Beat Gameday

The Colonel's Ole Miss Football Rebels host the Alabama Crimson Tide this coming Saturday.  It's a game we Rebels have had circled on our calendars, literally, for a year and, figuratively, for many years. 

Hope springs eternal here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere and in the red, blue, and gray hearts of Rebel Nation.  Our football team looks to be one of the best we have fielded in two generations -- which says something about the abysmal state of Ole Miss Football since Johnny Vaught retired long enough that we could put his name on the stadium.  

The last time Ole Miss claimed an SEC championship was the 100th anniversary of the University Grays last charge at Gettysburg.  

The Colonel doesn't mean to blaspheme, but even Saint Archie never won an SEC title.

Eli didn't either.  Although we claim a tie for the Western Division in 2003, the tie was with LSU who beat us to go to the Championship Game.

But, as we all hoped, Ole Miss is 4 and 0 so far this season -- and that for the first time since 1970.  And, all of Rebel Nation hoped that Alabama would be 4 and 0 coming into this week, as well. 

That's where the figurative calendar date circling comes in.

Having Alabama and Ole Miss both 4 and 0, and both ranked high in the polls, virtually guaranteed that College Gameday would finally come to the Grove -- and correct a college football tailgating slight that has chafed Rebel Nation for a generation.  

The Colonel, however, is probably the ONLY member of Rebel Nation who is NOT happy that Gameday's babbling bobbleheads will be set up in the Grove this Saturday morning.

Tailgating in the Grove has sacred, genteel roots.  To see the rabble of both fanbases roused in a sign-waving frenzy for the cameras will no doubt make for good television.  But, it will also no doubt be a jarring juxtaposition for the Colonel's sensibilities used to a more refined (if a Marine may use that word) atmosphere in the Grove.

Oh, and if one mouth-breathing, sheet-wearer shows up waving Beauregard's battle flag, you can be sure the camera's scandal-seeking eye will find and fix it as the symbol of the University.

By noon on Saturday, the camera crews and bobbleheads will be feasting on southern delectables and the rest of us will be able to catch our breaths long enough to cheer our Rebels as they walk through the Grove on their way to war.  Shortly thereafter, we'll make our way into the Vaught, lock it, and scream as one primordial organism for our young warriors.  

The outcome of the game is everything, and yet matters little in the grand scheme of big-money college football.

If the Rebel's pull off an upset of the Tide, we'll storm the field in celebration -- then reset our internal Rebel clocks to reality.

The rest of the SEC Western Division -- five more teams, who at one point or another this season will spend multiple weeks in the top 25 of the rankings -- await on the schedule.

If the Tide loses this Saturday, they will win-out and win the National Championship.

See Notre Dame 1977 and Florida 2008 for just two examples of the Ole Miss Upset Phenomenon.

After all, we are Ole Miss...

Chinese Fighter Drill

It was a Sunday morning in early April of 2001.  The Colonel and his Lady, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda, had just settled into their customary aisle-side seats in the Yongsan Chapel, when the beeper on the Colonel's hip got his attention.

The Colonel slid out of the pew and walked outside to call the duty officer in the US Forces Korea operations bunker.

"Boss," the major on the other end of the line said tersely, "you need to come to Ops."

The Colonel was nearing the end of a year as the Chief of Current Operations Branch (CJ-3 Ops); an insane job spent monitoring the major muscle movements of the crazies north of the DMZ and maintaining up-to-the-minute cognizance of the readiness status of combined US and Republic of Korea forces on the sane end of the Korean peninsula.  The Chief of Current Ops was normally the first O-6 to get called when anything out of the ordinary happened.  What made the job so insane was that those calls came hourly, on average, 24/7.  All.  Night.  Long.

The Korean Peninsula isn't an ordinary place.  

The toughest part of the Colonel's job was deciding what out-of-the-ordinary occurrences required waking generals up.  

The duty rep from the Intelligence Center was waiting on the Colonel when he got to the Ops bunker.  He quickly briefed the Colonel that a US intelligence gathering plane -- an EP-3 (see picture above) -- had just made an emergency landing on Hainan Island.

Hainan Island was Peoples Republic of China territory.  US Pacific Command's responsibility.  US Forces Korea normally didn't pay much attention to China.  But, this was serious enough and close enough to our area of responsibility that it probably warranted the Colonel calling his boss -- a US Army major general whose title was C/J -3 (Combined/Joint Operations Officer).  His boss was the four-star.

The Colonel picked up the phone and dialed the C/J-3's number.  There was no answer on his quarters phone.  The Colonel was in the process of dialing the general's beeper when he walked into the room.

"Saw you leave the chapel and figured something was up when you didn't come back in."

Over the next couple of hours the situation fleshed itself out as more and more information came in.  A Chinese fighter jet had intercepted the US EP-3 about 100 miles off the coast of Hainan.  The EP-3's flight was a routine intel-gathering mission.  The intercept was routine, as well.

Except that "routine" for this particular Chinese pilot involved flying very close to, and sometimes crossing very close in front of, the US aircraft.  We knew it was the same pilot, because on other intercepts he had flown close enough to flash his e-mail address for the US airmen to see.

This time, the Chinese fighter pilot misjudged and his aircraft struck the nose of the American plane.  His plane was destroyed and his body was never recovered.

The EP-3, seriously damaged, rolled over and plunged out of control toward the South China Sea.  Heroic effort by the pilot got the aircraft back under enough control to make an emergency landing at a Chinese military airfield on Hainan.   The Chinese held the EP-3 crew for almost two weeks.   

The newly-inaugurated Bush administration defused the tense international incident by sending a letter apologizing for the "unauthorized landing."  W even sent a personal letter of condolence to the Chinese hotdog fighter pilot's widow.  The Chi-comms tried to bully the Bush administration into paying for their lost jet, but W was only going to bow and scrape so much. 

This past week another hot-dogging Chinese fighter pilot intercepted a US P-8 (new jet replacement for the propeller driven P-3).  The Chinese fighter pilot pulled a couple of stunts reminiscent of Maverick in "Top Gun," flying very close (within 30 feet) to the P-8, showing off his weapons load, and then barrel-rolling over the top of the US aircraft.

The Obama Administration has lodged a formal diplomatic complaint with the PRC.  They have responded by angrily demanding that the US cease the intel-gathering flights near their submarine base on Hainan and stay out of the area around the Paracel Islands.  

The PRC occupies the Paracels, but Taiwan and Vietnam also claim the territory.  A somewhat similar dispute is raging over the resource-rich Spratly Islands further to the south, with the Philippines, Brunei, Taiwan, Malaysia, Vietnam, and China all claiming sovereignty.   

All sides have been ramping up the rhetoric and re-arming with regard to this and other territorial disputes in the area.

Keep your eyes on the PRC.  They aren't backing down.

All the more reason to quickly dispatch the fledgling Islamic State.  We'll need to have all our wits and weapons about us when we finally end up going toe-to-toe with the Chinese. 
             

A Tale of Two Towns

Anybody who thinks that the "politics of personal destruction" is a relatively new phenomenon in U.S. political history...  Well, they don't know shinola about history.

In late July of 1864, little more than a year after General Robert E. Lee had withdrawn his Gettysburg-mauled Army of Northern Virginia from Pennsylvania, another Confederate force under the command of Major General Jubal Early pushed north down the Shenandoah Valley and invaded northern territory in a bid to take pressure off of Lee's forces hemmed up by Grant at Petersburg and Richmond.  

A subordinate force under Brigadier General John McCausland raided the town of Chambersburg, Pennsylvania and demanded a ransom of $500,000, or $100,000 in gold. 

The good people of Chambersburg refused. 

McCausland burned the town.

Guarded by Confederate masons, the Chambersburg Masonic Temple was the only building of note left standing.

Another nearby landmark in southern Pennsylvania, US Postmaster Montgomery Blair's mansion in Silver Spring, was burned by Early's forces. 

Less than a month later -- 150 years ago, today -- Union forces returned the favor.

Union General William T. Sherman and his army were cutting a swath through the South, headed for Atlanta, and Confederate cavalryman Nathan Bedford Forrest was playing havoc with Sherman's supply lines.  

Tasked with the mission from Sherman of "follow[ing] Forrest until death," Union Major General Andrew J. Smith gathered a force in west Tennessee and headed south into Mississippi in search of the legendary and troublesome Forrest.  Immediately upon his arrival in Oxford, Mississippi, Smith received word that his quarry was back up his line of march -- behind him -- in Memphis.  He turned his force around and headed that way.

But, not before giving the order to burn Oxford.  Smith also ordered that the nearby University of Mississippi, then really not much more than one main building -- the iconically beautiful Lyceum -- also be torched.    

The town burned; Ole Miss didn't.  

Nobody knows for sure why Smith ordered Oxford torched.  Grant didn't do it when he occupied the town in 1862.  Some say it was in retaliation for the burning of Chambersburg and Blair's mansion. Smith never said and didn't leave a memoir.

He left a lasting memory in the psyche of Oxford, however.

One of the structures in Oxford specifically targeted that day was former US Secretary of the Interior Jacob Thompson's home. Thompson was particularly despised in the North for having immediately resigned from Lincoln's cabinet upon Southern secession and joining the army of the Confederacy.  Thompson further fueled the Union's hatred of him by heading secretive operations in Canada against the United States and attempting to create a "Northwest Confederacy" against the Union.

So, burning Thompson's home, "Home Place," was personal.

So had been burning Blair's mansion, "Falkland."

But, as heinous and ruthless as some Americans can be towards one another, there are actions by other Americans -- even in the midst of all-out war -- that demonstrate the great capacity of our people to peek around the blinders of hate and see the right things that must be done. 

As Chambersburg was put to the torch, some Confederate units disobeyed their orders and helped residents save personal belongings.  They even prevented some sections of the town from being set alight by their brothers in butternut.

The Union officers sent to burn the fledgling University of  Mississippi saw no good in its destruction.  They disobeyed their orders.  

They disobeyed orders that made all the sense in the world to men gone mad with hatred and revenge.

Some beautiful and good things remained standing in the ashes of two towns that late summer of 1864.  

The Lyceum, and the town of Oxford, would see more hatred unleashed nearly a hundred years later.  They were scarred, both literally and figuratively, then too.

They sure stand pretty, today. 

We Are Ole Miss

A week from today the Colonel's Rebels begin their 2014 football season, taking on Boise State in the Chick-fil-a Kick-off Game in Hotlanta's Georgia Dome.

Rebel Nation is fired up for this season.

All indications are that Ole Miss will field one of the best football squads in a generation.  The AP Preseason rankings have the Rebels at 18, and while the sacredness of that number at Ole Miss (the speed limit on campus is 18 mph in honor of the number worn by favorite son, Archie Manning) has many believing in a sign from the football gods, there's worry in the back of the minds of most Rebel fans.

The last three times Ole Miss entered a season ranked in the top 25, results didn't match expectations.

"We Are Ole Miss!" is as much an expression of resignation to our ability to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory as it is a battle cry.  If there was a trophy for shooting one's self in the foot, they would have retired it to the Ole Miss trophy case years ago.

And, that goes for the rest of the University of Mississippi family just as much as it does for our sports teams.

Ole Miss has been called (correctly -- in the Colonel's not-so humble opinion) an "Oasis."  The Ole Miss campus and the town of Oxford appear out of nowhere as you traverse the otherwise non-descript landscape of North Mississippi; rising incongruously from the kudzu-clad and pine-dotted clay hills like a debutante sitting in a hog pen.  

"Beauty" is a word used often to describe things about Ole Miss.  Its grounds compete with its girls for the description.  Its spirit with its sights.

But the past is checkered at Ole Miss.  One of the latest participants in the literal parade of literary legends through Ole Miss, John Cofield, had this to say about the history of Ole Miss: 

"As gray as we wish it were; as red and blue as we want it to be; it’s clearly Black & White, and too often, mixed with the blues." 

We are Ole Miss.  Our disappointment in our social foibles carries over, amplified by an odd mixture of pride and self-loathing, to our disappointment at fumbles on the field.  

We are Ole Miss.  We can out-party, out-pretty, and out-polite any other collection of fans in the nation.  And, we can slip the gown off our shoulder and show you a horrible bruise that somehow just won't go away.

We are Ole Miss.  We can give Alabama absolutely all they can handle one Saturday afternoon and roll over to Jacksonville State the next.

We are Ole Miss.  We can let ignorant folks' insults roll off our backs with the grace of a ballerina and the accommodating spirit of a first century Christian.  And, with the most idiotic of provocations, we can rare back and hurl the most vile, spiteful vitriol -- spat from behind teeth bared in a hateful sneer that would make Genghis Khan rein his pony in.

We are Ole Miss.  We can hold opposing offenses to absolutely zip for an entire season, and then let Billy Cannon shed tackles from EVERY Rebel on the field, returning a punt for the go ahead score.

The Colonel can't wait for it to begin, but he makes no prognostication about this upcoming season.  He knows all too well that,

WE ARE OLE MISS!          

Mississippi Melting

North Mississippi in the middle of August is unlike anywhere else on earth.  

The Colonel knows this because he has spent all or part of the month of August on every continent save Antarctica. 

August, here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere, is a dry, yet muggy, green-going-dusty brown, withering kudzu-clad hell. 

It's the Colonel's favorite place on this big blue marble, but it is hell in August, nonetheless.

Holy scripture describes Hell as a place where "their worm dieth not and the fire is not quenched."

Yep.  That's Mississippi in August, alright.

There was a time, long ago, in the halcyon days of his not-so misspent youth, that the Colonel relished the sweat-soaked sauna of a long run in the noon-time heat of August.

Introduced to that running ritual whilst matriculating at the cultural center of the southern universe -- Ole Miss -- the Colonel sought, self-abusively, to recreate the endorphin rush that accompanies pushing the body to the edge of heat stroke in whatever locale he was presently, if not pleasantly, posted.   

August in the piney hills of Quantico, Virginia is ugly with a heat and humidity combo that has driven generations of Marine officer, and FBI agent, candidates to the brink of dehydrated dementia.

But, it ain't Mississippi.

Camp Lejeune, North Carolina simmers in the summer.

But, it don't cook like Mississippi.

Macon, Georgia and Montgomery, Alabama are the twin sisters of August -- Misery and Agony.

But, their blues don't match Mississippi's.

North Africa is hot in August.  Well, North Africa is hot in every month with a letter in it's name.

But, Tunisia and Morocco could take lessons in heat-induced listlessness from Mississippi.

Panama has two seasons -- hot and dry, and hot and wet.  But, Panama wraps in you in constant, year-round blanket of skin and blood-thinning warmth.  

North Mississippi whipsaws you from one extreme to another, with an oh-so-brief, tender, loving lull of glorious, worshipful weather between.   One month it's winter, the next it's hell. 

Thailand and the Philippines are just plain sticky.  But, they're sticky all the time.

It gets so awfully hot in Mississippi in August that "sticky" would be a relief.

Hawaii?  Okinawa?  Seoul?  Toulon?  Perth?  Diego Garcia?  Denmark?  Hong Kong?  Singapore?  Naples?  Vieques?  

Seriously?

Y'all ain't got nuthin'!

It is so hot, and miserable, and muggy, and oppressive, and stultifying (had to find a word to make the Colonel's Mississippi State grad brother break out his dictionary) this week in North Mississippi that the Colonel has suspended all outside operations, indefinitely.

Until the weather breaks, the Colonel is just going to stay inside and write bad things about it.             

The Math at Ole Miss

Forty years ago this week, the Colonel packed his meager belongings in the same trunk his father had taken to college a quarter century earlier.  As a vagabond military brat, he had learned to keep his stuff stacked short and tight.  Nearly everything he needed  -- clothing, linens, radio, and a few favorite books -- fit in the trunk.

The two-hour ride with the folks from Columbus to Oxford was a quiet one.  

The Gregory's oldest was off to college.  

Well..., Ole Miss.

The Colonel and his father lugged the trunk into the elevator of his eleven story dorm on the edge of campus.  

Another student joined them in the elevator.  In his arms was a turn table and a box of vinyl albums.

The old Air Force noncom couldn't resist, "Got your noise with ya, huh?"

The kid tossed a mop of blond hair with jerk of his head and answered semi-politely, "Yessir."  His voice was thick with Mississippi.

The Colonel's family had only just returned from a 4 1/2 year posting to the Panama Canal Zone that summer.  The last time he had spent any time in his parents' home state had been nearly a decade earlier.  Mississippi was as foreign to the Colonel as Panama had seemed at the beginning of that tour of duty.  

The Mississippi accent was going to take some getting used to.  

Particularly when attached to a female.

The Colonel's mother was a southern lady to be sure, but she never laid the mouth honey on like those girls at Ole Miss did.

The first week at Ole Miss was the most disorienting of the Colonel's life to that point.  Panama had been culture shock.  Ole Miss was cultured shock.

It became rapidly and readily apparent that he didn't exactly fit at Ole Miss.

His wardrobe was wrong -- jeans and a "hang-ten" shirt had been fine in Panama, but lagged seriously in the race for best-dressed at Ole Miss.

His accent was wrong -- if the Colonel heard "Where are you from?" once that week, he heard it a thousand times.

His verbal expressions were wrong -- "aiee, chuleta!" wasn't a common phrase in the deep south in 1974.  It's becoming one now, but that's grist for another post. 

The Colonel had erroneously thought he was going to just another public university.  

Wrong!  Oh, so wrong!

He wasn't going to college.  The Colonel was going to Ole Miss.

Turns out there were many students there on the most beautiful college campus in all the wide world who were learning to swim in a different cultural current just like the Colonel.  

Owing to the relatively low expense of attending the University of Mississippi, the Department of the Navy in those days steered a great many of the young men and women awarded Naval ROTC scholarships to Ole Miss.  While some of these folks were steeped in the southern culture, in general, and Mississippi culture, specifically; most were in the same boat as the Colonel.  

The Colonel became, for the first time in his life, part of a "counter-culture."

It wouldn't be the last time he belonged to an organization whose ethos ran decidedly against the common grain.

As one of our group put it years later, "We loved Ole Miss, but Ole Miss didn't love us."

The Colonel couldn't wait to graduate and put Ole Miss in the rear view mirror.

And as soon as he did, he couldn't wait to get back.

Ole Miss had marked him, claimed him, chained him.

The Colonel never told anyone he had gone to the University of Mississippi.  He went to Ole Miss. 

And now the Colonel realizes that his diversity helped change Ole Miss a little bit, too.  

But, the Colonel's diversity didn't subtract from the spirit, traditions, and unique culture of Ole Miss -- it added.

He didn't demand that folks speak or dress or act more like him. But, he taught a lot of folks about the world outside of Mississippi. The Colonel dares to say that there are literally hundreds of Ole Miss grads out there who can tell you a little bit about the Panama Canal Zone, and Morocco, and life as a military brat, courtesy of the Colonel. 

Ultimately, we all want change.  The trick is to change by addition, not subtraction.   

  

     

     

Love Letter

The Colonel begs your permission to dispense, for the duration of this post, with his customary use of the third person (or, as the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda refers to it, the literary version of nails on a chalkboard).  

I have something personal to say to my wife.

I want to tell my wife of thirty-eight years, as of roughly 30 minutes ago, that you have always been the best thing in my life.  That's saying something, because God has blessed me with many, many, very good things.

You have almost always been the first thing I think of when I wake up in the morning, and almost always the last thing I think of when I go to sleep.

Why almost?

Well, I'd be telling a lie if didn't admit to, on the very rare occasion, thinking about the opening day of duck season or the game-winning field goal as I woke up or fell asleep.

Not gonna let a stupid duck or some lucky college kid make a liar out of me.

You have almost always been the first person with whom I've wanted to share a secret or a remarkable sight.

Almost, because there were a couple of secrets and sights to which I was privy over the years that I would just as soon forget.  

The one sight I will never forget was you, the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, walking down the aisle to marry me.

To marry me!

I cannot ever get over just how lucky I am that you are mine. 

Luckier than a bob-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.

Luckier than the second mouse to the cheese.

Luckier than a bug in a traffic jam.

Just so you know, Miss Brenda; it may have been an incredibly lucky stroke that made you mine, but there ain't nuthin' or nobody lucky (or strong) enough to take you away from me. 

You are my anchor.

If I had a muse (or knew what a muse was), you would be it.

I love you more than anything -- duck hunting and Ole Miss football included.

I love your smile, your laugh, your pout, your frown; I love the way you can do all four in the space of one breath.

You are the one person in all the world I trust without condition.  

You hold my heart in your hands.

Thirty-eight years.  

I want to live to ninety-six -- just so I can have thirty-eight more.  

Foggy Feelin's

Fog enshrouds the kudzu-clad hills this morning, here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere.  

It's cool outside.  The Colonel checked at dawn, sitting on the front porch and listening to the birds announce another day; a strong cup of coffee warming him and clearing the fog of sleep.

It won't stay cool.  The brief respite from the swelter of summer is over.  It'll be hot and humid before too long, this morning.

There's a pile of projects waiting completion.  Seems the Colonel's re-retirement is less restful than ever, what with the frantic folly of filling his time with all the things he didn't have time for when all he could do was dream about having time to do them.

But, it's foggy still; and cool outside; and the Colonel remembers the dream of being able to just do nothing.

Watch the hummingbirds gang up to fill up.

Listen to the mourning doves mourn.

See the sun rise red and filtered by the gray mists of morning.

Catch the scent of flowers advertising.

It'll be hot and humid soon; reminding of long marches in the sun, and times when the march was all there was.

No more marches.  

Just memories by the score, and no scorecard to keep 'em straight. 

  

Revive Manifest Destiny

The Colonel has always loved the flag of the United States.

While the sight of its broad stripes and bright stars never fails to cause him to catch his breath; the Colonel's love, and deep respect, for our national flag goes far beyond its bold colors and striking symmetry.

The Colonel loves "for which it stands."

A Republic of free people, and for free people.

The American Republic, for all its blemishes and faults, has advanced the cause of freedom -- best expressed as "personal liberty" -- farther, wider, and deeper than any nation in the history of nations.  

And, as much as the Colonel loves the flag of the United States of America, he fervently believes it is time to change it -- again.

It's time to add another 50 stars.

The Colonel isn't taking about the balkanization of the existing republic.  (You Californians are so self-absorbed!)

The Colonel believes the only way our republic -- of and for the people -- can survive another 200 years, is to do what made it great in its first two centuries.

Expand.

There is, the Colonel believes, a very good reason the founders of our republic did not call the new nation the United States of North America.

Today, our nation is gripped in paroxysms of popular expression -- even manifesting itself in acts of outrage -- not seen since the "Nativist" movement in response to the last great wave of immigration over a century ago.

Compassion and Security have become competing watchwords in the current kerfuffle over the tide of humanity sweeping across our southern border.

They need not be.

There are those who say that our southern border must be "secured."  And by that, they mean that we must build and occupy defensive positions to prevent any unauthorized passage northward.

While the Colonel could do just that; give him a respectable fraction of the manpower and resources of our military and he will reduce the illegal immigration, drug and people trafficking, and flood of cheap labor to a barely perceptible trickle; occupying defensive positions is destructive to personal, organizational, and national morale.  No nation, of any impact in world history (Switzerland being perhaps the lone exception to the rule), has ever maintained its sovereignty, let alone relevancy, by remaining on the defensive.  

There are those who say our southern border should be compassionately wide open to anyone seeking a better, more secure, life.

The Colonel actually agrees with that last sentiment.  Our nation should, and can, welcome anyone who wishes to become a loyal, productive, law-abiding citizen of our republic. 

It's the significantly large percentage of border-crossers harboring other than productive, law-abiding motives that the Colonel has a problem with.

Pay attention -- attempting to solve the humanitarian and national security crisis at our southern border via compassionate and defensive measures, at our southern border, is LUNACY!

Instead of building a Maginot Line on the Rio Grande, we should expand our republic to Tierra del Fuego.

The Colonel will pause to let the Bama Bandwagon Boors and LSU graduates a chance to catch up -- you see, after WWI, the French built the Maginot Line, an incredible series of seemingly impregnable fortifications along their border with Germany, to keep the German Army from invading..., again.  (See Spring of 1940, for a case study of the strategic effectiveness  of that idea). 

Now, bear with the Colonel.  He's not necessarily advocating a full-scale military invasion of the rest of the Western Hemisphere -- as fun as that would be.  The United States should, instead, encourage the people of countries to our south, whose governments cannot and will not provide security and prospect for prosperity, to rise up and petition for admission to the American Republic as States.  

The long-term security and prosperity of every inhabitant of the AMERICAN HEMISPHERE depends on unity under the greatest form of government ever devised by man -- the Constitution of the United States of America. 

"But, what about Canada, Colonel?" 

The more the merrier!      
      

Berry Good

The sign on the wall in the kitchen says, "The only reason I have this kitchen is it came with the house."

The Colonel's Lady, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda, is no stranger to the kitchen.  It's just that they aren't normally on speaking terms.

Make no mistake.  Miss Brenda cooks.  And, well.

She just isn't addicted to it.

The Colonel probably has his still battle-ready physique to thank for that.  He's a food-a-holic.  If Miss Brenda really liked to cook, the Colonel would be as big as a house.

Most southern women have a signature dish.  One that is remembered generationally and spoken of in the reverence and awe normally reserved for SEC football coaches.

The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda doesn't sign autographs.
  
There is, however, an exception to every rule.  In the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's case, the "These hands shall not touch pot nor skillet" commandment is broken every year around the end of June and the beginning of July.

Here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere fiendish flora flower and fruit.  Eleven months out of the year, the thorn-bearing canes elicit howls of pain and misery from errant passersby.

But, yea, verily in the twelfth month the cane doth produce heavenly fruit.

Blackberries.

Just writing that word makes the Colonel's mouth water.

And, what the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda can do with a mess of blackberries should probably be illegal.

She makes blackberry jam.

The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's blackberry jam would bring peace to the Middle East.

If Marse Robert had put a jar of the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's blackberry jam on the table in front of him at Appomattox Courthouse, Grant would have surrendered to Lee.

Familial fistfights have broken out in the Colonel's household over the last jar of the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's blackberry jam.

The Colonel kids thee not, when extended family visits from out of town, the first thing they do is present the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda with an empty jar.  The Colonel's Lady reciprocates with a new jar of jam and familial peace is assured for the remainder of the visit.

A spoonful of the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's blackberry jam slathered on a piece of cardboard will make you run out and buy stock in Georgia Pacific.

For the 'Bama fans and LSU "colige graduits" who may be scratching hat racks:  Georgia Pacific is a company that makes cardboard.  Miss Brenda's jam is so good that...  

...oh, never mind.

        
   

Third Child

An interesting, yet timeless, phenomenom is playing itself out here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere.  Whenever an instance of the phenomenom occurs, it is met with the same explanatory observation...

"Third child."

The first child born to a set of parents (and two sets of grandparents) is a wonderful and frightening thing.  Every squeak, hiccup, stumble, and cry draws an immediate and deeply concerned response from the parental (and grandparental) units.  

A soon-born second child elicits nearly the same wonder and fright with each similar action.

The third child?  Not so much...

Cases in point: the Colonel's three grandsons -- the Hope of 21st Century Civilization, Dashes 1, 2, and 3 (H21CC--1, 2, & 3).  The Colonel is enjoying the rare priviledge of participating in, and closely observing, the raising of three boys from infancy to..., well..., boyhood.  His not-so scientific mind has logged, analyzed, and categorized every aspect of this process, and he is as qualified as any to relate the following findings of fact. 

The first child is watched like a hawk.  If Dash 1 happens to stumble and bump his head on a piece of furniture, the reaction of his parents and grandparents is similar to that of a mass casualty event...

"Call 911!"

"Cordon off the area!  Remove all hard-edged furniture from the premises!"

"Is that a bruise?  Oh no, he'll be scarred for life!"

"You take him to the Emergency Room and I'll go buy a bike helmet to protect his precious soft head."

If Dash 2 stumbles and bumps his head, the reaction is somewhat less frantic, but no less concerned...

"Call 911!"

"Cordon off the area!  Why is that coffee table still in the room?!"

"Is that a bruise? Oh no, Child Protective Services are going to think we are beating him!"

"You take him to the Emergency Room and I'll go buy some bubble wrap for his head."

When Dash 3 stumbles and bumps his head, the reaction of the adults in attendance is entirely different...

"What's he crying about, now?"

"Did he scratch the coffee table?"

"Hey, look at that scratch on his face! Gonna call him 'Scarface!'"

...and then,

"Ha, ha, ha... Third child."

Another example, just in case a slow Bama fan (the Colonel knows -- redundant) is reading...

A parental unit notices that Dash 1's pacifyer has fallen from his mouth and landed on the floor.  Before said parental unit can react, Dash 1 has retrieved said pacifyer and put it back in his mouth.

"Call the Poision Control Center!"

"Induce vomiting!"

(The Colonel will pause at this juncture to point out that inducing a baby to vomit is a complete waste of effort -- give any baby 15 or 20 seconds and it will regurgitate the entire contents of the last three bottles it has consumed.  If you still feel the need to induce a baby to vomit, the easiest way is to put on a clean shirt and hold the baby on your shoulder...)

"Gather up all of his pacifyers and boil them for an hour and a half!"  

The reaction to Dash 2 placing a dropped pacifyer back in his face is a little different...

"Give me that, you're gonna get worms!"

"Did you just spit up again?  This is a clean shirt!"

"Here, take this pacifyer, the dog just licked it clean."

Dash 3 is allowed much greater freedom of movement than his older brothers.  Said freedom of movement includes the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's flower beds...

"Hey, look!  He's got a whole wad of dirt in his mouth!  Looks like a major league pitcher." 

"Gonna be gross when he spits all that up!"  

"Hey, do they make dirt-flavored pacifyers?"

...and then,

"Ha, ha, ha!  Third child." 

Dash 1's diet is closely monitored.

"No, you can't give the baby ice cream!"

Dash 2?

"Okay, just a little taste of ice cream..."

Dash 3?

"Man, look at him chow down on that fudge bar!"

"Hey, do they make Rocky Road-flavored pacifyers?"    

"Ha, ha, ha! Third child."


Dash 3 completes his first air-breathing revolution around Ol' Sol this week.  

Happy Birthday, Joshua Bradley Gregory!

"Hey look, he just took a big swig of coffee from the Colonel's mug!"

"Ha, ha, ha! Third Child."     

Mensa Minion

The Colonel's newest grandson -- the Hope of 21st Century Civilization, Dash 3 (H21CC-3) -- is three weeks shy of the first anniversary of his air-breathing ride round ol' Sol, and yet is demonstrating intelligence and physical ability quickly surpassing that of the Colonel.

Two weeks ago, H21CC-3 let go of any physical support and began walking, without any regard for the next item of physical support. 

The Colonel rarely walks anywhere any more without first landmarking his next resting point. 

Over the last month or so, H21CC-3 has begun training the Colonel to make animal sounds.  He's actually quite gifted at this.

The kid, not the Colonel.

The youngun points at a figurine or picture of an animal and the Colonel makes the appropriate bird call, quack, roar, whinny, or trumpet.  If the Colonel is not sufficiently robust or accurate, H21CC-3 corrects him with a better rendition.

H21CC-3 has begun to increase the rapidity and frequency of these drills to the point that the Colonel rapidly and frequently loses track and often erroneously substitutes a hoot for a snort, or a quack for a tweet.

The kid immediately corrects the Colonel and restarts the drill.

When he grows up, H21CC-3 will probably either be an NFL lineman or a globetrotting non-discriminating chef.

The kid loves to eat; will eat anything; and loves to share.

He wants you to share what's on your plate with him.

When it's time to eat, H21CC-3 lets you know it.  If you are slow with the spoon to his mouth, he lets you know it.   

His brothers (H21CC-1 and 2) don't eat enough at one sitting to keep a cockroach alive.  Dash 3 would out-eat a ravenous pack of hyenas.

But first, he would correct their laughs.   

Little Men

The Colonel is a student of history.

The word, "student," is used here in the strictest definition: one who studies something.

The Colonel makes no claim on mastery of history, or any subject for that matter.  But, it takes no more than just a casual glance at the current world situation to see clearly that if history doesn't repeat itself, it certainly rhymes well.

The current United States Secretary of State, John Kerry, announced to the world the other day -- during his sneeze-in-a-whirlwind visit to Kiev -- that Vladimir Putin's thinly disguised occupation of the Crimean Peninsula was "not 21st-century, G-8, major-nation behavior."

The problem with Mr. Kerry's worldview is that it is hopeful at best, woefully naive at worst.

The Colonel is always hopeful.  But, he always plans for the worst case.

He can't help but.  The Colonel was trained by some of the world's foremost skeptics -- Marine NCOs.

Mr. Kerry, himself, was presumably exposed to similar instruction prior to and during his self-aborted tour in Vietnam. 

It didn't take.

The John Kerry's of the world -- including his boss -- view the world as they wished it was. 

A world in which no one acts in self-interest -- that is, self-interest as the John Kerry's determine it.

A world in which nations play by the rules -- that is, the rules the John Kerry's decide are appropriate.  

A world in which appeals to common sense and propriety (as the John Kerry's define those concepts) are met with immediate repentance and reparation by transgressors.

A world in which, in order to lead, the United States need only stand in the background and nod sagely at appropriate behavior and give stern looks at misbehavior.

A world in which bluster and drawing of "red lines" is sufficient.   

Surely the John Kerry's of the world know better.

Surely the John Kerry's of the world know that for millenia, statesmen and politicians have hailed new centuries in which men and nations were far more "civilized" or "progressive" or whatever than the men and nations of the preceding century.

Surely the John Kerry's of the world know that history shows each century's statesmen have been wrong in that assessment.

As long as a gracious God delays the end of man, little men will seek to make themselves and their nations bigger than they see themselves.

Vladamir Putin is such a "little" man.

The oligarchy in the People's Republic of China are such "little" men.      

Turning the calendar page to a new century does not change the nature of man any more than setting the clocks forward adds more daylight to the day. 

Our national leaders will serve and protect us best to see the world as it is -- and forever will be -- rather than risking our security and prosperity through inane naivete. 

By the way, John Kerry, the Colonel sees you for what you are -- a little man who abandonned his comrades in arms and threw them under the bus to further his political ambition.  
      

Revolt in 2016

It doesn't take a history professor to see the coming revolution. 

But, it ain't gonna be the revolt that the Colonel and his fellow (little r) republicans would prefer. 

It's not going to be a Tea Party party. 

Frankly, most of the Colonel's fellow (little r) republicans, despite disgust with the extra- and un- constitutional political machinations of the political ruling class, are far too comfortable and have far too much to lose to consider pledging their sacred honor in order to save America for their posterity.  

Talk is cheap.  Action costs more than most are willing to give.

Doubt this?

Then how do you explain not one percentage point of increase in military enlistment from the upper middle, and above, classes post 9-11?  

That's right. For all the flag-waving, and despite anecdotal evidence to the contrary, there was no appreciable increase in volunteers for military service.  The Colonel knows this from first-hand experience leading a sizable portion of the Marine Corps recruiting effort for two years following 9-11.

But, make no mistake, a revolution is coming. 

The revolution will be led by those who, in a few years, will find the governmental largesse upon which they have become dependent, has dried up. 

The coming revolution will be against the Colonel and his fellow (little r) republicans. 

The next American Revolution will be a socialist movement. 

It pains the Colonel to tell you this. Recognizing the truth is always painful. 

Projections

Something has to give.

The Colonel's LOP (List of Projects: compilation of great landscaping, terra forming, and woodworking ideas) far exceeds his grasp.  The Colonel's PL (Project List: landscaping, terra forming, and woodworking projects begun but not completed) far exceeds the prioritization capability of his ADD addled mind. 

Further, adding insult to injury, the Colonel's once robust, if diminutive, physique has begun to atrophy at an alarming rate matched only by the rate at which his cognitive abilities are becoming less cognitive and far less able.

And then there's the weather. 

Climate change is a fact folks.

One needs only spend a modicum of time outdoors, or examining the monthly electric bill, to see the proof of significant change. 

One season it is unbearably hot and humid; the next it is unbearably cold and wet.  

Oh, how the Colonel longs for the good old days before corporate greed and rampant consumerism raised CO2 levels and turned our atmosphere into an ice sheet-melting greenhouse, spawning mega hurricanes, massive desertification, earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, sunspots, tsunamis, killer bee invasions, mega fauna extinction, Walmarts, (deep breath), pet-eating pythons, libertarians, shovel-ready projects, S & L failures, falling test scores, alien abductions, and... 

Undocumented immigration.

It was a simpler time in the halcyon days of the Colonel's misspent youth/young adulthood.  

BCCE (Before Climate Change Era), life had meaning. 

BCCE, our enemies were bigger, badder, and tangible. Darn you, Gorbachev, you gave up too easily.

Must have been the weather.

BCCE, there was no such thing as Seasonal Affect Disorder.

BCCE, our children were less self-absorbed and much more polite.  

BCCE, birds weren't as angry, cows weren't as flatulant, and John Wayne was... well... John Wayne.

BCCE, the Colonel's writing made infinitely more sense.

The Colonel is tempted to follow Gorbachev's lead (there sure ain't any American leaders behind which to queue up any more) and throw in the towel. 

Anything he builds is just gonna get washed away in a couple hundred years when sea levels rise back to where they were a couple million years ago...

Wait. What?

Heart-Felt

A friend of the Colonel's refers to this day -- Valentine's Day -- as "Single Awareness Day."

For the gap-toothed Bama football fans whose only connection to the University of Alabama is the Walmart-bought "Roll Tide" T-shirt their momma gave them when they "graduated" from middle school (the rest of us refer to this as "dropping out"), the first letter in each of the words "Single Awareness Day" spells out the word: SAD.  Get it? No?  Well, might as well give your lips a rest and quit reading this post right here.  Oh, before you go, you might want to run over to Walmart this afternoon -- they got a "three-for" sale today for Valentine's roses, 99 National Championships T-shirts, and herbicide.

Seems to the Colonel's finely tuned sensibilities that Valentine's Day is more commercially hyped than Christmas these days.

Do you wonder, as does the Colonel, how long it will be before the thought police will decide that the word "Valentine" is politically incorrect?  After all, it's really Saint Valentine's Day.  The thought police have already discouraged and discarded any religious reference to the day; it can't be long until the day becomes "Heart Day."

Or, "Love Day."

Or, "Friendship Day."

Or, "I bought you these flowers at Walmart on the way home, what's for dinner, can we have sex Day"

The Colonel thinks his friend may have it right. It has become a SAD day.

It's a sad day when only one day of the year is dedicated to demonstrating your care for another.

It's a sad day when you demonstrate such low regard for the worth of that special someone that you think flowers and chocolate are the way to their heart.

It's a sad day when holidays are hijacked and ecumenicized into nothing more than bland commercial opportunities.

The Colonel isn't going to stand for it.

He's marching right now over to the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's side and whispering into her ear his most heart-felt sweet nothing:

"Sweetthing, let's get outside and get the chores done."
   

Dog's Vomit

Okay, he'll admit it.  The Colonel is a huge hypocrite.

Look in the margin of the dictionary beside the word and you will see the Colonel's mug shot.

In fact, pick any one of the Ten Commandments, or any other of your favorite character flaws and the Colonel can quickly demonstrate or otherwise explain why he is the poster child for it's breakage or bearage, respectively.

It's not a particular point of pride, mind you.  But the Colonel is keenly aware that he is not God, and as such, not just a little imperfect, but completely imperfect.

The Colonel's only perfection is his complete imperfection.

He's broken every Commandment -- in thought, if not deed (but, most in deed) -- and is saved from God's great wrath only by God's great grace through His Son, Jesus.

But enough about the Colonel's good points.

The point of this post, toward which you no doubt have been leaning forward in eager anticipation, is the announcement of the Colonel's return to an accommodation with social media -- specifically, Facebook.

Not quite the return to sin warned about in scripture and referenced in the title of this post, but close enough to smell the stink.

In fact, upon his return to Facebook after a 13 month absence, the Colonel was nearly instantaneously repulsed by the jassackery which attended his digital break with his "friends" a year ago.

So, why return?

Well, the Colonel has family who live and communicate via Facebook and while they may not have missed him, he felt like he was missing out not seeing the candid photos, selfies, and meals about to be eaten which pass for artistic expressions of culture nowadays.

And, the Colonel has true "friends" he still cares about, whose candid photos, selfies, and meals about to be eaten must be accepted as a price of friendship.

And, finally, the Colonel has disciplined himself over the past 13 months to the point where he might just be mature enough to once again be trusted with the weapon of mass destruction that is social media.

And, really finally, how else are you gonna know when the Colonel has posted something on his blog?        

February Engagement

The Colonel begs the forgiveness of the throngs of you, who demonstrate a complete lack of nothing better to do with your time than to peruse sporadic posts hereon, for his prolonged failure to provide an update from the far foggy reaches of the rapidly decomposing grey matter lying in limpid pools in the crannied recesses of his cranium.

He's been busy. 

There's been the attention-demanding crescendo of seasons -- football, holiday, hunting -- to which to attend.  All of which have now ended satisfactorily for the Colonel.  He's seen better -- but, he's seen a heckuva lot worse.

At any rate, the best time of the year -- in the Colonel's not-so-humble opinion -- has passed, and the dreary, desultory, depressing despicable month of February has begun.

The Colonel hates February.

Historically, February has shown little love for the Colonel.

Rarely is there anything in the month of February that moves the needle on the Colonel's fun meter.

If there was any month through which the Colonel would gladly be placed in suspended animation in a sensory deprivation tank, it is this one.

Were there ever a referendum on the question whether to have the month expunged from the calendar and replaced by four weeks of mandatory 24/7 sleep, the Colonel would campaign door to door -- even in Alabama -- in favor of it's adoption.

The Colonel so detests February, that leap years make him considerably more cantankerous than normal.

The Colonel despises February with a seething hatred rivaling only the utter lack of esteem with which he holds Bama, LSU, the Taliban, and practitioners of infanticide. 

However, there is the occasional exception and this year the Colonel has exceptional news.

Son #2, heretofore confirmed bachelor, has, at the advanced age of thirty-four, decided to marry -- popping the question to his bride-to-be last weekend.

The Colonel and his bride-to-was, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda, are very pleased.  

A June the 28th wedding is planned.

Good date.  No conflict with any sort of season between which the Colonel would have had to choose.       

Cowbell Fever

The final regular season weekend of college football has ended in a paroxysm of rivalry games tearing the nation's collegiate fanbase weave down the middle and leaving two halves separated in joy and despair.

So it is, in Mississippi.

Thursday night's battle for the golden egg between the University of Mississippi and the former Mississippi A & M was typical of the family-splitting, friendship-straining, billboard-prompting, grudge-match that is the annual end of the playing season, beginning of the trash-talking season in Mississippi.

And while the Colonel, as the half-dozen or so of you who regularly waste precious rod and cone time perusing the irregular posts hereon will no doubt remember, does not harbor hate for State -- too much hate invested in LSU and Alabama to have any left for the Bulldogs -- he does hate losing to TSBU (the school beneath us).

For the Colonel, however, losing to State is more like losing a game to his little brother.

In fact, it is exactly like losing a game to his little brother.

To his eternal shame, the Colonel's little brother is a State grad.

But, when one loses a game to a little brother, there is always a solace of self-delusion on which to fall back:

"... I felt bad for him, so I let him win one..."

Yeah, that's what happened.  Little Brother got a mercy win.

The Colonel often wonders at his lack of pure unadulterated hatred for Mississippi State -- like that displayed by so many of his fellow Ole Miss Rebels.

Maybe it's the fact that although his parents' Mississippi blood flows through his veins like a warm, muddy, time-bending backwater, his claim to Mississippianism is only as deep as a plant's roots that have been uprooted and rerooted in so many disparate fields and only recently finally planted for good in the kudzu clad hills here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere.

With the exception of one year -- the fifth grade -- while his father went to war in Vietnam, the Colonel didn't grow up in the nurture of Mississippi.  Oh, he went to Ole Miss for four years -- instead of college -- but, he never lived long enough in the state during his formative years to be infected with the virulence of the rivalry.  Wandering the world for two military careers (the Colonel's and his father's before him) provided inoculation that protects him to this day. 

Of course, the bulldog boasting and trash-talk that the Colonel will have to endure for the next twelve months may serve to weaken his immunity.

He might just become a real Mississippian and start hatin' State.