Free Country

"It's a free country."

Seems the Colonel doesn't hear that refrain near as much as he used to.

"It's a free country," used to be one of the more popular statements used in American discourse.

If the Colonel wanted to do something out of the mainstream of popular culture or social acceptability, he placed his hands on his hips and declared, "It's a free country!"

If the Colonel wanted to do something out of the mainstream of popular culture or social acceptability, his contemporaries shrugged their shoulders and expressed their passive disapproval with, "It's a free country."

Seems a quaint notion today.

It once wasn't so quaint.  "It's a free country," was once the operating principle upon which Americans based the conduct of their daily lives.  It was also the lens through which the free citizens of our republic gauged the actions of those they had placed in government with the express responsibility of protecting their freedoms.  

When the founders of our republic crafted the Constitution, they not only established a strong federal form of government -- as opposed to the inherently inoperative confederation that preceded it -- they also carefully placed limits on the federal government, intended to protect the rights of the two constituents to that federation -- citizens and states.

The founders knew that they had created a form of national government that would inherently seek to increase its power over the individual sovereign states, at the expense of their right to self-determination; and over the individual citizens, at the expense of their God-given civil rights.  The founders thoughtfully debated the tension that would exist between the government and the freely governed, and added amendments to our Constitution -- colloquially known as the "Bill of Rights" -- that specifically addressed concerns about what  a government -- any government -- would or could do to its constituents.

The First Amendment addressed freedoms at the leading edge of the individual desires that had driven men and women who, eschewing comfort and security for the hope of greater freedom and opportunity, left the relative comfort and security in the "civilized" Old World to take up the challenges of settling the New World:

"Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances."

The next seven amendments garner the lion's share of attention. The second and third amendments specifically addressed individual rights that had been abused by the British Crown -- maintaining personal weapons and quartering troops in private residences.  The fourth through eighth amendments specifically limit the government's actions, and protect the rights of citizens, within the legal system.

The Colonel thinks that the last two amendments, the two to which too little attention is paid today, are the most important pieces of the entire document.

The Ninth Amendment, "The enumeration in the Constitution, of certain rights, shall not be construed to deny or disparage others retained by the people," is the hidden jewel in the crown from which all the other jewels draw their stability.  The men who put the plan of our government on paper, wise as they were, knew that they could not fathom the depth of freedoms granted men by God.  They made sure, in the Ninth Amendment, to place a fence around  the government -- a moat around the zoo's lion exhibit, if you will -- to restrain the inherent bent toward federal government over-reach.

But, remember, there are two constituents in our Republic's Constitution -- the people and the states.  The Tenth Amendment to our Constitution mirrors the Ninth in this regard: "The powers not delegated to the United States by the Constitution, nor prohibited by it to the States, are reserved to the States respectively, or to the people." 

Why is the Colonel's pedantry on this topic germane today, you ask?

The Colonel answers with a simple question:  Where do you sit as you read this, and why?

Our governments -- people we placed in positions of authority and responsibility at the local, state, and national level -- have decided that, for our protection, they must restrict our freedom.

The Colonel has no problem with a government (the lion on the other side of the moat that is our Constitution) recommending that he self-restrict his own freedom of movement and association. 

But...,

It's a free country.

Tread on the Colonel's God-given freedoms..., tread on the freedoms of his cherished grand-progeny..., tread on the freedoms of the American people... one step further than is absolutely necessary to address the current crisis and the Colonel, and millions like him, will strike back with venom at the ballot box.                  

Stranger in a Familiar Land

Mississippi Counties in 1845

In the Fall of 1974, the Colonel left home and began his matriculation at the University of Mississippi in Oxford, Mississippi.  Over the next four years, he spent an inordinate amount of time (compared to the amount of time spent studying and attending class) exploring the kudzu-clad, stream-cut, clay hills of North Mississippi.  Although he was a stranger -- having lived elsewhere as an Air force brat for the first 18 years of his life -- the land of the Chickasaw, Faulkner, cypress bottoms and loblolly pine hills inexplicably felt like home.  

When he graduated from Ole Miss in 1978, the Colonel's travels spun an ever-widening web, but Mississippi was always in the close knit center of his heart.  Admittedly, he felt guilty every time someone would ask where the Colonel was from and he answered with "Mississippi" -- he really wasn't from anywhere.  But the farther he traveled -- sailing every sea and walking on every continent save Antarctica -- the tighter the elastic band connecting his heart to the shallow valley of the Little Tallahatchie River stretched until its inevitable rebound drew him back; a stranger in a familiar land.   

There had to be a reason for it, and the Colonel searched for that reason in the only place that ever made any sense to him -- history books.  Here's what he found, and in the finding, found himself:

Sometime very early in the 18th Century, the Colonel's great (x 8) paternal grandfather -- John Gregory -- left his ancestral home in Wirksworth, Derbyshire, England and immigrated to America.  

The Colonel wishes he could be more precise about the date on which his great (x 8) grand progenitor landed in the New World -- the best he's been able to nail down through research is the latter part of the first decade of that momentous century.  And that timing is deduced from records showing that his son, James, was born in the now extinct tidewater community of Nansemond, Virginia in 1707 or 1708.

Suffolk, Virginia stands where Nansemond was first established.  Nansemond, and old John, are all but erased from memory, thanks to a courthouse fire that destroyed most of the records genealogists use to establish family history and pedigree.  All that remains (at least that the Colonel can find) is conjecture and a date and place of death for John Gregory -- 1760, Nansemond.  

In fact, the link between John and his (supposed) son James is itself forged in fragile conjecture.  But, even if old John ain't the Colonel's "great x 8", the evidence is pretty solid that the paternal line of James Thomas Gregory extends now 12 generations, through the Colonel, and to his grandsons (aka the Hope of 21st Century Civilization), with the name "Thomas" recurring like a generational stepping stone.    

As best as the Colonel can determine, James lived his entire life farming in and around Nansemond.  He doesn't seem to have been struck with the wanderlust that infected his progeny.  His son, Thomas Bry Gregory, on the other hand, headed west as soon as he reached majority.

Thomas Bry Gregory was born in Nansemond around 1730 and sometime shortly before 1750, close on the heels of earlier piedmont pioneers, moved into north-central North Carolina -- specifically, the area around Hillsborough.  The original county encompassing the area, Orange, was later reduced at its edges to form other smaller counties and Thomas Bry's home county, in which he earned a living as a farmer, became Chatham.  

Thomas Bry married Susannah Benton coincident with immigrating to the Hillsborough District and fathered seven children.  Thomas Bry was an active participant in the colonial rebellion against the British Crown, serving in the Chatham County militia and fighting in the pivotal battle of King's Mountain in 1780.  Evidently a relatively learned and well-respected man, Thomas Bry served as a justice in Chatham County in 1781.  Sometime around 1795, Thomas Bry (about 65 years old) sold his land in Chatham County and, along with several of his grown children and their families, headed further west.

In the run-up to, and during, the war for American Independence, so-called "long-hunters" and pioneers in disobedience of the King's prohibition began exploring the territory west of the Appalachian Mountains.  In American folklore, Daniel Boone's leadership of early settlers from western Virginia northwestward through the Cumberland Gap (a pass through the Cumberland range of the western Appalachians) into Kentucky garners the lion's share of historical attention.  But as important as was the opening of Kentucky and southern Ohio via the Wilderness Road through and beyond the Cumberland Gap, the opening of a cross-mountain route into north central Tennessee (along the Cumberland River valley) was just as important to the growth of the new nation, if not so well known.  

At the conclusion of the Revolutionary War in 1783, the newly independent states struggled to pay veterans for their service.  States like Virginia and North Carolina, with borders stretching beyond the Appalachians all the way to the Mississippi River, granted parcels of land in that "unsettled" territory in lieu of monetary compensation.  North Carolina's problem was that while it had lots of land on the map to grant to its soldiers, it had no way to get them there.  In 1787, the state of North Carolina commissioned a road to run from the vicinity of modern day Kingsport to modern day Nashville, and detailed detachments of soldiers to provide security for parties of settlers heading west.  

For the first few years, the new "road" was little more than a barely discernible trail following "blazes" marked on trees.  By the mid 1790's the road was widened to allow wagons, but much of the roadway was all but impassable... and, it was Indian Territory. Throughout the early part of the decade, attacks by Cherokee war parties on traveling settlers and settlements along the road made immigrating to Tennessee the most dangerous of all pioneer endeavors at the time. 

Thomas Bry's oldest son, and the Colonel's direct paternal ancestor, Harden Harley Gregory, had also served in the North Carolina "patriot" militia.  A few, scant records indicate that Harden Harley's first wife, Hannah Curtis, died early in their marriage and he then married Lucretia Cox, by whom he had two sons and two daughters.  He was about 45 when he and his family, including three children under the age of 10 (the youngest, at five, being John Benton Gregory -- the next in the Colonel's direct paternal line), crossed the Clinch River and headed toward the new settlements near Nashborough (Nashville) 300 miles away through the wilderness.  

Although the Colonel has found no exact record of the date of this trip west, nor any recollection of the certain hardships along the way, he has been able to bracket the trip between a record of Thomas Bry's sale of his Chatham County land in 1795 and a record of the birth of the first Gregory in Tennessee -- Zinniah (daughter of Harden Harley and Lucretia), born in then-Sumner County, northeast of Nashboro in 1796.   

The Gregory's settled in Nixon Hollow on Peyton Creek, between the present day communities of Pleasant Shade and Carthage on the north side of the Cumberland River in what is now Smith County, Tennessee.  Harden Harley and his two sons -- Byrd and John, and their families -- stayed in Nixon Hollow for less than two decades before wanderlust struck again. 

The main impediment to settlement of the North American continent by Europeans had always been the fact that somebody else had already settled there.  Resistance to germs and steel proved futile in the long-run for the "native" peoples extant in the New World at the time of European arrival, but the archaeological record of the North American continent is replete with evidence that native populations themselves were rarely peaceful and sedentary from the beginning of their own arrival at the end of the last Ice Age.  The human processes of assimilation, genocide, and supplantation were in full force on the continent millenia before the arrival of Europeans whose vastly superior numbers and technology only served to accelerate those processes.  The Colonel makes no judgment, nor apology -- he simply observes and reports.

As the ever-increasing tide of European immigration flooded westward from the Eastern Seaboard in the 17th, 18th, and 19th Centuries, remnant Amerindian populations (those who survived the shock of germs and steel) were faced with three contained choices -- assimilate, resist, or move.  Many assimilated.  Some resisted -- winning a few battles, but losing every campaign. Most moved, or were removed.

As a result of land cession treaties signed between the U.S. government and the surviving Amerindian tribes (Cherokee, Choctaw, Chickasaw, Creek, and Seminole) in the Southeast in the late 18th and early 19th Century, the vast majority of native populations were placed on "reservations" encompassing a small portion of their original claims or were "removed" to new lands west of the Mississippi River -- predominantly in what is now Oklahoma. 

Immediately on the heels of these cessions and removals, and with the threat of resistance all but eliminated, white settlers flooded in.  The Colonel's paternal ancestors in the late 1700s and early 1800s seem to have always been fairly close to the leading edge of the initial surge into new territories opened to white settlement.  Cherokee cessions in eastern Tennessee drew Thomas Bry and his sons into the Cumberland River valley in about 1795.  Chickasaw and Cherokee (whose "hunting ground" claims overlapped in the region) cessions in middle Tennessee, beginning in 1805, spurred those Gregorys to leave Nixon Hollow and move south. Records indicate that John Benton Gregory settled in what is now Giles County, Tennessee (on the Tennessee/Alabama line opposite Limestone County, Alabama) sometime shortly after 1810.  It was here, in Giles County, that John Benton married Sara Jane Brown in 1817.   (Sara Jane was from a quite extended family of Browns, many of whom immigrated to Tennessee from Brunswick, Virginia, and three of whom served as early governors of the state of Tennessee.)

The next Gregory in the Colonel's paternal line was John Benton's and Sara Jane's son, Brown Lee Gregory, whose birth records indicate was born in Limestone County, Alabama in December of 1819.  John Benton had been named for his paternal grandmother's maiden name (Benton) and he and Sara Jane named Brown Lee for her family name (Brown). (Incidentally, the Colonel's first son -- Joshua Lee -- carries his great x 4 grandfather's middle name.)  

The land which Limestone County currently encompasses was the scene of pitched battles between the Chickasaw and U.S. government troops on one side and "intruders" on the other.  The 1806 treaty with the Chickasaw had reserved the land west of a congressionally demarcated line running through present day Limestone County.  Intruders (a term which had been applied to white settlers as far back as early 17th Century who disobeyed government prohibitions from entering and settling on "Indian land") began squatting on land west of the demarcation line by 1808, and when conflict with the Chickasaw began to escalate, U.S. troops were sent in (in 1809) to "remove" the illegal immigrants.    

The Colonel has actually found a list of the families involved in this removal from Chickasaw lands and there is no Gregory on it. However, county histories indicate that the removal of the initial wave of "intruders" in 1809 was no real deterrent to hundreds of families who streamed into the area over the next half dozen years. The land west of the demarcation line was finally legally opened to white settlement following another Chickasaw cession in 1816 and by the end of the decade there were over ten thousand settlers in Limestone County.  

John Benton Gregory and his wife, Sara Jane, evidently moved from Giles County, Tennessee down into Limestone County during this flood of immigration into former Chickasaw lands.  Records indicate that all of their children, beginning with Brown Lee Gregory in 1819, were born in Limestone County.  Harden Harley, John Benton's father -- the patriarch who initially led the Gregory family out of the North Carolina Piedmont and into the Tennessee wilderness in 1795 -- died in Limestone County in 1830.  

The territory along the Tennessee River in north Alabama is a fine land, fertile and well-watered.  The Gregorys evidently prospered there -- John Benton and Sara Jane had eight children.  Many Gregorys from members of that family still live in Limestone County.  But, the Chickasaws were being pushed out of more and more land to the southwest and the Colonel's ancestors were soon on the move again, following the call of new land.

In 1832, the Treaty of Pontotoc Creek, signed near what is now the city of Pontotoc, Mississippi, ceded all remaining Chickasaw land to the United States in exchange for equal land west of the Mississippi in Oklahoma Territory.  Settlers poured into north Mississippi in the wake of this Chickasaw "removal."  At first, the entire northeast corner of the State of Mississippi was incorporated into one county named Monroe, after the fifth president of the United States.  As population grew, Monroe County was carved up into more than a dozen smaller counties.  

At some point in the decade or so following the final Chickasaw cession, John Benton and his family moved west from Limestone County over into the northeast corner of Mississippi.  The Colonel is still trying to document exactly when and where this move happened, but John Benton died in 1836 and is buried in present day Tippah County, Mississippi -- the first of five generations of the Colonel's family to be buried in Mississippi.  (The Colonel's father and he will make the sixth and seventh.)  When John Benton died, his wife, Sara Jane, moved back to her parents' (Brown) home in Giles County, Tennessee, where she died in 1840.    

"New" land and opportunity always lay further west for the Colonel's patrilineal ancestors, and each succeeding generation seemed to feel the pull to somewhere else.  John Benton Gregory's son, Brown Lee Gregory, left Tippah County shortly after his father's death and his mother's move back to Tennessee and struck out for Mississippi.  There he met and married Sarah Elizabeth Zinn, whose ancestors had immigrated from Germany in 1727.  Sarah Elizabeth's family had arrived in Mississippi by way of Philadelphia; Chatham County, North Carolina; Orangeburg, South Carolina; and Jasper County, Georgia.  Her family appears to have arrived in Pontotoc County shortly before 1840 -- her father Edwin Zinn is not listed in the 1837 Mississippi (Pontotoc County) Census, but is listed in the 1840 Census as a head of household in Pontotoc County.  

Brown Lee and Sarah Elizabeth settled on land in the southeast corner of Lafayette County, Mississippi, in the vicinity of a now-extinct community called Dallas.  Their first, of ten, children, Sarah Agnes, was born in 1848.  Their next child, the Colonel's great (x 3) grandfather, was born in 1850 and was named James Edwin (evidently given his middle name for his maternal grandfather).

James Edwin married Elizabeth Mauldin of Pontotoc in 1877.  Their son, and the Colonel's paternal great grandfather, Thomas Edwin, was born on March 9, in 1881.

The 1900 Census for Pontotoc County lists Thomas Edwin (the Colonel's namesake) as a 19 year-old farm laborer.  As a young adult, Thomas Edwin surrendered to the call to preach the gospel and served as a pastor in the Mississippi Convention of the Methodist Church at churches across the northern half of Mississippi.   He married Janie S. Robison of Pontotoc County and fathered four children, the first of which was Arville Vernon Gregory (the Colonel's paternal grandfather), born on January 25th, 1902.   Each of Thomas Edwin's and Janie's children were born in a different city in North Mississippi -- the Methodist Church frequently reassigned Thomas Edwin to pastor different churches; their policy of pastoral itinerancy designed to keep the focus on Christ and not on any particular preacher/pastor.

The 1920 U.S. Census lists Arville Vernon Gregory as a "monument engineer" in Columbus, Mississippi (where his father was serving as a pastor).  Around 1930, working as a monument salesman in Pickensville, Alabama, he met and married Mary Stillman Pulliam.  They had two children -- the Colonel's father, Arvel Vernon; and his sister, Marilynn.  

Arvel Vernon was born on the 21st of June, 1932 in Tuscaloosa, Alabama.  The 1940 U.S. Census lists him, and his parents, as living in his grandfather's household in Tunica, Mississippi (where Thomas Edwin was serving as a pastor) -- it was the height of the Great Depression and multi-generational households were commonplace. 

The itinerant nature of the Colonel's direct Gregory line, beginning at Nansemond in the early 1700s and wandering westward, generation by generation, until arrival in north Mississippi in the late 1840s, seemed to attenuate for several generations thereafter.  Mississippi became the geographic anchor to which the Colonel's line was tethered.  The Colonel's great grandfather lived the first half of his adult life not unlike the Colonel and his father -- moving every two or three years on assignment.  Thomas Edwin's assignment authority was the Methodist Church -- the Colonel's and his father's was Uncle Sam.   But, Thomas Edwin never left Mississippi, and he was buried in Friendship Cemetery in Columbus, Mississippi following his death in 1950.

Thomas Edwin's son, Arville Vernon, spent the first decade of so of his adult life following the elusive prospects of gainful employment in the Depression-era South.  But, he finally settled in Columbus, Mississippi, and was buried in Friendship Cemetery in Columbus Mississippi following his death in 1981.  

The Colonel's father (and the man the Colonel once thought gave acting lessons to John Wayne) graduated from Stephen D. Lee High School in Columbus in 1950.  He married Gladys Elaine McCrary on September 13th, 1952.   He enlisted in the United States Air Force early in 1953 and thereafter the itinerant nature of the Gregorys re-intensified.  Over the next two decades, Vernon (a family tradition of calling oldest Gregory sons by their middle names had begun generations earlier) travelled the world with his family in tow (with the one exception of his year in the Republic of Vietnam).  Orlando -- Birmingham -- Orlando -- Morocco -- Little Rock -- Nha Trang -- Alexandria, LA -- Panama; by the time the world tour ended in 1974, the Colonel felt alien to any place on the map.

The Colonel's father retired from the Air Force the same summer -- 1974 -- that the Colonel graduated from high school, and his family moved from Panama (where they had been stationed for the past four and a half years) back to Columbus, Mississippi.  The Colonel was barely in Columbus long enough to figure out which side of town he lived on before he packed his bags and headed to Oxford. 

Mississippi that is.  

Warm beer; sorority girls. 

Four years later, the Colonel and his bride, the former Brenda Kay Cannon (known more popularly now as the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda) left Oxford and took off on their own Uncle Sam funded world tour: Virginia, North Carolina, the Philippines (without Miss Brenda), Virginia again, North Carolina again, Georgia, Alabama, Hawaii, Rhode Island, South Korea, and South Carolina.

When it came time to hang up the spurs, the Colonel and Miss Brenda (whose own father had taken his family on their own two-decade world tour) didn't know where to go.  They tried Florida, but it didn't feel like home.  Something kept drawing them back to north Mississippi, and they established their forever homeplace at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere in 2007.

In between the myriad chores and responsibilities of managing the Egeebeegee Wildlife and Timber Plantation, the Colonel began to dabble in genealogical research.  He really only knew the barest facts about his family going back only three generations.  The same with the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's family.  The more he dug into their family histories, the more he began to understand.

North Mississippi was his ancestral home.  The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's, too (more about her family's American journey in a later post).  The land he holds today is not but a day's walk from land his great (x 3) grandfather, Brown Lee Gregory, settled 170 years ago.  Same county.  Same former Chickasaw hunting grounds.

(Not to be outdone by his older sibling, the Colonel's brother himself traveled the world for twenty years on Uncle Sam's dime and now lives just across the James River (in Newport News) from the land settled by John Gregory over three centuries ago -- Nansemond (now Suffolk) Virginia.)

This place -- north central Mississippi -- is as much the Colonel's homeland as even the longest-lived families hereabout, and yet he remains a stranger in a familiar land.  

That's his lot.  But, his grandchildren are gonna be natives! 

The Cost of Progress

One of the Colonel's more important endeavors in his unforced exile here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere is a modest contribution to the character development and mind-broadening of his grandsons, the Hope of 21st Century Civilization, Dashes 1, 2, and 3 (H21CC - 1, 2, & 3).  The Colonel's vast holdings, and the extant flora and fauna thereon, provide the most excellent of classrooms.

The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's desire to beautify and fancify the portions of the Colonel's vast holdings within eyeshot of the Big House also provide project vehicles with which to provide the aforementioned character development and mind-broadening.

At this point, however, he isn't certain whose character has been more developed and whose mind has been more broadened  -- the Colonel's or the boys'. 

One thing for certain, the Colonel's wallet has been lightened.

As summer approached this year, the Colonel told the oldest two of his three grandsons, that if they would come out to "Pop and Nana's" and help with some physical labor, he would compensate them for their work (and, thereby, teach a few lessons in capitalism and work ethic).  The other morning, the Colonel's grandsons arrived ready "to make some money."  The Colonel obliged.

An hour of physical labor ensued.  The oldest two bent to the work without complaint, helping the Colonel tote and lift long 2 x 6 boards up and fasten them to the top of the latest effort to beautify the gardens surrounding the Big House.  The youngest, all four precocious years of him, saw his brothers doing cool stuff and wanted to be a part of it.

"I wanna help, Pop!"

His brothers snickered and, as all older brothers have done since the beginning of brotherhood, derided his desire, "You're too little!"

Hearing someone told that they are "too little" to do something doesn't sit well with the Colonel.  He pointed to the oldest, "bring that third ladder over here for your brother."

Dash One complied, and Dash Three clambered up and perched atop the ladder with a broad grin on his face.  He reached up and "helped" hold a board in place while the Colonel secured it with his screw gun.  Said screw gun caught the lad's attention, "I wanna do that, Pop!"  

"Well, c'mon then," the Colonel said.  The youngster climbed down his ladder and up the ladder next to the Colonel.  

"Okay," the Colonel held a gun in place over a bolt, "pull that trigger."  The gun whined until the bolt snugged up.  

"Good job!"

The Colonel is proud to be a part of introducing yet another male to the unbridled and expensive love of powered hand tools.

After an hour of work in the hot June sun, the Colonel was ready for a cooling off break, and the four of them headed down to the dock on Lake Brenda.  An hour of thrashing and splashing ensued. 

Followed by an hour of rest in the rocking chairs on the front porch of the Big House.  Well..., the Colonel rested.  The boys continued to romp about with the boundless energy of youth and inexperience.  

The Colonel's daughter-in-law (she of the high and exalted position of "Provider of Grandsons") arrived a while later to collect her brood.

"Did they work hard, Pop?"

"Yep, couldn't have done the work without 'em."

The Colonel gathered the boys up and reached for his wallet.  "I promised you," he addressed the oldest two, "that we would start out at $5 an hour this summer, and based on your work and attitude, we'd see about raises.  You worked an hour today and did a great job.  Here's a five dollar bill for each of you."

The youngest watched this exchange with great interest and anticipation.  The Colonel turned to him, "And you did good work, too." A dollar bill was handed over to the grinning tyke.

The Colonel's favorite and first mother-in-law -- the wise and courageous Miss Martha -- watched with the keen interest of a great grandmother who has always looked out for the interest of the least of her grand and great grand progeny.   

"Ahem," she interjected and crooked a beckoning finger.  The little one went to her and she whispered in his ear.  He turned to the Colonel with his hand out, "I helped screw in that board."

"Yes, you did. That's why I gave you a dollar."

"I helped move the ladder."

The Colonel shot a withering glance at Miss Martha.  Well..., okay.  It wasn't exactly withering.  It was actually more like a whose side are you on? look.  The answer to that question came quickly as she piled on, 

"He also helped load the kayak in truck."

"But, that wasn't during the 'official work' period," the Colonel protested.  "That was clearly within the preparatory phase of the 'thrash and splash' period, for which the Colonel has never, and will never, offer monetary compensation."

To the Colonel's consternation, his strong protestations induced no weakening in the wise and courageous Miss Martha's resolve (not that there ever is).  To his further consternation, the Colonel could clearly see his third grand progeny gaining more stubborn resolve in the situation (as if he ever needed more).

The Colonel forked over another dollar bill to the grubby little highway robber.  His wise and courageous accomplice in crime against colonelcy got his attention with an urgent, "Ahem!"  She crooked a beckoning finger and whispered in his ear.

The former favorite little buddy turned mercenary ingrate turned to the Colonel and announced defiantly, "That's three works."  Three fingers extended toward the Colonel in exclamation.

The Colonel forked over a third dollar.

The other two grandsons began to grumble.  The Colonel shot them a withering glance.  Well..., okay.  It wasn't exactly withering.  It was more of a sorry fellas, the bank is out of cash look.

Character development and mind-broadening is turning out to be a far more expensive proposition than the Colonel thought.       

Timber!

It's tree-felling season here aboard the Colonel's vast holdings at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere.

Not since the Colonel completed the mission of preparing a unit for deployment, and brought them all home safe again, has he found something so satisfying as building something with wood harvested and milled on his own property.

When the Colonel first purchased his sawmill -- SemperFilet -- he believed he was doing so to free himself of the grip of the local lumber yard.  He even thought he might save some money in the process.

Did he?  Eh..., probably not. Chainsaws and sawmills don't run on air...

But he did fill his days with a really cool hobby.

The Colonel has always loved trees.  He was a tree-climber when he was a kid -- loving the semi-escape of earthboundedness that hauling oneself up a ladder of branches to a lofty perch provided.   In the top of a tree, the Colonel gained a vantage from which his imagination could run wild.

No telling how many enemy planes he shot down, mountains he climbed, or whales he spotted spouting.  

But, nowadays his admiration of a tree takes on a wholly different aspect.  The Colonel can't look at a sizable tree without estimating its yield in board feet.

Now, before any of the half dozen of you who the Colonel counts as his readership get the idea that the Colonel is engaged in some wanton timber wastage, slashing and burning through his forest in a way that would make a passel of hippie-offspring snowflakes picket his operation, let the Colonel assure you that his is an entirely sustainable operation.

In point of fact, the Colonel's personal forest is growing far faster than his harvesting. He has even allowed former pasture land to return to woodlot.

Some might sarcastically observe that trees are now growing in his former pastures because the Colonel is slovenly in his bush-hogging.  They would be right.  But, there is a method to his laziness. In a couple of fields where once flat prairies of grass grew, small oaks now dot.  They are less than a decade old, but someday the Colonel's great, great grand progeny will lounge under their expansive canopies.

Back to the reason for the season.

Felling large trees is hot, dangerous work.  Mostly dangerous.  But, that's the kind of guy the Colonel is.

The mature trees on the Colonel's hit list are protected in the warmer months but hordes of Colonel-hating insects and fork-tongued folks with no shoulders.  So, the Colonel waits until the winter months, when all of the Colonel-hating denizens are underground, to do his lumber-jacking.

If you have never felled a large tree with a chainsaw, you just haven't lived.  Nothing gets the blood pumping like cheating death and dismemberment at close range.

A large tree is a living thing that doesn't die easily.  One doesn't just march up to a tree and quickly slice it off at the base.  The tree fights back.  And, if you are careless with it -- underestimate its strength and heft -- it'll kill you.

The Colonel approaches tree-felling like a military operation.  There's a planning phase in which the following questions are answered:  A) In which direction do you want the tree to fall?  2) In which direction do you want unimpeded rapid escape?  

Answering question A helps answer the second.  Once you decide in which direction you want the tree to fall, you must plot primary and alternate rapid escape azimuths.  (* Important safety tip:  Ensure that rapid escape azimuths do no coincide with direction of tree fall.)

Once planning is complete, the Colonel conducts a preparatory phase wherein he clears paths for both tree fall and rapid escape.  (* Another important safety tip:  Avoid roads and power lines as tree-fall directions.  Cars and electricity don't mix well with tons of falling timber.)

Rapid escape azimuth planning must also include primary and alternate chainsaw flinging positions.  Rapid escapes from the death throes of a mighty tree are hard enough as it is.  Attempting a rapid escape from the death throes of a mighty tree while still lugging a running chainsaw only complicates the matter, unnecessarily.  

Felling a mighty tree in a desired direction takes several cutting steps.  First, a horizontal cut less than halfway through is made at the base of the tree facing the azimuth of desired fall.  A second, diagonal, cut is made connecting to the first cut, resulting in a cake-slice (tree-felling always makes the Colonel hungry) piece that should, if you have cut precisely enough, fall out easily. (The Colonel is never precise, so he always carries a sledge with which to beat out the slice.)

Remembering a mighty tree is a living thing that will fight him to the death, the Colonel conducts each of the steps above and below in a modified sprinter's crouch.  There are often false starts in the escape azimuth race -- a mighty tree will complain at your assault, issuing starter's pistol cracks.  The Colonel usually gets in a pretty good country crossfit workout when felling a mighty tree, replete with upper body chainsaw flings and false start sprints for life.

Once the tree fall direction cut is made, the real fun begins.  When you start the felling cut on its back side, a mighty tree gets the message that you aren't just whittling your initials and, indeed, intend to kill it.  A mighty tree will endeavor to return the favor.  Ergo, the need for primary and alternate chainsaw flinging positions, and primary and alternate escape routes.  A mighty tree will fall, but it will fight to the end, striking back at you with one or more death throe nods to Newtonian Physics. 

Oh, and when a mighty tree gives up its structural integrity to the vertical, its fall is irreversible.  There is no pause button to mash so that one can quickly move one's pick-up truck.  Don't ask how the Colonel knows this.   

There aren't many feelings the Colonel has had in his feelings-full life that compare to the sight (and survival) of a mighty tree crashing to the horizontal.  Unfortunately, because the Colonel's keen appreciation of the latter most often results in a chainsaw fling and 100 yard dash (and because the Colonel's 100 yard dash time has slowed significantly over the years) he often misses the former. 

There's no mistaking the sound, however.

Particularly, if you forgot to move the truck.   

2076; A Dream

The Colonel dreamed last night; a dream as vivid and real as a documentary. The year was 2076. The Colonel, at 120, though chair-bound, was as clear of eye and as sharp of mind as ever – thanks to corneal transplants and a microchip behind his left ear.

In his dream, the Colonel’s progeny – six generations and nearly 300 in all -- had gathered to celebrate his birthday. As was his custom, following a personal key lime pie and cake for the masses, the Colonel slammed his palm on the table and announced, “Everybody outside on the porch. It’s story and game time!”

Helped to his rocking chair on the front porch, the Colonel took his seat and surveyed his family spread out on the lawn. “Well, what’ll it be? What story do you want to hear?”

A chorus of children’s voices exploded in shouts of favorites. The adults smiled and laughed at the calls. The Colonel’s fanciful tales had entertained his children for nearly a century.

And, then, one child’s voice lifted above the others, “Tell us a history story, Colonel!”

Ignoring the looks of abject horror suddenly etched on the faces of the adults – his fanciful tales were over relatively quickly; his history lectures, not so much -- the Colonel smiled broadly, leaned forward in his rocker, and fixed his approving eyes on the child after his own heart, “What history do you want to hear, young man?”

“Tell us about the Tallahatchie Republic, Colonel!”

The Colonel sat back, fixed his gaze on the middle distance, and rocked his chair slowly, “That is a name the Colonel has not heard in a long time.”

An impertinent voice from the front row chirped, “Why do you always call yourself ‘The Colonel?’”

The Colonel’s Lady, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda, seated in her rocker to the Colonel’s left, hushed the child, “Quiet, sweet boy, the Colonel will talk himself to sleep shortly and then y’all can go play.”

The Colonel continued to gaze into the middle distance.

“Tell your history story, dear,” the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda encouraged.

The Colonel continued to gaze into the middle distance.

“Dear? Colonel? Hey, knucklehead!"

“Huh?,” the Colonel snapped his head around. “What, now? Is it nap time?”

“Not yet, dear. Tell your story, first,” the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda cooed.

“Well, then, where were we?” the Colonel asked his audience. “Oh, yes, the history of the Tallahatchie Republic. Well,” he settled back in his rocker, “in order to understand the history of the Tallahatchie Republic, we need to understand the things that led to the establishment of the Tallahatchie Republic. The first thing that really got things going was the election of 2016.”

“A billionaire real estate tycoon and reality TV celebrity won the presidency in 2016. Donald Trump was behind in the polling until the debates. His opponent, Hillary Clinton, coughed incessantly during the entire first and second debate, and was so obviously medicated in the third, that public opinion swung narrowly in Trump’s favor.“

A hand shot up, “what’s TV?”

“Television. That reminds the Colonel; he wants your undivided attention. Turn off your game feeds.”

The kids grumbled and whined, but all blinked twice and gave their undivided attention to the Colonel.

“So, anyway,” the Colonel continued, “Trump’s behavior in office was even more divisive than his predecessor’s and the mid-term elections in 2018 returned the Democrats to power in the House and Senate. Trump addressed the nation the next night on TV from the White House, expressed his disdain for the ‘rigged system’ that not even he could surmount, and announced his resignation. Trump concluded his address with the statement, “I’m tired of living in this dump. I’m outa here.”

“Vice President Mike Pence was sworn in as President the next day and, in accordance with the requirements of the 25th Amendment to the Constitution, immediately submitted for Congressional approval his choice of Senator Ted Cruz to be his Vice President. The Senate debated the issue for three weeks, and then adjourned without decision; leaving the issue for the new Senate to address. The new, Democrat-controlled, Senate refused to even allow debate on Pence’s pick for three months. In April of 2019, President Pence was found dead in his bed of an apparent suicide. Evidently, he had smothered himself with his own pillow.”

“The next in line for the Presidency, per the Constitution, was the Speaker of the House. Nancy Pelosi was sworn in as the nation’s first woman president. Her pick of Corey Booker for Vice President was immediately approved by Congress.”

A hand shot up from the masses at the Colonel’s feet.

“Yes, Number 231?”

“Is that when you declared the Tallahatchie Republic?”

“Nope. Be patient, little one. We’ll get there.”

The Colonel continued his lecture, “President Pelosi’s first months in office were marked by passage of more legislation forwarding the socialists’ agenda than seen since the FDR administration. The Hate Speech Elimination Act made all but the most “progressively-themed” speech illegal, effectively shut down conservative talk radio, and even private expression of conservative thought. The remaining Republicans in Congress never even mounted any opposition – the majority of them were never really conservative, anyway. A challenge to the law was eventually struck down by the Supreme Court in a 5-4 vote (Trump’s ‘mainstream compromise’ justice pick in early 2017 sided with the majority who found an unwritten Constitutional right to not be offended based on the also unwritten Constitutional right to privacy).”

Another hand shot up, “Is that when you declared the Tallahatchie Republic, Colonel?”

“Nope. Not yet.”

“The next bill signed into law by President Pelosi was the American Safety & Security Act which outlawed private ownership of handguns and any long gun with a magazine capacity greater than two rounds. A court challenge based on the 2d Amendment was struck down by the Supreme Court in a 5-4 vote. When local law enforcement authorities, particularly in the South and Mountain West refused to confiscate illegal weapons, Congress passed and Pelosi signed the American Safe Policing Act which federalized all law enforcement in the nation.”

“Bet that’s when you declared the Tallahatchie Republic, huh, Colonel?”

“Nope.”

“Did they come get your guns, Colonel?”

“Oh, they came. They even searched the house and property, but didn’t find a firearm anywhere. The Colonel told ‘em that somebody must’ve broke in and stole all his guns. When they asked how come the Colonel hadn’t reported it, he told ‘em he was now because he just noticed they were missing.”

“Where’d you hide, ‘em, Colonel?”

“Why, the Colonel is surprised at you, Number 252! He would never do anything illegal,” the Colonel grinned conspiratorially. “Anyway, there must have been a very active gun-theft ring hereabouts because folks all over told the Feds the same thing – they had just noticed that morning that their guns had all been stolen during the night.”

“What happened, next, Colonel?”

“Well, things muddled along for several years. Most folks were smart enough not to openly defy the Feds, particularly after the Little Rock Massacre. The Democrats renamed their party the Democratic Socialists and doubled down on their governing philosophy of paying for huge social programs by taxing the wealthy and corporations at rates over 90%. The US military was slashed by two-thirds and defense spending diverted to expanding social programs. The economy was in a depression by the summer of 2024. If a Republican party had still existed at that point, they might have mounted an electoral challenge and gained control of Congress and the Presidency. But, the Democratic Socialists had too much of a stranglehold on the reins of politics – nearly 70% of the voting population was dependent on government assistance.”

“Is that when you declared the Tallahatchie Republic, Colonel?”

“We're getting close, youngster. Hang in there.”

“Does anyone know what happened in the fall of 2024?” the Colonel asked.

“Oooh, oooh, I do, Colonel, I do!”

“What?”

“The Triple Whammy!”

“That’s right, smart guy! The Triple Whammy. Within two months’ time, three major natural disasters struck the Continental United States. First, a Category 3 Hurricane roared up the Eastern Seaboard and came ashore just south of Atlantic City. A 25-foot storm surge and torrential rains inundated the New York metropolitan area. By the time the storm curved out to sea north of Boston, ten million people – most packed in cities -- were without power, clean water, and, after three days, out of food. As the Federal government scrambled to respond, it quickly became clear that major active duty military resources were needed. An air-heavy joint task force was formed. Helicopters were the key. From ships at sea and from points outside the affected area a steady stream of rotary wing aircraft flew in supplies. It wasn’t near enough, and within a week, the region was in open rebellion. President Pelosi declared martial law, and directed three army and one Marine division to occupy the region.”

“Three weeks after Hurricane Maureen hit, the Big One – a long forecasted 8.0 earthquake -- struck Southern California. The immediate death toll was greater than any other single event in the history of the nation. The Port of Los Angeles – the nation’s largest – was practically destroyed. Infrastructure providing transportation, power, water, and food resupply was cut in numerous locations throughout the region. Strong aftershocks stymied recovery efforts. President Pelosi didn’t wait for the riots this time and immediately declared martial law in the region. The nation’s remaining military resources flowed to Southern California.”

“And, then, we got hit. Right before Thanksgiving, an earthquake struck along the New Madrid Fault. Memphis virtually collapsed and burned. St. Louis suffered severe damage. And, just like when quakes struck along the New Madrid Fault in the winter of 1811 and 1812, the aftershocks over the next couple of months were just as strong as the initial quake. Bridges across the Mississippi River were dropped from St Louis to Vicksburg. In the area where Missouri, Illinois, Kentucky, Tennessee, Mississippi and Arkansas come together, bridges across smaller rivers and ravines collapsed. Highway overpasses collapsed. Vehicular traffic throughout the region was limited to local runs, but that didn’t matter -- within a week gas and diesel at stations was gone.”

“So, the president declared martial law here and you declared the Tallahatchie Republic, right Colonel?”

“Nope. President Pelosi didn’t bother to declare martial law this time. In fact, she practically ignored the fact that the Mid-South region needed help. Actually, she didn’t have much choice. There wasn’t much relief left to provide, nor any troops left for occupation duty.”

“Because things only got worse to the north, and the Mississippi bridges were down, the only directions that folks who were able to get out of Memphis could go were South and East. Within a week of the Thanksgiving Temblor, nearly a half million refugees were walking out of Memphis. Desperate for food and water, they looted every town in their way. When some small towns armed themselves with the firearms that miraculously appeared after being reported “stolen”, their ad hoc and disorganized defenses temporarily slowed but didn’t stop the flood. In fact, resistance only served to harden and organize large groups of refugees into armies in their own right.”

“Why didn’t the police and sheriffs stop ‘em, Colonel?”

“Stop ‘em? Heck, a lot of former law enforcement officers were leadin’ ‘em. They had hungry kids, too.”

“What happened when they got here, Colonel?”

“Well, let’s just say we had two things in our favor -- Time and the Tallahatchie. Although phone landline and cell communications were down, and radio and TV were off the air, we were hearing some scattered news from folks around here who were in ham radio contact with folks to the north. We had an idea that bad things were coming, and we had a little time to get ready. The Tallahatchie River forms a great natural barrier just north of us. The north – south highway bridge over the Tallahatchie was down. We had just enough time to get organized and set up listening posts and quick reaction platoons to respond to attempts to cross the river. After a couple of sharp fights, the bad guys moved farther east along the I-22 corridor and overran and occupied New Albany and Tupelo.”

“Why didn’t the state government and the National Guard come help?”

“Well, the Governor did exactly what the Colonel would have done in his position. He conserved his limited manpower and resources and established a defensive line a third of the way down the state, from Greenville in the West to Columbus in the East along the connecting US Highway 82. He established refugee camps at the intersections of north-south roads and 82 and waited for the refugees to come to him. Those stuck in the no-man’s land in the northern third of the state had two choices – run south, or stay and fight. A lot of folks sent their families south and stayed to fight for their homes.”

“Why didn’t you just take the refugees in and help them, Colonel?”

“We couldn’t and they wouldn’t. We didn’t have enough resources to share and they wouldn’t have shared if we offered. Look, the Colonel knows this is hard for you kids to understand. Those of you born since the middle of the century have never known a time of want. But, during the Thirties and Forties it was a different story. A couple of global pandemics and a regional nuclear war hit the world’s population pretty hard. You are lucky to be alive in this time of peace and plenty.”

“Yeah, my granddaddy tells me that all the time, Colonel. But, we want to hear about when you declared the Tallahatchie Republic.”

“Well, youngster, the Colonel will tell you. By late winter of ‘25, things had gotten pretty bad in No Man’s land. The ‘Gee Army had marched south out of Tupelo in February, surprised the State’s defenses at Columbus and swept West along Highway 82 through Starkville and then fanned out to the south, pillaging as they went. Heck, when they hit Columbus they even had a couple of tanks. The Governor panicked and pulled his forces south to set up a defensive ring around Jackson.”

The Colonel took a deep breath and gazed off into the middle distance. “Hard times. Scared, hungry men will do just about anything.”

There was a nervous shuffling among the crowd at his feet as the Colonel continued to stare silently into the middle distance.

“Dear,” the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda asked, “what are you looking at?”

The Colonel waved his hand dismissively, “Lookin’ into the middle distance for effect, dear. Please stop interrupting the Colonel.”

“Well, wrap it up. The natives are getting restless."

The Colonel turned back to his audience. “Shortly after the Second Battle of the Tallahatchie, and with no help coming, we had decided that we needed to get a bit better organized. Most of the folks of any means down in Oxford had already evacuated south. Those left in town sent some emissaries up here to talk to us. They offered manpower in return for food. There was a bunch of folks around here that wanted to treat the folks from Oxford like we had treated the Memphis refugees, but a few of us realized we needed an army large enough to defend the farmers and their crops if we were going to survive. As the logic of the idea sunk in, folks started to call for declaration of an autonomous city state. They asked the Colonel to command the army. The Colonel deferred to another younger, recently retired Army officer and offered to be the Baron von Stuben of the army.”

“Barry von who?” chirped a lad.

“Baron von Stuben was a Prussian mercenary who showed up at Valley Forge and trained Washington’s army how to stand and fight the British in open battle. Without Baron von Stuben’s work, it is very doubtful American’s would have won their independence from Great Britain.”

“So, we organized and trained an army, a regiment of which marched south in early March of ’25 and caught the bulk of the ‘Gee army in front of the Jackson defenses. They tried to squirt out of the trap to the southeast, but our regiment swung around on their flank in a classic pursuit operation and killed or captured most of ‘em.”

“So, when did you establish the Tallahatchie Republic, Colonel?”

“The Tallahatchie Republic? Oh, the Colonel declared that way back in ’16 when the Ole Miss administration stopped the band from playing Dixie.”                                       

Playground Politics

The Colonel is absolutely disgusted by the ever-sinking level of political discourse across the Republic.

He has always been uncomfortable with the sophomoric name-calling.  He is dismayed to see normally mature, intelligent fellow citizens become nothing more than nattering nine-year old playground denizens when referring to the political opposition. 

Can we just stop using the following (and their ilk), please?

"Dimocrats."

"Mudslums."

"Reptards."

"Libtards."

"Killary."

Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. 

It is beneath us.  Far, far, far beneath us.

Come on, people!  We aren't Venezuela, for crying out loud. 

Can we just stop gleefully cheering on the gutter-crawling, mud-slinging from those who purport to be our leaders?  This ain't a mud-wrestling match, fellow citizens! We are debating the future of our Republic!

The Republic that we are going to leave to our grandchildren.

Speaking of our grandchildren -- if we caught them using the kind of foul, disreputable language that passes for our political discourse today, we would refer them to their parents for appropriate punishment and correction. 

Disagree -- of course.  Just keep out the coarseness.

Forceful defense of your political philosophy -- absolutely.  Just dispense with the ad hominem attacks.

Anyone who disagrees with the Colonel on this is a thumbsuckin', booger-eatin', pants-wetter!

As for Me and My House

The Colonel will never be a candidate for Sainthood.

The only miracles associated with his time on earth involve his salvation, convincing the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda to marry him, and achieving any rank in the Marine Corps beyond second lieutenant.

That, and the precedent for a Southern Baptist's canonization is kinda hard to find...

The low opinion the Colonel holds for himself is matched only by his opinion of those with whom he disagrees. Although hamstrung by a lack of education (he went to Ole Miss instead of college), he still considers himself at least the second smartest person in any room -- and he often has a hard time finding the first.

But, the Colonel is not-so quickly coming to the conclusion that his principled opinion, while fortified with the brick and mortar of studied fact and built on the bedrock of conviction, is corroded to inviability by his own attitude and conduct.

The Colonel's heart is as cold and unfeeling as one of his diabetic-riddled toes in a duck blind in January.

His lack of empathy would make Genghis Khan wince.

The meter measuring his concern for the welfare of others is pegged on empty.

The Colonel could blame his scorched earth nature on three decades of training to visit his nation's righteous wrath on enemies of the Constitution, but that would be a cop out worthy of comparison with a Nuremberg defense.

This toxic brew of narcissism, selfish pride, and positional self-righteousness, while quite entertaining personally, is poison delivered straight to the heart of any cause, no matter the moral strength of the argument.

So, the Colonel's quandary is this:

How does he stand up for what is Godly, right, and just, without the mangudai in him attempting to lay waste to the homeland of his opponent?

Look, the Colonel knows the answer. Second smartest guy in any room, remember?

God doesn't need any of us to fight His battles for Him.

The Colonel believes that God expects him to take a stand...

...behind Him.

And, the place to stand is at home.

The Colonel doesn't mean to ignore the evil in the world. He means there is plenty of evil to confront within the confines of his own home and heart.

Joshua's challenge to the Israelites sums up what the Colonel means best.

"Now, therefore, fear the LORD and serve Him in sincerity and truth; and put away the gods which your fathers served beyond the River and in Egypt, and serve the LORD. If it is disagreeable in your sight to serve the LORD, choose for yourselves today whom you will serve: whether the gods which your fathers served which were beyond the River, or the gods of the Amorites in whose land you are living; but as for me and my house, we will serve the LORD." Joshua 25: 14 - 15

The Colonel is convinced, without the shadow of a doubt in his military mind, that confronting evil begins at home.

Fair warning, though:

When God gets the Colonel's heart right and turns him loose, there will be hell to pay...

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.