more unscrupulous milk maids. Were William penning poetically today, he would most certainly aim skewering lines at insurance salesmen as well as litigators.
And while we're at this litigicide, let's slip in a little journalicide to clear the air, shall we.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Social Event Horizon
The Colonel has decided that Facebook is the event horizon of the Universe's single greatest, super-massive, time-sucking black hole. The temporal distortions observed while caught in it's gravitational pull are truly mind-boggling.
For instance, the other day I connected with a friend from high school. The last time I saw her was 35 years ago. In my mind's eye she and the rest of our gang, contact with the vast majority of whom I lost almost immediately upon graduation, remained frozen in a late teenage stasis reinforced from long time to time by glances at their faces in our yearbook. Her profile comments on her FB (I feel so hip) page mention that she is an empty-nester. Whoa! I told the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda at lunch today that I was having a hard time getting my head around the fact that our high school chums could be empty-nesters. She, not so kindly, reminded me that we have been empty-nesters for nearly a decade. That really spun my gyros!
The Colonel has also decided that the virtual mini-reunions made possible by social networking programs on Al Gore's invention are in many ways preferable to a traditional gathering. You get to show your best face on-line. You have plenty of time to think up that witty repartee that never came quick enough all those years ago (and still doesn't). You don't have to worry about trying to remember names. You can ignore those who you really never liked and blame it on power outages.
Thirty-five years since high school graduation--amazing.
For instance, the other day I connected with a friend from high school. The last time I saw her was 35 years ago. In my mind's eye she and the rest of our gang, contact with the vast majority of whom I lost almost immediately upon graduation, remained frozen in a late teenage stasis reinforced from long time to time by glances at their faces in our yearbook. Her profile comments on her FB (I feel so hip) page mention that she is an empty-nester. Whoa! I told the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda at lunch today that I was having a hard time getting my head around the fact that our high school chums could be empty-nesters. She, not so kindly, reminded me that we have been empty-nesters for nearly a decade. That really spun my gyros!
The Colonel has also decided that the virtual mini-reunions made possible by social networking programs on Al Gore's invention are in many ways preferable to a traditional gathering. You get to show your best face on-line. You have plenty of time to think up that witty repartee that never came quick enough all those years ago (and still doesn't). You don't have to worry about trying to remember names. You can ignore those who you really never liked and blame it on power outages.
Thirty-five years since high school graduation--amazing.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Economic Dust-up
The Colonel's sacrificial service to our great nation continues apace. Recognizing that the muddy economic sty in which our country continues to wallow will not be soon rectified by the pandering swine bellied up to the public trough, the Colonel has taken it upon himself to do what he can to stimulate the economy.
Fearing that a depressing trade imbalance had been created by Eegeebeegee's sawmill sired independence from local lumber yards, the Colonel responsibly responded yesterday with yet another capital acquisition to fill the spacious void, and contribute to the effectiveness, of the Man Toy Storage and Sawdust Production Facility. While the Colonel's recently acquired sawmill has performed admirably, even surpassing all expectations of sawdust production capabilities and providing prodigious boardage for conversion to sawdust by the recently commissioned radial arm saw, there yet existed a certain degree of production inefficiency in the timber to lumber to sawdust system here at the northern end of southern nowhere. During a recent protracted strategic planning session, replete with appropriate metaphorical log-sawing, the Colonel's heat addled and lack of education atrophied (I didn't go to college--I went to Ole Miss) synapses managed to bridge the widening divide between the few remaining cognitive cells lying fallow in the recesses of my bald-pated skull, and an efficiency in my sawdust production system gained a beachhead on the well-defended shore of my consciousness. A (I dare not assume, the) missing link in the system was obviously a planer.
The operative word in the final sentence of the preceding paragraph is, was. Ensconced prominently within the confines of the Eegeebeegee Man Toy Storage and Sawdust Production Facility is now a (trumpet fanfare) Rigid R4330 13 inch Thickness Planer. A review in the most important periodical of our time, Popular Mechanics, describes the tool thusly: "The Ridgid R4330 Planer uses a three-blade, 96-cut-per-inch cutterhead to shave down to a deli-slice-thin 1/8 in.—veneer thickness. It’s versatile, portable and surprisingly affordable." While the review glaringly fails to address the sawdust production capability of the R4330, I trust that I will soon be able to comment on the tool's effectiveness in that regard.
I'm going to need a dump truck with which to haul away the produce.
Fearing that a depressing trade imbalance had been created by Eegeebeegee's sawmill sired independence from local lumber yards, the Colonel responsibly responded yesterday with yet another capital acquisition to fill the spacious void, and contribute to the effectiveness, of the Man Toy Storage and Sawdust Production Facility. While the Colonel's recently acquired sawmill has performed admirably, even surpassing all expectations of sawdust production capabilities and providing prodigious boardage for conversion to sawdust by the recently commissioned radial arm saw, there yet existed a certain degree of production inefficiency in the timber to lumber to sawdust system here at the northern end of southern nowhere. During a recent protracted strategic planning session, replete with appropriate metaphorical log-sawing, the Colonel's heat addled and lack of education atrophied (I didn't go to college--I went to Ole Miss) synapses managed to bridge the widening divide between the few remaining cognitive cells lying fallow in the recesses of my bald-pated skull, and an efficiency in my sawdust production system gained a beachhead on the well-defended shore of my consciousness. A (I dare not assume, the) missing link in the system was obviously a planer.
The operative word in the final sentence of the preceding paragraph is, was. Ensconced prominently within the confines of the Eegeebeegee Man Toy Storage and Sawdust Production Facility is now a (trumpet fanfare) Rigid R4330 13 inch Thickness Planer. A review in the most important periodical of our time, Popular Mechanics, describes the tool thusly: "The Ridgid R4330 Planer uses a three-blade, 96-cut-per-inch cutterhead to shave down to a deli-slice-thin 1/8 in.—veneer thickness. It’s versatile, portable and surprisingly affordable." While the review glaringly fails to address the sawdust production capability of the R4330, I trust that I will soon be able to comment on the tool's effectiveness in that regard.
I'm going to need a dump truck with which to haul away the produce.
Friday, June 05, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 02, 2009
Engage the Tractor Beam
Light leaked through the Colonel's eyeball covers and woke me early this morning and as I stumbled kitchen-ward to push the biggest cup button on my new early Father's Day gift--a high speed, low drag, single-serving, caffeine delivery system--it occurred to me that I just might be experiencing the same technological marvel-filled life span that 30 years ago made me envy my grandparents.
My grandparents were born before the Wright Brothers cobbled together an innovation and ushered in an epoch. They lived to see man sprint into space in less than sixty years from that first break with the surly bonds of earth. They grew up during an age in which radio was the height of mass communication, witnessed the introduction of television, and marveled at the the first remote controlled channel changers.
Last night, as I watched my Ole Miss Rebels baseball team, playing in a ball park that would have amazed Ruth, on a field which 35 years ago had been a kudzu-ringed flat spot on the edge of campus upon which I stood in ROTC formations, win their NCAA Regional, live, on my computer's display, I realized that someday my grandchildren will marvel at the historically significant span of MY life. It is startling to know that my grandparents would envy the breadth of technological advance with which my life has been coincident.
The thought occurs, as the caffeine courses blessedly through my system and super-charges the few remaining cognitive cells lying in an amorphous pool of goo in a deep recess of my brain-housing group, that, if my gracious God allows, I may yet witness things only dreamt of today become reality in the next 35 years of my existence on this big blue marble.
A mud-free hover tractor would be nice.
My grandparents were born before the Wright Brothers cobbled together an innovation and ushered in an epoch. They lived to see man sprint into space in less than sixty years from that first break with the surly bonds of earth. They grew up during an age in which radio was the height of mass communication, witnessed the introduction of television, and marveled at the the first remote controlled channel changers.
Last night, as I watched my Ole Miss Rebels baseball team, playing in a ball park that would have amazed Ruth, on a field which 35 years ago had been a kudzu-ringed flat spot on the edge of campus upon which I stood in ROTC formations, win their NCAA Regional, live, on my computer's display, I realized that someday my grandchildren will marvel at the historically significant span of MY life. It is startling to know that my grandparents would envy the breadth of technological advance with which my life has been coincident.
The thought occurs, as the caffeine courses blessedly through my system and super-charges the few remaining cognitive cells lying in an amorphous pool of goo in a deep recess of my brain-housing group, that, if my gracious God allows, I may yet witness things only dreamt of today become reality in the next 35 years of my existence on this big blue marble.
A mud-free hover tractor would be nice.
Monday, June 01, 2009
Sharing a Need
Normality, or a close facsimile thereof, has returned to Eegeebeegee, capital of the Tallahatchie Free State, a virtual republic at the northern end of southern nowhere. For the past three weeks, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda and I have shared the grounds, gardens, and guest rooms of the Big House with a procession of friends and family, and, while we thoroughly enjoyed the company, it is good to just have each other around. Particularly for me, the attention and affections of the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda are indulgences I care not to share with others. In fact, as childish as it is, I don't like sharing my best friend with others at all--never have, probably never will.
My unwillingness to share the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda runs diametrically counter to her psychological make-up and God-given gifts. I've mentioned before in previous posts to this wordy wasteland that she has earned the nick-name "Twelve" for her propensity to "tend to" (ten-two) others--often others she doesn't even know but who have given off some signal inaudible and indistinguishable to the Colonel. She tends to people who otherwise would be, in this curmudgeon's not so humble opinion, perfectly able to fend for themselves. Not only is the attention wasted on those not-needy persons, but that attention is effort diverted from the really needy person in her life--ME.
So, having the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda all to myself this week has put me in one of those rare moods the Colonel gets into where no matter what goes wrong with whatever project I happen to be enmeshed in, the smile (another rarity not often found on the Colonel's visage) never leaves my mug. She's there when I need her. I needed her this morning.
The Colonel was taking advantage of the rainfall respite--it is June after all; the skies will scarcely yield a drop of precipitation for another couple of months, barring remnants of some tropical system sloshing up from the coast--and Semper Field (my trusty red tractor; not to be confused with Semper Fillit, my rusty red truck) and I were moving pine logs down from a ridge on which the tornado dropped them last year. After several round-about trips, Semper Field's ease of traverse across what a week ago had been boggy bottom caused the Colonel to significantly underestimate the drying capability of an even boggier shortcut. The shortcut turned out to be the Mississippi version of the La Brea Tar Pits, threatening to suck the Colonel's steed from beneath him and dragging it downward into a viscous ooze which eons from this epoch would turn to Confederate Concrete and yield fossilized tractor remains to some off-planet archeologist's pick and shovel. When the Colonel sticks something, it is stuck good.
The hike back up to the Big House gave me time to come up with a really witty way of explaining to the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda why, while I had left the immediate environs of the Eegeebeegee Man Toy Storage and Sawdust Production Facility mounted, I was returning afoot. As I approached, Miss Brenda looked up from one of her flowery projects aimed at softening the rough edges of Eegeebeegee and asked, "You okay?"
"Sure, never better. Why do you ask?"
"Where's the tractor?"
"Tractor? What tractor? Oh, my trusty red tractor Semper Field--it's stuck. I need you to pull it out with the truck."
Yep, a fifteen minute walk and that was as much wit as I could come up. Dang it, Jim, I'm a Marine, not a stand-up comedian!
But, the smile never left my face, because I knew that having to stop the flowery project aimed at putting a softer edge on Eegeebeegee to help someone really in need was just what Miss Brenda needed. I'm just too good to her.
My unwillingness to share the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda runs diametrically counter to her psychological make-up and God-given gifts. I've mentioned before in previous posts to this wordy wasteland that she has earned the nick-name "Twelve" for her propensity to "tend to" (ten-two) others--often others she doesn't even know but who have given off some signal inaudible and indistinguishable to the Colonel. She tends to people who otherwise would be, in this curmudgeon's not so humble opinion, perfectly able to fend for themselves. Not only is the attention wasted on those not-needy persons, but that attention is effort diverted from the really needy person in her life--ME.
So, having the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda all to myself this week has put me in one of those rare moods the Colonel gets into where no matter what goes wrong with whatever project I happen to be enmeshed in, the smile (another rarity not often found on the Colonel's visage) never leaves my mug. She's there when I need her. I needed her this morning.
The Colonel was taking advantage of the rainfall respite--it is June after all; the skies will scarcely yield a drop of precipitation for another couple of months, barring remnants of some tropical system sloshing up from the coast--and Semper Field (my trusty red tractor; not to be confused with Semper Fillit, my rusty red truck) and I were moving pine logs down from a ridge on which the tornado dropped them last year. After several round-about trips, Semper Field's ease of traverse across what a week ago had been boggy bottom caused the Colonel to significantly underestimate the drying capability of an even boggier shortcut. The shortcut turned out to be the Mississippi version of the La Brea Tar Pits, threatening to suck the Colonel's steed from beneath him and dragging it downward into a viscous ooze which eons from this epoch would turn to Confederate Concrete and yield fossilized tractor remains to some off-planet archeologist's pick and shovel. When the Colonel sticks something, it is stuck good.
The hike back up to the Big House gave me time to come up with a really witty way of explaining to the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda why, while I had left the immediate environs of the Eegeebeegee Man Toy Storage and Sawdust Production Facility mounted, I was returning afoot. As I approached, Miss Brenda looked up from one of her flowery projects aimed at softening the rough edges of Eegeebeegee and asked, "You okay?"
"Sure, never better. Why do you ask?"
"Where's the tractor?"
"Tractor? What tractor? Oh, my trusty red tractor Semper Field--it's stuck. I need you to pull it out with the truck."
Yep, a fifteen minute walk and that was as much wit as I could come up. Dang it, Jim, I'm a Marine, not a stand-up comedian!
But, the smile never left my face, because I knew that having to stop the flowery project aimed at putting a softer edge on Eegeebeegee to help someone really in need was just what Miss Brenda needed. I'm just too good to her.
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