Thirty-six years ago, this summer, I made a delightful and life-altering discovery.
Several youth groups from churches in the Panama Canal Zone had assembled for a day of water fun at a camp on Gatun Lake called Governor's Island. The central attraction was a large dock, high up above the waterline and well out into deep water. A giant rope swing was tied to an overhanging limb of a huge banyan tree, and letting go of it at the apex of its swing arc launched you sailing through the air in a heart-pounding-in- your-chest, wind-roaring-in-your-ears, arm-flailing tangle of teenage testosterone. To access the swing, you had to climb a tower on the dock and catch the rope as it swung back from the previous launch. There was a long line of boys at the swing tower, and those of us tired of waiting in line to show off our courage to the girls, were arrayed at the end of the dock while a line of girls presented themselves, like so many volcano god-pleasing virgins, to be thrown, screeching in mock terror, from the dock.
Becky stepped up. I pushed her off, rather than take the time to pick her up and throw her in--she wasn't the one I had my eye on. It was that skinny little Cannon girl. Seemed like I had seen her everywhere at the end of the school year. And everywhere I saw her, I liked what I saw. Now, there she was, standing at the head of volcano virgin line, smiling shyly.
The problem was my best buddy, Joe, had been seeing her everywhere, and liking what he saw, too. Before I could scoop the little Cannon girl up, Joe hip-checked me, grabbed her, spun toward the end of the dock, and launched her in a bikini-clad, screeching, moon-shot that concluded in a most impressive "kersploosh!"
Joe and I stood at the end of the dock admiring..., er, maintaining safety watch over the girls in the water, particularly that cute little Cannon girl. I turned to grab the next contestant and stopped dead in my tracks in shock. The cute little Cannon girl was standing there at the front of the line. Man, she was quick! I looked back down in the water and the cute little Cannon girl was still there in a water-treading gaggle at the dock ladder!
"Joe, there's two of 'em! Twins!"
"Well, 'Duh.' Now leave mine alone; you got your own!"
Five years later, almost to the day, I married my cute little Cannon twin. Joe was my best man, and Miss Brenda's twin sissy, Linda was maid of honor. That was thirty-one years ago, today. To this day, everywhere I look, I still see that cute little Cannon girl.
And everywhere I see her, I love what I see.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Saturday, July 28, 2007
Preschool Pearl Diver
Amazing how memories of events from over 40 years ago can surface through the accumulated fog and clog of one's cluttered mind. Even more amazing are the sensory triggers that trip the synaptic switch and start the reel to reel memory movie clattering through the projector of your mind's eye.
The Colonel is taking advantage of the fact that his lake's water level is low due to continuing drought, to build a dock at current water's edge that will, with hoped-for return of rains and raised lake level, be positioned out over deep water. While THE GRANDSON was here a couple of weeks ago, his dad and the Colonel dug the post holes, cemented in the posts, and fixed the 2 x 6 stringers onto which the deck boards would be screwed. This morning, Miss Brenda and the Colonel completed the deck board phase of the project.
Well..., almost.
From long experience with projects like this, and the Colonel's well-documented inability to effectively plan said projects or correctly follow an effective plan if he were to effectively plan said projects, he bought deck boards that were two feet longer than needed for the frame of the dock.
The Colonel will have to cut off the 2 feet or so of overhang, but not to fear, he has other projects for which 2 feet of deck boards will come in handy.
As he completed driving the last of the screws, the Colonel stepped off to one side of the very recently completed dock deck to admire his handiwork. The Colonel had four sides to choose from, three of which had board ends securely fastened to the edge of the dock frame.
The Colonel chose the fourth. The one with two feet of diving-board springy ends sticking out over several feet of nothing.
Owing to a combination of his still cat-like reflexes and the fact that his guardian angel knew from past building project experience to keep a sharp eye and close hand on him, the Colonel did not depart the vertical. The Colonel managed to regain enough balance to step back onto firmer footing, and as he regained composure and fixed his gaze on the trouble spot, the sight of loose boards caused a synapse to fire up the reel to reel.
Dad had taken little brother, Bruce, and the Colonel fishing. The Colonel was not more than 8 or 9 and that would make little brother either 5 or 6. They were on a narrow, rickety, plank bridge spanning a small, slow-moving stream somewhere on a gravel road in rural central Arkansas. Dad was doing what all dads do when they take young sons fishing -- cycling between the two boys untangling lines, fretting over the inability to wet a hook personally, and admonishing each boy at least twice a minute to sit still and not stand up on the bridge.
At one point in the two-son, line-untangling cycle, Dad failed to admonish little brother to remain sitting, and with Dad's attention turned to the Colonel, Bruce took the remain-sitting admonishment omission as permission to stand.
Neither Dad nor the Colonel were eyewitnesses to what actually happened next.
The sound, "kersploosh," was the first indication that something was amiss with little brother. The Colonel looked over to see what his little brother had thrown in and was startled to see that he had disappeared.
As the Colonel marvelled at Bruce's evidently new found ability to vanish into thin air, Dad nearly knocked the Colonel off the bridge as he jumped to the spot formally occupied by his #2 son.
One of the earliest and most vivid pictures ingrained in the Colonel's memory is of his father leaping from the bridge and a geyser of water erupting subsequent to an impressive "KERSPLOOOSH!"
As water rained down on the bridge, the Colonel scrambled to his feet (Dad had failed to admonish him to stay seated before leaping from the bridge) and stood looking at bubbles roiling the water into which Dad and Bruce had disappeared.
Up through the bubbles little brother's face appeared and broke the surface, followed by Dad's head as he pushed Bruce up out of the water in front of him. Dad's reappearance reminded the Colonel that he was supposed to be sitting down and he spun to go reattain his seat before Dad could yell at him.
Too late; he was already yelling.
But, instead of yelling at him, Dad was yelling to the Colonel,
"Grab him!"
Dad needed the Colonel's help. It was the first time Dad (mind you, John Wayne was a simpering wimp compared to Dad) had ever needed the Colonel's help.
The Colonel managed to get hold of little brother's wrists and pulled as Dad pushed him up and out of the water. Dad pulled himself up and the three stood dripping, trembling, and awestruck, respectively, on that rickety old bridge in the middle of nowhere.
It was quiet, but for deep breaths and water dripping at our feet.
Bruce's plaintive wail broke the spell, "Momma's gonna kill me!" Never mind that he could have drowned or been eaten by a gator, he had gotten his clothes wet and that constituted a paddling offense in Mrs. Gregory's household.
About that time an old pick-up, trailing a cloud of dust, rumbled onto the bridge and stopped next to us. The man in the truck (describing him as a "redneck" would be an insult to rednecks) squinted at the collection of wet man and boys on the bridge, spat a stream of tobacco juice on the planks below his truck window, and snickered,
"Got yerself a pearl divin' youngun' there, do ya? Har, har, har."
Took the Colonel a week to forgive Bruce for cutting the fishing trip short.
The Colonel is taking advantage of the fact that his lake's water level is low due to continuing drought, to build a dock at current water's edge that will, with hoped-for return of rains and raised lake level, be positioned out over deep water. While THE GRANDSON was here a couple of weeks ago, his dad and the Colonel dug the post holes, cemented in the posts, and fixed the 2 x 6 stringers onto which the deck boards would be screwed. This morning, Miss Brenda and the Colonel completed the deck board phase of the project.
Well..., almost.
From long experience with projects like this, and the Colonel's well-documented inability to effectively plan said projects or correctly follow an effective plan if he were to effectively plan said projects, he bought deck boards that were two feet longer than needed for the frame of the dock.
The Colonel will have to cut off the 2 feet or so of overhang, but not to fear, he has other projects for which 2 feet of deck boards will come in handy.
As he completed driving the last of the screws, the Colonel stepped off to one side of the very recently completed dock deck to admire his handiwork. The Colonel had four sides to choose from, three of which had board ends securely fastened to the edge of the dock frame.
The Colonel chose the fourth. The one with two feet of diving-board springy ends sticking out over several feet of nothing.
Owing to a combination of his still cat-like reflexes and the fact that his guardian angel knew from past building project experience to keep a sharp eye and close hand on him, the Colonel did not depart the vertical. The Colonel managed to regain enough balance to step back onto firmer footing, and as he regained composure and fixed his gaze on the trouble spot, the sight of loose boards caused a synapse to fire up the reel to reel.
Dad had taken little brother, Bruce, and the Colonel fishing. The Colonel was not more than 8 or 9 and that would make little brother either 5 or 6. They were on a narrow, rickety, plank bridge spanning a small, slow-moving stream somewhere on a gravel road in rural central Arkansas. Dad was doing what all dads do when they take young sons fishing -- cycling between the two boys untangling lines, fretting over the inability to wet a hook personally, and admonishing each boy at least twice a minute to sit still and not stand up on the bridge.
At one point in the two-son, line-untangling cycle, Dad failed to admonish little brother to remain sitting, and with Dad's attention turned to the Colonel, Bruce took the remain-sitting admonishment omission as permission to stand.
Neither Dad nor the Colonel were eyewitnesses to what actually happened next.
The sound, "kersploosh," was the first indication that something was amiss with little brother. The Colonel looked over to see what his little brother had thrown in and was startled to see that he had disappeared.
As the Colonel marvelled at Bruce's evidently new found ability to vanish into thin air, Dad nearly knocked the Colonel off the bridge as he jumped to the spot formally occupied by his #2 son.
One of the earliest and most vivid pictures ingrained in the Colonel's memory is of his father leaping from the bridge and a geyser of water erupting subsequent to an impressive "KERSPLOOOSH!"
As water rained down on the bridge, the Colonel scrambled to his feet (Dad had failed to admonish him to stay seated before leaping from the bridge) and stood looking at bubbles roiling the water into which Dad and Bruce had disappeared.
Up through the bubbles little brother's face appeared and broke the surface, followed by Dad's head as he pushed Bruce up out of the water in front of him. Dad's reappearance reminded the Colonel that he was supposed to be sitting down and he spun to go reattain his seat before Dad could yell at him.
Too late; he was already yelling.
But, instead of yelling at him, Dad was yelling to the Colonel,
"Grab him!"
Dad needed the Colonel's help. It was the first time Dad (mind you, John Wayne was a simpering wimp compared to Dad) had ever needed the Colonel's help.
The Colonel managed to get hold of little brother's wrists and pulled as Dad pushed him up and out of the water. Dad pulled himself up and the three stood dripping, trembling, and awestruck, respectively, on that rickety old bridge in the middle of nowhere.
It was quiet, but for deep breaths and water dripping at our feet.
Bruce's plaintive wail broke the spell, "Momma's gonna kill me!" Never mind that he could have drowned or been eaten by a gator, he had gotten his clothes wet and that constituted a paddling offense in Mrs. Gregory's household.
About that time an old pick-up, trailing a cloud of dust, rumbled onto the bridge and stopped next to us. The man in the truck (describing him as a "redneck" would be an insult to rednecks) squinted at the collection of wet man and boys on the bridge, spat a stream of tobacco juice on the planks below his truck window, and snickered,
"Got yerself a pearl divin' youngun' there, do ya? Har, har, har."
Took the Colonel a week to forgive Bruce for cutting the fishing trip short.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Rebel Yell
Don't know why I get excited about it every year, the disappointment is nearly always an annual occurence.
Forty days from now, the college football season opens for my Rebels. They'll make a short trip up to Memphis to take on the Memphis State (Yes, I know, they are the University of Memphis, now--but there's only room for one U of M in the south.) Tigers. Between Missouri, Memphis, LSU, and Auburn, we play four tigers this year. Obviously there is a shortage of mascots, if so many teams have to share the same one. Which makes me wonder why in the Sam Hill, Ole Miss' AD and Chancellor want to get rid of ours. Just gonna have to share somebody else's. But, I digress.
Since I started seriously following Ole Miss football in the early seventies (coincident with my matriculation), the seasons worth bragging about have been recorded on the fingers of one hand. I'm not even sure, and I don't want to waste the time and precious brain cells to confirm, that we are over .500 for the 35 year, post-Archie Manning period.
This year, with my CP secreted in the hills above Oxford, and with season tickets for the first time, I will be able to experience the pain (and pleasure, but mostly pain) of Ole Miss football up close and personal for the first time since I left the kudzu-clad Jewel of Mississippi (no kidding, that's what Oxford calls itself) nearly 30 years ago.
And, because misery loves company, the handful of you who punish yourself regularly by reading this blog will get a Sunday morning Rebel Rehash, complete with insights on the latest in Frat Rat fashion... Okay, maybe I won't comment on fashion. But, I will report, with a perspective not found on any Sports Page, on the scene from the stands.
Now, if that won't reduce readership, nothing will.
Forty days from now, the college football season opens for my Rebels. They'll make a short trip up to Memphis to take on the Memphis State (Yes, I know, they are the University of Memphis, now--but there's only room for one U of M in the south.) Tigers. Between Missouri, Memphis, LSU, and Auburn, we play four tigers this year. Obviously there is a shortage of mascots, if so many teams have to share the same one. Which makes me wonder why in the Sam Hill, Ole Miss' AD and Chancellor want to get rid of ours. Just gonna have to share somebody else's. But, I digress.
Since I started seriously following Ole Miss football in the early seventies (coincident with my matriculation), the seasons worth bragging about have been recorded on the fingers of one hand. I'm not even sure, and I don't want to waste the time and precious brain cells to confirm, that we are over .500 for the 35 year, post-Archie Manning period.
This year, with my CP secreted in the hills above Oxford, and with season tickets for the first time, I will be able to experience the pain (and pleasure, but mostly pain) of Ole Miss football up close and personal for the first time since I left the kudzu-clad Jewel of Mississippi (no kidding, that's what Oxford calls itself) nearly 30 years ago.
And, because misery loves company, the handful of you who punish yourself regularly by reading this blog will get a Sunday morning Rebel Rehash, complete with insights on the latest in Frat Rat fashion... Okay, maybe I won't comment on fashion. But, I will report, with a perspective not found on any Sports Page, on the scene from the stands.
Now, if that won't reduce readership, nothing will.
Saturday, July 14, 2007
Spotted Wildlife Spotting
Miss Brenda was overwhelmed by opportunity the other evening and quite unprepared to take advantage. She recovered nicely, but I haven't seen her that animated and moving that fast in a long time.
The grandchild, and his dad, #1 son, are visiting Eegeebegee this week, and Miss Brenda and I have revelled in seeing the country sights through the eyes of an adventurous 21 month old boy. Blackberry picking, in particular, has been a face-purpling joy for the little scamp. By my calculations, he has consumed the critical ingredients for three jars of jam and two blackberry cobblers, intercepting said critical ingredients early in the pick to pail to pie production process. We were down in one of the fields below the house the other evening hanging up a feeder for my turkeys and whitetails, and Miss Brenda diverted for a low pass of the brambles lining the field to check for ripe berries.
The grandchild, #1, and I finished securing the automatic feeder from a oak limb and sat on the tailgate of the truck admiring our accomplishment. We called over to Miss Brenda, "Any ripe berries, Nana?"
"Quite a few."
#1 left Caleb and me at the truck and walked through the tall grass over to where Miss Brenda was reaching into the brush, liberating berries. Shortly after Josh got over to her, Miss Brenda came running back across the field toward the truck. She was highstepping with elbows in the high port position, giving the distinct impression of being chased by something. Curiously, #1 was still standing still, where his mother had departed company with him. As Miss Brenda neared Caleb and me, she breathlessly exclaimed, "Are the keys in the truck!?!"
I responded in the affirmative and lifted Caleb off the tail gate as Miss Brenda clambered into the cab, "Gotta go get my camera!," and gunned the truck back up the hill toward the house.
I called over to #1, "What is it?" But he was standing stock still and wouldn't holler back.
I put Caleb on my shoulders and headed over to where Josh was standing. Before I could work my way through the tall grass, Miss Brenda came bouncing back down the hill in the truck, skidded to a halt, leapt out with camera in the over-crowd paparazzi position and high-stepped past me like a Marine on a mission. What she said as she blew past me made no sense whatsoever.
"There's a great big black snake in the garage!"
My pea-sized brain was working overtime to process that last bit of data and collate it with the rapid movements and lack of movement of Miss Brenda and her first born, respectively, as I moved up behind them and noticed what they were worked up, and stock still, respectively, about.
In the tall grass under the bushes lining the field was a days old fawn. I'm talking less than a week of days old. Still wobbly. Cuter than Caleb. More spots than not. It was so young that it seemed to mistake our presence for the presence of its mama and it was mewling quietly and stumbling around back and forth in a tight circle of beaten down grass.
I let Miss Brenda take pictures from no closer than six feet and then moved everyone off and away. I knew mama was close by and wanted her to be able to get back and collect her baby before it got dark and the coyotes started prowling. As we walked back to the truck, I asked, "What's this about a snake in the garage?"
"When I got to the house there was a big black snake in the garage in between me and the door. I tried to shoo him out and he coiled up and hissed at me! Look, I took a picture of him."
Sure enough, she had a close up of a big black snake with lots of tiny faint yellow spots. Indigo snake, I believe. A good snake. Fast. We used to call them "black racers" when I was a kid.
"Look at this picture of it's tongue hanging out of the corner of its mouth."
"Uh, dear. That's not its tongue. That's the tail of a rat."
Not sure if she was more upset about the snake or the rat.
The grandchild, and his dad, #1 son, are visiting Eegeebegee this week, and Miss Brenda and I have revelled in seeing the country sights through the eyes of an adventurous 21 month old boy. Blackberry picking, in particular, has been a face-purpling joy for the little scamp. By my calculations, he has consumed the critical ingredients for three jars of jam and two blackberry cobblers, intercepting said critical ingredients early in the pick to pail to pie production process. We were down in one of the fields below the house the other evening hanging up a feeder for my turkeys and whitetails, and Miss Brenda diverted for a low pass of the brambles lining the field to check for ripe berries.
The grandchild, #1, and I finished securing the automatic feeder from a oak limb and sat on the tailgate of the truck admiring our accomplishment. We called over to Miss Brenda, "Any ripe berries, Nana?"
"Quite a few."
#1 left Caleb and me at the truck and walked through the tall grass over to where Miss Brenda was reaching into the brush, liberating berries. Shortly after Josh got over to her, Miss Brenda came running back across the field toward the truck. She was highstepping with elbows in the high port position, giving the distinct impression of being chased by something. Curiously, #1 was still standing still, where his mother had departed company with him. As Miss Brenda neared Caleb and me, she breathlessly exclaimed, "Are the keys in the truck!?!"
I responded in the affirmative and lifted Caleb off the tail gate as Miss Brenda clambered into the cab, "Gotta go get my camera!," and gunned the truck back up the hill toward the house.
I called over to #1, "What is it?" But he was standing stock still and wouldn't holler back.
I put Caleb on my shoulders and headed over to where Josh was standing. Before I could work my way through the tall grass, Miss Brenda came bouncing back down the hill in the truck, skidded to a halt, leapt out with camera in the over-crowd paparazzi position and high-stepped past me like a Marine on a mission. What she said as she blew past me made no sense whatsoever.
"There's a great big black snake in the garage!"
My pea-sized brain was working overtime to process that last bit of data and collate it with the rapid movements and lack of movement of Miss Brenda and her first born, respectively, as I moved up behind them and noticed what they were worked up, and stock still, respectively, about.
In the tall grass under the bushes lining the field was a days old fawn. I'm talking less than a week of days old. Still wobbly. Cuter than Caleb. More spots than not. It was so young that it seemed to mistake our presence for the presence of its mama and it was mewling quietly and stumbling around back and forth in a tight circle of beaten down grass.
I let Miss Brenda take pictures from no closer than six feet and then moved everyone off and away. I knew mama was close by and wanted her to be able to get back and collect her baby before it got dark and the coyotes started prowling. As we walked back to the truck, I asked, "What's this about a snake in the garage?"
"When I got to the house there was a big black snake in the garage in between me and the door. I tried to shoo him out and he coiled up and hissed at me! Look, I took a picture of him."
Sure enough, she had a close up of a big black snake with lots of tiny faint yellow spots. Indigo snake, I believe. A good snake. Fast. We used to call them "black racers" when I was a kid.
"Look at this picture of it's tongue hanging out of the corner of its mouth."
"Uh, dear. That's not its tongue. That's the tail of a rat."
Not sure if she was more upset about the snake or the rat.
Thursday, July 05, 2007
Timing is Everything
I take pretty radical positions on many issues. The difference between me and most other commentators on the scene is that I posit from experience, or at least a firm understanding of the subject. Yeah, I'm bragging, but I have good reason to this morning.
When it comes to military strategy and the congruency (or lack thereof) of our nation's combat operations with our national strategic goals, I have some training and experience on which to base my comments.
Ditto leadership, history, political science, and hunting and fishing.
When it comes to the immigration debate, I have a first hand stake in the discussion. My daughter is an immigrant from Hong Kong, adopted into our family at the tender age of 4 1/2 years.
Oh, by the way, she was born on the 4th of July.
Actually, her birthdate is July 5th. Several years ago she and I were discussing her birthday and she lamented that she had not been born on the 4th instead of the 5th. "How cool would that have been, Daddy?"
I wasn't sharp enough at that instant, but later as I was thinking about her comment I remembered a quirk of geography (at least man's accounting of time with regard to geography). I called her back and said, "Jessica, you WERE born on the 4th of July."
"No, Daddy," she intoned, sounding as if I were already bedridden with no memory. "I was born on the 5th. I have my birth certificate to prove it."
"Sweetie, Hong Kong is a day ahead of the United States on the western side of the International Date line."
"Huh?" I could hear the fear (shared by her siblings) in her voice that she believed I was launching into one of my inescapable and lengthy history, political science, or geography lessons.
"It was the 5th of July in Hong Kong. But it was still the 4th of July in America. You were born on America's 4th of July."
"Cool, Daddy!"
Happy Birthday, Sugar Bear!
When it comes to military strategy and the congruency (or lack thereof) of our nation's combat operations with our national strategic goals, I have some training and experience on which to base my comments.
Ditto leadership, history, political science, and hunting and fishing.
When it comes to the immigration debate, I have a first hand stake in the discussion. My daughter is an immigrant from Hong Kong, adopted into our family at the tender age of 4 1/2 years.
Oh, by the way, she was born on the 4th of July.
Actually, her birthdate is July 5th. Several years ago she and I were discussing her birthday and she lamented that she had not been born on the 4th instead of the 5th. "How cool would that have been, Daddy?"
I wasn't sharp enough at that instant, but later as I was thinking about her comment I remembered a quirk of geography (at least man's accounting of time with regard to geography). I called her back and said, "Jessica, you WERE born on the 4th of July."
"No, Daddy," she intoned, sounding as if I were already bedridden with no memory. "I was born on the 5th. I have my birth certificate to prove it."
"Sweetie, Hong Kong is a day ahead of the United States on the western side of the International Date line."
"Huh?" I could hear the fear (shared by her siblings) in her voice that she believed I was launching into one of my inescapable and lengthy history, political science, or geography lessons.
"It was the 5th of July in Hong Kong. But it was still the 4th of July in America. You were born on America's 4th of July."
"Cool, Daddy!"
Happy Birthday, Sugar Bear!
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
"Fourth" Verse, Same as the First
You wouldn't believe it, but the biggest, baddest, meanest Marine can be stopped dead in his tracks by a song.
I was thinking this weekend about memorable Independence Day's in my life and I recalled the 4th of July I spent at Officers Candidate School thirty years ago. When the lights came on at 0430 (about the time most of my civilian college classmates were getting in from partying) that morning, and Gunnery Sergeant Sadist bellowed his cheery wake-up call to the tune of a large metal trash can bouncing down the squadbay, most of us didn't know or care that it was the 4th of July. The only thought in our groggy minds was getting out of the rack with enough alacrity to prevent being singled out by our tormentor as "too slow."
"Hurry up, Ladies! You got five minutes to sh**, shower, and shave. Uniform of the day is utilities with your PT shorts underneath. Bring your running shoes in your gym bag. Hurry up! I said, HURRY UP!"
Five minutes later (amazing, all that you can accomplish in five minutes with the right motivation) 49 other candidates and I were standing at attention in front of our barracks. To our right and left were two platoons each, indistinguishable from us but for the slightly different tones of voices of each platoon's assigned drill instructor. To the untrained hear, all five platoons' harriers' barking sounded nearly identical; but over the past couple of weeks we had become so well attuned to the sound of our own that in close proximity to the four others giving different commands to their platoons, we only responded to ours. Equally unintelligible to the untrained ear was the language of drill, with which we had become bilingual.
"Aauuf, HEESE!" (Left, face), "Auwerd, ARCH!" We stepped off smartly, a team of fifty moving as one man.
Five minutes later we arrived at the curb in front of the chow hall. "Plautooon, HALT! Candidates you got fifteen minutes to poke some groceries down your necks and be back in my platoon formation! Don't be lolly gaggin'! Column of files from the Ryee, ARCH!"
Once inside the doors of the chow hall, we grabbed metal trays and shuffled down the serving line to the tune of, "Keep the line moving, candidates! Hurry UP, ladies! We ain't got all day. You're burning daylight!"
'Burning daylight' made absolute sense at the time. But thinking back on it 30 years later, I realize the sun wouldn't even be up for another hour.
We shoveled watery scrambled eggs, stale toast, and grits (the Marine Corps is a strikingly Southern institution) into our pie holes in silence broken only by the insistence of our sergeants that we were taking entirely too much time away from their plans for inflicting bodily punishment without leaving marks. "You're done! Get up! Get out! Hurry up!"
Ten minutes later our platoons circled a platform on which one of our inquisitioners stood high enough to be seen and heard by all. We were in extended formation, the better to flail and flop in a seemingly unending series of lung stretching and limb wrenching calisthenics. "The next exercise will be the Marine Corps Push UP!" To which we all hollered, "Ooorah!"
"I said, THE NEXT EXERCISE WILL BE THE MARINE CORPS PUSH UP!!"
"OOOOORAH!!!"
"That's better, ladies! I'll count the cadence, you'll count the repetition. We'll do thirty."
Now before all you Ranger Ricks out there snicker about Marines just doing 30 push ups, I'll remind you that Marine Corps Push Ups are a four count exercise with two push ups counting as one repetition.
"Exercise position, MOVE!" We dropped like stones from the position of attention to what our cruel masters lovingly referred to as the "Front leaning rest position." "Too, slow! Get back!" We scrambled back to the position of attention. "Exercise position, MOVE!" Again we dropped like dead men and locked our bodies in the 'up' position of the push up exercise. "That's better."
"Re-ady, exercise! One! Two! Three! Four!"
"One!," we hollered.
"I, Love, the Marine, Corps!
"Oorah!" we responded to count the second repetition.
And so it went, as it did every morning, every day. Without rest, without pause. Constant movement from the moment we awoke to the last minute of the day when we we lay at attention in our racks and in unison reverently asked God to bless Chesty Puller.
But this morning as the sun began to sap the last bit of blessed coolness from the Northern Virginia summer dawn, our exercise leader made a tactical error.
"Happy Fourth of July, ladies."
It was like an invigorating bucket of cold water poured over collectively overheated brain housing groups. It WAS the Fourth of July!
With boldness born of the belief, "They can hurt us, but they aren't allowed to kill us" one candidate began to sing with a voice that still rings in my ears, "O-oh say, can - you - see?"
The rest of us stole furtive glances at our drill instructors to see which one would race to squash the errant trainee like a bug. To our amazement, all of those Marines stood transfixed, mouths open, unbelieving. And then to our further amazement, they all assumed the position of attention, feet locked at a forty-five degree angle, head and eyes to the front, thumbs along the out seams of their trousers.
We did the same, and by the time our soloist had belted out "What so proudly we hailed" 249 other voices had joined in. I've heard a lot of choirs over the years, good ones. But, to this day I've never heard one that matched in fervor and tenor the rendition of our National Anthem we future Marine second lieutenants managed that morning. Turns out, our initial soloist knew, as did enough of us to pull it off, the other verses of the Star Bangled Banner. Our tormentors had no choice but to remain at attention and allow us to sing.
At the conclusion of the anthem, our drill instructors all inhaled as one in the preparatory phase of a string of epithet-laden commands to break our stolen rest. But, before they could exhale past their raspy vocal chords, another officer candidate voice began, "From the halls - of - Mon-te-zu-uma..."
Once again, those battle-hardened Marines were frozen in disbelief at the brazenness of their worthless charges, and then solidified into rock-steady positions of attention as we joined in for all three verses of the Marines' Hymn.
We sang, resting at the position of attention; refreshing our souls as we stole rest for our bodies.
"...they will find the streets are gua-arded by United States Marines!" We all, battle-scarred Marine NCOs and wet-behind-the-ears would-be Marine officers, relished the crescendo of our sacred song and stood still momentarily as the last refrain echoed off the parade ground and lifted to the Marines now standing guard of "heaven's scenes."
"Oh, beautiful, for spacious skies...," another candidate voice began, hoping to extend our singing break from strenuous activity a few more precious minutes. But, alas, while Marines are required to stand at attention for our National Anthem and the Marines' Hymn, there is no such sanctity proscribed for any other song.
"No! No! No! Get your gear on and let's move! Hurry up, ladies! Too slow! Grandma was slow, but she was old! Hurry up! It may be the Fourth of July, but it ain't YOUR birthday!"
Wrong, again, Gunny. It IS my birthday. And yours, too.
I was thinking this weekend about memorable Independence Day's in my life and I recalled the 4th of July I spent at Officers Candidate School thirty years ago. When the lights came on at 0430 (about the time most of my civilian college classmates were getting in from partying) that morning, and Gunnery Sergeant Sadist bellowed his cheery wake-up call to the tune of a large metal trash can bouncing down the squadbay, most of us didn't know or care that it was the 4th of July. The only thought in our groggy minds was getting out of the rack with enough alacrity to prevent being singled out by our tormentor as "too slow."
"Hurry up, Ladies! You got five minutes to sh**, shower, and shave. Uniform of the day is utilities with your PT shorts underneath. Bring your running shoes in your gym bag. Hurry up! I said, HURRY UP!"
Five minutes later (amazing, all that you can accomplish in five minutes with the right motivation) 49 other candidates and I were standing at attention in front of our barracks. To our right and left were two platoons each, indistinguishable from us but for the slightly different tones of voices of each platoon's assigned drill instructor. To the untrained hear, all five platoons' harriers' barking sounded nearly identical; but over the past couple of weeks we had become so well attuned to the sound of our own that in close proximity to the four others giving different commands to their platoons, we only responded to ours. Equally unintelligible to the untrained ear was the language of drill, with which we had become bilingual.
"Aauuf, HEESE!" (Left, face), "Auwerd, ARCH!" We stepped off smartly, a team of fifty moving as one man.
Five minutes later we arrived at the curb in front of the chow hall. "Plautooon, HALT! Candidates you got fifteen minutes to poke some groceries down your necks and be back in my platoon formation! Don't be lolly gaggin'! Column of files from the Ryee, ARCH!"
Once inside the doors of the chow hall, we grabbed metal trays and shuffled down the serving line to the tune of, "Keep the line moving, candidates! Hurry UP, ladies! We ain't got all day. You're burning daylight!"
'Burning daylight' made absolute sense at the time. But thinking back on it 30 years later, I realize the sun wouldn't even be up for another hour.
We shoveled watery scrambled eggs, stale toast, and grits (the Marine Corps is a strikingly Southern institution) into our pie holes in silence broken only by the insistence of our sergeants that we were taking entirely too much time away from their plans for inflicting bodily punishment without leaving marks. "You're done! Get up! Get out! Hurry up!"
Ten minutes later our platoons circled a platform on which one of our inquisitioners stood high enough to be seen and heard by all. We were in extended formation, the better to flail and flop in a seemingly unending series of lung stretching and limb wrenching calisthenics. "The next exercise will be the Marine Corps Push UP!" To which we all hollered, "Ooorah!"
"I said, THE NEXT EXERCISE WILL BE THE MARINE CORPS PUSH UP!!"
"OOOOORAH!!!"
"That's better, ladies! I'll count the cadence, you'll count the repetition. We'll do thirty."
Now before all you Ranger Ricks out there snicker about Marines just doing 30 push ups, I'll remind you that Marine Corps Push Ups are a four count exercise with two push ups counting as one repetition.
"Exercise position, MOVE!" We dropped like stones from the position of attention to what our cruel masters lovingly referred to as the "Front leaning rest position." "Too, slow! Get back!" We scrambled back to the position of attention. "Exercise position, MOVE!" Again we dropped like dead men and locked our bodies in the 'up' position of the push up exercise. "That's better."
"Re-ady, exercise! One! Two! Three! Four!"
"One!," we hollered.
"I, Love, the Marine, Corps!
"Oorah!" we responded to count the second repetition.
And so it went, as it did every morning, every day. Without rest, without pause. Constant movement from the moment we awoke to the last minute of the day when we we lay at attention in our racks and in unison reverently asked God to bless Chesty Puller.
But this morning as the sun began to sap the last bit of blessed coolness from the Northern Virginia summer dawn, our exercise leader made a tactical error.
"Happy Fourth of July, ladies."
It was like an invigorating bucket of cold water poured over collectively overheated brain housing groups. It WAS the Fourth of July!
With boldness born of the belief, "They can hurt us, but they aren't allowed to kill us" one candidate began to sing with a voice that still rings in my ears, "O-oh say, can - you - see?"
The rest of us stole furtive glances at our drill instructors to see which one would race to squash the errant trainee like a bug. To our amazement, all of those Marines stood transfixed, mouths open, unbelieving. And then to our further amazement, they all assumed the position of attention, feet locked at a forty-five degree angle, head and eyes to the front, thumbs along the out seams of their trousers.
We did the same, and by the time our soloist had belted out "What so proudly we hailed" 249 other voices had joined in. I've heard a lot of choirs over the years, good ones. But, to this day I've never heard one that matched in fervor and tenor the rendition of our National Anthem we future Marine second lieutenants managed that morning. Turns out, our initial soloist knew, as did enough of us to pull it off, the other verses of the Star Bangled Banner. Our tormentors had no choice but to remain at attention and allow us to sing.
At the conclusion of the anthem, our drill instructors all inhaled as one in the preparatory phase of a string of epithet-laden commands to break our stolen rest. But, before they could exhale past their raspy vocal chords, another officer candidate voice began, "From the halls - of - Mon-te-zu-uma..."
Once again, those battle-hardened Marines were frozen in disbelief at the brazenness of their worthless charges, and then solidified into rock-steady positions of attention as we joined in for all three verses of the Marines' Hymn.
We sang, resting at the position of attention; refreshing our souls as we stole rest for our bodies.
"...they will find the streets are gua-arded by United States Marines!" We all, battle-scarred Marine NCOs and wet-behind-the-ears would-be Marine officers, relished the crescendo of our sacred song and stood still momentarily as the last refrain echoed off the parade ground and lifted to the Marines now standing guard of "heaven's scenes."
"Oh, beautiful, for spacious skies...," another candidate voice began, hoping to extend our singing break from strenuous activity a few more precious minutes. But, alas, while Marines are required to stand at attention for our National Anthem and the Marines' Hymn, there is no such sanctity proscribed for any other song.
"No! No! No! Get your gear on and let's move! Hurry up, ladies! Too slow! Grandma was slow, but she was old! Hurry up! It may be the Fourth of July, but it ain't YOUR birthday!"
Wrong, again, Gunny. It IS my birthday. And yours, too.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
History is Not Simple
It wasn't the answer he was looking for, but his simple question didn't have simple one line answer.
We were just strapping in for a flight from Charlotte to Memphis and my seatmate started making small talk. He asked what I did for a living and when he discovered that I was a retired Marine, asked, "How do you think the war in Iraq will end?"
Again, he asked the question. I was just sitting there minding my own business. I took a deep breath and started with, "First of all, the military/political activities in Iraq are just a campaign in an undeclared war with radical Islamic fundamentalists and the nations that are funding their terror tactics."
I went on, for the next 45 minutes, with a history lesson that started with Alexander the Great's conquest of the known world, traced the rise and fall of the Roman Empire, recounted the rise of Islam and it's high water mark in Europe a millennium ago, described the coalescence of nation states in Europe following the Treaty of Westphalia, tripped lightly through the trio of Western European tragedies--Franco-Prussian, First World, and Second World wars, the last of which vaulted America to Superpowerdom and enabled it's European allies (primarily Britain) to willy-nilly carve up the Middle East into states that "looked good on a map" but had not relation to political (read: tribal) realities on the ground, and finished with a crescendo of the rise of radical Islam made possible by the relaxation of the iron fist of Soviet totalitarianism.
To my surprise, the latest Gregory pupil in Seat 7B, remained attentive throughout, displaying none of the glazed-eyed fidgeting exhibited by the vast majority of those who have made the same historical interlocutory error.
He made yet another error with the question, "Why aren't there more war veterans in politics?"
For the next fifteen minutes, I detailed the history of military professionals (not to be confused with opportunists who "checked the box" with one enlistment to enhance their political portfolio) in American political life, beginning with Washington, Taylor, Jackson, and Grant, and ending with Eisenhower. I described each as "failures as presidents, or mediocre at best," to which he replied, "What about Teddy Roosevelt?"
"Aha!," I pounced, "Teddy was an opportunist, not a professional soldier. Teddy, Jr. was a professional soldier, though. Landed at Normandy as a Brigadier General--died of a heart attack a few days later. But TR was one of the few military-check-in-the-box opportunists whose ascendancy to penultimate political power actually resulted in greatness for himself and his country."
As we landed and taxied to the gate, I summed up. "Today's military professionals aren't going into politics. They are going into business, and corporate America's stodgy business school-trained elite had better take note. There are some real operational and strategic leaders coming to boot them out of their Lincoln Town Cars and corner offices."
Our FAA minder was telling us it was safe to unbuckle our seat belts and the gentleman in 7B had a final question, "I'm attending a convention here in Memphis. Where's the best place to get some good BBQ?"
Finally, a question with a simple answer. "Rendezvous!"
We were just strapping in for a flight from Charlotte to Memphis and my seatmate started making small talk. He asked what I did for a living and when he discovered that I was a retired Marine, asked, "How do you think the war in Iraq will end?"
Again, he asked the question. I was just sitting there minding my own business. I took a deep breath and started with, "First of all, the military/political activities in Iraq are just a campaign in an undeclared war with radical Islamic fundamentalists and the nations that are funding their terror tactics."
I went on, for the next 45 minutes, with a history lesson that started with Alexander the Great's conquest of the known world, traced the rise and fall of the Roman Empire, recounted the rise of Islam and it's high water mark in Europe a millennium ago, described the coalescence of nation states in Europe following the Treaty of Westphalia, tripped lightly through the trio of Western European tragedies--Franco-Prussian, First World, and Second World wars, the last of which vaulted America to Superpowerdom and enabled it's European allies (primarily Britain) to willy-nilly carve up the Middle East into states that "looked good on a map" but had not relation to political (read: tribal) realities on the ground, and finished with a crescendo of the rise of radical Islam made possible by the relaxation of the iron fist of Soviet totalitarianism.
To my surprise, the latest Gregory pupil in Seat 7B, remained attentive throughout, displaying none of the glazed-eyed fidgeting exhibited by the vast majority of those who have made the same historical interlocutory error.
He made yet another error with the question, "Why aren't there more war veterans in politics?"
For the next fifteen minutes, I detailed the history of military professionals (not to be confused with opportunists who "checked the box" with one enlistment to enhance their political portfolio) in American political life, beginning with Washington, Taylor, Jackson, and Grant, and ending with Eisenhower. I described each as "failures as presidents, or mediocre at best," to which he replied, "What about Teddy Roosevelt?"
"Aha!," I pounced, "Teddy was an opportunist, not a professional soldier. Teddy, Jr. was a professional soldier, though. Landed at Normandy as a Brigadier General--died of a heart attack a few days later. But TR was one of the few military-check-in-the-box opportunists whose ascendancy to penultimate political power actually resulted in greatness for himself and his country."
As we landed and taxied to the gate, I summed up. "Today's military professionals aren't going into politics. They are going into business, and corporate America's stodgy business school-trained elite had better take note. There are some real operational and strategic leaders coming to boot them out of their Lincoln Town Cars and corner offices."
Our FAA minder was telling us it was safe to unbuckle our seat belts and the gentleman in 7B had a final question, "I'm attending a convention here in Memphis. Where's the best place to get some good BBQ?"
Finally, a question with a simple answer. "Rendezvous!"
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Down South Dust Bowl
Have I mentioned that it has been dry here?
The southeast is enduring a drought of Biblical proportions this year, and it has been particularly dry here at the northern edge of southern nowhere (and I use that term with the deepest affection). The huge flood control reservoir just to the west of us has dropped to one of its lowest levels since it was impounded. The disputed body of water on my property (I call it my lake; Miss Brenda insists it's just a pond) has dropped nearly three feet in the past three months--and we are just now getting into the "dry" part of the summer.
We got some rain last night--first good soaking we have had in months. But, I'm afraid it will just be enough to make me have to cut the grass this week.
I think the thing that I regret most about the dry year is what it will do to duck hunting here this year. I know I should be more worried about the farmers' plight and the cost of food, but we're talking about a near holy enterprise here--duck hunting is a calling.
The southeast is enduring a drought of Biblical proportions this year, and it has been particularly dry here at the northern edge of southern nowhere (and I use that term with the deepest affection). The huge flood control reservoir just to the west of us has dropped to one of its lowest levels since it was impounded. The disputed body of water on my property (I call it my lake; Miss Brenda insists it's just a pond) has dropped nearly three feet in the past three months--and we are just now getting into the "dry" part of the summer.
We got some rain last night--first good soaking we have had in months. But, I'm afraid it will just be enough to make me have to cut the grass this week.
I think the thing that I regret most about the dry year is what it will do to duck hunting here this year. I know I should be more worried about the farmers' plight and the cost of food, but we're talking about a near holy enterprise here--duck hunting is a calling.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Hebrews 12:11
Most of our classmates that summer 30 years ago were enjoying their break from studies on the beach or at Daddy's house at the lake, blissfully oblivious to anything but the warm sun and cool drinks in iced glasses. For 250 of us who had just completed our junior year at university, the sun that summer was a lot hotter and the strongest drink in our hands was warm water from a plastic canteen. Thirty years ago this week, we who were striving for commissions as Marine officers, converged from across the nation on an isolated camp in Northern Virginia to undergo a rite of passage, completion of which, combined with graduation from college the next spring, would guarantee that our sweethearts and parents would pin gold bars on the epaulets of our dress whites.
In 1977 the Marine officers and NCOs tasked with training the new generation were all Vietnam combat veterans. Their outlook on life and the boundaries of acceptable human behavior were, to put it mildly, a few degrees removed from the civilized mainstream. All of our NCOs, in addition to being combat vets, were also former Drill Instructors at the enlisted boot camps at San Diego and Parris Island. They were, in a word, skilled at inflicting misery without leaving marks.
And, as strange as it may sound, to a man, all of us officer candidates revelled in the abuse they dished out. We had listened to the tales told by upperclassmen about their experiences at Quantico, and had steeled our bodies and minds for the test. We prepared ourselves physically, running hundreds of miles and spending countless hours in calisthenics, knowing that the worst shame was reserved for those who couldn't keep up with the pack. As we worked out physically, we worked ourselves up mentally for the pain of a summer on the banks of Chopawamsic Creek. We were not disappointed.
I weighed a whopping 135 pounds when I arrived at Quantico that summer. When I left less than two months later, I had shed nearly 15 pounds--and there had been precious little fat to shed in the original sum. But, I could run like the wind, hike for tens of miles with 50 pounds on my back, and stand motionless for hours on parade. Most importantly, I had an appreciation for the initial training of the young Marines who would be expected to follow my lead without question and for whom I would have the literal control over life and death were I ever to lead them in combat.
Ten years later, when I was a captain, I ran into one of the psychopaths who had tortured me that summer. He was now a sergeant major. My first instinct was to avoid talking to him, but I steeled and introduced myself as one of his charges in the summer of '77. He shook my hand and smiled (something I had not seen him do once that summer). "Skipper," he growled in the way that only professional soldiers can speak convincingly, "good to see you are succeeding. As I remember, you were so small and skinny, I was worried that you might dry up and blow away."
"And I'm surprised that you haven't been brought up on war crimes charges, Sergeant Major."
We both chuckled and locked eyes. I stuck out my hand again, and said as sincerely as I could muster, "Thanks, Sergeant Major."
He smiled, then stiffened and saluted, before about-facing and marching away.
Best salute I ever got.
In 1977 the Marine officers and NCOs tasked with training the new generation were all Vietnam combat veterans. Their outlook on life and the boundaries of acceptable human behavior were, to put it mildly, a few degrees removed from the civilized mainstream. All of our NCOs, in addition to being combat vets, were also former Drill Instructors at the enlisted boot camps at San Diego and Parris Island. They were, in a word, skilled at inflicting misery without leaving marks.
And, as strange as it may sound, to a man, all of us officer candidates revelled in the abuse they dished out. We had listened to the tales told by upperclassmen about their experiences at Quantico, and had steeled our bodies and minds for the test. We prepared ourselves physically, running hundreds of miles and spending countless hours in calisthenics, knowing that the worst shame was reserved for those who couldn't keep up with the pack. As we worked out physically, we worked ourselves up mentally for the pain of a summer on the banks of Chopawamsic Creek. We were not disappointed.
I weighed a whopping 135 pounds when I arrived at Quantico that summer. When I left less than two months later, I had shed nearly 15 pounds--and there had been precious little fat to shed in the original sum. But, I could run like the wind, hike for tens of miles with 50 pounds on my back, and stand motionless for hours on parade. Most importantly, I had an appreciation for the initial training of the young Marines who would be expected to follow my lead without question and for whom I would have the literal control over life and death were I ever to lead them in combat.
Ten years later, when I was a captain, I ran into one of the psychopaths who had tortured me that summer. He was now a sergeant major. My first instinct was to avoid talking to him, but I steeled and introduced myself as one of his charges in the summer of '77. He shook my hand and smiled (something I had not seen him do once that summer). "Skipper," he growled in the way that only professional soldiers can speak convincingly, "good to see you are succeeding. As I remember, you were so small and skinny, I was worried that you might dry up and blow away."
"And I'm surprised that you haven't been brought up on war crimes charges, Sergeant Major."
We both chuckled and locked eyes. I stuck out my hand again, and said as sincerely as I could muster, "Thanks, Sergeant Major."
He smiled, then stiffened and saluted, before about-facing and marching away.
Best salute I ever got.
Saturday, June 16, 2007
Ode to a Berry
As I climbed out of bed this morning and was stumbling toward the kitchen for a shot of joe, Miss Brenda raised up on one elbow and asked, "Wanna go pick blackberries before it gets hot?"
This was an unusual request. Miss Brenda rarely makes a sound before eight A.M. and it was well before that hour.
But, there are a few things that will get my bride up and at 'em early in the morning. Blackberry picking is one, and lucky for the rest of the family and a few fortunate friends. One of the few culinary skills Miss Brenda learned from her country grandmother (and there are, sadly, many she didn't) was how to make blackberry jams and cobblers. There is nothing this side of heaven that tastes like Miss Brenda's blackberry jam on a hot buttered biscuit, and her blackberry cobbler with a scoop of ice cream is to die for.
So, as much as I had rather be doing something else, I will not jeopardize my first bite privileges by not participating in the preparatory phase.
Blackberry picking is not for sissies. The "rewards' for wading into a blackberry bramble include scratches, chigger bites, and possible encounters with those long slithery fellows with no shoulders.
It has been very dry here this Spring and the berries are small. But better small berries than no berries at all.
This was an unusual request. Miss Brenda rarely makes a sound before eight A.M. and it was well before that hour.
But, there are a few things that will get my bride up and at 'em early in the morning. Blackberry picking is one, and lucky for the rest of the family and a few fortunate friends. One of the few culinary skills Miss Brenda learned from her country grandmother (and there are, sadly, many she didn't) was how to make blackberry jams and cobblers. There is nothing this side of heaven that tastes like Miss Brenda's blackberry jam on a hot buttered biscuit, and her blackberry cobbler with a scoop of ice cream is to die for.
So, as much as I had rather be doing something else, I will not jeopardize my first bite privileges by not participating in the preparatory phase.
Blackberry picking is not for sissies. The "rewards' for wading into a blackberry bramble include scratches, chigger bites, and possible encounters with those long slithery fellows with no shoulders.
It has been very dry here this Spring and the berries are small. But better small berries than no berries at all.
Saturday, June 09, 2007
Keeping Them Flying High and Tight
They were my nameless heroes when I was kid. At least I never knew any of their individual names. As a team they were (and still are) known as the Thunderbirds. Their dangerously tight formation flying and acrobatics in high performance combat aircraft made several jets look like one machine. As an Air Force brat, I shared the dream with every other son of an Air Force man of some day flying wingtip to wingtip in a crowd-dazzling display of airmanship, and then afterwards glad-handing with the adoring audience in a crisp blue flight suit and white scarf.
This week I attended a client's government sales conference in Las Vegas, highlighted by a trip out to Nellis Air Force Base and the home, hangar, and headquarters of the US Air Force Thunderbirds. The best part of the whole trip was that we didn't talk to one officer or pilot. The NCOs and young enlisted men working on the jets were just magnificent. As an old corps Marine, I was impressed to the point of jealousy at how squared away these airmen were, right down to the military creases in their coveralls and spit-shined boots. This is not just a show-place, either. Those kids had the jets apart and were doing the knuckle-busting maintenance critical to keeping old aircraft (surprising to call an F-16 "old," but they are older than the men maintaining them) flying.
I handed out a few of business cards and told these guys that when they left the Air Force to give me a call and I'd find a place for them on my team.
The be-scarved pilots aren't my heroes any more. Those kids with their arms up to their shoulders in the guts of a jet are my heroes now.
This week I attended a client's government sales conference in Las Vegas, highlighted by a trip out to Nellis Air Force Base and the home, hangar, and headquarters of the US Air Force Thunderbirds. The best part of the whole trip was that we didn't talk to one officer or pilot. The NCOs and young enlisted men working on the jets were just magnificent. As an old corps Marine, I was impressed to the point of jealousy at how squared away these airmen were, right down to the military creases in their coveralls and spit-shined boots. This is not just a show-place, either. Those kids had the jets apart and were doing the knuckle-busting maintenance critical to keeping old aircraft (surprising to call an F-16 "old," but they are older than the men maintaining them) flying.
I handed out a few of business cards and told these guys that when they left the Air Force to give me a call and I'd find a place for them on my team.
The be-scarved pilots aren't my heroes any more. Those kids with their arms up to their shoulders in the guts of a jet are my heroes now.
Saturday, June 02, 2007
Change-up Pitch
Number 2 son and I took in an Ole Miss baseball game last night in Oxford. Ole Miss is hosting one of the 16 NCAA Div I Regionals in our ballpark, and we watched the Rebels down the Sam Houston State Bearkats 14--5. The game was sold out. In fact, the stadium only seats 4700 or so and there was an announced crowd of over 7000 there. We sat on a hill behind third base.
I couldn't help but marvel at the difference 30 years makes. When I was simulating the act of getting a college education (I always say, "I didn't go to college--I went to Ole Miss") in Oxford in the late seventies, college baseball was not a big thing. Our team played on a field that shared the outfield with the football team's practice field. There were intramural softball fields on campus that were in better shape and had more seats in the stands. A game was lucky to have more spectators in the stands than players in the two dugouts.
Even more discombobulating to me is the location of the new ballpark. As I told #2 last night (he feigned interest--he has lots of practice at that), "when I was at Ole Miss...", the field where the baseball stadium sits today was an intramural field on which we NROTC midshipmen marched each Thursday and took out our pent up aggression (wearing a uniform on a college campus in the seventies built up a lot of repressed aggression) in very rough football games.
Lots of other major changes on the campus since I left in 1978--new buildings, new roads, new football stadium additions. The Grove, the oak-shaded park that is the geographic center and heart of Rebel Nation, is still intact. It looks smaller now; the rest of the campus has grown taller and crowded around it.
One thing else hasn't changed--Ole Miss is still home to the prettiest women on the planet. And, they still dress up to go to a ball game. Some good things never change.
I couldn't help but marvel at the difference 30 years makes. When I was simulating the act of getting a college education (I always say, "I didn't go to college--I went to Ole Miss") in Oxford in the late seventies, college baseball was not a big thing. Our team played on a field that shared the outfield with the football team's practice field. There were intramural softball fields on campus that were in better shape and had more seats in the stands. A game was lucky to have more spectators in the stands than players in the two dugouts.
Even more discombobulating to me is the location of the new ballpark. As I told #2 last night (he feigned interest--he has lots of practice at that), "when I was at Ole Miss...", the field where the baseball stadium sits today was an intramural field on which we NROTC midshipmen marched each Thursday and took out our pent up aggression (wearing a uniform on a college campus in the seventies built up a lot of repressed aggression) in very rough football games.
Lots of other major changes on the campus since I left in 1978--new buildings, new roads, new football stadium additions. The Grove, the oak-shaded park that is the geographic center and heart of Rebel Nation, is still intact. It looks smaller now; the rest of the campus has grown taller and crowded around it.
One thing else hasn't changed--Ole Miss is still home to the prettiest women on the planet. And, they still dress up to go to a ball game. Some good things never change.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Remember the Fallen, Not the Breathing
I get hung up on issues of historical correctness, not political correctness. I am often frustrated by our nation's blissfully ignorant participation in holiday celebrations of historically significant events. You would think that a people whose labeling sensititivies have become so attenuated that the word "tooth" has been dropped from "toothpick" on the back of brownie mix boxes (go look: "Insert pick to test for doneness."), would be able to pay closer attention to the big, important distinctions in American life. Take Memorial Day. Originally begun as "Decoration Day" (decorating graves of soldiers killed in the War for Southern Independence in local cemeteries), Memorial Day was eventually declared a National Holiday for the purpose of remembering with solemnity the ultimate sacrifices made by those who fight our nation's wars. Memorial Day is not about honoring living veterans. Living veterans march in Memorial Day parades to honor their fallen comrades, and so most Americans, whose only use of a history book is as a door stop, incorrectly, if they do anything at all redeeming on the day, salute living veterans. Nice gesture, but wrong. Veterans Day is for that.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Kill the Enemy, Don't Torture the Prisoners...
Two gentlemen for whom I have great admiration, and from whom I learned important leadership and operational lessons, have an article in the Washington Post this morning clearly articulating the point that EVERY professional soldier knows instinctively. Generals Krulak and Hoar place the torture issue, and any abuse that results from a "flexibile" policy on it, squarely on the shoulders of leaders, starting at the TOP. They point out that "any degree of 'flexibility' about torture at the top drops down the chain of command like a stone -- the rare exception fast becoming the rule." Humane treatment of prisoners is a cardinal rule of warfare. Torture is anathema to professional soldiers. Frankly, torture yields little actionable intelligence.
The other night during the Republican debate (and I use that term so loosely that if it were my hat band, I'd be blinded), John McCain made this point. He should know. He suffered unimaginable torture at the hands of the Vietnamese Communists during his 5 years as a POW held in the infamous "Hanoi Hilton." Actually, the "Hilton" was a prison built by the French during their colonial mismanagement of Indo-China--another on a long list of reasons to detest the French. Read the book "P.O.W." Your view of the difference between Us and Them will be forever changed. But I digress.
John McCain, and every other American POW of that war, will freely admit that they eventually "broke" under torture. They will also quickly tell you that the information they gave up when they finally "broke" was of very little operational use to the enemy. Torture yields no valuable intelligence.
By contrast, Viet Cong captured by US forces, and humanely treated, often turned on their communist brethren and became guides for US units. The Viet Cong turncoats did so because they were able to clearly recognize the difference between the two antagonists. The communists were brutal, totalitarian monsters who terrorized the population with torture, assassination, and rape. We weren't perfect, but by comparison to the communists, American conduct of the war was near "angelic." And that is the point.
We MUST maintain the moral high ground as a society. When we go to war, we should be clear on our objectives and prosecute the war with every legal and ethical tool in our kit bag. And, the ENTIRE NATION must be on a war footing. Otherwise, we are just playing with guns.
The other night during the Republican debate (and I use that term so loosely that if it were my hat band, I'd be blinded), John McCain made this point. He should know. He suffered unimaginable torture at the hands of the Vietnamese Communists during his 5 years as a POW held in the infamous "Hanoi Hilton." Actually, the "Hilton" was a prison built by the French during their colonial mismanagement of Indo-China--another on a long list of reasons to detest the French. Read the book "P.O.W." Your view of the difference between Us and Them will be forever changed. But I digress.
John McCain, and every other American POW of that war, will freely admit that they eventually "broke" under torture. They will also quickly tell you that the information they gave up when they finally "broke" was of very little operational use to the enemy. Torture yields no valuable intelligence.
By contrast, Viet Cong captured by US forces, and humanely treated, often turned on their communist brethren and became guides for US units. The Viet Cong turncoats did so because they were able to clearly recognize the difference between the two antagonists. The communists were brutal, totalitarian monsters who terrorized the population with torture, assassination, and rape. We weren't perfect, but by comparison to the communists, American conduct of the war was near "angelic." And that is the point.
We MUST maintain the moral high ground as a society. When we go to war, we should be clear on our objectives and prosecute the war with every legal and ethical tool in our kit bag. And, the ENTIRE NATION must be on a war footing. Otherwise, we are just playing with guns.
When a leader indicates a slight wavering with regard to historically iron-clad standards, subordinates inevitably take that as a clear sign that "all's fair" and abuses result. Abu Graib is case in point.
Fox News "moderators" during this week's Republican debate posed a presidential decision situation that supposed a terror attack on American soil and the intelligence that other attacks were imminent. The hypothetical situation was that we had prisoners who we believed had information about the coming attacks. The question was should we torture them to save American lives. I was disappointed in all but McCain's "No Torture" response.
The real question that begs an answer is why our national leaders have bungled our war effort so badly that nearly 6 years after 9-11, we are still worried about a WMD attack on our soil. The German people were "innocent" but we killed millions of them from 1942 to 1945 and prevented Hitler from building his own atomic weapons and missiles and aircraft to deliver them to New York. Ditto the Japanese. Today, the Japanese and Germans are our most staunch allies on the planet.
We must destroy Iran, Syria, North Korea, and anyone else who is developing weapons or supporting those trying to kill us. The people in those nations will be our friends for another century.
Fox News "moderators" during this week's Republican debate posed a presidential decision situation that supposed a terror attack on American soil and the intelligence that other attacks were imminent. The hypothetical situation was that we had prisoners who we believed had information about the coming attacks. The question was should we torture them to save American lives. I was disappointed in all but McCain's "No Torture" response.
The real question that begs an answer is why our national leaders have bungled our war effort so badly that nearly 6 years after 9-11, we are still worried about a WMD attack on our soil. The German people were "innocent" but we killed millions of them from 1942 to 1945 and prevented Hitler from building his own atomic weapons and missiles and aircraft to deliver them to New York. Ditto the Japanese. Today, the Japanese and Germans are our most staunch allies on the planet.
We must destroy Iran, Syria, North Korea, and anyone else who is developing weapons or supporting those trying to kill us. The people in those nations will be our friends for another century.
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Eegeebegee Bass
Satisfaction has no peer to the feeling of landing a lunker from your own pond and releasing her back thereinto. I estimate she was roughly 6 pounds. She took a Culprit purple plastic worm on 8lb test line. Jumped four times--matched each time by a spike in my blood pressure and the upward thrust of my heart into my throat. Last jump nearly stopped my heart, as I was bringing her bankside with one hand while calling Brenda on my cell, to bring her camera down to the pond, with the other hand. I am pleased to report that both fish and Colonel survived the encounter. Life on Eegeebegee is good!
Friday, May 11, 2007
Ride the Dragon!
There's an old Chinese adage regarding change. "Change is a Dragon. You can fight the Dragon and most likely be eaten; or you can ride the Dragon and thrive where it goes." I think, given the magnitude and gravity of the climate change we theoretically face over the next century, we need to stop trying to fight it and figure out ways to benefit from it.
It is likely that there are some human civilization contributions to climate change. But, given the fact that geological study has shown that our planet has experienced significant climate swings within the last ten thousand years (at times when human contributions would certainly have been negligible), it is even more likely that there is NOTHING human civilization can realistically do to significantly alter the course of climate change. The history of the human species is a study in adaptation to climate change. Specific human populations and civilizations have either adapted to climate change or died off.
Some civilizations have created the localized microcosmic ecosystem change that became their undoing. The Mayan's are a great case in point. Mayan civilization, like all growth civilizations, exploded and advanced when the Mayans figured out how to grow enough food to feed not only those growing the food, but others not required to farm. They figured out that swamp muck carted in and placed on their crop fields increased the fertility and productivity of those fields exponentially. The Mayans not required for food production could then focus their time and effort on science, building, religion, art, and politics (and war, as an extension of politics). The Mayans began building great edifices of stone; pyramids of power and cultural prestige that went far beyond functional needs. They covered these pyramids with a lime-based whitewash. The lime was procured by burning vast amounts of green trees. This resulted in massive local deforestation. Without the forest ground cover, the hillsides surrounding their agricultural fields eroded massive amounts of poor clay onto their once-fertile crop lands. Crop yields crashed and Mayan civilization with it.
But, the Mayan example is not man-made climate change, although I have heard some disenginuous activists present it as such. It is an example of man-made ecosystem change and there is a huge difference. Regardless, the Mayans failed to adapt to change and their grand civilization collapsed. They probably had no way of knowing that their extravagant consumption would have such an end, until it was too late to reverse the trend.
So, if the climate is changing and mankind's activities are contributing to it, we have a limited number of options. First option is the Mayan Option: Do nothing. Consume and party on and hope we go to our final reward before the crash occurs.
The second option is the Gore Option: Dismantle our civilization trying to resist the change occuring, in the hubris-filled belief that man is totally responsible for the change and man can fix the "problem."
There is a third option: Ride the Dragon. Instead of wringing our hands at the negative aspects of climate change, we should recognize the direction that climate change is going and adapt to take advantage of the opportunities. There are an equal amount of opportunities and drawbacks in every change. I liken our choice to that of a man who blames his homelessness on his joblessness, but is unwilling to move somewhere else where the opportunity for employment and affordable housing is greater. He would rather sleep on a steam grating in the inner city of some northern metropolis, whining about the lack of good paying office jobs, than find his way to a warmer clime where manual labor is in demand (10 million Mexican migrant workers can't be wrong).
If mankind ignores the dragon of change, we will suffer the fate of the Mayans. If mankind fights the dragon, we will most likely still suffer their fate--by our own hands. Riding the dragon will take us into new territory, but exploration has always been the activity from which has come our greatest triumphs.
It is likely that there are some human civilization contributions to climate change. But, given the fact that geological study has shown that our planet has experienced significant climate swings within the last ten thousand years (at times when human contributions would certainly have been negligible), it is even more likely that there is NOTHING human civilization can realistically do to significantly alter the course of climate change. The history of the human species is a study in adaptation to climate change. Specific human populations and civilizations have either adapted to climate change or died off.
Some civilizations have created the localized microcosmic ecosystem change that became their undoing. The Mayan's are a great case in point. Mayan civilization, like all growth civilizations, exploded and advanced when the Mayans figured out how to grow enough food to feed not only those growing the food, but others not required to farm. They figured out that swamp muck carted in and placed on their crop fields increased the fertility and productivity of those fields exponentially. The Mayans not required for food production could then focus their time and effort on science, building, religion, art, and politics (and war, as an extension of politics). The Mayans began building great edifices of stone; pyramids of power and cultural prestige that went far beyond functional needs. They covered these pyramids with a lime-based whitewash. The lime was procured by burning vast amounts of green trees. This resulted in massive local deforestation. Without the forest ground cover, the hillsides surrounding their agricultural fields eroded massive amounts of poor clay onto their once-fertile crop lands. Crop yields crashed and Mayan civilization with it.
But, the Mayan example is not man-made climate change, although I have heard some disenginuous activists present it as such. It is an example of man-made ecosystem change and there is a huge difference. Regardless, the Mayans failed to adapt to change and their grand civilization collapsed. They probably had no way of knowing that their extravagant consumption would have such an end, until it was too late to reverse the trend.
So, if the climate is changing and mankind's activities are contributing to it, we have a limited number of options. First option is the Mayan Option: Do nothing. Consume and party on and hope we go to our final reward before the crash occurs.
The second option is the Gore Option: Dismantle our civilization trying to resist the change occuring, in the hubris-filled belief that man is totally responsible for the change and man can fix the "problem."
There is a third option: Ride the Dragon. Instead of wringing our hands at the negative aspects of climate change, we should recognize the direction that climate change is going and adapt to take advantage of the opportunities. There are an equal amount of opportunities and drawbacks in every change. I liken our choice to that of a man who blames his homelessness on his joblessness, but is unwilling to move somewhere else where the opportunity for employment and affordable housing is greater. He would rather sleep on a steam grating in the inner city of some northern metropolis, whining about the lack of good paying office jobs, than find his way to a warmer clime where manual labor is in demand (10 million Mexican migrant workers can't be wrong).
If mankind ignores the dragon of change, we will suffer the fate of the Mayans. If mankind fights the dragon, we will most likely still suffer their fate--by our own hands. Riding the dragon will take us into new territory, but exploration has always been the activity from which has come our greatest triumphs.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Slopping Hogs
I used to proudly describe myself as a "news junkie." At the low point of my addiction, I probably spent eight hours a day tapped into some sort of medium, drifting in a delirium of brain matter-wrinkling bliss as up-to-date data and useless information coursed into my system via my auditory and ocular veins. The lengths to which I would go for news, and the depths of my depravity, can be summed up in the following: National Public Radio.
I am now proud to announce that my addiction, while not cured, is under control. I have the antics of pusillanimous politicians vying for rotting pieces of the power pie to thank for my sobriety. My disgust at the lack of principle, moral degeneracy, and self-serving disrespect of the American people displayed by the current crop of "leaders" has reached such a point that the bile backed up in my throat prevents my heretofore unbridled ability to scream at the newscast. Deprived of that release, I can no longer physically bear to watch or listen.
One criminally complicit legislator in particular has placed an indelible stamp of disdain on my once-proud vision of the American governmental system. The bullying and bilious bluster of a fellow Marine, in the conduct of what he should consider his sacred congressional duties, is almost too much to which to bear witness, ... and I've seen lot of crap in my life.
Marines pride themselves on the core values of Honor, Courage, and Commitment. Congressman Murtha (Colonel Murtha, USMC, Reserve) should take no such pride. He is a liar, a crook, and a bully, whose only commitment is to his own aggrandizement. His actions dishonor the title, Marine.
I met Murtha once. It was the early 80's and I was a young captain, on assignment as an instructor of brand new lieutenants at Quantico, VA. Each class of lieutenants concluded their six months of basic training in tactics, leadership, and officership with a formal dinner steeped in tradition and honorable hokum. We Marines call this event a "Mess Night." Murtha was an invited guest on the strength of his Vietnam-era Marine service and his membership in the House of Representatives of these re-United States. I had the opportunity to speak with him. In fact, I shamelessly pulled rank on lieutenants and maneuvered to do so. I recall being unimpressed and slightly disappointed, but chalked it up to my American history-loving high expectations of a congressional statesman. I have come to realize since, that the bilious boor I met that night was representative of what it takes these days to stalk the halls of power on the Hill.
There was a time when I fully expected to run for some public office in the course of my duty to my country. No more. I've done my duty. The sliver of self-respect remaining in my back pocket is way more than would allow me to even consider stepping down into the muck and mire of the political pig stye.
It is far too much that I have to share the title, "Colonel of Marines" with the likes of Murtha, I will not share the abhorrent appellation, politician.
I am now proud to announce that my addiction, while not cured, is under control. I have the antics of pusillanimous politicians vying for rotting pieces of the power pie to thank for my sobriety. My disgust at the lack of principle, moral degeneracy, and self-serving disrespect of the American people displayed by the current crop of "leaders" has reached such a point that the bile backed up in my throat prevents my heretofore unbridled ability to scream at the newscast. Deprived of that release, I can no longer physically bear to watch or listen.
One criminally complicit legislator in particular has placed an indelible stamp of disdain on my once-proud vision of the American governmental system. The bullying and bilious bluster of a fellow Marine, in the conduct of what he should consider his sacred congressional duties, is almost too much to which to bear witness, ... and I've seen lot of crap in my life.
Marines pride themselves on the core values of Honor, Courage, and Commitment. Congressman Murtha (Colonel Murtha, USMC, Reserve) should take no such pride. He is a liar, a crook, and a bully, whose only commitment is to his own aggrandizement. His actions dishonor the title, Marine.
I met Murtha once. It was the early 80's and I was a young captain, on assignment as an instructor of brand new lieutenants at Quantico, VA. Each class of lieutenants concluded their six months of basic training in tactics, leadership, and officership with a formal dinner steeped in tradition and honorable hokum. We Marines call this event a "Mess Night." Murtha was an invited guest on the strength of his Vietnam-era Marine service and his membership in the House of Representatives of these re-United States. I had the opportunity to speak with him. In fact, I shamelessly pulled rank on lieutenants and maneuvered to do so. I recall being unimpressed and slightly disappointed, but chalked it up to my American history-loving high expectations of a congressional statesman. I have come to realize since, that the bilious boor I met that night was representative of what it takes these days to stalk the halls of power on the Hill.
There was a time when I fully expected to run for some public office in the course of my duty to my country. No more. I've done my duty. The sliver of self-respect remaining in my back pocket is way more than would allow me to even consider stepping down into the muck and mire of the political pig stye.
It is far too much that I have to share the title, "Colonel of Marines" with the likes of Murtha, I will not share the abhorrent appellation, politician.
Saturday, April 28, 2007
Crickets Chirping
It's quiet on Eegeebegee this weekend. Last Saturday, all the family within driving distance converged to celebrate the news that the Colonel was going to be a grandfather x 2. Number One son and the mother of my first grandson (an exalted position for which she receives regular accolades) drove up from the Redneck Riviera to bring the good news. I'm hoping for a granddaughter. My mother laughed at that hope and proclaimed, "It'll be a boy."
Caleb had a blast. He loves rocks and the gravel road up to the house was just an amazing bonanza. He would toddle along, spy a rock, bend to collect it, and announce as if it were not one among millions on the drive, "Ock!" He took great pleasure in pitching his "ocks" in the pond, and was amazed when the rock I threw skipped a half dozen times. Great age--everything Pop does is magic.
But this weekend, I'm alone with a flock of hummingbirds to keep me company. Miss Brenda and her family are on a trip out West to raft the Colorado. I was invited, but I'm too busy printing money to pay for the trip.
Caleb had a blast. He loves rocks and the gravel road up to the house was just an amazing bonanza. He would toddle along, spy a rock, bend to collect it, and announce as if it were not one among millions on the drive, "Ock!" He took great pleasure in pitching his "ocks" in the pond, and was amazed when the rock I threw skipped a half dozen times. Great age--everything Pop does is magic.
But this weekend, I'm alone with a flock of hummingbirds to keep me company. Miss Brenda and her family are on a trip out West to raft the Colorado. I was invited, but I'm too busy printing money to pay for the trip.
Friday, April 20, 2007
Honoring Michael
One of the members of my team e-mailed yesterday with the sad news that a young member of his extended family, a soldier named Michael, had been killed in Iraq. At the end of his e-mail, this 20-year Navy man expressed the sentiment of our nation in the question: "When do we say enough is enough?"
In addition to expressing my condolences for his family's loss, I felt compelled to challenge the unspoken assertion that Michael's sacrifice had been for a lost cause. I told my friend that,
"I have to believe that his sacrifice makes our country stronger and safer. I am so proud to be associated with you and yours and the tiny percentage of our nation’s population that has answered the call to secure the freedoms of the rest. No soldier who as ever given his life for America’s interests has done so in vain. I assure you, our warriors’ sacrifice and service during this time will not be in vain and will add eternal light to our great nation’s beacon of freedom. There are great accomplishments being made by our uniformed men and women in the name of freedom, in Iraq, Afghanistan, and around the world, despite the self-serving pronouncements of many at home who denigrate those efforts. I will remember Michael."
I am, frankly, disgusted with the spineless anti-war political manuevering and posturing from all but a few of the more principled of our nation's political leadership. Most of the current war critics were all for taking the fight to the terrorists and the states sponsoring their barbarity, when the popular mood in our nation was for that. Now that our people are turning against the war effort, self-serving politicians are attempting to grab power by cynically bending to the American populace's fickle will.
On the other hand, most of the "hawks" in support of the war are not willing to take the needed steps to put this nation on a true war footing. I saw a picture the other day of some graffitti scribbled on a white board in a Marine combat outpost in Iraq that read, "America is not a war. The Marine Corps is at war. America is at the mall."
Michael was a soldier--a member of a tiny minority of our nation's men and women who answer our country's call to service. Michael's service was selfless. His sacrifice was honorable. His, and his comrades', accomplishments in the name of freedom are greater than most in our nation will ever recognize. Michael and his fellow American freedom warriors deserve our honor, and one of the best ways to honor them is to demand that our political leadership make the hard decisions to truly take our entire nation to war against the nations supporting terrorism as a tactic against freedom. Until the political mullahs and ayatollahs exhorting their nations to jihad against the west are silenced (read: crushed by force of arms), we will not truly honor the sacrifice of our warriors in the cause of freedom.
This Marine will remember Michael.
In addition to expressing my condolences for his family's loss, I felt compelled to challenge the unspoken assertion that Michael's sacrifice had been for a lost cause. I told my friend that,
"I have to believe that his sacrifice makes our country stronger and safer. I am so proud to be associated with you and yours and the tiny percentage of our nation’s population that has answered the call to secure the freedoms of the rest. No soldier who as ever given his life for America’s interests has done so in vain. I assure you, our warriors’ sacrifice and service during this time will not be in vain and will add eternal light to our great nation’s beacon of freedom. There are great accomplishments being made by our uniformed men and women in the name of freedom, in Iraq, Afghanistan, and around the world, despite the self-serving pronouncements of many at home who denigrate those efforts. I will remember Michael."
I am, frankly, disgusted with the spineless anti-war political manuevering and posturing from all but a few of the more principled of our nation's political leadership. Most of the current war critics were all for taking the fight to the terrorists and the states sponsoring their barbarity, when the popular mood in our nation was for that. Now that our people are turning against the war effort, self-serving politicians are attempting to grab power by cynically bending to the American populace's fickle will.
On the other hand, most of the "hawks" in support of the war are not willing to take the needed steps to put this nation on a true war footing. I saw a picture the other day of some graffitti scribbled on a white board in a Marine combat outpost in Iraq that read, "America is not a war. The Marine Corps is at war. America is at the mall."
Michael was a soldier--a member of a tiny minority of our nation's men and women who answer our country's call to service. Michael's service was selfless. His sacrifice was honorable. His, and his comrades', accomplishments in the name of freedom are greater than most in our nation will ever recognize. Michael and his fellow American freedom warriors deserve our honor, and one of the best ways to honor them is to demand that our political leadership make the hard decisions to truly take our entire nation to war against the nations supporting terrorism as a tactic against freedom. Until the political mullahs and ayatollahs exhorting their nations to jihad against the west are silenced (read: crushed by force of arms), we will not truly honor the sacrifice of our warriors in the cause of freedom.
This Marine will remember Michael.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Home on the Range
There's cows in my yard this morning, and I'm not a bit surprised.
Our premises protector and anti-turkey-hunting neighbor dog, BUD, was going out of his mind yesterday barking like a... well, like a dog with something seriously different to bark at. Miss Brenda stepped outside to investigate and came back in the door with the announcement: "We have cows" (Italics provided to indicate feminine announcements and pronouncements).
Miss Brenda and I pulled on our boots and went to see if we could find the break in the fence with our neighbors, through which our bovine visitors had breached our security cordon. My thought (out loud to a very skeptical Miss Brenda) was to herd the cows back through and conduct a field expedient repair of said breach. Miss Brenda, ever supportive, remarked in her confidence-building way, "Yeah, right. You don't know the first thing about cows, and when was the last time you worked with barbed wire!"
Ignoring her completely baseless assertions and aspersions regarding the competency of her MAN regarding all things manly (i.e., pushing cows, mending fences, defending the homeland, etc.), I led the way on a circuit of our property to find the interlopers' entrance. To save time, I picked up the trail of cow prints and began back-tracking. Miss Brenda tagged along, mumbling something under her breath about cows and mountain men.
As hard to believe as it may seem to those of you who are aware of my keen eye for tracking game, I lost the trail. Miss Brenda tried to help, "Here's a track!"
"No, Dear. That's a deer track."
"Here's one!"
"Sweetie, that's a turkey track."
"Stupid cows!"
We looped back to pick up the trail again, and soon I was hot on a fresh set of cow tracks. Bent at the waist, my eyes fastened to the trail six feet in front of me, it was all I could do to keep from baying like a coon hound.
"Look out!"
From long experience with the different tones and modulation of my lovely wife's voice, I detected a hint of caution, with a touch of alarm. I recognized the tone immediately, because it was one I normally hear just before something falls on my head. I stopped cold, and went into my fighting crouch (Miss Brenda later remarked that my "fighting crouch" looked more like a "defensive cringe." But her untrained eye misses a lot of nuances of the fighting style of a trained, steely-eyed, combat Marine).
"There's a cow in the pines, right there next to you!"
Upon further examination, I determined that she was indeed correct...to a point. There was a cow...with a new-born calf. And, when I say "new-born," I mean NEW-BORN. Still wet. Wobbly. Momma not happy with my proximity to her baby.
After an interminable period of oohs and aahs and picture-taking ( Miss Brenda never goes anywhere outside any more without her camera), we gave momma cow and calf a wide berth and picked up the trail once again. It led to a low point in the fence, over which it was obvious that the cows had easily trespassed on my domain.
I gave up on the idea of herding the errant walking hamburgers. Pushing momma and her calf was a non-starter, and one of the cows was actually a bull, who, though he seemed docile enough, was a BULL.
I called our neighbors on the phone and asked if they were missing any cows. They came right over, but came to the same conclusion I did about momma and the calf. My neighbor said, "I'll come back in the morning with a bucket of feed and they'll follow me home."
He must be a late riser, because it is past 0800 and the beeves are still roaming my range. Darn "free-grazers"! Better see if I can find a gun for hire--there's liable to be a range war.
Our premises protector and anti-turkey-hunting neighbor dog, BUD, was going out of his mind yesterday barking like a... well, like a dog with something seriously different to bark at. Miss Brenda stepped outside to investigate and came back in the door with the announcement: "We have cows" (Italics provided to indicate feminine announcements and pronouncements).
Miss Brenda and I pulled on our boots and went to see if we could find the break in the fence with our neighbors, through which our bovine visitors had breached our security cordon. My thought (out loud to a very skeptical Miss Brenda) was to herd the cows back through and conduct a field expedient repair of said breach. Miss Brenda, ever supportive, remarked in her confidence-building way, "Yeah, right. You don't know the first thing about cows, and when was the last time you worked with barbed wire!"
Ignoring her completely baseless assertions and aspersions regarding the competency of her MAN regarding all things manly (i.e., pushing cows, mending fences, defending the homeland, etc.), I led the way on a circuit of our property to find the interlopers' entrance. To save time, I picked up the trail of cow prints and began back-tracking. Miss Brenda tagged along, mumbling something under her breath about cows and mountain men.
As hard to believe as it may seem to those of you who are aware of my keen eye for tracking game, I lost the trail. Miss Brenda tried to help, "Here's a track!"
"No, Dear. That's a deer track."
"Here's one!"
"Sweetie, that's a turkey track."
"Stupid cows!"
We looped back to pick up the trail again, and soon I was hot on a fresh set of cow tracks. Bent at the waist, my eyes fastened to the trail six feet in front of me, it was all I could do to keep from baying like a coon hound.
"Look out!"
From long experience with the different tones and modulation of my lovely wife's voice, I detected a hint of caution, with a touch of alarm. I recognized the tone immediately, because it was one I normally hear just before something falls on my head. I stopped cold, and went into my fighting crouch (Miss Brenda later remarked that my "fighting crouch" looked more like a "defensive cringe." But her untrained eye misses a lot of nuances of the fighting style of a trained, steely-eyed, combat Marine).
"There's a cow in the pines, right there next to you!"
Upon further examination, I determined that she was indeed correct...to a point. There was a cow...with a new-born calf. And, when I say "new-born," I mean NEW-BORN. Still wet. Wobbly. Momma not happy with my proximity to her baby.
After an interminable period of oohs and aahs and picture-taking ( Miss Brenda never goes anywhere outside any more without her camera), we gave momma cow and calf a wide berth and picked up the trail once again. It led to a low point in the fence, over which it was obvious that the cows had easily trespassed on my domain.
I gave up on the idea of herding the errant walking hamburgers. Pushing momma and her calf was a non-starter, and one of the cows was actually a bull, who, though he seemed docile enough, was a BULL.
I called our neighbors on the phone and asked if they were missing any cows. They came right over, but came to the same conclusion I did about momma and the calf. My neighbor said, "I'll come back in the morning with a bucket of feed and they'll follow me home."
He must be a late riser, because it is past 0800 and the beeves are still roaming my range. Darn "free-grazers"! Better see if I can find a gun for hire--there's liable to be a range war.
Saturday, April 14, 2007
Global Cooling?
Evidently someone at Weather Control Central didn't get the global warming memo. I know I'm not in warm, sunny Florida anymore, but North Mississippi is still in the Mid-SOUTH! Sustained below freezing temps during the first week of APRIL just ain't right. All the crepe myrtles around the house and lining the drive agree with me. Two weeks ago they were covered in a month's worth of green leafy growth. Now they look like someone sprayed them with the stuff they use to control kudzu alongside the highways.
It was so cold last weekend, that #2 son and I decided that hanging around the house with his mother would be more fun than sitting in Vaught-Hemingway stadium watching our Rebels play each other in the Grove Bowl.
I was sitting in a barber shop last week and heard a turkey hunter claim it was so cold that he had seen a frozen Butterball in the woods. I know that is hard to believe--but it is true. The little bald colonel still needs haircuts.
It has been so cold here on Eegeebegee that even the grass over the septic tank has turned brown.
But, I'm not complaining. Two months from now, when the temperature and humidity are having a contest to see which can reach 100 first, we'll be begging for this cool weather.
It was so cold last weekend, that #2 son and I decided that hanging around the house with his mother would be more fun than sitting in Vaught-Hemingway stadium watching our Rebels play each other in the Grove Bowl.
I was sitting in a barber shop last week and heard a turkey hunter claim it was so cold that he had seen a frozen Butterball in the woods. I know that is hard to believe--but it is true. The little bald colonel still needs haircuts.
It has been so cold here on Eegeebegee that even the grass over the septic tank has turned brown.
But, I'm not complaining. Two months from now, when the temperature and humidity are having a contest to see which can reach 100 first, we'll be begging for this cool weather.
Thursday, April 05, 2007
It's hard to hunt turkeys with a german shepherd in your back pocket.
We haven't met any of our neighbors yet, but we have become friendly (too friendly, if you ask me) with our closest neighbor's dog. In fact, BUD (Big Ugly Dog) met us at our gate the day we arrived at Eegeebegee. He is a fearsome looking german shepherd, with the gentlest disposition. He must not get much attention at home, because after we patted him on the noggin' once he has spent more time over here than away.
I like the fact that we have a big black dog patrolling the premises. But this morning I wasn't happy for his companionship. I was trying to slip into the back forty and call up a tom turkey. I set my decoy out, put my back to a big ole tree, and broke out my slate call. At least three gobblers were sounding off in my general vicinity, so I started in on my best rendition of a hen turkey looking for some love. Two gobblers answered. So did BUD. He came racing into the field and ran up to my decoy growling like it was time to fight for Corps and country. When I hissed, "Git!!", ole BUD spun around and looked in amazement at the bush that sounded like me. I hissed at him again and he took off.
The toms were still gobbling, so I started in again on the slate call. One gobbler was coming in from the right and about the time he closed the distance to 150 yards, and about to come into my property, a shotgun blast ended his trot towards me. I couldn't see, but I guess my neighbor got him. "Wonder why ole BUD is not pestering his owner, instead of me," I grumbled.
I got up to move, and BUD was instantly at my feet.
"Git!"
BUD looked hurt and slinked off.
I walked further back on my property and set up on a powerline where I had heard a gobbler the other day. As soon as I scratched the slate, a gobbler answered. So did BUD. The stupid dog was not going to let me hunt this morning. So, I got up and did a little scouting. BUD thought this was a much better idea than turkey hunting and he raced around me in exploratory circles through the woods.
When we came to the fence at the back of my property, BUD scooted under and into the pasture on the other side. He disappeared into a brushy gully.
Ten seconds later, BUD came racing back out of the gully, looking over his shoulder. He ran up to and through the fence ten yards from me and spun around to face his chaser. I looked back in the direction from which BUD had come, and saw the biggest coyote I had ever seen stopped forty yards away, looking my way. We stared at each other for a few seconds, while BUD barked and growled menacingly from his side of the fence, and then Wiley spun and disappeared.
He's lucky all I had was bird shot in the gun.
I like the fact that we have a big black dog patrolling the premises. But this morning I wasn't happy for his companionship. I was trying to slip into the back forty and call up a tom turkey. I set my decoy out, put my back to a big ole tree, and broke out my slate call. At least three gobblers were sounding off in my general vicinity, so I started in on my best rendition of a hen turkey looking for some love. Two gobblers answered. So did BUD. He came racing into the field and ran up to my decoy growling like it was time to fight for Corps and country. When I hissed, "Git!!", ole BUD spun around and looked in amazement at the bush that sounded like me. I hissed at him again and he took off.
The toms were still gobbling, so I started in again on the slate call. One gobbler was coming in from the right and about the time he closed the distance to 150 yards, and about to come into my property, a shotgun blast ended his trot towards me. I couldn't see, but I guess my neighbor got him. "Wonder why ole BUD is not pestering his owner, instead of me," I grumbled.
I got up to move, and BUD was instantly at my feet.
"Git!"
BUD looked hurt and slinked off.
I walked further back on my property and set up on a powerline where I had heard a gobbler the other day. As soon as I scratched the slate, a gobbler answered. So did BUD. The stupid dog was not going to let me hunt this morning. So, I got up and did a little scouting. BUD thought this was a much better idea than turkey hunting and he raced around me in exploratory circles through the woods.
When we came to the fence at the back of my property, BUD scooted under and into the pasture on the other side. He disappeared into a brushy gully.
Ten seconds later, BUD came racing back out of the gully, looking over his shoulder. He ran up to and through the fence ten yards from me and spun around to face his chaser. I looked back in the direction from which BUD had come, and saw the biggest coyote I had ever seen stopped forty yards away, looking my way. We stared at each other for a few seconds, while BUD barked and growled menacingly from his side of the fence, and then Wiley spun and disappeared.
He's lucky all I had was bird shot in the gun.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Mississippi Moved
Miss Brenda and I spent the week remarking over and over again on the ease of our move from the Redneck Riviera up to the Free State of Tallahatchie. We should have kept our mouths shut.
Everything did go very smoothly--Praise God--Monday through Thursday of Move Week. The movers packed all of our worldly belongings on a moving van Monday without incident, closing on the house in Florida went very quickly Tuesday morning, the drive to Mississippi Tuesday evening was uneventful. Well..., we did take 2 hours longer than I normally make the trip by myself, but I was pulling a boat, and Miss Brenda was following in her car and needed to stop and get her daily mandatory nap in.
Closing on the house in Mississippi went just as smooth as the other in Florida--USAA is simply the BEST! We made our way from the closing attorney's office up into the hills and onto our property, finding it very hard to believe that we were at last realizing our dream of nearly 36 years. We happily slept on the floor in our new home Thursday night, secure in the knowledge that the moving van would arrive on Friday and bring our bed and everything else that has made houses homes for us for three decades.
Friday morning, the moving van driver called and I drove out to the highway to escort him the last 5 miles of winding twists and turns on country roads. We got him to the last turn onto the last stretch of county road and then the problems started. The last turn is a tight 131.3 degree (by my calibrated eyeball) hairpin turn to the left and the big ole semi and trailer just couldn't make it. A short jaunt on up the road, a three point turn on a gravel driveway and the truck came back in a direction to navigate the turn with ease. Now our stuff was only a mile and a half from home. The next 1.4 miles was easy enough--the last tenth of a mile took another 32 hours to complete.
Our gate at the road was plenty wide enough, but the sharp right turn just inside the gate to navigate around the lake proved our undoing. The trailer (gross weight exceeding that of a main battle tank) centerlined on the edge of the gravel road and became a very effective road block. Six hours later the tow truck showed and, with some Rebel Ingenuity, managed to yank the trailer back out the gate. The final conclusion of 15 further minutes of head-scratching and rock-kicking was that unloading our stuff up at the house was going to have to wait one more day and would require a smaller van to shuttle our belongings from the front gate up to the house. For the second time in 4 days we watched our worldly goods and chattel drive away on a truck.
Saturday morning the semi-trailer and a U-Haul moving van showed up at the gate and general unloading began. I couldn't help but think that this reminded me of the last leg of ship to shore movement of equipment and supplies from a ship to a landing beach, complete with Miss Brenda acting as Beach Party (for you non-naval types, there is no beer or bonfire at that kind of beach party) directing traffic at the front door.
By 1700, unloading (to include successful reassembly and positioning of Miss Brenda's baby grand piano) had been completed and the movers departed the Amphibious Operations Area.
As promised, I spent my unpacking supervision time thinking of a name for our new place. Under final consideration by the selection committee (Miss Brenda, of course) is (appropriate drum roll and cavalry bugle fanfare here): Eegeebegee, MS (Unincorporated).
Everything did go very smoothly--Praise God--Monday through Thursday of Move Week. The movers packed all of our worldly belongings on a moving van Monday without incident, closing on the house in Florida went very quickly Tuesday morning, the drive to Mississippi Tuesday evening was uneventful. Well..., we did take 2 hours longer than I normally make the trip by myself, but I was pulling a boat, and Miss Brenda was following in her car and needed to stop and get her daily mandatory nap in.
Closing on the house in Mississippi went just as smooth as the other in Florida--USAA is simply the BEST! We made our way from the closing attorney's office up into the hills and onto our property, finding it very hard to believe that we were at last realizing our dream of nearly 36 years. We happily slept on the floor in our new home Thursday night, secure in the knowledge that the moving van would arrive on Friday and bring our bed and everything else that has made houses homes for us for three decades.
Friday morning, the moving van driver called and I drove out to the highway to escort him the last 5 miles of winding twists and turns on country roads. We got him to the last turn onto the last stretch of county road and then the problems started. The last turn is a tight 131.3 degree (by my calibrated eyeball) hairpin turn to the left and the big ole semi and trailer just couldn't make it. A short jaunt on up the road, a three point turn on a gravel driveway and the truck came back in a direction to navigate the turn with ease. Now our stuff was only a mile and a half from home. The next 1.4 miles was easy enough--the last tenth of a mile took another 32 hours to complete.
Our gate at the road was plenty wide enough, but the sharp right turn just inside the gate to navigate around the lake proved our undoing. The trailer (gross weight exceeding that of a main battle tank) centerlined on the edge of the gravel road and became a very effective road block. Six hours later the tow truck showed and, with some Rebel Ingenuity, managed to yank the trailer back out the gate. The final conclusion of 15 further minutes of head-scratching and rock-kicking was that unloading our stuff up at the house was going to have to wait one more day and would require a smaller van to shuttle our belongings from the front gate up to the house. For the second time in 4 days we watched our worldly goods and chattel drive away on a truck.
Saturday morning the semi-trailer and a U-Haul moving van showed up at the gate and general unloading began. I couldn't help but think that this reminded me of the last leg of ship to shore movement of equipment and supplies from a ship to a landing beach, complete with Miss Brenda acting as Beach Party (for you non-naval types, there is no beer or bonfire at that kind of beach party) directing traffic at the front door.
By 1700, unloading (to include successful reassembly and positioning of Miss Brenda's baby grand piano) had been completed and the movers departed the Amphibious Operations Area.
As promised, I spent my unpacking supervision time thinking of a name for our new place. Under final consideration by the selection committee (Miss Brenda, of course) is (appropriate drum roll and cavalry bugle fanfare here): Eegeebegee, MS (Unincorporated).
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Run, Fred, Run
Finally, someone I wouldn't have to hold my nose in order to vote for, has thrown (or is at least winding up for the pitch) his hat in the ring for the race to see who will face off against Hillary Clinton in 2008. Former Senator, and off-again, on-again television and movie actor, Fred Thompson could not be a more clear anti-Hillary candidate. He is pro-life (calls Roe v. Wade, "bad law and bad medical science"), pro-gun ownership, pro-marriage (one man, one woman), and pro-victory in Iraq. Nobody else on the Republican side reminds me more of Ronaldus Magnus (pardon me while I come to the position of attention and salute in the direction of Reagan's final repose.)
Thompson and Hillary have lined up once before on opposite sides of the partisan divide. During the Watergate Hearings, Thompson served as minority (Republican) counsel (he doesn't just play a lawyer on TV--he is one), and Hillary was a lawyer for the democrats.
Picture this Republican ticket: Fred Thompson and Condoleezza Rice.
Thompson and Hillary have lined up once before on opposite sides of the partisan divide. During the Watergate Hearings, Thompson served as minority (Republican) counsel (he doesn't just play a lawyer on TV--he is one), and Hillary was a lawyer for the democrats.
Picture this Republican ticket: Fred Thompson and Condoleezza Rice.
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Geaux to Hayul, LSU!
Did something last night I haven't done in nearly twenty years. I watched a televised basketball game from start to finish. My Ole Miss Rebels were picked to finish at the bottom of the SEC this year (as they have for several years now), but a new coach, a new attitude, and a winning season have them seeded high in the SEC tournament. Last night they played and beat LSU. No, let me rephrase that. Last night they STOMPED LSU!
Stomping LSU is the most satsifying experience in the life of an Ole Miss Rebel. We hate LSU with a passion a mile long. Mississippi State is our in-state rival, and is detested accordingly, but LSU is a hated enemy. A measure of this hatred is summed up in the following reocurrance. Go to any Ole Miss football game against any other team and wait for a time when the crowd is relatively quiet. Inevitably, whether the foe on the field is Georgia, Vandy, Bama, or State, a lone voice in the stands will take advantage of the quiet opportunity to yell with well-liquored lungs, "Go to h***, LSU!"
As much as I hate basketball, it was worth the pain of watching an entire basketball game just to see the cajun cats sent packing back to the bayou.
Stomping LSU is the most satsifying experience in the life of an Ole Miss Rebel. We hate LSU with a passion a mile long. Mississippi State is our in-state rival, and is detested accordingly, but LSU is a hated enemy. A measure of this hatred is summed up in the following reocurrance. Go to any Ole Miss football game against any other team and wait for a time when the crowd is relatively quiet. Inevitably, whether the foe on the field is Georgia, Vandy, Bama, or State, a lone voice in the stands will take advantage of the quiet opportunity to yell with well-liquored lungs, "Go to h***, LSU!"
As much as I hate basketball, it was worth the pain of watching an entire basketball game just to see the cajun cats sent packing back to the bayou.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
Some Perspective, Please...
Having been a beneficiary of the US military medical system my entire life--as the son of a career Air Force man and as a career man myself, I feel compelled to weigh in (perhaps with all the force of a gnat fart in a hurricane) on the current controversy surrounding the state of veterans' health care in general and the care given our wounded warriors returning from Rumsfeld's Folly. First, let me say that a young man or woman who volunteers to fight our nation's wars (for pay equal to that of an assistant manager at McDonald's) deserves every honor and benefit a nation as wealthy as ours can bestow. Despite all the applause and ribbon waving, we fall woefully short in that department.
That said, I must point out that in my fairly wide-ranging experience, the American military medical system is the BEST IN THE WORLD. I challenge anyone to pick a country, any country, and go check out their civilian medical system. Then, go check out their military medical system. I have seen the best Europe has to offer and it is downright medieval. Don't get me started about the Asian medical systems I have witnessed.
The hysteria in the press and outrage in congress over peeling plaster in showers and hospital rooms infested with fruit flies would be laughable if it were not so monstrously hypocritical. I bet if the ten of you who subject yourself to this random rant go look in your shower, chances are more than 2 of you are going to find some mold and peeling plaster. I'd love to take a video camera into the shower of some newsy or congressmen and put that on the nightly news, wouldn't you?
On second thought, I wouldn't want to be anywhere near the shower of most of them.
That said, I must point out that in my fairly wide-ranging experience, the American military medical system is the BEST IN THE WORLD. I challenge anyone to pick a country, any country, and go check out their civilian medical system. Then, go check out their military medical system. I have seen the best Europe has to offer and it is downright medieval. Don't get me started about the Asian medical systems I have witnessed.
The hysteria in the press and outrage in congress over peeling plaster in showers and hospital rooms infested with fruit flies would be laughable if it were not so monstrously hypocritical. I bet if the ten of you who subject yourself to this random rant go look in your shower, chances are more than 2 of you are going to find some mold and peeling plaster. I'd love to take a video camera into the shower of some newsy or congressmen and put that on the nightly news, wouldn't you?
On second thought, I wouldn't want to be anywhere near the shower of most of them.
Saturday, March 03, 2007
Tara's Taken
The Colonel and his Lady are in the middle of what is hoped (but somehow can't be believed) will be the last time they ever pack up all of their worldly possessions, strike the tent, and force march to another battlefield. Fifty-seven acres at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere is the march objective, and they anticipate establishing our hilltop patrol base there by the end of this month. Although the designation, "Landing Force Objective Alpha," strikes the Colonel's fancy as the perfect name for the new property, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda has exercised her seldom used, but nonetheless authoritative, veto power, and they are mulling over names from a somewhat less martial genre.
Tara is already taken, dear.
Rebel's Roost has a nice ring to it. Though, in that neck of the woods (on the same 1:50,000 map sheet as Ole Miss), the name Rebel is not exactly unique.
Nana's Place is out! What's next, dear? Quilting Bees on the front lawn? The Colonel thinks not!
The Colonel's Corner ( Tract, Holding, Land, etc. suffixed to the prefix descriptive possessive "Colonel's") doesn't pass Miss Brenda's "less martial" test.
Halcyon Hill? Nope, they would spend way too much time explaining that word to the kids and neighbors.
The Colonel likes "Argentina." For a long time now, he has threatened to emigrate to some foreign land to escape all of his... (bet you thought he was gonna say "family" here...but he'll let you fill in the blank). The emigration threat acquired Argentina as a convenient target several years ago, but the Colonel has always maintained that Argentina was a metaphor. Of course, then he had to explain to family and friends the meaning of that word... If the Colonel hung a sign over the gate with Argentina on it, he would probably cause a lot of consternation amongst the Tallahatchie Tribe, so that's probably not gonna make the cut.
An acquaintance of the Colonel's calls his country place "The Dirt." Miss Brenda just grabbed her veto pen.
Can't call the place, "Eden." That's a bit too presumptuous.
Rebel's Retreat is out--"retreat" is not a word jarheads hold in much esteem.
Guess we'll just have to put naming the place on the back burner for now. Something will probably come to to him while the Colonel is supervising Miss Brenda's unpacking chores.
Tara is already taken, dear.
Rebel's Roost has a nice ring to it. Though, in that neck of the woods (on the same 1:50,000 map sheet as Ole Miss), the name Rebel is not exactly unique.
Nana's Place is out! What's next, dear? Quilting Bees on the front lawn? The Colonel thinks not!
The Colonel's Corner ( Tract, Holding, Land, etc. suffixed to the prefix descriptive possessive "Colonel's") doesn't pass Miss Brenda's "less martial" test.
Halcyon Hill? Nope, they would spend way too much time explaining that word to the kids and neighbors.
The Colonel likes "Argentina." For a long time now, he has threatened to emigrate to some foreign land to escape all of his... (bet you thought he was gonna say "family" here...but he'll let you fill in the blank). The emigration threat acquired Argentina as a convenient target several years ago, but the Colonel has always maintained that Argentina was a metaphor. Of course, then he had to explain to family and friends the meaning of that word... If the Colonel hung a sign over the gate with Argentina on it, he would probably cause a lot of consternation amongst the Tallahatchie Tribe, so that's probably not gonna make the cut.
An acquaintance of the Colonel's calls his country place "The Dirt." Miss Brenda just grabbed her veto pen.
Can't call the place, "Eden." That's a bit too presumptuous.
Rebel's Retreat is out--"retreat" is not a word jarheads hold in much esteem.
Guess we'll just have to put naming the place on the back burner for now. Something will probably come to to him while the Colonel is supervising Miss Brenda's unpacking chores.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Proud Pictures
Ten years ago this month, I stood on a parade field in Hawaii and received the colors of the 1st Battalion, Third Marines. The next eighteen months were some of the most rewarding, and quickest, months of my life. Commanding an infantry battalion was not as tactically fun as commanding a rifle company had been ten years previous, but it provided a whole different level of thrills and challenges. Riding herd on nearly a thousand super-charged teenagers and twenty-somethings, trained to fight at the drop of a hat, will keep your heart racing 24/7.
Among all the plaques and mementos in my office, there are two (not as grand as many of the rest) that mean most to me. They both have a photograph as centerpiece. The first is a plaque with a photo of the seven officers of Charlie Company, 1st Battalion, Eighth Marines. We are standing in a tent, faces subdued by camouflage paint. Those four platoon commanders, my XO, our Artillery Forward Observer, and I had built the best rifle company in the Marine Corps out of 200 of the finest young Americans this nation has ever produced. The large brass plate under the picture lists the officers by name and bears the inscription, "What's he trying to prove?"-- a reference to what a faceless voice in the dark had queried in the middle of one of the countless challenges to which we subjected the company during long hours of training.
The other plaque dearest to me bears a photo of the 46 officers of the 1st Battalion, Third Marines taken during our deployment to Okinawa, Japan. It is the only instance outside of the Change of Command ceremonies at either end of my tenure as Commanding Officer, that I had all of the officers assembled in the same place at the the same time. I had driven my staff crazy trying to find just the right jungle backdrop for the photo. We had gathered ten or twelve cameras to make sure that we got a good picture. The best picture (the one on the plaque) came not from the expensive Nikons, Cannons, and Pentaxes, but from the little cardboard disposable camera I carried in my pocket, and had pitched to the photographer at the last second.
I made sure every officer in the battalion got a copy of the photo, and charged them to keep it safe. I knew most of them didn't care much about it at that moment, but with the passing of time it would become an important artifact and touchstone in their lives.
It is in mine.
Among all the plaques and mementos in my office, there are two (not as grand as many of the rest) that mean most to me. They both have a photograph as centerpiece. The first is a plaque with a photo of the seven officers of Charlie Company, 1st Battalion, Eighth Marines. We are standing in a tent, faces subdued by camouflage paint. Those four platoon commanders, my XO, our Artillery Forward Observer, and I had built the best rifle company in the Marine Corps out of 200 of the finest young Americans this nation has ever produced. The large brass plate under the picture lists the officers by name and bears the inscription, "What's he trying to prove?"-- a reference to what a faceless voice in the dark had queried in the middle of one of the countless challenges to which we subjected the company during long hours of training.
The other plaque dearest to me bears a photo of the 46 officers of the 1st Battalion, Third Marines taken during our deployment to Okinawa, Japan. It is the only instance outside of the Change of Command ceremonies at either end of my tenure as Commanding Officer, that I had all of the officers assembled in the same place at the the same time. I had driven my staff crazy trying to find just the right jungle backdrop for the photo. We had gathered ten or twelve cameras to make sure that we got a good picture. The best picture (the one on the plaque) came not from the expensive Nikons, Cannons, and Pentaxes, but from the little cardboard disposable camera I carried in my pocket, and had pitched to the photographer at the last second.
I made sure every officer in the battalion got a copy of the photo, and charged them to keep it safe. I knew most of them didn't care much about it at that moment, but with the passing of time it would become an important artifact and touchstone in their lives.
It is in mine.
Sunday, February 18, 2007
Mississippi Movin'
Miss Brenda and I are selling our place on the Redneck Riveria and "going home to Ole Miss." Since we made the announcement, if I've heard the Thomas Wolfe refrain "you can't go home again" once, I've heard it a hundred times from family and friends. To which I respond that since this Air Force brat and career Marine doesn't really have a "home," I can "go back" to anywhere I want.
So, we are cashing out in Florida and buying a home in the country on 57 acres, 15 minutes north of Oxford and Ole Miss. I intend to raise deer and turkeys and keep the pond well stocked for the grandkids. I also intend to become an Ole Miss football season ticket holder and subject myself to that ritual misery up close and personal.
Miss Brenda says I can't tell any of my old Ole Miss buddies where we are going to live now. What's that about?
So, we are cashing out in Florida and buying a home in the country on 57 acres, 15 minutes north of Oxford and Ole Miss. I intend to raise deer and turkeys and keep the pond well stocked for the grandkids. I also intend to become an Ole Miss football season ticket holder and subject myself to that ritual misery up close and personal.
Miss Brenda says I can't tell any of my old Ole Miss buddies where we are going to live now. What's that about?
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Hovering History
Today is the last day of my 51st year of free-breathing on God's green earth. I got to thinking last night about all the places my life has taken me, and with the the help of Google Earth I went back and visited some of them. I started with some easy ones--places in the US and not as deeply recessed in the wrinkly grey matter of my pea-sized brain. I found satellite pictures of my quarters at Parris Island, SC (or, where my quarters used to be--they tore it down right after I left and built a new house--a coincidence of course), our student housing in Newport, RI for the Navy War College, and our $50,000 house on a $5,000,000 lot at Kaneohe Bay in Hawaii.
When I tried to zoom in on our place aboard Yongsan Garrison in Seoul, Korea, the picture got too fuzzy to make out anything--we don't want to give the North Koreans too easy of a targeting solution.
I found satellite views of our Alabama abode, and the three places in Georgia (in three years) in which we arranged our worldly goods. The house in Jacksonville, NC was relatively easy to find, as well as the two sets of base quarters we occupied during our first tour at Camp Lejeune. Our two different sets of quarters at Quantico, VA seemed tinier than I remembered, even for a satellite view. Our efficiency apartment's building on the campus of Ole Miss is a small rectangle that hardly seems big enough to hold one residence, let alone ten.
The houses Miss Brenda's family and mine occupied on Howard Air Force Base in the Panama Canal Zone are still there and look to be in good shape, but the streets of the abandoned base are eerily devoid of cars. England Air Force Base in Alexandria, LA is also defunct, but the house on Royce Drive is still there; as well as the house on Horseshoe Drive out in town, where we lived for several months waiting for base quarters. Our quarters on Oklahoma Avenue aboard Little Rock Air Force Base can be easily found with a satellite view, along with the Little League ball diamond on whose outfield I dawdled and daydreamed.
Perhaps the most amazing find last night was the house in which we lived on another defunct US Air Force Base in Morocco. I found it by scanning the desert outside of Marrakesh for a runway and then traced the long road through nothing to the base housing. I was only 5 and 6 when we lived there, but I can still remember details from that place more sharply than others in my vagabond life. I remembered that the housing was arranged around a central empty square, and when I found that more memories came creeping back into my consciousness like little lost children looking for attention. I traced the road from the housing area back up past the "big kids" school, by which I have a indelible memory of frantic bike pedalling. As I remember it, the kindergarten and first grade classes I attended were in a building at the top of a small rise past the bigger school. At the end of the day we were normally let out a few minutes before the other school and those of us with tiny bikes scrambled to make it down the hill past that place before the "big kids" got out and filled the road with their bullying.
I wonder what if there is some "big kid" out there who has a fond Moroccan memory of racing from class to stand in the middle of the road and try to knock kamikaze kindergartners off of their bikes.
When I tried to zoom in on our place aboard Yongsan Garrison in Seoul, Korea, the picture got too fuzzy to make out anything--we don't want to give the North Koreans too easy of a targeting solution.
I found satellite views of our Alabama abode, and the three places in Georgia (in three years) in which we arranged our worldly goods. The house in Jacksonville, NC was relatively easy to find, as well as the two sets of base quarters we occupied during our first tour at Camp Lejeune. Our two different sets of quarters at Quantico, VA seemed tinier than I remembered, even for a satellite view. Our efficiency apartment's building on the campus of Ole Miss is a small rectangle that hardly seems big enough to hold one residence, let alone ten.
The houses Miss Brenda's family and mine occupied on Howard Air Force Base in the Panama Canal Zone are still there and look to be in good shape, but the streets of the abandoned base are eerily devoid of cars. England Air Force Base in Alexandria, LA is also defunct, but the house on Royce Drive is still there; as well as the house on Horseshoe Drive out in town, where we lived for several months waiting for base quarters. Our quarters on Oklahoma Avenue aboard Little Rock Air Force Base can be easily found with a satellite view, along with the Little League ball diamond on whose outfield I dawdled and daydreamed.
Perhaps the most amazing find last night was the house in which we lived on another defunct US Air Force Base in Morocco. I found it by scanning the desert outside of Marrakesh for a runway and then traced the long road through nothing to the base housing. I was only 5 and 6 when we lived there, but I can still remember details from that place more sharply than others in my vagabond life. I remembered that the housing was arranged around a central empty square, and when I found that more memories came creeping back into my consciousness like little lost children looking for attention. I traced the road from the housing area back up past the "big kids" school, by which I have a indelible memory of frantic bike pedalling. As I remember it, the kindergarten and first grade classes I attended were in a building at the top of a small rise past the bigger school. At the end of the day we were normally let out a few minutes before the other school and those of us with tiny bikes scrambled to make it down the hill past that place before the "big kids" got out and filled the road with their bullying.
I wonder what if there is some "big kid" out there who has a fond Moroccan memory of racing from class to stand in the middle of the road and try to knock kamikaze kindergartners off of their bikes.
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