Down South Dust Bowl

Have I mentioned that it has been dry here?

The southeast is enduring a drought of Biblical proportions this year, and it has been particularly dry here at the northern edge of southern nowhere (and I use that term with the deepest affection). The huge flood control reservoir just to the west of us has dropped to one of its lowest levels since it was impounded. The disputed body of water on my property (I call it my lake; Miss Brenda insists it's just a pond) has dropped nearly three feet in the past three months--and we are just now getting into the "dry" part of the summer.

We got some rain last night--first good soaking we have had in months. But, I'm afraid it will just be enough to make me have to cut the grass this week.

I think the thing that I regret most about the dry year is what it will do to duck hunting here this year. I know I should be more worried about the farmers' plight and the cost of food, but we're talking about a near holy enterprise here--duck hunting is a calling.

Hebrews 12:11

Most of our classmates that summer 30 years ago were enjoying their break from studies on the beach or at Daddy's house at the lake, blissfully oblivious to anything but the warm sun and cool drinks in iced glasses. For 250 of us who had just completed our junior year at university, the sun that summer was a lot hotter and the strongest drink in our hands was warm water from a plastic canteen. Thirty years ago this week, we who were striving for commissions as Marine officers, converged from across the nation on an isolated camp in Northern Virginia to undergo a rite of passage, completion of which, combined with graduation from college the next spring, would guarantee that our sweethearts and parents would pin gold bars on the epaulets of our dress whites.

In 1977 the Marine officers and NCOs tasked with training the new generation were all Vietnam combat veterans. Their outlook on life and the boundaries of acceptable human behavior were, to put it mildly, a few degrees removed from the civilized mainstream. All of our NCOs, in addition to being combat vets, were also former Drill Instructors at the enlisted boot camps at San Diego and Parris Island. They were, in a word, skilled at inflicting misery without leaving marks.

And, as strange as it may sound, to a man, all of us officer candidates revelled in the abuse they dished out. We had listened to the tales told by upperclassmen about their experiences at Quantico, and had steeled our bodies and minds for the test. We prepared ourselves physically, running hundreds of miles and spending countless hours in calisthenics, knowing that the worst shame was reserved for those who couldn't keep up with the pack. As we worked out physically, we worked ourselves up mentally for the pain of a summer on the banks of Chopawamsic Creek. We were not disappointed.

I weighed a whopping 135 pounds when I arrived at Quantico that summer. When I left less than two months later, I had shed nearly 15 pounds--and there had been precious little fat to shed in the original sum. But, I could run like the wind, hike for tens of miles with 50 pounds on my back, and stand motionless for hours on parade. Most importantly, I had an appreciation for the initial training of the young Marines who would be expected to follow my lead without question and for whom I would have the literal control over life and death were I ever to lead them in combat.

Ten years later, when I was a captain, I ran into one of the psychopaths who had tortured me that summer. He was now a sergeant major. My first instinct was to avoid talking to him, but I steeled and introduced myself as one of his charges in the summer of '77. He shook my hand and smiled (something I had not seen him do once that summer). "Skipper," he growled in the way that only professional soldiers can speak convincingly, "good to see you are succeeding. As I remember, you were so small and skinny, I was worried that you might dry up and blow away."

"And I'm surprised that you haven't been brought up on war crimes charges, Sergeant Major."

We both chuckled and locked eyes. I stuck out my hand again, and said as sincerely as I could muster, "Thanks, Sergeant Major."

He smiled, then stiffened and saluted, before about-facing and marching away.

Best salute I ever got.

Ode to a Berry

As I climbed out of bed this morning and was stumbling toward the kitchen for a shot of joe, Miss Brenda raised up on one elbow and asked, "Wanna go pick blackberries before it gets hot?"


This was an unusual request. Miss Brenda rarely makes a sound before eight A.M. and it was well before that hour.


But, there are a few things that will get my bride up and at 'em early in the morning. Blackberry picking is one, and lucky for the rest of the family and a few fortunate friends. One of the few culinary skills Miss Brenda learned from her country grandmother (and there are, sadly, many she didn't) was how to make blackberry jams and cobblers. There is nothing this side of heaven that tastes like Miss Brenda's blackberry jam on a hot buttered biscuit, and her blackberry cobbler with a scoop of ice cream is to die for.


So, as much as I had rather be doing something else, I will not jeopardize my first bite privileges by not participating in the preparatory phase.


Blackberry picking is not for sissies. The "rewards' for wading into a blackberry bramble include scratches, chigger bites, and possible encounters with those long slithery fellows with no shoulders.


It has been very dry here this Spring and the berries are small. But better small berries than no berries at all.

Keeping Them Flying High and Tight

They were my nameless heroes when I was kid. At least I never knew any of their individual names. As a team they were (and still are) known as the Thunderbirds. Their dangerously tight formation flying and acrobatics in high performance combat aircraft made several jets look like one machine. As an Air Force brat, I shared the dream with every other son of an Air Force man of some day flying wingtip to wingtip in a crowd-dazzling display of airmanship, and then afterwards glad-handing with the adoring audience in a crisp blue flight suit and white scarf.

This week I attended a client's government sales conference in Las Vegas, highlighted by a trip out to Nellis Air Force Base and the home, hangar, and headquarters of the US Air Force Thunderbirds. The best part of the whole trip was that we didn't talk to one officer or pilot. The NCOs and young enlisted men working on the jets were just magnificent. As an old corps Marine, I was impressed to the point of jealousy at how squared away these airmen were, right down to the military creases in their coveralls and spit-shined boots. This is not just a show-place, either. Those kids had the jets apart and were doing the knuckle-busting maintenance critical to keeping old aircraft (surprising to call an F-16 "old," but they are older than the men maintaining them) flying.

I handed out a few of business cards and told these guys that when they left the Air Force to give me a call and I'd find a place for them on my team.

The be-scarved pilots aren't my heroes any more. Those kids with their arms up to their shoulders in the guts of a jet are my heroes now.

Change-up Pitch

Number 2 son and I took in an Ole Miss baseball game last night in Oxford. Ole Miss is hosting one of the 16 NCAA Div I Regionals in our ballpark, and we watched the Rebels down the Sam Houston State Bearkats 14--5. The game was sold out. In fact, the stadium only seats 4700 or so and there was an announced crowd of over 7000 there. We sat on a hill behind third base.


I couldn't help but marvel at the difference 30 years makes. When I was simulating the act of getting a college education (I always say, "I didn't go to college--I went to Ole Miss") in Oxford in the late seventies, college baseball was not a big thing. Our team played on a field that shared the outfield with the football team's practice field. There were intramural softball fields on campus that were in better shape and had more seats in the stands. A game was lucky to have more spectators in the stands than players in the two dugouts.


Even more discombobulating to me is the location of the new ballpark. As I told #2 last night (he feigned interest--he has lots of practice at that), "when I was at Ole Miss...", the field where the baseball stadium sits today was an intramural field on which we NROTC midshipmen marched each Thursday and took out our pent up aggression (wearing a uniform on a college campus in the seventies built up a lot of repressed aggression) in very rough football games.

Lots of other major changes on the campus since I left in 1978--new buildings, new roads, new football stadium additions. The Grove, the oak-shaded park that is the geographic center and heart of Rebel Nation, is still intact. It looks smaller now; the rest of the campus has grown taller and crowded around it.

One thing else hasn't changed--Ole Miss is still home to the prettiest women on the planet. And, they still dress up to go to a ball game. Some good things never change.

Remember the Fallen, Not the Breathing

I get hung up on issues of historical correctness, not political correctness. I am often frustrated by our nation's blissfully ignorant participation in holiday celebrations of historically significant events. You would think that a people whose labeling sensititivies have become so attenuated that the word "tooth" has been dropped from "toothpick" on the back of brownie mix boxes (go look: "Insert pick to test for doneness."), would be able to pay closer attention to the big, important distinctions in American life. Take Memorial Day. Originally begun as "Decoration Day" (decorating graves of soldiers killed in the War for Southern Independence in local cemeteries), Memorial Day was eventually declared a National Holiday for the purpose of remembering with solemnity the ultimate sacrifices made by those who fight our nation's wars. Memorial Day is not about honoring living veterans. Living veterans march in Memorial Day parades to honor their fallen comrades, and so most Americans, whose only use of a history book is as a door stop, incorrectly, if they do anything at all redeeming on the day, salute living veterans. Nice gesture, but wrong. Veterans Day is for that.

Kill the Enemy, Don't Torture the Prisoners...

Two gentlemen for whom I have great admiration, and from whom I learned important leadership and operational lessons, have an article in the Washington Post this morning clearly articulating the point that EVERY professional soldier knows instinctively. Generals Krulak and Hoar place the torture issue, and any abuse that results from a "flexibile" policy on it, squarely on the shoulders of leaders, starting at the TOP. They point out that "any degree of 'flexibility' about torture at the top drops down the chain of command like a stone -- the rare exception fast becoming the rule." Humane treatment of prisoners is a cardinal rule of warfare. Torture is anathema to professional soldiers. Frankly, torture yields little actionable intelligence.

The other night during the Republican debate (and I use that term so loosely that if it were my hat band, I'd be blinded), John McCain made this point. He should know. He suffered unimaginable torture at the hands of the Vietnamese Communists during his 5 years as a POW held in the infamous "Hanoi Hilton." Actually, the "Hilton" was a prison built by the French during their colonial mismanagement of Indo-China--another on a long list of reasons to detest the French. Read the book "P.O.W." Your view of the difference between Us and Them will be forever changed. But I digress.

John McCain, and every other American POW of that war, will freely admit that they eventually "broke" under torture. They will also quickly tell you that the information they gave up when they finally "broke" was of very little operational use to the enemy. Torture yields no valuable intelligence.

By contrast, Viet Cong captured by US forces, and humanely treated, often turned on their communist brethren and became guides for US units. The Viet Cong turncoats did so because they were able to clearly recognize the difference between the two antagonists. The communists were brutal, totalitarian monsters who terrorized the population with torture, assassination, and rape. We weren't perfect, but by comparison to the communists, American conduct of the war was near "angelic." And that is the point.

We MUST maintain the moral high ground as a society. When we go to war, we should be clear on our objectives and prosecute the war with every legal and ethical tool in our kit bag. And, the ENTIRE NATION must be on a war footing. Otherwise, we are just playing with guns.

When a leader indicates a slight wavering with regard to historically iron-clad standards, subordinates inevitably take that as a clear sign that "all's fair" and abuses result. Abu Graib is case in point.

Fox News "moderators" during this week's Republican debate posed a presidential decision situation that supposed a terror attack on American soil and the intelligence that other attacks were imminent. The hypothetical situation was that we had prisoners who we believed had information about the coming attacks. The question was should we torture them to save American lives. I was disappointed in all but McCain's "No Torture" response.

The real question that begs an answer is why our national leaders have bungled our war effort so badly that nearly 6 years after 9-11, we are still worried about a WMD attack on our soil. The German people were "innocent" but we killed millions of them from 1942 to 1945 and prevented Hitler from building his own atomic weapons and missiles and aircraft to deliver them to New York. Ditto the Japanese. Today, the Japanese and Germans are our most staunch allies on the planet.

We must destroy Iran, Syria, North Korea, and anyone else who is developing weapons or supporting those trying to kill us. The people in those nations will be our friends for another century.

Eegeebegee Bass

Satisfaction has no peer to the feeling of landing a lunker from your own pond and releasing her back thereinto. I estimate she was roughly 6 pounds. She took a Culprit purple plastic worm on 8lb test line. Jumped four times--matched each time by a spike in my blood pressure and the upward thrust of my heart into my throat. Last jump nearly stopped my heart, as I was bringing her bankside with one hand while calling Brenda on my cell, to bring her camera down to the pond, with the other hand. I am pleased to report that both fish and Colonel survived the encounter. Life on Eegeebegee is good!

Ride the Dragon!

There's an old Chinese adage regarding change. "Change is a Dragon. You can fight the Dragon and most likely be eaten; or you can ride the Dragon and thrive where it goes." I think, given the magnitude and gravity of the climate change we theoretically face over the next century, we need to stop trying to fight it and figure out ways to benefit from it.

It is likely that there are some human civilization contributions to climate change. But, given the fact that geological study has shown that our planet has experienced significant climate swings within the last ten thousand years (at times when human contributions would certainly have been negligible), it is even more likely that there is NOTHING human civilization can realistically do to significantly alter the course of climate change. The history of the human species is a study in adaptation to climate change. Specific human populations and civilizations have either adapted to climate change or died off.

Some civilizations have created the localized microcosmic ecosystem change that became their undoing. The Mayan's are a great case in point. Mayan civilization, like all growth civilizations, exploded and advanced when the Mayans figured out how to grow enough food to feed not only those growing the food, but others not required to farm. They figured out that swamp muck carted in and placed on their crop fields increased the fertility and productivity of those fields exponentially. The Mayans not required for food production could then focus their time and effort on science, building, religion, art, and politics (and war, as an extension of politics). The Mayans began building great edifices of stone; pyramids of power and cultural prestige that went far beyond functional needs. They covered these pyramids with a lime-based whitewash. The lime was procured by burning vast amounts of green trees. This resulted in massive local deforestation. Without the forest ground cover, the hillsides surrounding their agricultural fields eroded massive amounts of poor clay onto their once-fertile crop lands. Crop yields crashed and Mayan civilization with it.

But, the Mayan example is not man-made climate change, although I have heard some disenginuous activists present it as such. It is an example of man-made ecosystem change and there is a huge difference. Regardless, the Mayans failed to adapt to change and their grand civilization collapsed. They probably had no way of knowing that their extravagant consumption would have such an end, until it was too late to reverse the trend.

So, if the climate is changing and mankind's activities are contributing to it, we have a limited number of options. First option is the Mayan Option: Do nothing. Consume and party on and hope we go to our final reward before the crash occurs.

The second option is the Gore Option: Dismantle our civilization trying to resist the change occuring, in the hubris-filled belief that man is totally responsible for the change and man can fix the "problem."

There is a third option: Ride the Dragon. Instead of wringing our hands at the negative aspects of climate change, we should recognize the direction that climate change is going and adapt to take advantage of the opportunities. There are an equal amount of opportunities and drawbacks in every change. I liken our choice to that of a man who blames his homelessness on his joblessness, but is unwilling to move somewhere else where the opportunity for employment and affordable housing is greater. He would rather sleep on a steam grating in the inner city of some northern metropolis, whining about the lack of good paying office jobs, than find his way to a warmer clime where manual labor is in demand (10 million Mexican migrant workers can't be wrong).

If mankind ignores the dragon of change, we will suffer the fate of the Mayans. If mankind fights the dragon, we will most likely still suffer their fate--by our own hands. Riding the dragon will take us into new territory, but exploration has always been the activity from which has come our greatest triumphs.

Slopping Hogs

I used to proudly describe myself as a "news junkie." At the low point of my addiction, I probably spent eight hours a day tapped into some sort of medium, drifting in a delirium of brain matter-wrinkling bliss as up-to-date data and useless information coursed into my system via my auditory and ocular veins. The lengths to which I would go for news, and the depths of my depravity, can be summed up in the following: National Public Radio.

I am now proud to announce that my addiction, while not cured, is under control. I have the antics of pusillanimous politicians vying for rotting pieces of the power pie to thank for my sobriety. My disgust at the lack of principle, moral degeneracy, and self-serving disrespect of the American people displayed by the current crop of "leaders" has reached such a point that the bile backed up in my throat prevents my heretofore unbridled ability to scream at the newscast. Deprived of that release, I can no longer physically bear to watch or listen.

One criminally complicit legislator in particular has placed an indelible stamp of disdain on my once-proud vision of the American governmental system. The bullying and bilious bluster of a fellow Marine, in the conduct of what he should consider his sacred congressional duties, is almost too much to which to bear witness, ... and I've seen lot of crap in my life.

Marines pride themselves on the core values of Honor, Courage, and Commitment. Congressman Murtha (Colonel Murtha, USMC, Reserve) should take no such pride. He is a liar, a crook, and a bully, whose only commitment is to his own aggrandizement. His actions dishonor the title, Marine.

I met Murtha once. It was the early 80's and I was a young captain, on assignment as an instructor of brand new lieutenants at Quantico, VA. Each class of lieutenants concluded their six months of basic training in tactics, leadership, and officership with a formal dinner steeped in tradition and honorable hokum. We Marines call this event a "Mess Night." Murtha was an invited guest on the strength of his Vietnam-era Marine service and his membership in the House of Representatives of these re-United States. I had the opportunity to speak with him. In fact, I shamelessly pulled rank on lieutenants and maneuvered to do so. I recall being unimpressed and slightly disappointed, but chalked it up to my American history-loving high expectations of a congressional statesman. I have come to realize since, that the bilious boor I met that night was representative of what it takes these days to stalk the halls of power on the Hill.

There was a time when I fully expected to run for some public office in the course of my duty to my country. No more. I've done my duty. The sliver of self-respect remaining in my back pocket is way more than would allow me to even consider stepping down into the muck and mire of the political pig stye.

It is far too much that I have to share the title, "Colonel of Marines" with the likes of Murtha, I will not share the abhorrent appellation, politician.

Crickets Chirping

It's quiet on Eegeebegee this weekend. Last Saturday, all the family within driving distance converged to celebrate the news that the Colonel was going to be a grandfather x 2. Number One son and the mother of my first grandson (an exalted position for which she receives regular accolades) drove up from the Redneck Riviera to bring the good news. I'm hoping for a granddaughter. My mother laughed at that hope and proclaimed, "It'll be a boy."

Caleb had a blast. He loves rocks and the gravel road up to the house was just an amazing bonanza. He would toddle along, spy a rock, bend to collect it, and announce as if it were not one among millions on the drive, "Ock!" He took great pleasure in pitching his "ocks" in the pond, and was amazed when the rock I threw skipped a half dozen times. Great age--everything Pop does is magic.

But this weekend, I'm alone with a flock of hummingbirds to keep me company. Miss Brenda and her family are on a trip out West to raft the Colorado. I was invited, but I'm too busy printing money to pay for the trip.

Honoring Michael

One of the members of my team e-mailed yesterday with the sad news that a young member of his extended family, a soldier named Michael, had been killed in Iraq. At the end of his e-mail, this 20-year Navy man expressed the sentiment of our nation in the question: "When do we say enough is enough?"

In addition to expressing my condolences for his family's loss, I felt compelled to challenge the unspoken assertion that Michael's sacrifice had been for a lost cause. I told my friend that,

"I have to believe that his sacrifice makes our country stronger and safer. I am so proud to be associated with you and yours and the tiny percentage of our nation’s population that has answered the call to secure the freedoms of the rest. No soldier who as ever given his life for America’s interests has done so in vain. I assure you, our warriors’ sacrifice and service during this time will not be in vain and will add eternal light to our great nation’s beacon of freedom. There are great accomplishments being made by our uniformed men and women in the name of freedom, in Iraq, Afghanistan, and around the world, despite the self-serving pronouncements of many at home who denigrate those efforts. I will remember Michael."

I am, frankly, disgusted with the spineless anti-war political manuevering and posturing from all but a few of the more principled of our nation's political leadership. Most of the current war critics were all for taking the fight to the terrorists and the states sponsoring their barbarity, when the popular mood in our nation was for that. Now that our people are turning against the war effort, self-serving politicians are attempting to grab power by cynically bending to the American populace's fickle will.

On the other hand, most of the "hawks" in support of the war are not willing to take the needed steps to put this nation on a true war footing. I saw a picture the other day of some graffitti scribbled on a white board in a Marine combat outpost in Iraq that read, "America is not a war. The Marine Corps is at war. America is at the mall."

Michael was a soldier--a member of a tiny minority of our nation's men and women who answer our country's call to service. Michael's service was selfless. His sacrifice was honorable. His, and his comrades', accomplishments in the name of freedom are greater than most in our nation will ever recognize. Michael and his fellow American freedom warriors deserve our honor, and one of the best ways to honor them is to demand that our political leadership make the hard decisions to truly take our entire nation to war against the nations supporting terrorism as a tactic against freedom. Until the political mullahs and ayatollahs exhorting their nations to jihad against the west are silenced (read: crushed by force of arms), we will not truly honor the sacrifice of our warriors in the cause of freedom.

This Marine will remember Michael.

Home on the Range

There's cows in my yard this morning, and I'm not a bit surprised.

Our premises protector and anti-turkey-hunting neighbor dog, BUD, was going out of his mind yesterday barking like a... well, like a dog with something seriously different to bark at. Miss Brenda stepped outside to investigate and came back in the door with the announcement: "We have cows" (Italics provided to indicate feminine announcements and pronouncements).

Miss Brenda and I pulled on our boots and went to see if we could find the break in the fence with our neighbors, through which our bovine visitors had breached our security cordon. My thought (out loud to a very skeptical Miss Brenda) was to herd the cows back through and conduct a field expedient repair of said breach. Miss Brenda, ever supportive, remarked in her confidence-building way, "Yeah, right. You don't know the first thing about cows, and when was the last time you worked with barbed wire!"

Ignoring her completely baseless assertions and aspersions regarding the competency of her MAN regarding all things manly (i.e., pushing cows, mending fences, defending the homeland, etc.), I led the way on a circuit of our property to find the interlopers' entrance. To save time, I picked up the trail of cow prints and began back-tracking. Miss Brenda tagged along, mumbling something under her breath about cows and mountain men.

As hard to believe as it may seem to those of you who are aware of my keen eye for tracking game, I lost the trail. Miss Brenda tried to help, "Here's a track!"

"No, Dear. That's a deer track."

"Here's one!"

"Sweetie, that's a turkey track."

"Stupid cows!"

We looped back to pick up the trail again, and soon I was hot on a fresh set of cow tracks. Bent at the waist, my eyes fastened to the trail six feet in front of me, it was all I could do to keep from baying like a coon hound.

"Look out!"

From long experience with the different tones and modulation of my lovely wife's voice, I detected a hint of caution, with a touch of alarm. I recognized the tone immediately, because it was one I normally hear just before something falls on my head. I stopped cold, and went into my fighting crouch (Miss Brenda later remarked that my "fighting crouch" looked more like a "defensive cringe." But her untrained eye misses a lot of nuances of the fighting style of a trained, steely-eyed, combat Marine).

"There's a cow in the pines, right there next to you!"

Upon further examination, I determined that she was indeed correct...to a point. There was a cow...with a new-born calf. And, when I say "new-born," I mean NEW-BORN. Still wet. Wobbly. Momma not happy with my proximity to her baby.

After an interminable period of oohs and aahs and picture-taking ( Miss Brenda never goes anywhere outside any more without her camera), we gave momma cow and calf a wide berth and picked up the trail once again. It led to a low point in the fence, over which it was obvious that the cows had easily trespassed on my domain.

I gave up on the idea of herding the errant walking hamburgers. Pushing momma and her calf was a non-starter, and one of the cows was actually a bull, who, though he seemed docile enough, was a BULL.

I called our neighbors on the phone and asked if they were missing any cows. They came right over, but came to the same conclusion I did about momma and the calf. My neighbor said, "I'll come back in the morning with a bucket of feed and they'll follow me home."

He must be a late riser, because it is past 0800 and the beeves are still roaming my range. Darn "free-grazers"! Better see if I can find a gun for hire--there's liable to be a range war.

Global Cooling?

Evidently someone at Weather Control Central didn't get the global warming memo. I know I'm not in warm, sunny Florida anymore, but North Mississippi is still in the Mid-SOUTH! Sustained below freezing temps during the first week of APRIL just ain't right. All the crepe myrtles around the house and lining the drive agree with me. Two weeks ago they were covered in a month's worth of green leafy growth. Now they look like someone sprayed them with the stuff they use to control kudzu alongside the highways.

It was so cold last weekend, that #2 son and I decided that hanging around the house with his mother would be more fun than sitting in Vaught-Hemingway stadium watching our Rebels play each other in the Grove Bowl.

I was sitting in a barber shop last week and heard a turkey hunter claim it was so cold that he had seen a frozen Butterball in the woods. I know that is hard to believe--but it is true. The little bald colonel still needs haircuts.

It has been so cold here on Eegeebegee that even the grass over the septic tank has turned brown.

But, I'm not complaining. Two months from now, when the temperature and humidity are having a contest to see which can reach 100 first, we'll be begging for this cool weather.

It's hard to hunt turkeys with a german shepherd in your back pocket.

We haven't met any of our neighbors yet, but we have become friendly (too friendly, if you ask me) with our closest neighbor's dog. In fact, BUD (Big Ugly Dog) met us at our gate the day we arrived at Eegeebegee. He is a fearsome looking german shepherd, with the gentlest disposition. He must not get much attention at home, because after we patted him on the noggin' once he has spent more time over here than away.

I like the fact that we have a big black dog patrolling the premises. But this morning I wasn't happy for his companionship. I was trying to slip into the back forty and call up a tom turkey. I set my decoy out, put my back to a big ole tree, and broke out my slate call. At least three gobblers were sounding off in my general vicinity, so I started in on my best rendition of a hen turkey looking for some love. Two gobblers answered. So did BUD. He came racing into the field and ran up to my decoy growling like it was time to fight for Corps and country. When I hissed, "Git!!", ole BUD spun around and looked in amazement at the bush that sounded like me. I hissed at him again and he took off.

The toms were still gobbling, so I started in again on the slate call. One gobbler was coming in from the right and about the time he closed the distance to 150 yards, and about to come into my property, a shotgun blast ended his trot towards me. I couldn't see, but I guess my neighbor got him. "Wonder why ole BUD is not pestering his owner, instead of me," I grumbled.

I got up to move, and BUD was instantly at my feet.

"Git!"

BUD looked hurt and slinked off.

I walked further back on my property and set up on a powerline where I had heard a gobbler the other day. As soon as I scratched the slate, a gobbler answered. So did BUD. The stupid dog was not going to let me hunt this morning. So, I got up and did a little scouting. BUD thought this was a much better idea than turkey hunting and he raced around me in exploratory circles through the woods.

When we came to the fence at the back of my property, BUD scooted under and into the pasture on the other side. He disappeared into a brushy gully.

Ten seconds later, BUD came racing back out of the gully, looking over his shoulder. He ran up to and through the fence ten yards from me and spun around to face his chaser. I looked back in the direction from which BUD had come, and saw the biggest coyote I had ever seen stopped forty yards away, looking my way. We stared at each other for a few seconds, while BUD barked and growled menacingly from his side of the fence, and then Wiley spun and disappeared.

He's lucky all I had was bird shot in the gun.

Mississippi Moved

Miss Brenda and I spent the week remarking over and over again on the ease of our move from the Redneck Riviera up to the Free State of Tallahatchie. We should have kept our mouths shut.

Everything did go very smoothly--Praise God--Monday through Thursday of Move Week. The movers packed all of our worldly belongings on a moving van Monday without incident, closing on the house in Florida went very quickly Tuesday morning, the drive to Mississippi Tuesday evening was uneventful. Well..., we did take 2 hours longer than I normally make the trip by myself, but I was pulling a boat, and Miss Brenda was following in her car and needed to stop and get her daily mandatory nap in.

Closing on the house in Mississippi went just as smooth as the other in Florida--USAA is simply the BEST! We made our way from the closing attorney's office up into the hills and onto our property, finding it very hard to believe that we were at last realizing our dream of nearly 36 years. We happily slept on the floor in our new home Thursday night, secure in the knowledge that the moving van would arrive on Friday and bring our bed and everything else that has made houses homes for us for three decades.

Friday morning, the moving van driver called and I drove out to the highway to escort him the last 5 miles of winding twists and turns on country roads. We got him to the last turn onto the last stretch of county road and then the problems started. The last turn is a tight 131.3 degree (by my calibrated eyeball) hairpin turn to the left and the big ole semi and trailer just couldn't make it. A short jaunt on up the road, a three point turn on a gravel driveway and the truck came back in a direction to navigate the turn with ease. Now our stuff was only a mile and a half from home. The next 1.4 miles was easy enough--the last tenth of a mile took another 32 hours to complete.

Our gate at the road was plenty wide enough, but the sharp right turn just inside the gate to navigate around the lake proved our undoing. The trailer (gross weight exceeding that of a main battle tank) centerlined on the edge of the gravel road and became a very effective road block. Six hours later the tow truck showed and, with some Rebel Ingenuity, managed to yank the trailer back out the gate. The final conclusion of 15 further minutes of head-scratching and rock-kicking was that unloading our stuff up at the house was going to have to wait one more day and would require a smaller van to shuttle our belongings from the front gate up to the house. For the second time in 4 days we watched our worldly goods and chattel drive away on a truck.

Saturday morning the semi-trailer and a U-Haul moving van showed up at the gate and general unloading began. I couldn't help but think that this reminded me of the last leg of ship to shore movement of equipment and supplies from a ship to a landing beach, complete with Miss Brenda acting as Beach Party (for you non-naval types, there is no beer or bonfire at that kind of beach party) directing traffic at the front door.

By 1700, unloading (to include successful reassembly and positioning of Miss Brenda's baby grand piano) had been completed and the movers departed the Amphibious Operations Area.

As promised, I spent my unpacking supervision time thinking of a name for our new place. Under final consideration by the selection committee (Miss Brenda, of course) is (appropriate drum roll and cavalry bugle fanfare here): Eegeebegee, MS (Unincorporated).

Run, Fred, Run

Finally, someone I wouldn't have to hold my nose in order to vote for, has thrown (or is at least winding up for the pitch) his hat in the ring for the race to see who will face off against Hillary Clinton in 2008. Former Senator, and off-again, on-again television and movie actor, Fred Thompson could not be a more clear anti-Hillary candidate. He is pro-life (calls Roe v. Wade, "bad law and bad medical science"), pro-gun ownership, pro-marriage (one man, one woman), and pro-victory in Iraq. Nobody else on the Republican side reminds me more of Ronaldus Magnus (pardon me while I come to the position of attention and salute in the direction of Reagan's final repose.)

Thompson and Hillary have lined up once before on opposite sides of the partisan divide. During the Watergate Hearings, Thompson served as minority (Republican) counsel (he doesn't just play a lawyer on TV--he is one), and Hillary was a lawyer for the democrats.

Picture this Republican ticket: Fred Thompson and Condoleezza Rice.

Geaux to Hayul, LSU!

Did something last night I haven't done in nearly twenty years. I watched a televised basketball game from start to finish. My Ole Miss Rebels were picked to finish at the bottom of the SEC this year (as they have for several years now), but a new coach, a new attitude, and a winning season have them seeded high in the SEC tournament. Last night they played and beat LSU. No, let me rephrase that. Last night they STOMPED LSU!

Stomping LSU is the most satsifying experience in the life of an Ole Miss Rebel. We hate LSU with a passion a mile long. Mississippi State is our in-state rival, and is detested accordingly, but LSU is a hated enemy. A measure of this hatred is summed up in the following reocurrance. Go to any Ole Miss football game against any other team and wait for a time when the crowd is relatively quiet. Inevitably, whether the foe on the field is Georgia, Vandy, Bama, or State, a lone voice in the stands will take advantage of the quiet opportunity to yell with well-liquored lungs, "Go to h***, LSU!"

As much as I hate basketball, it was worth the pain of watching an entire basketball game just to see the cajun cats sent packing back to the bayou.

Some Perspective, Please...

Having been a beneficiary of the US military medical system my entire life--as the son of a career Air Force man and as a career man myself, I feel compelled to weigh in (perhaps with all the force of a gnat fart in a hurricane) on the current controversy surrounding the state of veterans' health care in general and the care given our wounded warriors returning from Rumsfeld's Folly. First, let me say that a young man or woman who volunteers to fight our nation's wars (for pay equal to that of an assistant manager at McDonald's) deserves every honor and benefit a nation as wealthy as ours can bestow. Despite all the applause and ribbon waving, we fall woefully short in that department.

That said, I must point out that in my fairly wide-ranging experience, the American military medical system is the BEST IN THE WORLD. I challenge anyone to pick a country, any country, and go check out their civilian medical system. Then, go check out their military medical system. I have seen the best Europe has to offer and it is downright medieval. Don't get me started about the Asian medical systems I have witnessed.

The hysteria in the press and outrage in congress over peeling plaster in showers and hospital rooms infested with fruit flies would be laughable if it were not so monstrously hypocritical. I bet if the ten of you who subject yourself to this random rant go look in your shower, chances are more than 2 of you are going to find some mold and peeling plaster. I'd love to take a video camera into the shower of some newsy or congressmen and put that on the nightly news, wouldn't you?

On second thought, I wouldn't want to be anywhere near the shower of most of them.

Tara's Taken

The Colonel and his Lady are in the middle of what is hoped (but somehow can't be believed) will be the last time they ever pack up all of their worldly possessions, strike the tent, and force march to another battlefield. Fifty-seven acres at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere is the march objective, and they anticipate establishing our hilltop patrol base there by the end of this month. Although the designation, "Landing Force Objective Alpha," strikes the Colonel's fancy as the perfect name for the new property, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda has exercised her seldom used, but nonetheless authoritative, veto power, and they are mulling over names from a somewhat less martial genre.

Tara is already taken, dear.

Rebel's Roost has a nice ring to it. Though, in that neck of the woods (on the same 1:50,000 map sheet as Ole Miss), the name Rebel is not exactly unique.

Nana's Place is out! What's next, dear? Quilting Bees on the front lawn? The Colonel thinks not!

The Colonel's Corner ( Tract, Holding, Land, etc. suffixed to the prefix descriptive possessive "Colonel's") doesn't pass Miss Brenda's "less martial" test.

Halcyon Hill? Nope, they would spend way too much time explaining that word to the kids and neighbors.

The Colonel likes "Argentina." For a long time now, he has threatened to emigrate to some foreign land to escape all of his... (bet you thought he was gonna say "family" here...but he'll let you fill in the blank). The emigration threat acquired Argentina as a convenient target several years ago, but the Colonel has always maintained that Argentina was a metaphor. Of course, then he had to explain to family and friends the meaning of that word... If the Colonel hung a sign over the gate with Argentina on it, he would probably cause a lot of consternation amongst the Tallahatchie Tribe, so that's probably not gonna make the cut.

An acquaintance of the Colonel's calls his country place "The Dirt." Miss Brenda just grabbed her veto pen.

Can't call the place, "Eden." That's a bit too presumptuous.

Rebel's Retreat is out--"retreat" is not a word jarheads hold in much esteem.

Guess we'll just have to put naming the place on the back burner for now. Something will probably come to to him while the Colonel is supervising Miss Brenda's unpacking chores.