Polk's Precedent

One hundred and sixty-four years ago today, at the behest of the greatest and least heralded U.S. President of the Nineteenth Century--James Knox Polk--the Congress of the United States declared war on Mexico.

The proximate casus belli was tension over the admission into the union of the Republic of Texas, including territory still claimed by Mexico.  In truth, the conflict was a war of conquest in fulfillment of the American foreign policy concept of Manifest Destiny.  At war's end, Mexico ceded, according to the terms of the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, all of the territory which was later to become the States of California, Utah, Arizona and Nevada (as well as territory that would become portions of Colorado, New Mexico, and Wyoming).  

Frankly, as much as the Colonel is a huge fan of Polk, he is disappointed with the 11th President for not annexing all of Mexico (as many in his party--Democrats--were rightfully demanding).  The Colonel can only imagine the economic, resource, and social advantages that would have accrued to our nation had the United States added a dozen or more States stretching from California to well south of the Yucatan.  Our present issue with illegal immigration and the violent Mexican narco free-fall toward failed state status would in all likelihood be...,well, non-issues.  

The Colonel has little doubt in his military mind that, at this point in this egregious waste of rod and cone time, there are many readers with hands reflexively to mouths in horror (or a liberal facsimile thereof) at the thought of our nation making such a nakedly imperialistic land grab.  The Colonel would point out to those of you hyperventilating from behind your cupped phalanges, that the history of man is the history of men taking territory from those who took it from someone else, and that if our American ancestors had not taken land from others we Americans would probably not exist as such nor enjoy the highest standard of living and wealth of social accomplishments ever seen in the solar system.

But the Colonel digresses.

Just prior to initiating hostilities against Mexico, President Polk's administration negotiated (some today call his negotiating style "brinkmanship" due to its bellicosity) the terms of the Oregon Treaty by which the United States gained exclusive possession of the territory that would later become the States of Washington, Oregon, and Idaho (as well as portions of Montana and Wyoming).   

Thus, President Polk's muscular foreign policy resulted in the extension of the boundaries of the United States all the way to the Pacific Ocean and increased the territory of the United States by a third.  In fact, Polk increased the territory of the United States by significantly more contiguous land area than did President Jefferson's much more highly lauded Louisiana Purchase.  

Polk was not only a foreign policy visionary with significant achievements attendant to his vision, but was a domestic policy champion as well.  He created the Department of the Interior, oversaw the establishment of the United States Naval Academy and the Smithsonian Institute, re-established an independent Treasury, and reduced trade-strangling tariffs.  Were he alive today, he would undoubtedly be a darling of the Tea Party for his veto of federal funding for state and local projects that forestalled, albeit briefly, the scourge of political pork rampant in our republic.

Slight of stature and temperate in nature, Polk was nonetheless renowned for his oratory (often without notes and always without a teleprompter) which earned him the sobriquet "Napoleon of the Stump." In office, he was referred to as "Young Hickory" after his mentor and fellow Tennessean Andrew "Old Hickory" Jackson.  The youngest man (49) to assume the Presidency to that time, Polk was not without qualification, having served as Chairman of the U.S. House Ways and Means Committee, Speaker of the U.S. House of Representatives, and Governor of the State of Tennessee.  

Polk is still the only Speaker of the House to serve as President.   

The Colonel would be remiss to not mention the one blight on Polk's memory--he was a slave-owner.  He was in "good" company as such, however--nine of his predecessors and four of his successors, were, or had been, slave-owners at one time.  Polk's will stipulated that his slaves were to be freed upon his wife's death.

Polk's accomplishments as President are all the more impressive given that he did not overtly seek the office, and, once nominated by his party as a compromise candidate, pledged to serve only one term.   A pledge he honored without prevarication.

Who is the man with Polk's temperament, moral and physical stature, foreign and domestic policy principles, and breadth of leadership experience in American politics today?


Mitch Daniels.

No Cause for Celebration

As he told a friend earlier this past week, the Colonel wishes with every fibre of his being that he had been the last person to see the light of life in Osama bin Laden's eyes.  Yet, the celebration surrounding the death of the evil man who visited terror on our nation has seemed to the Colonel to be...well, unseemly.  

The Colonel couldn't quite put his finger on the reason for the unease he felt at the gloating and exuberance displayed by Americans at the death of the terror chief. 

Don't mistake the Colonel's feelings for any sort of remorse--bin Laden  needed to be dead, and by our hands.  

The Colonel is not the least bit sorry that an enemy of the United States has assumed room temperature.  However, the excessive verbal victory dancing at his demise just seems tawdry and, dare the Colonel say it, un-American.  Part of what makes us so special as Americans is our quickness to celebrate positive achievement.  We revel in feel-good stories wherein good things happen to good people.  If every American wore a medal on his or her lapel denoting citizenship, the obverse would have the likeness of one American applauding another.

On the reverse of that medal would be the likeness of someone displaying what used to be the common trait of uncommon humility among we who proudly call ourselves Americans.  

Midst all of the pumping and bumping of fists last week, the Colonel was reminded of the admonition credited to Coach Vince Lombardi.  One of his running backs had celebrated a bit too excessively, in Lombardi's estimation (probably far less celebration than is common in sport today).  The legendary coach caught the player by the arm as he returned to the sideline and said to him, "The next time you score a touchdown, act like you have been there before."     

In his Bible study this week, the Colonel read the following passage in God's word and was struck by its timeliness:

"Do not gloat when your enemy falls; when he stumbles, do not let your heart rejoice, or the Lord will see and disapprove and turn his wrath away from him."  Proverbs 24: 17-18 

Seems to the Colonel that we have gloated and celebrated a tad too much at bin Laden's death--even if he was evil incarnate and harbinger of unprecedented havoc in our once-safe harbor.  

The Colonel smiled a bit (no overt celebration, mind you) at the irony of bin Laden's burial at sea.  Such an action is truly only an honor to anyone whose life is connected with the sea--commercially, militarily, or even recreationally.  To anyone or anything not connected in some way to the sea, burial at sea is just disposal.

We swept up some trash last week, and dumped it overboard.  No cause for celebration. 

Hoosier Daddy

The man behind whose as-yet-unannounced candidacy for President the Colonel has thrown his admittedly inconsequential support--Indiana Governor Mitch Daniels--took a manly step toward the Republican nomination late last week.

The governor signed into law a bill passed by the Indiana legislature that, among other things, prohibits state taxpayer funding of Planned Parenthood of Indiana; presumably to prevent public funds from paying for abortions.   In so doing, Daniels has left himself open to attack from the left, not only for signing a Pro-Life bill, but also for seemingly backtracking on his call for a national "truce on social issues" in order to get the nation's financial house in order.  Mitch is seen by the left as pandering to the social conservatives whose votes will make or break his quest for the Republican nomination. 

Were the Colonel advising Governor Daniels, he would have him point out that he proposes a NATIONAL social issue truce.  Indiana's financial house is already in order--the state's budget is in the black.

The Colonel will subject the dozen or so of you who regularly waste rod and cone time perusing posts hereon to a lengthy treatise on all of the reasons why he strongly supports Governor Mitch Daniels' candidacy for the Republican nomination for President in another post.  In the meantime, the Colonel will sum up his support for Mitch in one short sentence:

Mitch Daniels is the anti-Obama -- not cool; not a Marxist

As the dozen or so of you who frequently waste valuable rod and cone time perusing posts hereon know, the Colonel is a vociferous opponent of the practice of infanticide.  Cloaked in the euphemistic mantle of a woman's right to choose whether to carry a (and the Colonel quotes from the "Pro-Choice" movement's own words) "non-sentient mass of cells and tissue" to full term as a human child, convenience abortion is the most heinous of crimes against humanity.  

But, the issue is much larger than the public funding of abortion.  The real issue is whether any non-governmental agency or organization--no matter how well-meaning--should receive taxpayer funding.

The Colonel argues, particularly given our nation's current debt crisis, that NO non-governmental organization should receive federal funding, in whole or in part.

Not NPR.  Not Planned Parenthood.  Not Utah's Cowboy Poetry Festival.  Not the NRA.  Not the NAACP.   Not for any of their projects, no matter how well-meaning. 

Not the Boy Scouts.  Not because the Colonel doesn't like the Boy Scouts of America--he earned Eagle rank in 1972--but, because the nation can't afford the luxury.

No federal taxpayer-provided funds should pay for anything not directly related to the aims put forth in the preamble to the constitution under which our republic was established:

"...in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defence, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution..." 

Granted, everyone who has a favorite non-governmental organization or project can probably make the case that his or her organization or project does one or more of the things above.  The Colonel can make a fairly convincing argument that federal funding of some of the projects on the Honey-do list posted by the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda conspicuously on the fridge would go a long way toward insuring some "domestic tranquility" here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere.

However, the question we citizens of these re-United States must ask ourselves at this particular juncture is whether our nation can afford to fund (even partially) our favorite non-governmental organization or project, given the fact that our national debt is rising at several million dollars a minute.   

The Colonel makes no judgement here on the efficacy or worthiness of any non-governmental organization or project.  What he does judge is the wisdom of continuing to spend money we don't have on luxuries we don't need for national survival right now.  It is purely a matter of priority.  Some might even call it triage.

The Colonel has lots of projects aboard his vast holdings that he would like to fund now.  There's just this little issue of the availability of funds.  He's not going to borrow money to fund non-essential projects.  Were he to do so, he would fast reach the point where required payments on debt would swamp his ability to pay for essential survival items.

The Colonel isn't borrowing beyond his means to easily pay back.   Nor should our government, until our budget is balanced and our debt is paid off.

Governor Daniels rightly calls our massive debt, recalling early Cold War rhetoric, "The New Red Menace," and correctly identifies it as the greatest threat to our continued existence as a free republic.

The Colonel concurs. 

"Pond would be good for you"

One of the favorite pastimes this Spring for the Hope of 21st Century Civilization--dashes 1 and 2 (H21CC-1 & 2) is slipping off down the hill from the Big House here at Eegeebeegee to the shores of Lake Brenda for a fishing trip with the Colonel.

The Colonel fishes.  The grandsons..., not so much.

Not unless you define "fishing" as peeling off every stitch of clothing and participating in a full, frontal frolic in the shallows.  

This afternoon the Colonel sat watching the two splash in a muddy froth at water's edge and was reminded of the scene in that cinematic classic, Caddyshack, when Bill Murray's character asks Chevy Chase's character if he had a pool at his place.

Chevy's character answers, "We've got a pool.  And a pond.  Pond would be good for you." 

That reminder sent the few remaining cells lying fallow in the amorphous goo settled in a cranny in the Colonel's brain-housing group into a dizzying dance down memory lane.  One particular memory parked in long-term parking at the synaptic terminal leapt to the fore and the Colonel remembered the first and next thirty times he watched Caddyshack.

Nearly three decades ago, the Colonel, then a brash young lieutenant, was assigned as the Training Officer for the HQ of the 31st Marine Amphibious Unit, forward deployed in the Western Pacific.  On amphibious shipping in those days movies were shown each night on the mess decks and in the officers' wardroom.  The movies were played on 16mm reel-to-reel projectors and flashed onto large screens.  Ships left port for several weeks at sea with a few dozen movies and would trade movies with the sister ships in their squadrons at sea.

Most of the movies were horrible.  Often, only one of a dozen would be worth watching at all, and when that one was determined, it was watched repeatedly.  

Caddyshack was the best of the bunch on one stint at sea, and that tells you exactly how bad the movies were that were given to ships at sea in those days.  On the night of its first showing in the wardroom, it was immediately re-wound and shown again.

Bill Murray blew up the gopher tunnels three times the next evening. 

By day three, many sailors and Marines on board the USS Tripoli had huge chunks of the movie's dialog memorized.  By the end of the first week, the sound was turned off while the movie played and members of the audience spoke the lines.  

In the wardroom one evening, instigated by a group of young officers, with whom the Colonel can neither confirm nor deny conspiracy, a majority of those who showed up to watch the twenty-something screening of Caddyshack were not in the required uniform of the day, but rather wore golf attire or a reasonable facsimile thereof.  The officers sat waiting on the ship's executive officer (aka: XO; second-in-command) to arrive so that the screening could begin (the Commanding Officer had his own mess and the XO, therefore, was the senior man in the wardroom).   

Every time the door to the wardroom would open, all eyes would turn expectantly to see the XO's reaction.  The XO was running a bit late this particular evening, attending to some important matter relative to keeping the water on the outside and late-comers were streaming into the wardroom, delayed by their own duties relative to keeping the water on the outside.  Each time, an officer would either enter in golf garb or quickly run back to his stateroom to change when he noticed the situation.    

The XO was a man not particularly known for his sense of humor.  The atmosphere in the wardroom full of officers in unauthorized attire was a mixture of nervous giggling and tense anticipation.  More than a few officers thought better of the whole deal and slipped out of the wardroom to change back into the uniform of the day--only to be met by a chorus of cat-calls when they returned.

At last, the door to the wardroom opened and the XO strode into the room.  Before he could launch into his customary "Lights, camera, action!," he was stopped short by the undisciplined sea of non-uniformed officers flooding his normally highly disciplined and formal wardroom. 

The XO's head swung back and forth, and a deep frown slowly took control of his facial features.  He spun on his heel and left the wardroom, slamming the door behind him.

Several other timid souls bolted out behind him.  The rest sat in stunned silence.  One of the ship's department heads finally stood and addressed his fellow department heads.

"We probably shouldn't wait for the XO to summon us.  Let's go to his office."

They left, and the rest became..., well, restless.  Several more timid souls bolted to change back to the uniform of the day.

Suddenly, the wardroom door slammed open and a voice boomed, "Attention on deck!"    

The XO strode in wearing a brightly colored shirt and the loudest pair of plaid trousers this side of Baton Rouge.  "Gentlemen," he declared in a serious tone, "I apologize for my earlier appearance in an improper uniform.  As for those of you not in the proper uniform,"  he motioned to his own attire, "for this evening, and this evening alone, you are excused and may return when properly attired."   

The Colonel is thankful that the dwindling collection of cognitive cells in his grey matter can still cobble together that particular memory.  It's a good one.  Still displaces his perpetual frown with a smile to this day. 
    

First Natural-born Citizen of the Tallahatchie Free State

The Colonel now has first hand knowledge of the veracity of the saying, "One should not count their chickens before they hatch."

One of the Colonel's hens went, as they say, "broody" nearly four weeks ago.  With a little help from her sisters, Silvia, so named for a speckling of silver in her speculum feathers, quickly amassed a mound of eggs and assumed the setting position. 

Once a hen assumes the position, she is pretty much there for the duration.  And, supposedly, the duration of incubation for a Rhode Island Red egg is 21 days.

So, Silvia set.  Not sat.  Set.  

The Colonel feels positively farmerish usin' the farm lingo.

"Yup," he tells his friends and neighbors, "Ah gotta hen settin' on a whole mound'a aigs.  Gonna have me a huge hen herd, now."  

And, Silvia set.

And, she set some more.

That hen set right there on that mound of eggs, unmovable, day and night, rain and shine.

Pine stump unmovable.

War protester unmovable.

Twenty-one days passed.  Twenty-two.  Twenty-three.  Twenty-four.

The Colonel checked and re-checked the calendar. 

Twenty-five days passed.

Just about the time the Colonel had decided to take ol' Smedley the rooster in to the vet for a fertility check, one egg hatched.

You have got to be kiddin' the Colonel!  Silvia is setting on a mound of eggs the height of which rivals that of an early Egyptian step pyramid and only one egg hatches?  

Luckily, the Colonel's hen herd egg production costs have decreased steadily over the past several months and the cost per egg is now down to just shy of their weight in silver, so the investment only rivals the GDP of, say, Luxembourg.

Everything here on the farm (and the Colonel uses that term more loosely than a newborn's diaper deposit) gets a name.  Every piece of machinery, every bend in the creek, every hen in the herd has a proper name.  The new chick was hatched on Good Friday.

It's name is Friday.

This morning another egg hatched.  The Hope of 21st Century Civilization, dashes 1 and 2 (H21CC, -1 & -2) were in attendance, peering impatiently over the rim of the brooder box, as the newest member of the Eegeebeegee Egg Production Platoon struggled to free itself from its shell.  The Colonel turned to H21CC-1 and asked him, "What should we name this one."

"I dunno, Pop," he answered.  "What day is it?"

Children of the Wheat

In the northernmost field (designated North Field in a fevered fit of originality) of his vast holdings here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere, the Colonel has a quite unintentional, yet satisfying nonetheless, stand of wheat.  The Colonel can neither confirm nor deny that the wheat growing in the North Field is as a result of the field's use for several dove shoots last Fall. 

Small heaps of shotgun shell hulls spaced regularly around the field tend to lend credence to confirmation.

The lack of substantial amounts of meat in the freezer tend to lend credence to denial.

While the neither confirmed nor denied dove shoots may or may not have been impressive, the stand of wheat now extant in the North Field is, the Colonel can proudly attest, very impressive.

The Colonel's grandsons, the Hope of 21st Century Civilization dashes One and Two (H21CC-1 & 2), are even more impressed with the impressiveness of the unintentional wheat field than is the Colonel.  They especially like the fact that the Colonel allows them to romp in one small corner of said impressive unintentional stand of wheat that may or may not be the result of copious amounts of wheat spread on the North Field in what may or may not have been a bonafide agricultural practice.

Children are one of only two species on this big blue marble that romp.  (The act of romping is impossible for anyone over the age of twelve, of which the Colonel can attest with certainty born of a very recent attempt.)  The only other species capable of romping is the adolescent phase of the domestic canine.

That's puppy dog for the LSU and Alabama grads among the few of you struggling to maintain your sanity perusing the drivel in this post.

Puppy dawg for the Mississippi State grads.

A full-fledged romp worthy of the appelation is no ordinary scurrying about by feet of kids clad in Keds.  A romp is accomplished with wild abandon.  A romp combines tumbles, leaps, screeches, giggles, and, if an appropriate nearby shallow semi-liquid-filled depression is available, full frontal splashes.

That's puddle for the Georgia grads struggling to keep up.

When H21CC-1 & 2 told their Nana, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda, that the Colonel let 'em romp in the wheat field (the little snitches), the Colonel's lady fixed the Colonel with her patented and lovingly oft-used "You idiot!" look and asked with great concern,

"What about snakes?!?"

The Colonel assured her that no snakes were harmed in the accomplishment of the impressive wheat stand romp.

The Colonel is not a complete idiot.     

Rebel Run-a-thon

Rhett Anthony, the Colonel, Jim "Psycho" Ward,
 and Dan "Danno" Carpenter loop The Grove
 in the inaugural Run-a-thon.

Google the term "run-a-thon" and the dozen or so of you who regularly waste rod and cone time perusing posts hereon will find several references to running events held to raise funds for charity.  The Colonel has no doubt in his military mind that he and his classmates in the Semper Fidelis Society at Ole Miss coined the term and hosted the first "Run-a-thon" thirty-five years ago this spring.

The Colonel wishes he had trade-marked the term.

Besieged by scores of sorority sisters batting lashes and begging pledges of dollars for March of Dimes for each mile walked in the annual Walk-a-thon, the Colonel (then a lowly NROTC Midshipman) had a rare moment of mental clarity (it is unbelievably difficult to think when besieged by a lash-batting, sugar-mouthed Ole Miss coed) and empathy (the Colonel is an INTJ -- Google that and understand his difficulty feeling for others' misfortune).   In that fleeting moment of rare mental clarity and empathy, the thought occurred to the Colonel that he and his brother (and sister) Middies could do the whole walk-a-few-miles-for-charity thing in a much more manly (and womanly) manner.  

We NROTC midshipman (the Marine officer aspirants, in particular) weren't walkers.  We were runners.  

Not joggers.  Runners.    

We future Marine leaders had stellar Marine leaders teaching us and they stressed leadership from the front.  Our Marines would be running, not jogging, and a Marine officer needed to be running out front.  We future Marine leaders also had a rite of passage to complete near the end of our college matriculation--Officer Candidate School--and said rite of passage was not passed walking, nor even jogging.  

So, we ran.  Three, four, five miles a day.  Every day. The goal was to run sub-six minute miles.  That was a high and rarely attained goal.  So we ran hard, pushing ourselves.  We ran laps around the joggers on campus.  The only ones running faster were the athletes on scholarship. 

But, we ran farther.  Much farther.  Forrest Gump farther.

Our leaders challenged us to do something for charity every year.  In years past the NROTC Battalion of Midshipmen had played marathon softball games for charity and pummeled fat frat rats in charity boxing smokers.  But this year we would do something that would capture the imagination, and capitalize on our strength.

We would run as far as we could run in 24 hours and collect pledges for each mile run.  We would concentrate our pledge efforts on the monied Sorority and Fraternity Rows.  We would take their daddies' money in huge wads--we were known for running long distances, but no one could fathom the distance we could run in 24 hours.  Most pledgers thought, at best, we would log ten miles each. 

We planned, secretly, to double that, at least.

At the center of the Ole Miss campus sits a wooded patch of hallowed ground known as The Grove, the home of the most famous and most genteel college game-day "tailgate" assemblance in all the land.  The irregular circumference of The Grove is exactly one half of one mile.  In those days, the Naval ROTC unit was headquartered in McCain Hall (named in honor of the Senator's grandfather) across Grove Loop from The Grove.  We set up bivouac, and runner check-in, out front of McCain Hall.

The rules for that first Run-a-thon, and every one thereafter, were simple.  A baton would be kept moving around The Grove in the hands of a dedicated runner for 24 hours, in 30 minute shifts.  All other runners could run at their own pace and at their own desired time of day or night, but were encouraged to run at least one of their laps around The Grove with the designated baton carrier.  

At the start of that first Run-a-thon, more than a score of runners escorted the baton around The Grove for several laps.  Late into the night the baton kept circling The Grove; sometimes the runner carrying it in lonely pavement-pounding vigil.

At the end of that first Run-a-thon many of the runners had covered more than twenty miles.  Jim "Psycho" Ward (later to command a Navy F/A-18 squadron and currently commanding airliners) logged thirty miles and set a bar over which future Run-a-thon runners would be challenged to take a running jump.   As memory serves, and it serves rather slovenly these days, the Colonel believes that Jim also set the record for the longest seated shower immediately following the inaugural Run-a-thon--and proved that one could actually consume meals under running water.   

That first Run-a-thon netted over a thousand dollars (a tidy sum of lots of sorority girls' daddies' money in 1976) for the March of Dimes.

The Colonel's #1 son, then himself a midshipman in the Ole Miss NROTC program, ran for over 30 miles in the 25th Annual Run-a-thon.   The Colonel doesn't know if the tradition continues, but he will be a presenter at the Ole Miss NROTC Awards Day next week and intends to find out.  If the tradition has lapsed, the Colonel will attempt to challenge its re-institution.    

Just hope they don't challenge the Colonel to run with 'em.              

Spring Planting Planning

Spring has sprung, maybe, here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere.  The signs are everywhere, to include the roller-coaster ride of temperature changes.   The Colonel hasn't put away his jacket just yet, even though most days he finds himself working in short sleeves by mid-day.

And, there is plenty to keep the Colonel busy this time of year.  The next five months are critical to the well-being of all--flora, fauna, and folks alike--here aboard Eegeebeegee.  There are trees to plant; fields to mow, spray, and disc; and the garden plot to prepare for 'maters, 'taters, squash, peppers, peas, and okra.  

A quarter acre plot back in the bottom below the Big House has been limed and disced and will be planted in sweet corn and pole beans in another week or so.  The Colonel is going to try to go a bit native this year and plant non-hybrid sweet corn.  He's ordered Golden Bantam corn seed and hopes to save enough seed to remain self-sufficient in future years.  When the corn is up half a foot or so, the Colonel plans to plant Kentucky Blue pole beans next to each stalk.  The theory is that the corn and beans will enjoy a symbiotic relationship.  The corn will give the pole beans support and the beans will fix nitrogen for the corn.

The Colonel realizes that the Mississippi State and LSU products among the dozen (readership is increasing near-exponentially) of you who regularly waste rod and cone time perusing posts hereon may have difficulty understanding some of the words in the last two sentences of the preceding paragraph.  The Colonel will break it down Barney-style for you:

Symbiotic:  supporting and being supported by (Example:  The University of Alabama football team and the SEC officials at every Ole Miss--Alabama football game.)

Nitrogen:  chemical element common on the planet essential for growth (LSU grads should not confuse with the term "not your gin").

Pole:  stick    

Perhaps the greatest excitement here at the capital of the Tallahatchee Free State this spring is the potential for the significant increase in the size of the Colonel's Hen Herd.  One of the hens has gone broody.  She's been setting on a clutch of a dozen eggs for over a week.  Despite the fact that at the ROI cost of $5 per egg leaving a dozen uncollected is a great sacrifice; and without counting the Colonel's hens' chicks before they hatch (Hey, that would make for a sage saying, wouldn't it?), the sacrifice might actually be worth it--if it means growing the herd.  

With the Colonel's luck, the hatch will be all roosters.   

Hat in the Ring

Noting a glaring lack of principled commitment and fiscal common sense required to lead this nation back to greatness, the Colonel is hereby announcing the establishment of an exploratory committee to determine the feasibility of a run for the Presidency of the United States.

Should be a rather short process.

In the meantime, the Colonel's platform is provided below:

1.  American Exceptionalism will be the overarching principle of our administration.  Every decision, every program, every expenditure of blood and treasure will be evaluated in the light of whether it will make our nation, not a political party, stronger.  Programs found to be dilatory to that end, from the individual citizen up, will be eliminated.

2.  A balanced budget amendment to the Constitution, requiring that, except in the case of an official declaration of a state of war by the Congress, the Federal government's budget not exceed 18% of GDP, will be our administration's foremost legislative priority.  No other programs or expenditures will be proposed by our administration until a balanced budget amendment is ratified.  All acts of congress passed prior to passage of a balanced budget amendment act will be vetoed.

3.  All departments of the Federal government will be operated as "profit centers."  Any department found not to have a positive return on investment of the taxpayers' treasure, as determined by an independent accounting firm, at the end of 18 months from our administration's inauguration, will be eliminated.  

4.  In order for the Department of Defense (name to be restored to the original "War Department") to accomplish the foregoing requirement, and to eliminate the issue of illegal immigration from within the hemisphere, the reinstatement of Manifest Destiny and the forceful annexation of the remainder of the Western Hemisphere will be pursued as the foremost foreign policy initiative of our administration.  Voluntary entrants into the union, prior to the initiation of hostilities, will not be required to pay tribute. 

5.  All moratoriums on drilling for petroleum and natural gas will be lifted immediately.

6.  All military forces permanently stationed outside of the Western Hemisphere will be returned to the territory of the United States within 36 months of the inauguration of our administration.   Our strategic nuclear forces will suffice for deterrence of enemies outside of the Western Hemisphere.  Countries desiring protection by the United States will pay tribute.

7.  Upon ratification of a balanced budget amendment, our administration will propose, and support passage and ratification of a Federal office-holder term limits and equitable compensation/benefits amendment to the Constitution. Until ratification of said amendment, all acts of Congress regarding congressional compensation will be vetoed.

8.  In order to spur competition for greatness among the States, the Federal Social Security Administration will be phased out over the  four years of our administration and the requirement for retirement savings and relief returned to the American citizens and the states to which they belong.  

9.  In order to spur competition for greatness among the States, our administration will, upon congressional passage of a balanced budget amendment, propose an amendment to repeal the 16th Amendment.  Pending such action, the Internal Revenue Service will be eliminated.  The States will assume responsibility for tax collection.  As price of continued membership in our great union, the States will remit to the Federal government funds equal to ten percent of the tax revenues raised by each State.

10.  In order to spur competition for greatness among the states, the Medicare and Medicaid programs will be phased out over the four years of our administration and the responsibility for such services returned to the States.

10.  Any State which desires to leave the union may do so on its own initiative, but will forfeit any and all protections provided by the union.  Readmission to the union will require tribute.

11.  Upon passage and accomplishment of all of the above, our administration will, by a final Executive Order, reduce the number of federal holidays to three:  Independence Day, Memorial Day, and...

April Fools Day.

Head 'em up, Move 'em out!

Four years ago this week, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda and the Colonel engaged in an activity that they had done so often that they could do it in their sleep.

They packed up all of their worldly belongings and moved.
 But this time was different.  This time was the last time.

For the thirty-one years of wedded bliss that preceded that last move, the Colonel and his bride had packed, moved, and unpacked household goods and family every 1.75 years, on average.  There were several duty stations at which they unpacked, packed, and from which they moved, all within less than a year's time.  Such a nomadic lifestyle lends itself to the adoption of, by virtue of sad experience, a set of unwritten (heretofore) rules:

Rule #1:  Purchase no furniture that cannot withstand the rigors of at least five cross-country moves in its lifetime.

Rule #2:  Take up no hobby the fruits of which are inherently fragile; i.e., model building, figurine collecting, etc...; unless of course you intend to take up a follow-on hobby of fragile model and figurine repair...

Rule #3:  Any box unopened after a third move obviously contains unnecessary items and shall be deposited forthwith on the curb.

Rule #4:  Make no friends with whom you do not care to continue a long-distance relationship.

Rule #5:  Take inventory of all household pets, to include the neighbors', before allowing the movers to close and lock the doors to the moving van.

Rule #6:  Take inventory of all children, to include the neighbors', before allowing the movers to close and lock the doors to the moving van.

Rule #7:  Carry a hammer, screwdrivers, adjustable wrench, a bottle of industrial strength air freshener, and a week's supply of tissues in your car to the next duty station.  The tools will allow for quick complete disassembly of broken and unsalvageable furniture so as to make carriage to the curb less onerous; the industrial strength air freshener will ward off odors generated by off-gassing of long-deceased un-inventoried pets and child-packed half-eaten food items; and the tissues will help dry the eyes of the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda when the Colonel informs her that he is expected to report to duty immediately and may not be home for a week.

There are one hundred and twenty-seven more rules, but the Colonel is detecting a whiff of frantic boredom among the five of you who regularly waste valuable rod and cone time perusing posts hereon and have persevered in reading thus far in the vain hope that there might actually eventually appear posted hereon something of interest or current events relevance.  And, as always, the Colonel is happy to disappoint.

So, this Friday is the fourth anniversary of the Colonel's and the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's arrival at their last duty station here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere.   The day shall be marked with fireworks, feasting, and patriotic speech-making.

Well, ...maybe the Colonel will step out on the back porch, discharge his muzzle-loader at nothing in particular, take a bite of a day-old sausage biscuit, and off-gas a bit his own self.              

"...to the Shores of Tripoli."

The current U.S. military action in Libya is but the latest in a long history of American use of force against renegades in that North African region.  Any review of that history requires setting the dial on the "Way Back" machine to at least 1778.

By the end of the 18th Century, piracy by autonomous North African city states belonging to the vast and crumbling Ottoman Empire had evolved to such an organized and lucrative commercial enterprise that, by comparison, the current Somali scourge looks like 12 year-old bullies knocking over corner lemonade stands.  The bashas of Tripoli, Tunis, and Algiers commanded vast fleets of fast, lightly armed sailing craft which carried boarding parties composed of men who, in the words of a Tripolitan ambassador in negotiations with U. S. envoy Thomas Jefferson in 1785, believed that,

" ...the man who was the first to board a vessel had one slave over and above his share, and that when they sprang to the deck of an enemy's ship, every sailor held a dagger in each hand and a third in his mouth; which usually struck such terror into the foe that they cried out for quarter at once." 

The 1778 Treaty of Alliance between France and the American colonies in rebellion against the British Crown had placed American commercial shipping under the protection of the French Navy and French agreements with what were then known as the Barbary Coast Pirates.  The end of the war in 1783 caused this treaty to lapse and American shipping began to fall prey once again to Barbary pirates in the Mediterranean.  The cost to America was staggering.  In 1795, for example, the United States paid the exorbitant ransom of one million dollars to the king of Algeria for the release of 116 American sailors.  To put what seems a paltry amount in perspective, in a day when our national debt increases more than one million dollars a minute, the total U.S. federal budget in 1795 was little more than six million dollars. 

With continuing protection payments to the Barbary Coast States approaching 20% of the Federal budget by 1800, it began to dawn on congressional leaders that it would be cheaper to build a navy to defend American shipping.  Jefferson had long argued that the United States should refuse to pay the Barbary tribute and by the time he assumed the Presidency in 1801, several fine frigates were available for naval patrol in the Mediterranean.  One of Jefferson's first command decisions was to refuse further tribute payments.  The king of Tripoli subsequently declared war on the United States and Jefferson dispatched a naval squadron to the Mediterranean, thus beginning a U.S. Naval presence in that strategic sea that continues to this day (and one in which the Colonel participated during his career as a ruggedly handsome soldier of the sea).  

Jefferson did not act out of disregard for the limits placed on his use of military force by the U.S. Constitution.  In fact, he asked the Congress for, and received specific authorization to conduct naval operations against the Tripoli pirates to protect American commercial shipping.  Congress recognized that a state of war existed between the United States and Tripoli and, although never formally declaring war on Tripoli, gave Jefferson express permission to seize and/or destroy Tripolitan shipping. 

The resurgent U.S. Navy quickly dominated the Tripolitan pirates at sea, but the king of Tripoli remained defiant.  For the LSU, Alabama, and Mississippi State grads among the five of you who regularly waste valuable rod and cone time perusing posts hereon and among the half-dozen other net-surfing passers-by to this rant who are having a hard time following due to the lack of pictures, that was the early 19th Century analogy to today's situation with Libya.

Enter political intrigue and a handful of U.S. Marines.

It was decided that regime change in Tripoli was in order.  The king of Tripoli's brother volunteered to make Tripoli more friendly to American interests if the United States would just do him the small favor of deposing his brother for him.  U.S. Marine First Lieutenant Presley O'Bannon and eight enlisted Marines at the head of a 500-man Greek, Berber, and Arab mercenary band marched over-desert from Alexandria, Egypt and captured the Tripolitan city of Derna; raising the flag of the United States in victory for the first time on foreign soil.  

The king of Tripoli rather quickly thereafter conceded to U.S. demands to cease piracy of American shipping, and we told his little brother to take a hike.  But, in return, America agreed to continue paying a much reduced tribute.  Call it, in today's terms, Foreign Aid.   

As the five of you who regularly waste valuable rod and cone time perusing posts hereon, and are not intellectually hamstrung by mis-education at LSU, Alabama, or Mississippi State, can well imagine, the continued payment of tribute demonstrated weakness and only served to encourage more piracy.  The United States, after escaping a near-miss in the rematch with Great Britain, had to go to war again against the Barbary Coast in 1815. 

Accommodations with recalcitrant rulers have a way of coming back to bite you.

Domino Dummy

The old men in his church are teaching the Colonel to play dominoes.  As a game, it is deceptive in its simplicity, dominoes.  The problem is it causes the Colonel to use mathematics, which is only slightly less traumatic and challenging than telling him he has to speak only in iambic pentameter.

And, no, the Colonel doesn't know what iambic pentameter means.  He just likes the way the words sound together. 

(And, no, the Colonel has no idea how many layers of meaning are in the last sentence.)

Twenty-eight tiles divided evenly between four players.  That would be...let's see...um...okay, carry the two...seven tiles a player.

Two teams, each player laying a tile in turn, tiles laid to match ends, score by multiples of five off the exposed ends.  Keep the other team from making big scores.  Help your partner score.  How hard can this be?   

Pretty stinkin' hard, judging by the harsh language directed the Colonel's way when he plays the wrong tile.  The only time the Colonel has heard any of the old men use harsh language has been when he's playing dominoes.   Well, then, and when they are arguing over whose turn it is to be the Colonel's partner.

This might be hard for the Colonel to take, if his ego wasn't already diminished to infinitesimal proportions by nearly thirty-five years of marriage to the wisest woman on the planet.

There is a further complication that exponentially increases the degree of difficulty for the Colonel.  He is, as the five of you who regularly waste valuable rod and cone perusing posts hereon will readily attest, an insufferable know-it-all and loquacious curmudgeon.  Turns out that the combination of pontification and multiplication are a neuron bridge too far for the Colonel.

"Hey, Jarhead, you gonna play or bang your gums?  The women's gossip table is over in the other corner."

The respect and acceptance the Colonel enjoys at his new (and last) duty station is truly remarkable.   Were it not for the respect and acceptance constantly displayed by the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda, the Colonel might suffer significant emotional distress.

"Hey, knuckle-head, this is the women's gossip table.  The old men are over there in the other corner."         

Ornery in the Court

The Colonel achieved a significant milestone in his life this week.  He has finally resided somewhere long enough to be called for civilian jury duty.  The Colonel's wandering ways heretofore made bedouins look downright sedentary, and, as a result, his only experience with jury selection and court procedings had been with courts martial. 

After his first brush with law as practiced in the local county court, the Colonel has a whole new appreciation for the expediency, thoroughness, and discipline of law and justice according to the Uniform Code of Military Justice. 

But, perhaps the greatest surprise the Colonel experienced during jury selection was the lack of respect which many demonstrate for the Court.

Case in point:  The Colonel didn't wear a coat and tie, (and has never been an example of civilian sartorial splendor) but he did wear his best button-down shirt, pressed trousers (men wear trousers, women wear slacks), belt without his name on it, and a pair of shoes not last worn to clean out the chicken herd house.
However, the same care in clothing selection can not be said to have been followed by some who responded to the circuit court jury duty summons.

The Colonel was a bit aggravated in partcular at the one man who he'd seen park his beamer on the square a few spots down from where the Colonel parked his rusty red pick-up, Semper Fillit.  This gentleman (and the Colonel uses that term rather loosely in this case) was obviously a man of means, but was not-so-nattily attired in a grubby pair of jeans and a t-shirt.  His boots were not even brushed off, let alone spit-shined.

No big deal, you say.  Wait, it gets better.

During jury selection, the counsel for the plaintif asked if any one in the jury pool was a lawyer.  Several hands went up.  (Turns out this town has a lot of lawyers, the vast majority of whom are doing something other than practicing law).  One of the prospective jurors who raised a hand, was the beamer driver with the dirty boots.  The man was himself a lawyer, and was in a court of law, dressed like a field hand in town to pick up a load of hog slop.

Still not scandalized?  Wait, it gets much better.

The counsels for the defense and plaintif all seemed to recognize the beamer-drivin', hog-sloppin'-dressed lawyer.  "Please tell the Court what your law practice is," the scoff-court was asked with a wink and a grin.   

"Your honor,..." 

Wait for it...

"...I teach criminal law at the Ole Miss Law School."

That's right, sportsfans, the man who demonstrated the least respect for the Court, by his slovenly appearance, of any one else in the jury pool, is a law professor.   

It was all the Colonel could do to keep from dragging the professor outside and delivering his own professorial lesson on honor and respect. 

Even more disappointing was the fact that the Colonel, he of not-so-keen mind but very keen respect for law and justice, was not selected to sit on the jury.  It was almost more than his ego could take.

When he got out to the parking lot, the Colonel fingered a load of Mississippi gravel road greasy, wet grime off of the front fender of Semper Fillit and flicked it over on the beamer's windshield.  The world, the Colonel's at least, tilted back onto it's proper axis.        

Sheen, Shine, Shinola

To the great of astonishment of no one more than the Colonel, he finds that he has much in common with Charlie Sheen.

Like Sheen, the Colonel, it may surprise the five of you who regularly waste valuable rod and cone time perusing posts hereon to hear, also has wild animal markers in the helixes of his DNA.  Well, maybe not a wild animal. 

Okay, maybe not an animal.  

It is patently obvious to even the most casual observer that the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda believes the Colonel has insect DNA.  Nearly every day since the Colonel re-retired and graced his best friend with his constant presence, the comely and kind-heart Miss Brenda throws her hands up and requests that the Colonel "go somewhere and quit bugging me!"

Like Chargin' Charlie, the Colonel has the blood of a mythological god coursing through his only slightly plaque-encrusted arteries.  Prepare to have your knowledge of mythology expanded. The five of you who regularly waste valuable rod and cone time perusing posts hereon have probably never heard of Snorz, the god of Eyelid Light Leak Checks and Supine Strategic Planning Sessions. 

Snorz blood races through the Colonel's veins at the speed of sludge through a San Francisco sewer pipe.

The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda regularly uses a W word closely associated with "winning" to describe the Colonel's situational attitude.  

Look for yourself, there's only an extra h and one less n in whining.  

American Hero v. African Zero

Forty-three years ago a real American hero faced off against a punk young aspiring dictator at the gates of a United States Air Force base in the North African desert.  The punk came very close to dying at the hands of the United States Air Force for the first, but not the last, time in his worthless life.    

In August of 1969, then Colonel Daniel "Chappie" James, Jr., USAF; Tuskegee airman and Korean and Vietnam veteran; was assigned as Commander of Wheelus Air Force Base in Libya.  Less than a month into James' tenure at Wheelus, a small group of junior military officers led by a 27 year-old army captain named Muammar Gaddafi staged a coup d'état against Libya's King Idris.  Gaddafi wasted no time consolidating his power and soon turned his eyes on the American military presence in Libya.

On October 18, 1969, Gaddafi rode with a column of armored vehicles to the main gate of Wheelus Air Force Base and ordered them to drive through the base in a show of force.  Instead of leading the column onto the base, the coward Gaddafi dismounted outside the gate and waited for their return.

Colonel James, alerted to the intrusion, strapped on a sidearm and raced to the gate.  In a scene straight out of the western movies of the era, Chappie and Gaddafi faced off in the dusty road.  Gaddafi's hand rested on the butt of the pistol at his side.  James ordered Gaddafi, "Move your hand away from that gun."  The punk blinked and complied.    

Colonel James was later quoted as saying that if Gaddafi had tried to pull his gun, "it would never have cleared the holster."

Chappie James' outstanding service to his nation culminated at the rank of General.  He died on February 25, 1978, only a month after his retirement from the Air Force.

Noted for his stirring speeches on Americanism and patriotism, there have been few men with as much zeal for this great nation before or since Chappie James.  Excerpts of his speeches have been read into the Congressional Record.  James was awarded the George Washington Freedom Foundation Medal in 1967 and again in 1968. He received the Arnold Air Society Eugene M. Zuckert Award in 1970 for outstanding contributions to Air Force professionalism, citing his service to the nation as a "... fighter pilot with a magnificent record, public speaker, and eloquent spokesman for the American Dream..."

General James' patriotism, selfless devotion to duty, and steadfast belief in American Exceptionalism stands in stark contrast to the so-called "leaders" of this generation whose fundamental view of the American Republic is as a source of power to be accumulated for nefarious gain.

The Colonel prays to be a MAN like Chappie James.

Manure Manipulation

The Surgeon General of the Tallahatchie Free State has determined that harvesting manure in a high wind is hazardous to one's self esteem.

The Confederate Concrete that passes for soil here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere is conducive only for the growing of loblolly pine trees and kudzu.   The Colonel is convinced that when human-kind gets around to terra-forming Mars, loblolly pines and kudzu will probably be the only thing that will grow there initially.  Scrape the scraggly weeds off the ground around here and in the right light you would think you were looking at the red-tinted barren landscape pictures beamed back Earthside from Spirit and Opportunity.

For the LSU grads who might stumble upon this blog while searching for uglier clothing to wear to a football game, allow the Colonel to explain that last sentence with a minimum of polysyllabic words.  

We launched a rocket.  It had a little rover on it.  No, not a dog.  A robot.  The rover's name was Spirit.  It landed on Mars.  It took pictures.  It sent those pictures back to Earth.  Mars is red, not purple and yellow.

That's right folks, LSU fans are indeed from another planet, but not Mars.

As he was saying, before he digressed and wasted even more of the valuable rod and cone time of the five of you who regularly waste valuable rod and cone time perusing posts hereon, the Colonel, if he intends to grow anything other than loblolly pines and kudzu in the Confederate Concrete that passes for soil here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere, must amend the Confederate Concrete that passes for soil with extra organic material. 

The Colonel's compost bins serve the soil amendment need, but require amendment themselves.  The Colonel thought that table scraps would suffice.  He was wrong.  Between children and chickens, nary a scrap escapes ingestion.

Fortunately, eggs aren't the only thing that proceedeth from the nether region of a Rock Island Red.  Prodigious amounts of fertilizer proceedeth as well.  Still, until the Colonel can grow his chicken herd appreciably, the amount of fertilizer that proceedeth, exceedeth not, yea, even approacheth not, the compost pile amendment requirements to turn leafy matter into compost with which to amend the Confederate Concrete that passes for soil here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere.

A neighbor has a cow flock.  One cow will process considerably more fertilizer than a whole herd of chickens.  So, with long-handled shovel in hand, and his rusty red pick-up truck--Semper Fillit--strapped to his backside, the Colonel proceeded to pasture yesterday morning, before the rain started. 

From previous experience, the Colonel has discovered the indisputable scientific principle that cow manure is infinitely more scoopable before a rain, than after one.  Unfortunately, the Colonel's previous manure harvesting experience was limited to the issue of moisture content.  He had no experience with regard to climatic conditions involving high rates of regional atmosphere exchange.

Blissfully happy in the knowledge that he had timed his manure harvest at a time at which cow patty moisture content was low, the Colonel began to rapidly scoop and sling manure into Semper Fillit's beckoning bed.   The term "ignorance is bliss" describes a time-constrained concept.  Bliss is not the word with which the Colonel would describe the effects of ignoring wind direction when shoveling and slinging dried cow manure.  

Unless bliss means covered in powdered cow manure.   

If so, the picture in the margin alongside the dictionary definition of the word bliss is of the Colonel standing with shovel in hand, looking around to see if anyone other than Bessy just saw the you-know-what hit the fan.   

Hezekiah's Revival

The Colonel has been praying, more and more fervently of late, for spiritual revival; in his nation, in his church, and in his own heart.  Bible study in 2nd Kings this Sunday morning was on topic and on target.

In the 18th Chapter of 2nd Kings, the writer introduces us to Hezekiah, king of the Southern Kingdom of Judah, and in verse 3 tells us that "he did what was right in the eyes of the Lord, just as...David had done."  Because the vast majority of the Hebrew kings that followed David and preceded Hezekiah turned farther and farther away from God, it seems that Hezekiah must have experienced a personal revival that allowed him to lead a national revival.

We can learn three things about revival from Hezekiah's experience as king.  

First, revival requires us to challenge old "religious" practices.  In Verse 4, the writer says simply that in addition to tearing down all of the idols of other religions that had proliferated throughout Judah and pulled the people away from the commandments of God, Hezekiah "broke into pieces the bronze snake that Moses had made."   

When the Hebrew people wandering in the wilderness had been beset by deadly poisonous snakes, God had instructed Moses to lift up a bronze snake on a pole so that the people bitten by a snake might look upon it and be saved.  The Hebrew people had kept the bronze serpent icon for generations and had begun to incorporate it in religious ceremonies, burning incense to it like any of the other idols representing other gods.  They had fallen into the habit of a "religious" practice that incorporated a cherished icon, but in their tradition-following had lost sight of God, faith in Whom was their salvation, not the icon.  God had not intended them to worship the bronze serpent.  He had intended for them to exercise faith, instead of attempting to remedy the snake bite by their own actions.  Hezekiah saw that this traditional religious practice was no longer about faith.  We all have traditional religious practices that allow us to put a "check in the box" and which shortstop our worship and communion with God.  

Second, revival allows us to conquer old adversaries.  Verses 7 and 8 tell us that, "...the Lord was with [Hezekiah]; he was successful in whatever he undertook," and that he "...defeated the Philistines as far as Gaza..."   From the time the Hebrew people entered Canaan, the Philistines, whose territory stretched along the Mediterranean coast, were a mortal enemy.  After the passing of Solomon, whose father David had slain the great Philistine warrior, Goliath, the Philistines had begun to retake lost territory and to make bolder and bolder incursions into Israel and Judah.  Like sin in our lives, the Philistines crowded in on the Israelites and their oppression grew greater and greater.  Hezekiah's Revival turned that tide.  Spiritual revival reconnects us with the unconquerable power of God, and His power alone gives victory over the old adversaries--sin--in our lives.

Third, revival awakens Satan; but God is greater.  While Hezekiah was leading Judah in revival, the corrupt and ungodly king of the northern kingdom of Israel continued to lead his people further and further away from God's commandments.  The ascendant Assyrian Empire to the northeast overran Israel and carried away the vast majority of the people to exile in the far eastern territories of Assyria.  When the Assyrian king, Sennacherib, advanced on Judah and demanded the surrender of Jerusalem, Hezekiah consulted God's prophet, Isaiah.  Through Isaiah, God promised Hezekiah that if he would refuse Sennacherib and lean on God instead, then the Assyrian threat against Judah would evaporate. 

Understand Hezekiah's strategic military position:  The Assyrian Empire was the dominant military force in the region at the time, employing technologically advanced armament and highly evolved tactics and operational art.  Judah was no match for Assyria.  Sennacherib held every advantage, but one.  Verse 6 tells us that Hezekiah "...held fast to the Lord."  The Assyrian threat to Jerusalem ended just as God through Isaiah had foretold--Sennacherib returned to his capitol after a signifcant portion of his army was destroyed by what God's word tells us was "the angel of the Lord" (2 Kings 19:35) and was assassinated by a couple of his subordinates. 

When we fix our eyes on God's will in our lives and recommit to His leadership, our faith can be tested by what seems insurmountable odds.  When Hezekiah was faced with the, to-this-point undefeated, Assyrian war machine and turned to God for help, Isaiah prophesied that "By your messengers you have heaped insults on the Lord.." (2 Kings 19:23).  Sennacherib's messengers had relayed a scornful threat, declaring that Judah's God was no greater than all of the gods of all of the other nations that had fallen quickly to the Assyria sword.  God was insulted.

Don't know about you, but when his God is insulted, the Colonel gets well out of the line of fire.                

First Battalion, Third Marines -- 14 Feb 1997 to 14 August 1998

Fourteen years ago today, the United States Marine Corps made yet another in a decades-long continuous string of bad assessments of the Colonel's ability and potential and gave him command of an infantry battalion.  In front of a thousand Marines and a somewhat lesser number of family, friends, and dignitaries, the Colonel and his predecessor enacted a time-honored ceremony marking the change of command and speechified regarding the occasion.

The Colonel gave one of the most remarkable speeches of its kind ever heard anywhere on the planet, before or since.  With soaring rhetoric, sprinkled with humor and emotion, he touched on timeless themes of thanks and expectations.  It was inspiring.  

The Marines in the ranks heard:  "Blah, bablah, bablah, blah, blah, blah."  

The Marines in the ranks were thinking:  "Here we go, again."  

These Marines had just recently returned from a six-month deployment to Okinawa, Japan.  Nearly a quarter of them would be leaving active duty within the next few weeks.  They were the lucky ones.

Life in a Marine infantry battalion, even in peace-time, is an incredible grind in which a training schedule chock full of ever-increasing physical and mental challenges prepares the Marines and their leaders for a deployment date that looms on the calendar like the date of execution in a death sentence.  Commanders in charge of the training schedule talk in terms of "crawl, walk, run."  For the Marines, it's a daily sprint.

Most officers take the task of preparing their Marines for the upcoming deployment and the grim possibility of combat with the utmost seriousness, leading and challenging their subordinates to reach levels of physical and moral courage beyond the imagination of mere mortal citizens. 

Some officers view their time in command as a golden opportunity to make a name for themselves and boost the upward trajectory of their careers.   A few of these do a good job of masking their intentions.  Many over-play their hands and expose themselves as self-serving.

Then, there are the few who cannot believe their incredible good fortune, given their obvious lack of ability and self-determination that they have achieved their terminal rank.  These recognize the enormous reservoir of talent on which they have been placed afloat and realize that any success they achieve in command will only come from below.    

The Colonel believes he was one of the latter.  

The Colonel's good fortune was to be placed in command of a battalion of officers and men whose professionalism and great ability required that he only recognize the fact and act accordingly.  No idea or talent of the Colonel's was greater than the thoughts and abilities of the Marines over whom he had been placed in command.

When one sees magnificence in his organization, he is best served to not to overshadow their brilliance.

Over the years of his career, the Colonel had the good fortune to work for many great commanders who tried to teach him how to seize the reins of an organization and crack the whip.  Unfortunately, whip-cracking never was a talent the Colonel mastered.

The Colonel is convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt in his minuscule military mind that the only reason he refers to himself today as the Colonel and not the Lieutenant is due to the fact that there were corporals and sergeants and lieutenants and captains in his various commands who were much better than he. 

It's days like today, whose dates have seminal significance in the mushy amalgam of under-used cells lying fallow in the recesses of his brain-housing group, that the Colonel misses his Marines.

Even if they were happy to finally see him go at the change of command ceremony marking the end of the Colonel's tenure.

Semper Fidelis, Marines!

Constitutional Adoption

More colorless frozen precipitation fell and accumulated yesterday, here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere.  In response, the Colonel declared a state of emergency for Eegeebeegee, the capital of the Tallahatchie Free State.  Said SOE carries with it far-reaching executive powers with which the Colonel took the opportunity to enact regulation unlikely to pass legislatively any time soon.

First order of business was the adoption of a formal constitution.  Upon establishment of the Tallahatchie Free State, a government formed as much hand-on-wallet as tongue-in-cheek, the Colonel appointed himself chair of the Constitution Committee and charged himself with writing a formal constitution by which the Tallahatchie Free State would be governed and the inherent rights of the citizens thereof would be protected.  

The Colonel has been busy, what with all of the critical critter control and forest management requirements of his vast holdings.  So busy in fact, that the draft of the proposed Tallahatchie Free State constitution so far consists only of a preamble.

Well, really just a preamble of a preamble.

Okay, really just the first word: "The..."

Look, constitutions are important documents.  One doesn't sit down to draft such an important document and just crank out drivel.

Cranking out drivel is the preserve of bloggers, as the five of you who regularly waste valuable rod and cone time perusing posts hereon are frantically aware.

But, let's cut to the chase, shall we?  No self-respecting republic goes about in public without a formal constitution with which to cloak itself.  

Therefore, under the regulatory powers vested the Colonel by the state of emergency declaration, the Tallahatchie Free State adopts the constitution of the United States of America, verbatim.

Shouldn't be a problem... the United States government isn't using it at the moment.    

Fragile Flakes

The forecasts by the weather-guessers indicate that the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere is in store for yet another (the fourth such visitation so far this winter) measurable snowfall. The first flake is yet to fall, but schools are letting out early, grocery stores are experiencing runs on bread and milk, and coeds down at the Harvard of the South are driving their Lexi into ditches all over campus.

A month ago, the snow accumulated to nearly a foot here aboard Eegeebeegee, the capital of the Tallahatchie Free State. The Colonel layered up, donned his boots, and slogged the quarter mile down his drive to the county road to survey conditions. As he stood roadside and peered north and south along his only connection to civilization, the Colonel calmly assessed the situation and came to a rational conclusion...,

"Holy cow! We're stranded way out here in the middle of nowhere! There's a foot of snow on the road and we're cut off!"

Upon arrival back at the Big House, the Colonel unlayered, composed himself, found the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda in her favorite room--the one the greatest distance from the kitchen--and announced his assessment of the situation...,

"Holy Cow! We're stranded out here in the middle of nowhere! There's a foot of snow on the road and we're cut off!"

The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda sighed in the way wives of certified idiots respond the world over, smiled sweetly at her certified idiot, and reassured him with the words wives of certified idiots the world over use to bolster their certified idiots' fragile egos.

"Get a grip, you idiot! You'll frighten the children!"

The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda knows exactly how to bolster a fragile ego.

The Colonel thinks he'll keep her.

The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda knows the Colonel will "keep" her. Once you have invested nearly four decades being "kept" by, and training, an idiot, there's just no future in starting over with a new one.

In the time it has taken the Colonel to compose this missive, the reading of which by the five of you who regularly waste valuable rod and cone time perusing posts hereon will by this time have produced mild panic attacks most often associated with the realization that one has wasted valuable rod and cone time, snow has begun to fall here aboard the Colonel's vast holdings.

Lots of snow.

The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda is already sighing in anticipation of the Colonel's next flakey pronouncement.

55 is a Speed Limiter

Here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere, the eyes of American football fandom are firmly fixed on the playing this weekend of the most anxiously anticipated gridiron contest of the season. The Colonel refers, of course, to the First Baptist Church of Abbeville Youth versus Adult flag football game.

And, unlike the other big game this weekend, the Y v. A tilt will take place where football began--on grass (or a muddy, brown facsimile thereof). Outdoors.

No glitz. No glamour. All Glory.

The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda has agreed that, to protect his fragile ego, the Colonel may start the game Saturday morning--with the proviso that she reserves the right to bench the Colonel at any moment, to include immediately after kick-off, in order protect his even more fragile body.

There was a time, long ago in the halcyon days of his youth, that the sight of a tightly spiralling football arcing to a point in space and time soon to be occupied by the Colonel's hands focused his attention and quickened his anticipatory heartbeat like nothing else, save the sight of the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda.

Nowadays, the Colonel gets all the heartbeat quickening he can stand just climbing a flight of stairs.

There was a time, long ago in the halcyon days of his youth, that, given a step in the clear, the Colonel's jets could zoom him upfield at the speed of heat; defenders strewn in his wake.

These days, the Colonel has a hard enough time generating enough forward motion to outrace an odor.

In all likelihood, the flat-belly playing quarterback for the adults will look for other flat-bellies to whom to pass the football. That's probably a good thing. The Colonel embarrasses himself regularly enough without assistance.

Exception to the Rule

Revolutions have a nasty habit of throwing and trampling the first rational riders who leap upon their backs and seize the reins of change. More often than not, the outcomes of popular, "democratic" uprisings take trajectories bent to nefarious actors' whose thirst for power subverts the popular will. Here in these re-United States, our pampered population is blissfully unaware, or uncaring, that our own revolution, and it's eventual constitutional conclusion, was the great exception to this rule.

Part of the reason for this, the Colonel believes, is that our late 18th Century separation from Great Britain was less revolution and more civil war. A sampling of public opinion at any point between 1770 and 1780 would have revealed an American population deeply divided on the question of separation from Britain. Indeed, given the fact that most Americans, particularly those south of Boston, were, at best, ambivalent on the question, those in favor of independence were in the minority. At any one time during the conflict, Loyalist American colonists serving in British-raised militia and line units, or even in the British Army and Navy itself, nearly equalled the number of those serving in rebel militia or in the Continental Army and Navy.

Frankly, we have Great Britain to thank for the fact that our nascent nation was as ready as it was for self-governance. The Colonies had been mostly governing themselves more-or-less "democratically" for decades prior to their declaration of independence from the British Crown. And, we have a war, centuries-on at that point, between Britain and France to thank for the paucity of forces and poor Army leaders the Crown dedicated to putting down the rebels in America.

Still, the American "experiment" in democratic republicanism was a much nearer disaster in its infancy than most modern Americans know. There were ample bad actors around at the time who wished to hijack the American revolution. Were it not for the principled idealism of the majority of the first generation of our leaders, and the fact the the material lives of the vast majority of American colonists changed little in the initial transition from crown colony to independent nation, the outcome could have been far different.

So, what to think of the popular uprisings simmering across the Middle East?

The Colonel is not optimistic about the chances of Jeffersonian, Jacksonian, or any other kind of secular democracy taking hold. He sees no George Washington, nor Simon Bolivar for that matter, in the lead.

The Colonel believes that best these re-United States, and Israel, can hope for is that Mubarak in Egypt and Abdullah in Jordan can keep from becoming unhorsed before other rational riders are ready to grasp the reins and gentle the steed.

The Colonel knows, however, that hope is not a strategy. This will not end well. There will be no exception to the rule in Egypt.

"Plague, plague!"

The Colonel's friendly neighborhood pharmacist tells him that there is no such thing as a "touch of the flu." Far be it from the Colonel to disagree. The Colonel won't go so far as to honor the bug that took up residence in his respiratory system with the title, influenza. And, while he has felt a whole lot better than he felt the past several days, he certainly has felt a lot worse.

For example, there was that time that he caught "the crud" on that big ugly gray floating prison the Navy euphemistically refers to as an amphibious ship. The Colonel was so sick that he was afraid he was going to die. And then, it got worse, and the Colonel was afraid he wouldn't die.

The Colonel has ingested enough pharmaceuticals over the past 96 hours to put down a horse. He's not sure whether the dream he had yesterday about a dragon and a woefully ineffective fire extinguisher should be notched up to the effects of fever or drugs.

Don't know if the hoarseness the Colonel is experiencing is from the coughing or from the requirement his family has placed on him to precede his entrance into any room with loud announcements of "Plague...plague!"

The really great part of all of this pestilence is the recovery period, replete with technicolor expectoration and delirium tremens as the Colonel's body withdraws from the drugs.

So, the Colonel has that to look forward to...which is nice.