Hummingbird Holocaust Harbinger

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

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

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

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

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

"Aha!! Global Warming!!"

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

"Whatsa ergonomic chair?"

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

Little known fact: Lattes cause liberalism.

The Colonel digresses. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To which the Colonel need only add,

Ditto.
  

Nose for a Fight

Determining three months ago that he was turning himself into a bipedal food blister, the Colonel took corrective action and placed his sorry, not-so-slim self on an indefinite weight control and personal appearance program.

By the end of two months, the Colonel had shed eleven pounds. 

A much needed haircut helped him accomplish his goal of twelve pounds lost in 60 days.

During the next thirty days, the Colonel discarded an additional eight pounds off of his rapidly trimming frame, two pounds of which were lost just yesterday.

This morning, the Colonel's rather prominent proboscis is sporting a rather impressive collection of lengthy lateral lacerations, from which the Colonel estimates he lost at least two pints of blood -- at slightly more than one pound per pint.

Here's how it happened.

The Colonel and his trusty red tractor, Semper Field (not to be confused with his boat -- Semper Fish, nor his sawmill -- Semper Filet, nor even his rusty red pick-up -- Semper Fillit) were bush-hoggin' one of the many far-flung fields aboard the Colonel's vast holdings here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere.  The Colonel and Semper Field had completed cutting about half of the field when out of the corner of his eye the Colonel caught movement at the other end of the cleared expanse.

As the Colonel watched in amazement, onto the freshly-flayed field sauntered the biggest, orneriest, longest-fanged, sharpest-clawed bobcat in three counties and half of a fourth.

The Colonel brought Semper Field to an idling halt and gave the fierce feline his rapt attention.

The Colonel trained his finely calibrated Mark I, Mod A starboard eyeball on the cat and whistled low to himself -- the beast stood at least two and a half feet at the shoulder, with a head the size of a youth-league basketball.

A youth-league basketball?  Well, it weren't quite as big as a regulation basketball, and the Colonel ain't gonna be made out a liar over a stupid basketball.

The bobcat had spots as big around as one of the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's dessert plates and yellow eyes the size of half-dollars.  

And the yellow eyes were fixed on the Colonel.  

The Colonel's been in enough scraps to know when he's being called out, and this bad cat was clearly calling the Colonel out.

The Colonel ain't backed down from a fight, ever.  And, the Colonel ain't afraid of nuthin' nor nobuddy -- exceptin' the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda.

The Colonel took Semper Field out of gear and turned off the engine.  As the diesel rattled to a stop, the Colonel could clearly discern, even with his infantry weapons firing-depleted and tinnitus-afflicted hearing, the cat's low menacing growl, despite the fact that a good 100 meters separated cat and Colonel.

The Colonel climbed down from Semper Field and advanced on the bobcat with his vocal chords vibrating a growl of their own.  

The cat's eyes fairly gleamed as he trotted toward the Colonel.

The Colonel broke into a trot of his own and as the closure rate increased and the gap d' clash decreased, the Colonel's last few remaining cognitive cells lying fallow in a forgotten cranny of his bony brain-housing group jostled together just long enough to allow a synapse to fire and send a tiny charge to his low-judgement warning light.

The problem with his low-judgement warning light is it always flickers on well past the point at which the Colonel's low judgement level will allow him to do anything about it.

The thought did flash briefly across the cavernous expanse between the Colonel's ears that this cat might very well be capable of putting that last entry in the Colonel's health record -- Semper Final, if you will. 

But, the faintly blinking low judgement warning light and the last flashing thought of possible passage to his eternal reward were blotted from the Colonel's muddled mind by the searing pain attendant with punching the bobcat in a claw with his nose.

The Colonel's nose, with ample target area for even the most casual of area weapon engagements, split open in three places like a ripe tomato swiped by a..., well..., a bobcat's clawed paw.

Blood poured forth from his lacerated schnazz at a rate that the Colonel estimated would result in complete emptying of his body's hemoglobin reservoir within minutes.

As much as the Colonel was deeply enjoying the catfight, his low blood-level warning klaxon cut through the snarlin', growlin', screechin', and screamin' that emanates from any good tussle with a wildcat and the Colonel, despite the previously mentioned light-warned judgement deficit, summoned enough discretion to effect a not-so-valorous fighting withdrawal and eventual break in contact with the bobcat, long enough to rip off the remains of his shredded t-shirt and apply it with direct pressure to the grievous wound...

Not buying it?

Okay, here's what really happened.

The Colonel and his trusty red tractor -- Semper Field -- were bush-hoggin' one of the many far-flung fields aboard the Colonel's vast holdings here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere when the Colonel was suddenly and deliberately attacked by the killer cane of the most robust blackberry bramble in three counties and half of a fourth.

Said killer cane was thirty-seven and one-half feet long and as big around as the barrel of the Colonel's trusty deer rifle -- Semper Fire.

Thirty-seven and one-half feet long?  The Colonel could have just said thirty-seven or thirty-eight feet, but he ain't gonna be made out a liar, or exaggerator, over a stupid blackberry vine.   



Not only was the blackberry cane in question lethally long and pointedly potent, but it was heatedly hostile and mobile to boot. 

The Colonel and Semper Field were half a field away from the killer blackberry cane's bramble.  The killer cane's bobcat claw thorns fairly glistened as it leaped from it's bramble and raced toward the Colonel's nose...

That's the Colonel's story, and he's stickin' to it.                      

Barfoot's Burden

Eva Russo/AP

"Even as a nonagenarian, Col. Barfoot awoke every morning to hoist the American flag. At dusk, he lowered and folded the flag, hugging the triangular bundle to his chest as he walked back inside."

T. Rees Shapiro, The Washington Post, March 5, 2012

One of the Colonel's pantheon of personal heroes passed to his eternal reward last week.  To the last he demonstrated the gritty determination, exemplary leadership, and principled patriotism that carried him from the cotton fields of Mississippi through three wars and a career in the Army of the United States that spanned the better part of four decades.

Van T. Barfoot was born on June 15, 1919, in Edinburg, Mississippi, a still-unincorporated community in the geographical heart of the state.  He voluntarily enlisted in the U.S. Army more than a year before Pearl Harbor.

In January of 1944, then-Technical Sergeant Barfoot landed with the 157th Infantry Regiment, 45th Infantry Division at Anzio, Italy.  He was already a seasoned combat veteran of landings and subsequent operations in Sicily and at Salerno, neither of which were pleasant.

Anzio was particularly unpleasant.

A general's failure to capitalize on the Anzio landing's operational surprise -- the main German defensive lines had been flanked and the road to Rome lay wide open -- allowed the enemy time to reorient and surround the beachhead.   Bitter stalemated fighting ensued for the next four months as the Americans endured constant enemy shelling from the surrounding heights while dug in on the pestilence-ridden lowlands of the coast.

On the 22nd of May, 1944, the Allied force, preceded by a massed artillery barrage and heavy close air support, broke through the surrounding Axis lines and advanced on Rome.  Technical Sergeant Barfoot's unit advanced on the town of Carano, and, at the end of the day, went into temporary defensive positions.  Barfoot led a patrol that night to scout the German defenses at Carano.

At the vanguard of his company's attack on those defenses the next day, Barfoot led a squad into the attack of the key German positions.  The ferocity of the fight that ensued can only be imagined, as the dry military prose of official accounts of the battle fall way short of describing the horrific nature of close infantry combat attendant with the certain knowledge of one's mortality.

Barfoot fought like a tiger.

His Congressional Medal of Honor citation follows:

 "For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of life above and beyond the call of duty on 23 May 1944, near Carano, Italy.  With his platoon heavily engaged during an assault against forces well entrenched on commanding ground, 2d Lt. Barfoot (then Tech. Sgt.) moved off alone upon the enemy left flank.  He crawled to the proximity of 1 machinegun nest and made a direct hit on it with a hand grenade, killing 2 and wounding 3 Germans.  He continued along the German defense line to another machinegun emplacement, and with his Thompson Submachine gun killed 2 and captured 3 soldiers.  Members of another enemy machinegun crew then abandoned their position and gave themselves up to Sgt. Barfoot. Leaving the prisoners for his support squad to pick up, he proceeded to mop up positions in the immediate area, capturing more prisoners and bringing his total count to 17.  Later that day, after he had reorganized his men and consolidated the newly captured ground, the enemy launched a fierce armored counterattack directly at his platoon positions.  Securing a bazooka, Sgt. Barfoot took up an exposed position directly in front of 3 advancing Mark VI tanks.  From a distance of 75 yards his first shot destroyed the track of the leading tank, effectively disabling it, while the other 2 changed direction toward the flank.  As the crew of the disabled tank dismounted, Sgt. Barfoot killed 3 of them with his tommygun.  He continued onward into enemy terrain and destroyed a recently abandoned German fieldpiece with a demolition charge placed in the breech.  While returning to his platoon position, Sgt. Barfoot, though greatly fatigued by his Herculean efforts, assisted 2 of his seriously wounded men 1,700 yards to a position of safety.  Sgt. Barfoot's extraordinary heroism, demonstration of magnificent valor, and aggressive determination in the face of pointblank fire are

a perpetual inspiration to his fellow soldiers."

Barfoot recieved a battlefield commission to second lieutenant in the days following his heroics at Carano. 

Told he was to receive the Medal of Honor for his actions, Barfoot asked that the award, normally attendant with great fanfare and ceremony (often presented by the President), be presented in the field at the front, instead.  Barfoot, ever the consummate leader, wished to share the honor with his men.  

Colonel Barfoot finished his outstanding career of military service to his nation in 1974, adding the wars in Korea and Vietnam to a record of great sacrifice and devotion that needed no addition. 

For the next four decades, Colonel Barfoot lived in well-deserved peace and quiet in rural Virginia.  

Then, he moved into the suburbs of Richmond.

Barfoot erected a flagpole in his front yard and faithfully attended to the daily duty of flying the colors of his beloved country correctly and reverently. 

This Colonel never met that Colonel.

But, this Colonel knew, and was led by, many like him.  They, like Barfoot, were never flippant about flying the flag of the United States.  If the flag couldn't be flown correctly, with the honor due the sacrifices made under it for the great nation for which it stands, it was not flown at all. 

When the idiot so-called leader of the homeowner association in  Barfoot's suburb demanded that the flagpole be removed, Barfoot quietly refused.  

The story got national attention, not by Colonel Barfoot's initiative, but by the actions and words of others who knew Barfoot and understood the heart of an issue for which the idiot so-called leader of the homeowner association had no earthly clue. 

Barfoot continued to fly his flag correctly and reverently until his death.

Our nation was made greater by Colonel Barfoot's sacrificial devotion and service to it, and will be less without him only if we forget his legacy.          

     

Hail March!

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

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

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

Appropriate. 

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

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

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

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

Mars..., Martial..., March. 

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

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

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

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

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

2.  It contains the beginning of the turkey season.

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

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

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

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

Peter Principle Proof and Pride

If one finds the out-of-print first edition of the Dimwit Dictionary (aka: Words for Dummies) and leafs to the definition of the Peter Principle, a picture of the Colonel will be found in the margin.

When it comes to recognizing incompetence the Colonel knows whereof he speaks.

Prior to 1968, organizations, large and small, suffered from an unrecognized malady that sapped strength, frustrated progress, and fueled water cooler whisper campaigns.  In that year, however, the eyes of the masses were opened to the truth  --  Dr. Laurence J. Peter, a life-long teacher who never once worked outside of the not-so-hallowed halls of academe, published The Peter Principle, in which he postulated that "In a hierarchy every employee tends to rise to his level of incompetence," and that "Work is accomplished by those employees who have not yet reached their level of incompetence." 

Duh!

During his long and not-so-illustrious career as a roguishly handsome soldier of the sea keeping the rapacious wolf of repressive socialism away from the door of freedom, the Colonel not only witnessed Dr. Peter's principle in action, he perfected it as a personal pathway to promotion.

The Colonel, as any one of the thousands of you who loyally lap up the literary libations ladled out in posts hereon will remember from frequent mentions, while not as severely handicapped as those most unfortunate and pitiable 'Bama and LSU grads, is nonetheless shackled by a lack of applicable education -- an undergraduate degree in Political Science (the last refuge of desperate students frantic to maintain the college cash flow from Uncle Sam, or Daddy, as the case may be) from Ole Miss, and two masters (MS in Human Resource Management; MA in Strategic Planning) notwithstanding.

The Colonel challenges anyone to come up with a viable vocation, other than academia and the military, in which that mishmash of (ahem) education has any value. 

The Colonel couldn't.

So, the Colonel saws logs and raises chickens.

The Colonel digresses.

One might correctly surmise that during his productive years the Colonel's lack of applicable education might have easily led to either a career as a homeless dumpster diver or college professor.  But, to paraphrase that great philosopher and astute observer of the human condition, Paul Simon, the Colonel's lack of education didn't hurt him none; he could still see the writing on the wall.

And that writing, in bold red crayon, said: 

"Surround thyself with talent and hold daily talent contests."

In orange crayon slightly below and to the right were the admonitory words:

"...and stay out of the way."

The Colonel ain't smart.  But he could read well enough, and was savvy enough to follow crayon course corrections.

The Colonel offers, as proof of his perfection of the art of staying out of the way, a dozen lieutenants, captains, and majors who kept him out of jail and now share his appellation. 

The Colonel keeps up with their careers by stalking their wives' facebook pages -- not many self-respecting active duty Marine officers maintain their own pages. 

The Colonel is quite certain that several of these colonels have yet to achieve their proof of the Peter Principle -- there are stars in their futures.       

Flying Colors

Sixty-seven years ago today (or yesterday, if you want to be a stickler for the International Date Line) five Marines and a Navy corpsman were immortalized by a snapshot of their actions on a windswept volcanic island in the Pacific.  

We know their names. 

We know what became of them. 

Yet, not one of them is identifiable by face in the picture.

What is clearly identifiable is the symbolic object of the devotion that drove them across the fireswept beaches of a sulfur-stinking island half-a-world away from home and loved-ones.  

The six men in the picture had, to that point, survived five days of savage fighting that had claimed the lives of nearly three thousand Americans and would claim another four thousand before the strategic island was declared secure a month later. 

More Americans gave their lives in sacrifice for their nation in thirty-six days at Iwo Jima than have died in all the military operations since the Eleventh of September, 2001.

The Colonel is not so simple as to opine that the honored dead at Iwo died for the flag.

But, the flag they followed ashore; the flag they planted on Mount Suribachi (and thousands of other objectives in their global war on fascism); the flag they draped over the coffins of their fallen comrades was sacred to them for what it represented.

It represented home.

It represented family.

It represented ideals that most could not fully articulate, but felt in their hearts and souls nonetheless.

Their kids burned that flag or slapped peace symbols on it.

And, their kids do far worse to it.

The Colonel was at first heartened by the outbreak of overt flag-waving post 9/11, and then quickly disgusted by it.  There were some truly respectful displays of the flag -- but, the majority flying the flag, in the Colonel's not-so-humble opinion, were doing so out of the most shallow conformation with the culture's latest fad.

How does the Colonel reach this harsh condemnation of his fellow citizens' actions?

It's a simple test.

Those who truly fly the flag out of respect, care for it.

They don't let it rot, tatter, and fade, nor fly in the dark.

They fly it more prominently and more respectfully than the flags of their favorite college football team.

They don't plaster it on their cars and pick-ups where it quickly accummulates layers of grime.

They don't wear it as an article of clothing or integrated in the cloth.

They stand quietly and respectfully when it is presented or passes by -- hard to do when it's plastered on the bumper of a beater.

It is not the flag's physical colors and cloth we should love and respect, of course.   The flag's true beauty, like all true beauty, is visible only to the eyes of the heart.    

The Colonel does not mean to discourage you from flying our flag.

He asks only that you use as your guide in its care the memory of men and women whose last full measure of devotion was laid on the altar of freedom while advancing the ideals of freedom and human dignity represented by the flag.

When you raise the flag, remember the men who raised it on Suribachi.

When you handle the flag, remember the flags that covered the caskets of those who fell.

When you fly the flag, remember the men and women whose last view in this world, a world away from home, was of the cherished symbol of home.      

Clipper Crisis

The physical manifestation of the Colonel's short-lived supposed mid-life crisis ceased to exist at roughly 1130 local, yesterday.

The Colonel got a haircut. 

All of 'em, actually, and tight to the thin skin covering the Colonel's brain-housing group.    

The Colonel adds emphasis to the word supposed above because not even he was certain of the reason for the six-month lapse between hair trimmer scalp massages.  

The Colonel's Lady, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda recently opined that she believed the Colonel was going through his mid-life crisis, and if so, further gently opined that a little extra hair on the Colonel's normally close-clipped and mostly-bald pate was about all the crisis manifestation she was willing to endure. 

She is always loving and understanding.

"Listen, Knucklehead.  You can let your hair -- what little is left of it -- grow out, if you want.  But, don't even think about getting a sports car and spending more time driving around the Square!"

"What?  You think the Colonel will start chasing loose women?"

"Ha! You'll need more than that wispy ring of head fuzz and a sports car to turn heads, you old goat." 

At this point in the always-uplifting life-discussions with his soul- mate, the Colonel normally demonstrates his maturity, breaks contact, and retreats to his workshop to sulk.

Instead, the Colonel ignored the low maturity altitude warning light blinking brightly in the back of his paltry populated nerve center and pressed the issue.

"Ain't goin' through no mid-life crisis!  The Colonel will get a haircut when the Ole Miss Rebels win a football game."  

This bit of information seemed to allay, somewhat, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's fears about her man's sanity,

"That's the second-most crazy thing I've ever heard you say!  Your Rebels can't even be counted on to show up on their home field.  You're likely to have a pony-tail, if that's what you're waiting on to cut that mess!"  

"The Colonel doesn't..."    

"Quit referring to yourself in the third person, Knucklehead!  Grow up and join the civilian world!"

The workshop beckoned and the Colonel broke contact for a sawdust sulk.

So, why did the Colonel finally get a haircut?

Well, as the thousands of you who imbibe loyally of the literary libations ladled out in posts hereon will remember from a previous post, the Colonel has been getting in shape for the most anticipated gridiron contest of the year -- The Annual First Baptist Church of Abbeville Adult v. Youth Flag Football Game.  Normally played, rain or shine, the Saturday before that game of much lesser import -- the Colonel thinks it's called the Super Bowl -- this year's game was postponed two weeks due to lightning.  

Yesterday morning, the Colonel's team -- the Adults (based more on age than action) soundly drubbed the Youth.        

Immediately upon arrival at the Big House, the Colonel broke out his hair clippers and restored his dignity.

The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda smiled at the sight,

"Thought you weren't going to get it cut until Ole Miss won a football game?"

The Colonel, remembering his Lady's third-person appellation admonition, reminded the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda,

"I AM OLE MISS!"     

The Colonel Don't Smile

The scowl on the Colonel's manly mug doesn't necessarily mean he's unhappy with something or someone. 

And, confronting him with the well-meaning admonition to "Smile!" ain't often gonna reward the well-meaner with much more than a meaner demeanor.

Don't take it personal.

The Colonel don't dance; the Colonel don't paint; and the Colonel don't smile... much.

The Colonel comes from a long line of frowners.  Study the portraits of his progenitors as far back as you care and you'll not find any of the men grinning like a mule eatin' briars.

The congenital cloudy countenance has actually served the Colonel well.  He didn't have to work hard to master the "war face" required of Marines.  The Colonel's mien was already in a facial fighting crouch long before the Corps' master trainers even began their duty of turning him into the steely-eyed deliverer of destruction and master of mayhem, abject fear of whom kept the Red Army in barracks for the better part of three decades.

One of the activities enjoyed most by his family is following the Colonel in a crowded public event.  The Colonel's frown alone parts throngs like Moses at the Red Sea. 

The Colonel would have a bank account rivalling Trump's if  he had a dollar for every time someone told him to "turn that frown upside down," or informed him that "it takes more muscles to frown than it does to smile." 

If the foregoing was fact, the Colonel's visage should be far more muscular and far less wrinkled than is clearly the case.

Now, lest the multitudes of you who liberally imbibe in the literary libations ladled out in posts hereon think the Colonel is completely bereft of emotive capability with which to display happiness and joy (the two being quite separate), there are indeed things that make the Colonel smile:

Any sighting of the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda, following an absence of more than a few minutes.

The sight of the Colonel's grandsons (the Hope of 21st Century Civilization, Dashes 1 and 2) scampering merrily ahead of him down a forest-flanked path leading to one or more of the far-flung fields comprising the Colonel's vast holdings here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere.

A Marine joke told by a member or veteran of a sister service.  The Colonel always smiles when he is about to get to do something he really likes to do, and the Colonel really loves to fight.

A Rebel touchdown against 'Bama or LSU.   

Lots of practice at frowning in that department lately.               
     

Eegeebeegee Building Boom

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There is no photographic proof.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Elvis is Dead, and Memphis Ain't Far Behind

Two hundred years ago today, the last in a two-month series of four major earthquakes struck along what is now called the New Madrid Seismic Zone (NMSZ).  Each of the four quakes is estimated by seismologists to have been between 7.0 and 8.0 in intensity.  The first two struck on the 16th of December in 1811; the third on the 23rd of January in 1812.

They were accompanied by hundreds of aftershocks, dozens of which would have in their own rights been considered major.

The NMSZ lies along a mid-continent rift that geologists theorize was the result of a failed attempt by plate tectonics to pull the continent apart in pre-history.   Sediments of the Mississippi River alluvial plain cover a series of interlocking faults throughout a region of underlying bedrock and mantle weakened as a result of the failed rift.   

Unlike the obvious and much more active faults on the left coast, the New Madrid Seismic Zone (named for the only white settlement of any size in the region 200 years ago) is curiously inactive and obscure.  It rarely makes itself known beyond a scattered slight tremble.

Unfortunately, when it does announce its true capabilities, the NMSZ does so with unimaginable force and consequence.  And, the effects are felt over an unbelievably large area.  A quirk of geologic difference between the Western and Eastern sides of the North American Continent causes a great disparity in the "felt effects" of earthquakes as shown in the diagram below.

The 1811/1812 New Madrid earthquakes were felt as far away as present-day Toronto, Canada and caused damage to buildings and streets in cities along the Eastern Seaboard from Columbia, South Carolina to Washington, D.C. 

The shaking from one of the earthquakes is reported to have been strong enough to ring church bells in Boston. 

From geologic evidence of past earthquakes in the NMSZ, seismologists place the odds of a recurrence of an earthquake of the same magnitude as the 1811/1812 quakes at 10% within the next 50 years.  As it is with all of Creation's natural disasters (whether terrestrial or extra-terrestrial in origin), the occurrence of  a major quake in the Mid-South is not a matter of if, but when.  

When the next major quake (or series of quakes) strikes the NMSZ, it will cause damage and loss of life unparalleled in the history of our nation, or any nation for that matter.

The city of Memphis did not exist when the earthquakes struck 200 years ago. 

It will not exist after the next one.  

The extent to which critical infrastructure elements will be effected is far greater than the patience of the thousands of you who liberally partake of the barely literate literary libations ladled out hereon can stand the telling.  Here's just one example: 

Every rail and road bridge across the Mississippi River from St. Louis to Greenville, Mississippi will be, if not outright destroyed, rendered unusable.  Memphis is a critical node in the distribution systems for many major corporations.  Disruptions in interstate trade will visit material hardship on the entire continent and could easily plunge the nation into economic depression.

That's the good news.

The bad news is that, instead of focusing the Department of Homeland Security on measures to mitigate this real threat (and others like it) to the well-being of the American people, our federal government is more concerned with punishing the American people for the actions of 19 jihadists on 9/11.   

Training is Everything

First Lieutenant Gregory, at the head of HQ Platoon, 31st MAU, ashore in Australia, 1982

Thirty years ago this week, the Colonel, then a salty first lieutenant with three years in an infantry battalion under his belt, executed a set of PCS orders that reassigned him from Camp Lejeune, North Carolina to Okinawa, Japan.

For the 'Bama and LSU fans who may have erroneously stumbled upon this post in a frantic search for pachyderm print toilet tissue or the fifty-yard line, respectively, PCS is neither a herbicide nor an ingredient in corndogs. 

PCS stands for Permanent Change of Station. 

"Permanent," in the Marine Corps, ain't really all that permanent.   Most of the time, a set of PCS orders meant you were going somewhere new and wouldn't stay there much longer than it took for the "newness" of the new assignment to wear off.  

This particular set of orders was going to be the toughest test the Colonel and his young family had yet to face.  He would be separated from them, literally by the bulk of the entire planet, for an whole year.

As he bade farewell to his bride of only five years, and their two toddler sons, the Colonel had occasion to dwell heavily on the decision made mere months previous, at the end of his four-year active duty commitment, to make the Corps his career.  As he watched his family wave to his plane, had it been possible, the Colonel would surely have changed his mind. 

But, he was committed.  Duty called.

It would not be the last time such a call came.

When the Colonel landed in Okinawa, he did just as his orders required and reported to the Commanding General, III MAF (Third Marine Amphibious Force) headquartered at Camp Courtney (one of nearly a dozen Marine camps and bases on the island wrested from the Emperor of Japan's finest in 1945).  

Actually, the Colonel, then just a first lieutenant, remember, never got a chance to report to the Commanding General in person.  A major in the Personnel Section intercepted the Colonel and welcomed him warmly.

"Hey, newby, c'mere.  Let me see your orders."

The Colonel surrendered same, and the major caught the name at the top, "Gregory. Good. Been expecting you. You're going to 31st MAU.  Training Officer."

The Colonel volunteered that he was hoping for an assignment as a platoon commander with 3rd Reconnaissance Battalion (the job for which any infantry first lieutenant worth his salt yearned).

The major waved his hand dismissively, "They're full up.  You're going to 31st MAU. Training Officer."

The Colonel knew what a MAU was. 

Marine Amphibious Unit -- containing a reinforced infantry battalion, a composite (task-organized mixture of aircraft types) helicopter squadron, and a logistics support unit.  The Corps calls it a MEU (E for Expeditionary) now, but the organization remains generally the same.  Embarked on several amphibious ships, this organization's sea-based flexibility and over-the-horizon loiter capability still makes it the National Command Authority's force of choice for a wide range of pop-up missions such as evacuation of an embassy, support of a hostage rescue, or humanitarian relief. 

The Colonel apologizes for the commercial.

The Colonel also knew what a "training officer" was.  Also known as SLJO (LJ stands for "little jobs" -- the Colonel will allow you free reign to figure out the S and the O on your own), "training officer" was usually the euphemism for the junior officer in the Operations Section of any headquarters staff.  Responsible neither for much training nor for much that would remind him that he was indeed an officer, the Colonel had the sinking feeling that the coming year was going to be painful penance for the pure joy that had been his experience leading Marines in an infantry outfit for the previous three years. 

The Colonel could tell that the major with his orders in hand was very unlikely to entertain any assignment appeals.  "Very well, sir.  If the Major would kindly endorse his orders, the Lieutenant will be on his way."

The major was obviously impressed with the Colonel's formality.  "Cut the 'old corps' crap, Lieutenant."  The major cocked his head and squinted at the Colonel in a manner meant to remind this whelp that if either of them had rights to any saltiness it was he, "You even know where 31st MAU is?"

"Aye, aye, sir!"  The Colonel responded in answer to the crap-cutting command.  To the major's question, the Colonel gave what he knew was the only answer that satisfied the definition of one of the most important of the Corps' cherished leadership traits -- initiative.  "No, sir, but the Lieutenant will not trouble the Major any more.  The Lieutenant will find 31st MAU."  

What the Colonel wanted to, but didn't, say was something along the lines of "I mean, really, Major, I know I'm new on the island and all, and there are a lot of different bases and camps, but it is just a small island, and, while I am hamstrung by a lack of education, having gone to Ole Miss instead of college, I can read well enough to find the sign that says Headquarters, 31st MAU on it."

The Colonel may not have said the foregoing, but evidently the look on his face gave away at least the gist of what was rattling around in his brain-housing group.  The major suddenly softened a bit ("softened" being a term subject to the term, "relative"), and placed a hand on the Colonel's shoulder.  "Lieutenant, I'll save you the effort of spending the next several days reading the signs in front of every building on the island.  There's a plane leaving from Kadena headed for Clark tomorrow morning at 1000.  Be on it.  When you get to Clark, catch a bus to Subic.  31st MAU will pull in to port there in a few days."

While the major busied himself putting the endorsement stamp on the Colonel's orders, the Colonel digested and tried to make sense of the latest bits of data making slow headway through the tangled maze of synaptic connections in the mass of gelatinous goo encased in the bone between his ears.

'Hmmm... Kadena... that's the Air Force base on the southern end of the island.  Put the rising sun on your left when you leave here in the morning.  Right.  Got it.'

'Let's see, Clark, Clark,... CLARK!  That's in the Philippines!  And, Subic is the Navy base there!'  

From previous posts, the thousands of you who regularly imbibe in the literary libations ladled out hereon may remember that the Colonel is afflicted with the serious mallard-happy malady, duck hunting, which manifests itself in frequent forays afield to stand in freezing thigh-deep water and blow mallard-melodies on a kazoo.

Well, not a kazoo, actually.  A duck call.  To the uninitiated, however, a duck hunter blowing on a duck call looks, and sounds, for all the world like an asylum escapee playing a kazoo.

A very loud kazoo.

As a going-away present, the Marines of the 2d Battalion, 2d Marines at Camp Lejeune had given the Colonel a very nice pair of calls -- one duck, one goose.  The Colonel had them in his ditty bag and intended to stay in practice while overseas.

The enlisted man acting as customs agent at Clark Air Force Base in the Philippines, opened the Colonel's bag and immediately jumped to the giddy conclusion that he had just scored the Air Force Security Police trifecta -- 1) catching someone red-handed with drug paraphernalia, 2) catching a Marine with contraband, and 3) catching a Marine officer breaking the rules.

"What have we here, Lieutenant?"  The airman lifted the lanyard with the calls -- one duck, one goose -- and presented them to the Colonel in his best (but certainly unintentional) Barney Fife impression.

The Colonel snatched the calls from the airman's hand and, before Airman Fife could get the bullet out of his pocket, broke into a serenade of mallard songs that would have brought a tear to the glass eye of any duck hunter in the terminal.

Unfortunately, there were no duck hunters (with or without tearful glass eyes) within earshot.  Just a whole squad of Barney Fife's reaching for their left breast pockets and converging on the Colonel's position with intent to nip it in the bud. 

Undeterred, the Colonel deftly shifted calls and produced a series of happy honks and gronks that would have, in happier times, steered flapping flocks of Canada geese straight down the Colonel's gun barrel.  

In deep appreciation for his talented rendition of the love songs of North American waterfowl, the Colonel was thereupon provided a security police escort straight through customs and right up to the door of the bus to Subic Bay.  

A few months later, the Colonel was sent ahead of the sea-borne 31st MAU, on a SLJO errand that turned out to be his first trip to Oz.  The MAU was headed for Australia, would arrive in two weeks, and the Colonel was detailed to coordinate several training and social events for the week-long port visit to Perth.  

Two weeks to accomplish about two hours worth of errands.

In Australia.

On per diem.

Prodigious per diem.

Best hotel in Perth per diem.

The Colonel could hardly contain his glee upon his arrival in the Land Down Under.  He was wiggling like a puppy at the back door. The customs agent must have detected what he considered nervousness as he dug through the Colonel's bag.

Triumphantly, he hoisted the lanyard holding the calls -- one duck, one goose.  "What 'ave we 'ear, Mate?"

The Colonel rests quite comfortably in the certain belief that he is the first and last Marine lieutenant to have received police escort from Perth International Airport to the Parmelia Hilton.          

Fear Factor

The Colonel ain't smart and you can't make him.

That, and three other notions, have been the operative phrases with which the Colonel has charted the majority of his adult life.

The other three?

The Colonel don't dance.

The Colonel don't paint.

The Colonel ain't afraid of nothin' or nobody (the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda excepted) .

The Colonel used to have a fifth -- the Colonel don't cry -- but, several years ago he found out that his mother was a civilian and went on a three-day boo-hoo bender. 

Now, the Colonel has a confession to make.  Operative rule number 4 wasn't really completely true either.

There was something that so scared the Colonel as a tot that for nearly three decades -- well into his career as a roguishly handsome soldier of the sea -- it held a fright-filled grip on a corner of his subconscious.  Mentions of the thing, associations and references, while evoking gales of laughter from his comrades, would trigger a Pavlovian response filling the Colonel with an unaccountable feeling of terror and dread.   

What, you ask, could possibly have made such a debilitating impression?  The Colonel wondered the same.

Did the Colonel witness a torture/homicide/dismemberment as a child?

No, that wasn't it.

Turns out, as his civilian progenitor [see crying-jag reference above] finally explained to her, then, 35 year-old child, the Colonel had experienced a traumatic experience while watching...

Wait for it...

The Wizard of Oz  

Yep, the Wicked Witch of the West and her flyin' monkeys had scared the pea jabbers out of the Colonel.  

And, because he had experienced such trauma with the movie so early in his childhood, and could never watch the movie again, the Colonel completely missed out on any understanding of the myriad references to it that so pervaded our culture.

On a hike, a fellow Marine would suddenly break into a skip and sing out, "follow the yellow brick road," to the snickers and snorts of his comrades.  The Colonel was clueless.

What yaller bricks?

"There's no place like home.  There's no place like home," a jarhead, soaked and miserable in a swamp somewhere at the far end of the earth, would suddenly exclaim, tapping the heels of his muddy boots together.

Well, duh!  Why is everybody laughin' at that?

And then, another leatherneck would shuck his poncho, and while the rain poured down on him, screech,... 

Yeah, you know what he screeched,  ...and why.  

The Colonel?  Not a clue. 

What?  Did the Marine think he was made of sugar? What is so stinkin' funny 'bout that? 

Some nonsensical, arbitrary edict would come down from higher headquarters and a devildog would sneer, "pay no attention to the man behind the curtain."

What man?  What curtain?  

And then, the Colonel's children began to develop senses of humor, manifested most often immediately upon arrival at the Colonel's newest duty station, "Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore." 

Kansas?  The Colonel had dragged his kit and kin across the globe, but there was never a stop anywhere near Kansas.  And, who are you calling, Toto, there knucklehead child!?! 

Finally, at the age of 40 or so, the Colonel watched the movie.

"Oh!  Ruby slippers!  So that's where that comes from!"

"Oh!  Auntie Em!  Didn't think everybody had an Auntie Em!" 

Days later, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda approached the Colonel and lightly touched his lips with the tip of her dainty finger.  The Colonel smiled at his Lady.  She smiled back.

And then, in her loving way, she gripped both of the Colonel's lips between a thumb and finger suddenly transformed into a set of vice-grips.

"Whistle the tune to 'If I only had a brain' one more time and I'm gonna rip these off." 

January Jaunts

The thousands of the Colonel's loyal legions who imbibe liberally of the literary libations ladled out in posts hereon must, in light of his lengthy cyberspace leave-taking, manifested in a three-week lapse of posts, be worrying that some significant circumstance or serious malady may have befallen him.

For the 'Bama and LSU grads (no explanation needed nor effective for the largely illiterate 'Bama and LSU fans) who may have stumbled upon this site in the frantic search for cut-rate chewin' tobacco and frozen corndogs: the Colonel ain't wrote nuthin' in three weeks and all y'all must be worried that he got sick or sumthin'.   

Actually, January happened.

The first month of the calendar year has nearly always been a time of concentrated activity for the Colonel.  This January, in particular, has witnessed an amplified confluence of conditions and requirements conspiring to consume the Colonel's every waking moment (and a significant portion of his dreams).

As his readers will remember, the Colonel is a member of an elite, yet egalitarian, band of brothers stricken by an incurable obsession with the idiocy known as duck hunting.  January, here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere, is coincident with the migratory crescendo of that most magnificent of waterfowl -- Anas platyrhynchos.  Aka: mallard, greenhead, big duck, [insert deleted expletive exclaimed by duck hunters upon the hunted's failure to decoy and present itself for marksmanship display] duck.  

Duck hunting necessitates rising to the alarm hours before dawn; dressing in more layers than worn by the men of Byrd's expedition; enduring a boat ride in the dark that exposes one's self to face-frosting wind-chill and the ever-present danger of drowning; donning chest waders and hauling decoy bags, guns, and enough ammunition to wage a counter-insurgency campaign a quarter of a mile into the "secret spot;" breaking the ice in the "secret spot" in order to place several dozen decoys in open water; and standing motionless in thigh-deep, freezing water for hours, while blowing on a kazoo.

It is a sickness bordering on depravity.

The Colonel loves it.

January is not just about duck hunting, however.  There is also the tail-end of the deer season to be celebrated with frequent frosty forays afield.  

This January (a moment of thanks for Global Warming -- the advent of which the Colonel welcomes with wide open frost-bitten hands) has been one of the most mild on record.  Therefore, the Colonel has not had bad weather as an excuse to keep him from felling tall timbers and sawing lumber.  

The Colonel's infantry-ravaged back is not such a big fan of Global Warming.

Then there is football.

Specifically, the most important football game of the season:  The First Baptist Church of Abbeville Adult Versus Youth Flag Football Game.  

As the Colonel is now into the latter half of his fifth air-breathing decade of riding the big blue marble 'round Ol' Sol, he has had to begin his preparation for participation in the game with much more seriousness than in previous years.  

The Colonel has marked off forty yards on the front lawn of the Big House here aboard Eegeebeegee and has been conducting conditioning drills.  The Colonel's favorite is wind sprints.

The other day, the Colonel's Lady -- the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda -- stepped out on the front porch to give the Colonel some encouragement, "Hey, knucklehead, what in the world are you doing?" 

"Gettin' in shape for the big game."   

"Big game?  Thought I expressly forbade you from exposing yourself to ridicule and the threat of serious injury.  You are not allowed to play football, anymore." 

"Thanks for your kind words of encouragement, dear.  Gives me motivation for these wind sprints."

"Wind sprints?"

"Yep," the Colonel explained between ragged breaths, "they're," huff, "my," puff, "favorite."

The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda blinked and her face assumed the visage of stark amazement with which she beholds the exploits of her man.   

"I thought you were supposed to run wind-sprints."             
  

Short and Sweet

The Colonel's family doctor ruined the Holidays and probably saved the Colonel's life.

Nine years ago, during his last annual physical just prior to leaving active duty, the Colonel was diagnosed with Type II Diabetes.

Could have been due to the fact that the Colonel's drug of choice for dealing with stress, since he was old enough to feel stress, has been sugar.  The Colonel's sweet tooth is legendary among his family and long-time friends.  If all there was to eat in this world was vanilla ice cream and chocolate chip cookies, the Colonel would be just fine with that.

Shortly after his diagnosis as a diabetic, the Colonel had an appointment with a dietitian who proceeded to tell him that, as far as the Colonel was concerned, sugar might as well be rat poison and that the Colonel was going to have to dramatically change his diet and eating habits.

For most of his adult life, the Colonel had lived by one of the more perverse Marine adages that eating during hours of daylight was a sign of weakness.  The Colonel's breakfast was a steaming cup of joe, or three.  Lunch was a long run, a gallon of Gatorade, and a candy bar. 

Dinner, consumed over a two hour period beginning shortly after the Colonel arrived at the front hatch of his quarters and announced in his most effective parade ground command voice, "Lower the drawbridge; the King is home!" (shortened over the years to a terse, but nonetheless commanding, "Drawbridge!") consisted of enough red meat and starch to feed a family of four for a week.

After dinner, dessert was a large mixing bowl of vanilla ice cream and three dozen chocolate cookies.

That was then.  Now, the Colonel had to eat three small meals a day; morning, noon, and night.  Carbohydrate intake was restricted to fifty grams per meal.  The Colonel was also required to take a pill big enough to choke a hippo with dinner to boost his slovenly sugar-solvent system's ability to process.

Fifty grams sounds like a lot...

                 ...until you see the minuscule plated-portions of real food that provide that restricted intake.

Actually, fifty grams of real food in carbohydrates covers a plate about as effectively as Bo Derek 's bikini covered her...

                          ...you get the picture.   

But, the Colonel endeavored to persevere, and within a few short months was back at his service-entrance weight, with blood sugar under control.

For the next several years, the Colonel's semi-annual long-term sugar blood test regularly confirmed his maintenance of appropriate carbohydrate discipline.

Until the first of last month.

Seems the Colonel had fallen off the wagon. 

Falling off the diet wagon when one is as active in a Southern Baptist church as is the Colonel, requires slightly less effort than blinking.  

For the heathens among the thousands of you who regularly imbibe in the barely-literate libations ladled out in posts hereon, and who may have never attended a Southern Baptist church, Southern Baptists EAT.  

The Southern Baptist Convention is seriously considering a name change to broaden its appeal and more accurately portray beliefs and character.

The Colonel recently sent a formal letter to the President of the Southern Baptist Convention recommending the name be changed to The Church of Chow.

Ushers at a country Southern Baptist Church hand out snacks along with the bulletins.

Many Southern Baptist Churches have changed to a earlier start and end time for Sunday morning service, so that their membership can beat the Methodists to the buffet line at Golden Corral.

Yep, it's the Colonel's church's fault that he has lately been tempted to strap on the feed bucket and once again find solace in sugared treats and high carb main courses. 

The Colonel's doctor wasn't buying that load, however. 

"Well, Colonel, how are you feeling?," the Colonel's doctor scanned the results of the latest blood test. 

"Gettin' old, Doc.  Not feeling my old self so much lately."

"That's no big surprise.  Your weight's up significantly since your last visit and your long-term blood sugar is way too high," the Colonel's doctor didn't waste a whole lot of bedside manner coming to the point.

The worst part was the guilt trip he laid on the Colonel.

"Weren't you in the Marine Corps?  How about applying a little Marine Corps discipline to your diet and exercise routine?" 

There went the Colonel's plan to celebrate the birth of the Baby Jesus by eating his weight in iced sugar cookies and high-octane fudge.

One month into Operation: Return to Fighting Weight and the Colonel is down four pounds. 

Well, three pounds.  He's added a pound of hair in the meantime.                  

iPad Ingrate

The Colonel is, among his manifold challenges, technologically so.

He is particularly challenged with regard to understanding the how to, not to mention the need for, anything preceded by the lower case letter i.  

About three years ago, the Colonel shook off the shackles of time and constant connectivity and has since refused to wear a watch or carry a cell phone.

He hasn't missed either for a slow country second.

Of course, closely surrounded by friends and family so shackled, the Colonel has ample access to the current time and rarely remains truly unreachable.  Still, there is a palpable feeling of freedom gained by marking time by the sun and the grumble of one's stomach.

The Colonel has almost reached the point at which someone constantly pulling out a cell phone no longer annoys him...

               ...the emotion is much closer to disgust.   

So, it was with no small measure of mixed surprise and chagrin that the Colonel opened a present Christmas morn, marked from his family, to find, of all things...

               ...an iPad.

Yeah, it's cool, and the Colonel is very touched -- perhaps most touched by the loving sentiments engraved on the back -- but, now he's one of those people. 

Just how is the Colonel supposed to maintain his curmudgeon cred once the word gets out that he is a closet technophile?

And, now he has to constantly wash his hands else the grimy good earth of the Colonel's vast holdings here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere transfer to the touch screen. 

Oh, the shame!

No self-respecting farmer/sawyer/chicken-herdsman is ever seen in public with clean hands.

Did find a good board-foot calculator app, though.  And, the local weather app is useful.  Oh, and there's an app that tells the Colonel the best planting times for the crops he intends to grow later this year. 

Still looking for the app that will harvest, clean, and can the prodigious produce the Colonel expects from his burgeoning garden plots.

The Colonel hasn't disposed of his PC and 3D keyboard just yet.  He'll probably maintain at least that curmudgeonly customary link with his past. 

Old habits do die hard.

It took the Colonel a long time, during his transition from typewriter to word processor, to learn not to use white-out on his computer screen.

Is there an app for removing axle grease from the touch screen?  

Year In, Year Out

The Colonel can tell that he's gettin' old. 

There are the obvious clues of course; constant pain, loss of memory, expanding waistline, and the overwhelming desire to choke the ever-livin' you-know-what out of those who flaunt the fact that they are not yet suffering from the former three.

Then, there is the fact that time is passing at a seeming exponentially-increasing rate...

              ...with the exception of the interludes wherein the Colonel experiences the space-time phenomenon known here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere as Specious Irrelativity -- manifested as a shimmering bubble of curmudgeonly couldn't-care-less-ness encompassing the Colonel's immediate surroundings when involved in an endeavor for which no passion whatsoever is shared by any other person or animate object. 

Specious Irrelativity is transferable.  The Colonel has observed the shimmering bubble of space-time irrelevance encompassing others in his area -- around the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda, for example, on rare occasions that the Colonel has accompanied his Lady on a "shopping trip."

A "shopping trip," in the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's case, is defined (by the Colonel) as an extended foray through a retail or grocery store's territory for what seems (to the Colonel) to rival the occupation of Iraq and Afghanistan.  It takes forever, there are no discernible objectives, and the cost is prohibitive.

The Colonel digresses.

Frequent digression is one of many "frequents" attendant with the Colonel's advancing age.

One of the main points of this seemingly pointless missive, to which the thousands of you who regularly imbibe in the scarcely-literate literary libations ladled out hereon are exhausting great supplies of patience enduring even greater amounts of drivel in the vain hope of reaching, is that the Colonel is amazed as just how fast the year of our Lord, two thousand and eleven whizzed past.

Would that 1979, 1980, 1981, 1982, 1988, 1989, 1990 and 1998 -- years in which all or an extended part of which the Colonel spent separated from the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda while deployed abroad keeping the world safe for democracy as a roguishly handsome, steely-eyed soldier of the sea -- had passed half as rapidly.  

At any rate, the Colonel isn't posting to mourn the passing of a year.

For the benefit of Tide and Tiger fans accidentally perusing this post as a result of an internet search for a highly effective herbicide or a killer corndog recipe, the Colonel's use of the phrase at any rate is a clever literary use of a previously addressed concept as a segue.

For the benefit of those suffering from the educational disadvantage of  being 'Bama and LSU grads (a much, much smaller subset of Tide and Tiger fans -- most Tide and Tiger fans prominently display framed GED's), a segue is neither a highly effective tree-killer nor a secret herbal ingredient for a killer corndog.

At any rate, (segue phrase repeated for the benefit of you-know-who -- listen carefully for the sound of open palms striking empty heads) the Colonel wishes to take this opportunity to welcome the new year and wish you and yours a blessed and productive 2012.

With the speed at which years are flying by nowadays, the Colonel reckons he better get started on his post for January 1, 2013.