Elvis is Dead, and Memphis Ain't Far Behind

Two hundred years ago today, the last in a two-month series of four major earthquakes struck along what is now called the New Madrid Seismic Zone (NMSZ).  Each of the four quakes is estimated by seismologists to have been between 7.0 and 8.0 in intensity.  The first two struck on the 16th of December in 1811; the third on the 23rd of January in 1812.

They were accompanied by hundreds of aftershocks, dozens of which would have in their own rights been considered major.

The NMSZ lies along a mid-continent rift that geologists theorize was the result of a failed attempt by plate tectonics to pull the continent apart in pre-history.   Sediments of the Mississippi River alluvial plain cover a series of interlocking faults throughout a region of underlying bedrock and mantle weakened as a result of the failed rift.   

Unlike the obvious and much more active faults on the left coast, the New Madrid Seismic Zone (named for the only white settlement of any size in the region 200 years ago) is curiously inactive and obscure.  It rarely makes itself known beyond a scattered slight tremble.

Unfortunately, when it does announce its true capabilities, the NMSZ does so with unimaginable force and consequence.  And, the effects are felt over an unbelievably large area.  A quirk of geologic difference between the Western and Eastern sides of the North American Continent causes a great disparity in the "felt effects" of earthquakes as shown in the diagram below.

The 1811/1812 New Madrid earthquakes were felt as far away as present-day Toronto, Canada and caused damage to buildings and streets in cities along the Eastern Seaboard from Columbia, South Carolina to Washington, D.C. 

The shaking from one of the earthquakes is reported to have been strong enough to ring church bells in Boston. 

From geologic evidence of past earthquakes in the NMSZ, seismologists place the odds of a recurrence of an earthquake of the same magnitude as the 1811/1812 quakes at 10% within the next 50 years.  As it is with all of Creation's natural disasters (whether terrestrial or extra-terrestrial in origin), the occurrence of  a major quake in the Mid-South is not a matter of if, but when.  

When the next major quake (or series of quakes) strikes the NMSZ, it will cause damage and loss of life unparalleled in the history of our nation, or any nation for that matter.

The city of Memphis did not exist when the earthquakes struck 200 years ago. 

It will not exist after the next one.  

The extent to which critical infrastructure elements will be effected is far greater than the patience of the thousands of you who liberally partake of the barely literate literary libations ladled out hereon can stand the telling.  Here's just one example: 

Every rail and road bridge across the Mississippi River from St. Louis to Greenville, Mississippi will be, if not outright destroyed, rendered unusable.  Memphis is a critical node in the distribution systems for many major corporations.  Disruptions in interstate trade will visit material hardship on the entire continent and could easily plunge the nation into economic depression.

That's the good news.

The bad news is that, instead of focusing the Department of Homeland Security on measures to mitigate this real threat (and others like it) to the well-being of the American people, our federal government is more concerned with punishing the American people for the actions of 19 jihadists on 9/11.   

Training is Everything

First Lieutenant Gregory, at the head of HQ Platoon, 31st MAU, ashore in Australia, 1982

Thirty years ago this week, the Colonel, then a salty first lieutenant with three years in an infantry battalion under his belt, executed a set of PCS orders that reassigned him from Camp Lejeune, North Carolina to Okinawa, Japan.

For the 'Bama and LSU fans who may have erroneously stumbled upon this post in a frantic search for pachyderm print toilet tissue or the fifty-yard line, respectively, PCS is neither a herbicide nor an ingredient in corndogs. 

PCS stands for Permanent Change of Station. 

"Permanent," in the Marine Corps, ain't really all that permanent.   Most of the time, a set of PCS orders meant you were going somewhere new and wouldn't stay there much longer than it took for the "newness" of the new assignment to wear off.  

This particular set of orders was going to be the toughest test the Colonel and his young family had yet to face.  He would be separated from them, literally by the bulk of the entire planet, for an whole year.

As he bade farewell to his bride of only five years, and their two toddler sons, the Colonel had occasion to dwell heavily on the decision made mere months previous, at the end of his four-year active duty commitment, to make the Corps his career.  As he watched his family wave to his plane, had it been possible, the Colonel would surely have changed his mind. 

But, he was committed.  Duty called.

It would not be the last time such a call came.

When the Colonel landed in Okinawa, he did just as his orders required and reported to the Commanding General, III MAF (Third Marine Amphibious Force) headquartered at Camp Courtney (one of nearly a dozen Marine camps and bases on the island wrested from the Emperor of Japan's finest in 1945).  

Actually, the Colonel, then just a first lieutenant, remember, never got a chance to report to the Commanding General in person.  A major in the Personnel Section intercepted the Colonel and welcomed him warmly.

"Hey, newby, c'mere.  Let me see your orders."

The Colonel surrendered same, and the major caught the name at the top, "Gregory. Good. Been expecting you. You're going to 31st MAU.  Training Officer."

The Colonel volunteered that he was hoping for an assignment as a platoon commander with 3rd Reconnaissance Battalion (the job for which any infantry first lieutenant worth his salt yearned).

The major waved his hand dismissively, "They're full up.  You're going to 31st MAU. Training Officer."

The Colonel knew what a MAU was. 

Marine Amphibious Unit -- containing a reinforced infantry battalion, a composite (task-organized mixture of aircraft types) helicopter squadron, and a logistics support unit.  The Corps calls it a MEU (E for Expeditionary) now, but the organization remains generally the same.  Embarked on several amphibious ships, this organization's sea-based flexibility and over-the-horizon loiter capability still makes it the National Command Authority's force of choice for a wide range of pop-up missions such as evacuation of an embassy, support of a hostage rescue, or humanitarian relief. 

The Colonel apologizes for the commercial.

The Colonel also knew what a "training officer" was.  Also known as SLJO (LJ stands for "little jobs" -- the Colonel will allow you free reign to figure out the S and the O on your own), "training officer" was usually the euphemism for the junior officer in the Operations Section of any headquarters staff.  Responsible neither for much training nor for much that would remind him that he was indeed an officer, the Colonel had the sinking feeling that the coming year was going to be painful penance for the pure joy that had been his experience leading Marines in an infantry outfit for the previous three years. 

The Colonel could tell that the major with his orders in hand was very unlikely to entertain any assignment appeals.  "Very well, sir.  If the Major would kindly endorse his orders, the Lieutenant will be on his way."

The major was obviously impressed with the Colonel's formality.  "Cut the 'old corps' crap, Lieutenant."  The major cocked his head and squinted at the Colonel in a manner meant to remind this whelp that if either of them had rights to any saltiness it was he, "You even know where 31st MAU is?"

"Aye, aye, sir!"  The Colonel responded in answer to the crap-cutting command.  To the major's question, the Colonel gave what he knew was the only answer that satisfied the definition of one of the most important of the Corps' cherished leadership traits -- initiative.  "No, sir, but the Lieutenant will not trouble the Major any more.  The Lieutenant will find 31st MAU."  

What the Colonel wanted to, but didn't, say was something along the lines of "I mean, really, Major, I know I'm new on the island and all, and there are a lot of different bases and camps, but it is just a small island, and, while I am hamstrung by a lack of education, having gone to Ole Miss instead of college, I can read well enough to find the sign that says Headquarters, 31st MAU on it."

The Colonel may not have said the foregoing, but evidently the look on his face gave away at least the gist of what was rattling around in his brain-housing group.  The major suddenly softened a bit ("softened" being a term subject to the term, "relative"), and placed a hand on the Colonel's shoulder.  "Lieutenant, I'll save you the effort of spending the next several days reading the signs in front of every building on the island.  There's a plane leaving from Kadena headed for Clark tomorrow morning at 1000.  Be on it.  When you get to Clark, catch a bus to Subic.  31st MAU will pull in to port there in a few days."

While the major busied himself putting the endorsement stamp on the Colonel's orders, the Colonel digested and tried to make sense of the latest bits of data making slow headway through the tangled maze of synaptic connections in the mass of gelatinous goo encased in the bone between his ears.

'Hmmm... Kadena... that's the Air Force base on the southern end of the island.  Put the rising sun on your left when you leave here in the morning.  Right.  Got it.'

'Let's see, Clark, Clark,... CLARK!  That's in the Philippines!  And, Subic is the Navy base there!'  

From previous posts, the thousands of you who regularly imbibe in the literary libations ladled out hereon may remember that the Colonel is afflicted with the serious mallard-happy malady, duck hunting, which manifests itself in frequent forays afield to stand in freezing thigh-deep water and blow mallard-melodies on a kazoo.

Well, not a kazoo, actually.  A duck call.  To the uninitiated, however, a duck hunter blowing on a duck call looks, and sounds, for all the world like an asylum escapee playing a kazoo.

A very loud kazoo.

As a going-away present, the Marines of the 2d Battalion, 2d Marines at Camp Lejeune had given the Colonel a very nice pair of calls -- one duck, one goose.  The Colonel had them in his ditty bag and intended to stay in practice while overseas.

The enlisted man acting as customs agent at Clark Air Force Base in the Philippines, opened the Colonel's bag and immediately jumped to the giddy conclusion that he had just scored the Air Force Security Police trifecta -- 1) catching someone red-handed with drug paraphernalia, 2) catching a Marine with contraband, and 3) catching a Marine officer breaking the rules.

"What have we here, Lieutenant?"  The airman lifted the lanyard with the calls -- one duck, one goose -- and presented them to the Colonel in his best (but certainly unintentional) Barney Fife impression.

The Colonel snatched the calls from the airman's hand and, before Airman Fife could get the bullet out of his pocket, broke into a serenade of mallard songs that would have brought a tear to the glass eye of any duck hunter in the terminal.

Unfortunately, there were no duck hunters (with or without tearful glass eyes) within earshot.  Just a whole squad of Barney Fife's reaching for their left breast pockets and converging on the Colonel's position with intent to nip it in the bud. 

Undeterred, the Colonel deftly shifted calls and produced a series of happy honks and gronks that would have, in happier times, steered flapping flocks of Canada geese straight down the Colonel's gun barrel.  

In deep appreciation for his talented rendition of the love songs of North American waterfowl, the Colonel was thereupon provided a security police escort straight through customs and right up to the door of the bus to Subic Bay.  

A few months later, the Colonel was sent ahead of the sea-borne 31st MAU, on a SLJO errand that turned out to be his first trip to Oz.  The MAU was headed for Australia, would arrive in two weeks, and the Colonel was detailed to coordinate several training and social events for the week-long port visit to Perth.  

Two weeks to accomplish about two hours worth of errands.

In Australia.

On per diem.

Prodigious per diem.

Best hotel in Perth per diem.

The Colonel could hardly contain his glee upon his arrival in the Land Down Under.  He was wiggling like a puppy at the back door. The customs agent must have detected what he considered nervousness as he dug through the Colonel's bag.

Triumphantly, he hoisted the lanyard holding the calls -- one duck, one goose.  "What 'ave we 'ear, Mate?"

The Colonel rests quite comfortably in the certain belief that he is the first and last Marine lieutenant to have received police escort from Perth International Airport to the Parmelia Hilton.          

Fear Factor

The Colonel ain't smart and you can't make him.

That, and three other notions, have been the operative phrases with which the Colonel has charted the majority of his adult life.

The other three?

The Colonel don't dance.

The Colonel don't paint.

The Colonel ain't afraid of nothin' or nobody (the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda excepted) .

The Colonel used to have a fifth -- the Colonel don't cry -- but, several years ago he found out that his mother was a civilian and went on a three-day boo-hoo bender. 

Now, the Colonel has a confession to make.  Operative rule number 4 wasn't really completely true either.

There was something that so scared the Colonel as a tot that for nearly three decades -- well into his career as a roguishly handsome soldier of the sea -- it held a fright-filled grip on a corner of his subconscious.  Mentions of the thing, associations and references, while evoking gales of laughter from his comrades, would trigger a Pavlovian response filling the Colonel with an unaccountable feeling of terror and dread.   

What, you ask, could possibly have made such a debilitating impression?  The Colonel wondered the same.

Did the Colonel witness a torture/homicide/dismemberment as a child?

No, that wasn't it.

Turns out, as his civilian progenitor [see crying-jag reference above] finally explained to her, then, 35 year-old child, the Colonel had experienced a traumatic experience while watching...

Wait for it...

The Wizard of Oz  

Yep, the Wicked Witch of the West and her flyin' monkeys had scared the pea jabbers out of the Colonel.  

And, because he had experienced such trauma with the movie so early in his childhood, and could never watch the movie again, the Colonel completely missed out on any understanding of the myriad references to it that so pervaded our culture.

On a hike, a fellow Marine would suddenly break into a skip and sing out, "follow the yellow brick road," to the snickers and snorts of his comrades.  The Colonel was clueless.

What yaller bricks?

"There's no place like home.  There's no place like home," a jarhead, soaked and miserable in a swamp somewhere at the far end of the earth, would suddenly exclaim, tapping the heels of his muddy boots together.

Well, duh!  Why is everybody laughin' at that?

And then, another leatherneck would shuck his poncho, and while the rain poured down on him, screech,... 

Yeah, you know what he screeched,  ...and why.  

The Colonel?  Not a clue. 

What?  Did the Marine think he was made of sugar? What is so stinkin' funny 'bout that? 

Some nonsensical, arbitrary edict would come down from higher headquarters and a devildog would sneer, "pay no attention to the man behind the curtain."

What man?  What curtain?  

And then, the Colonel's children began to develop senses of humor, manifested most often immediately upon arrival at the Colonel's newest duty station, "Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore." 

Kansas?  The Colonel had dragged his kit and kin across the globe, but there was never a stop anywhere near Kansas.  And, who are you calling, Toto, there knucklehead child!?! 

Finally, at the age of 40 or so, the Colonel watched the movie.

"Oh!  Ruby slippers!  So that's where that comes from!"

"Oh!  Auntie Em!  Didn't think everybody had an Auntie Em!" 

Days later, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda approached the Colonel and lightly touched his lips with the tip of her dainty finger.  The Colonel smiled at his Lady.  She smiled back.

And then, in her loving way, she gripped both of the Colonel's lips between a thumb and finger suddenly transformed into a set of vice-grips.

"Whistle the tune to 'If I only had a brain' one more time and I'm gonna rip these off." 

January Jaunts

The thousands of the Colonel's loyal legions who imbibe liberally of the literary libations ladled out in posts hereon must, in light of his lengthy cyberspace leave-taking, manifested in a three-week lapse of posts, be worrying that some significant circumstance or serious malady may have befallen him.

For the 'Bama and LSU grads (no explanation needed nor effective for the largely illiterate 'Bama and LSU fans) who may have stumbled upon this site in the frantic search for cut-rate chewin' tobacco and frozen corndogs: the Colonel ain't wrote nuthin' in three weeks and all y'all must be worried that he got sick or sumthin'.   

Actually, January happened.

The first month of the calendar year has nearly always been a time of concentrated activity for the Colonel.  This January, in particular, has witnessed an amplified confluence of conditions and requirements conspiring to consume the Colonel's every waking moment (and a significant portion of his dreams).

As his readers will remember, the Colonel is a member of an elite, yet egalitarian, band of brothers stricken by an incurable obsession with the idiocy known as duck hunting.  January, here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere, is coincident with the migratory crescendo of that most magnificent of waterfowl -- Anas platyrhynchos.  Aka: mallard, greenhead, big duck, [insert deleted expletive exclaimed by duck hunters upon the hunted's failure to decoy and present itself for marksmanship display] duck.  

Duck hunting necessitates rising to the alarm hours before dawn; dressing in more layers than worn by the men of Byrd's expedition; enduring a boat ride in the dark that exposes one's self to face-frosting wind-chill and the ever-present danger of drowning; donning chest waders and hauling decoy bags, guns, and enough ammunition to wage a counter-insurgency campaign a quarter of a mile into the "secret spot;" breaking the ice in the "secret spot" in order to place several dozen decoys in open water; and standing motionless in thigh-deep, freezing water for hours, while blowing on a kazoo.

It is a sickness bordering on depravity.

The Colonel loves it.

January is not just about duck hunting, however.  There is also the tail-end of the deer season to be celebrated with frequent frosty forays afield.  

This January (a moment of thanks for Global Warming -- the advent of which the Colonel welcomes with wide open frost-bitten hands) has been one of the most mild on record.  Therefore, the Colonel has not had bad weather as an excuse to keep him from felling tall timbers and sawing lumber.  

The Colonel's infantry-ravaged back is not such a big fan of Global Warming.

Then there is football.

Specifically, the most important football game of the season:  The First Baptist Church of Abbeville Adult Versus Youth Flag Football Game.  

As the Colonel is now into the latter half of his fifth air-breathing decade of riding the big blue marble 'round Ol' Sol, he has had to begin his preparation for participation in the game with much more seriousness than in previous years.  

The Colonel has marked off forty yards on the front lawn of the Big House here aboard Eegeebeegee and has been conducting conditioning drills.  The Colonel's favorite is wind sprints.

The other day, the Colonel's Lady -- the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda -- stepped out on the front porch to give the Colonel some encouragement, "Hey, knucklehead, what in the world are you doing?" 

"Gettin' in shape for the big game."   

"Big game?  Thought I expressly forbade you from exposing yourself to ridicule and the threat of serious injury.  You are not allowed to play football, anymore." 

"Thanks for your kind words of encouragement, dear.  Gives me motivation for these wind sprints."

"Wind sprints?"

"Yep," the Colonel explained between ragged breaths, "they're," huff, "my," puff, "favorite."

The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda blinked and her face assumed the visage of stark amazement with which she beholds the exploits of her man.   

"I thought you were supposed to run wind-sprints."             
  

Short and Sweet

The Colonel's family doctor ruined the Holidays and probably saved the Colonel's life.

Nine years ago, during his last annual physical just prior to leaving active duty, the Colonel was diagnosed with Type II Diabetes.

Could have been due to the fact that the Colonel's drug of choice for dealing with stress, since he was old enough to feel stress, has been sugar.  The Colonel's sweet tooth is legendary among his family and long-time friends.  If all there was to eat in this world was vanilla ice cream and chocolate chip cookies, the Colonel would be just fine with that.

Shortly after his diagnosis as a diabetic, the Colonel had an appointment with a dietitian who proceeded to tell him that, as far as the Colonel was concerned, sugar might as well be rat poison and that the Colonel was going to have to dramatically change his diet and eating habits.

For most of his adult life, the Colonel had lived by one of the more perverse Marine adages that eating during hours of daylight was a sign of weakness.  The Colonel's breakfast was a steaming cup of joe, or three.  Lunch was a long run, a gallon of Gatorade, and a candy bar. 

Dinner, consumed over a two hour period beginning shortly after the Colonel arrived at the front hatch of his quarters and announced in his most effective parade ground command voice, "Lower the drawbridge; the King is home!" (shortened over the years to a terse, but nonetheless commanding, "Drawbridge!") consisted of enough red meat and starch to feed a family of four for a week.

After dinner, dessert was a large mixing bowl of vanilla ice cream and three dozen chocolate cookies.

That was then.  Now, the Colonel had to eat three small meals a day; morning, noon, and night.  Carbohydrate intake was restricted to fifty grams per meal.  The Colonel was also required to take a pill big enough to choke a hippo with dinner to boost his slovenly sugar-solvent system's ability to process.

Fifty grams sounds like a lot...

                 ...until you see the minuscule plated-portions of real food that provide that restricted intake.

Actually, fifty grams of real food in carbohydrates covers a plate about as effectively as Bo Derek 's bikini covered her...

                          ...you get the picture.   

But, the Colonel endeavored to persevere, and within a few short months was back at his service-entrance weight, with blood sugar under control.

For the next several years, the Colonel's semi-annual long-term sugar blood test regularly confirmed his maintenance of appropriate carbohydrate discipline.

Until the first of last month.

Seems the Colonel had fallen off the wagon. 

Falling off the diet wagon when one is as active in a Southern Baptist church as is the Colonel, requires slightly less effort than blinking.  

For the heathens among the thousands of you who regularly imbibe in the barely-literate libations ladled out in posts hereon, and who may have never attended a Southern Baptist church, Southern Baptists EAT.  

The Southern Baptist Convention is seriously considering a name change to broaden its appeal and more accurately portray beliefs and character.

The Colonel recently sent a formal letter to the President of the Southern Baptist Convention recommending the name be changed to The Church of Chow.

Ushers at a country Southern Baptist Church hand out snacks along with the bulletins.

Many Southern Baptist Churches have changed to a earlier start and end time for Sunday morning service, so that their membership can beat the Methodists to the buffet line at Golden Corral.

Yep, it's the Colonel's church's fault that he has lately been tempted to strap on the feed bucket and once again find solace in sugared treats and high carb main courses. 

The Colonel's doctor wasn't buying that load, however. 

"Well, Colonel, how are you feeling?," the Colonel's doctor scanned the results of the latest blood test. 

"Gettin' old, Doc.  Not feeling my old self so much lately."

"That's no big surprise.  Your weight's up significantly since your last visit and your long-term blood sugar is way too high," the Colonel's doctor didn't waste a whole lot of bedside manner coming to the point.

The worst part was the guilt trip he laid on the Colonel.

"Weren't you in the Marine Corps?  How about applying a little Marine Corps discipline to your diet and exercise routine?" 

There went the Colonel's plan to celebrate the birth of the Baby Jesus by eating his weight in iced sugar cookies and high-octane fudge.

One month into Operation: Return to Fighting Weight and the Colonel is down four pounds. 

Well, three pounds.  He's added a pound of hair in the meantime.                  

iPad Ingrate

The Colonel is, among his manifold challenges, technologically so.

He is particularly challenged with regard to understanding the how to, not to mention the need for, anything preceded by the lower case letter i.  

About three years ago, the Colonel shook off the shackles of time and constant connectivity and has since refused to wear a watch or carry a cell phone.

He hasn't missed either for a slow country second.

Of course, closely surrounded by friends and family so shackled, the Colonel has ample access to the current time and rarely remains truly unreachable.  Still, there is a palpable feeling of freedom gained by marking time by the sun and the grumble of one's stomach.

The Colonel has almost reached the point at which someone constantly pulling out a cell phone no longer annoys him...

               ...the emotion is much closer to disgust.   

So, it was with no small measure of mixed surprise and chagrin that the Colonel opened a present Christmas morn, marked from his family, to find, of all things...

               ...an iPad.

Yeah, it's cool, and the Colonel is very touched -- perhaps most touched by the loving sentiments engraved on the back -- but, now he's one of those people. 

Just how is the Colonel supposed to maintain his curmudgeon cred once the word gets out that he is a closet technophile?

And, now he has to constantly wash his hands else the grimy good earth of the Colonel's vast holdings here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere transfer to the touch screen. 

Oh, the shame!

No self-respecting farmer/sawyer/chicken-herdsman is ever seen in public with clean hands.

Did find a good board-foot calculator app, though.  And, the local weather app is useful.  Oh, and there's an app that tells the Colonel the best planting times for the crops he intends to grow later this year. 

Still looking for the app that will harvest, clean, and can the prodigious produce the Colonel expects from his burgeoning garden plots.

The Colonel hasn't disposed of his PC and 3D keyboard just yet.  He'll probably maintain at least that curmudgeonly customary link with his past. 

Old habits do die hard.

It took the Colonel a long time, during his transition from typewriter to word processor, to learn not to use white-out on his computer screen.

Is there an app for removing axle grease from the touch screen?  

Year In, Year Out

The Colonel can tell that he's gettin' old. 

There are the obvious clues of course; constant pain, loss of memory, expanding waistline, and the overwhelming desire to choke the ever-livin' you-know-what out of those who flaunt the fact that they are not yet suffering from the former three.

Then, there is the fact that time is passing at a seeming exponentially-increasing rate...

              ...with the exception of the interludes wherein the Colonel experiences the space-time phenomenon known here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere as Specious Irrelativity -- manifested as a shimmering bubble of curmudgeonly couldn't-care-less-ness encompassing the Colonel's immediate surroundings when involved in an endeavor for which no passion whatsoever is shared by any other person or animate object. 

Specious Irrelativity is transferable.  The Colonel has observed the shimmering bubble of space-time irrelevance encompassing others in his area -- around the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda, for example, on rare occasions that the Colonel has accompanied his Lady on a "shopping trip."

A "shopping trip," in the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's case, is defined (by the Colonel) as an extended foray through a retail or grocery store's territory for what seems (to the Colonel) to rival the occupation of Iraq and Afghanistan.  It takes forever, there are no discernible objectives, and the cost is prohibitive.

The Colonel digresses.

Frequent digression is one of many "frequents" attendant with the Colonel's advancing age.

One of the main points of this seemingly pointless missive, to which the thousands of you who regularly imbibe in the scarcely-literate literary libations ladled out hereon are exhausting great supplies of patience enduring even greater amounts of drivel in the vain hope of reaching, is that the Colonel is amazed as just how fast the year of our Lord, two thousand and eleven whizzed past.

Would that 1979, 1980, 1981, 1982, 1988, 1989, 1990 and 1998 -- years in which all or an extended part of which the Colonel spent separated from the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda while deployed abroad keeping the world safe for democracy as a roguishly handsome, steely-eyed soldier of the sea -- had passed half as rapidly.  

At any rate, the Colonel isn't posting to mourn the passing of a year.

For the benefit of Tide and Tiger fans accidentally perusing this post as a result of an internet search for a highly effective herbicide or a killer corndog recipe, the Colonel's use of the phrase at any rate is a clever literary use of a previously addressed concept as a segue.

For the benefit of those suffering from the educational disadvantage of  being 'Bama and LSU grads (a much, much smaller subset of Tide and Tiger fans -- most Tide and Tiger fans prominently display framed GED's), a segue is neither a highly effective tree-killer nor a secret herbal ingredient for a killer corndog.

At any rate, (segue phrase repeated for the benefit of you-know-who -- listen carefully for the sound of open palms striking empty heads) the Colonel wishes to take this opportunity to welcome the new year and wish you and yours a blessed and productive 2012.

With the speed at which years are flying by nowadays, the Colonel reckons he better get started on his post for January 1, 2013.      

Rebel Clipper

The Colonel needs a haircut.  Badly.

Even a bad haircut would do.

The Colonel's had the same hairdo since he was eighteen.  Early on the Colonel paid a weekly visit to his barber for the traditional Marine "high and tight."  Then the Colonel began to notice that there was less and less on top to cut "tight."

The Colonel also broke down and used a little bit of not-so advanced mathematics and discovered that at three or four dollars a weekly barber shop visit, a $20 hair clipper set would quickly pay for itself -- plus give the Colonel some regular practice in case he needed to cut hair to augment his retirement.   

For the better part of the last three decades the Colonel has, each Monday morning, set his trusty clippers, Semper Clip, on the lowest setting, and reduced his meager mane to a barely visible stubble. 

Sometime back in September (that's as specific as his rapidly diminishing collection of viable brain cells will allow him to remember), the Colonel missed a Monday morning meeting with Semper Clip.  It wasn't necessarily intentional, mind you.  He just forgot.

And, it wasn't all that noticeable a week later. 

Nor the week after that.  

The Colonel, being the creature of habit that he is, missed a whole month of Monday morning meetings with Semper Clip, and just that quickly began a new habit.

After about six weeks, there was enough fur around the Colonel's ears for one of his domino buddies to look up from the table, squint at him like there was a big daub of axle grease smeared across his face, and ask, "Growing your hair out, Colonel?"

"Nope.  What makes you think that?"

"I dunno.  Just looks like you and your barber had a fallin' out."

"Nope.  Just giving my follicle's a rest."

"Looks to me most of your follicles have been resting in peace for quite some time now."

Soon, the hair was as long as it had been since just before the Colonel's dad returned from Vietnam.

The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda held her peace for as long as she could bear it and finally, in her gentle and loving way, told him what she thought of the Colonel's new 'do.

"Hey, knucklehead!  You look like a hippie gone to seed!  You need to cut that mess off your melon before people start asking you how you came up with E equals MC squared!"

The rest of the Colonel's family displayed even more loving interest in his noggin' wrapping cultivation.

"Daddy, you look terrible!" The Colonel's favorite daughter always knows just what to say to warm his heart, cockles and all.  "When are you gonna cut your hair?"

The Colonel flipped his locks and flippantly declared, "When Ole Miss finally wins a football game." 

"But, Daddy, this season's over!"

"Yep, looks like I won't get it cut until after the Spring Game."

"But, Daddy, didn't they tie the Spring Game last year?"  


Hmmm.  Wonder what the Colonel would look like in dread locks? 

Season Reason

The old man didn't believe in much, and he certainly didn't believe in anything he couldn't prove. He was too intelligent and too learned to indulge himself in beliefs that required faith -- that was just too simple-minded and uneducated for a college professor.

He wasn't completely passionless -- he did love his birds.

As a trained biologist, he knew every detail of the physiology and behavior of animals in general, and, as a ornithological specialist, his knowledge of birds was particularly deep and broad. He was unabashedly vain in the surety that he knew practically everything there was to know about birds -- he was darn near omniscient when it came to feathered fauna. He lived alone and kept several feeders in his backyard to attract the birds he loved so much -- they were his company, and he often, embarrassingly, caught himself talking out loud to them.

He stood at the window as the light of the late December afternoon dimmed to early evening twilight. It had snowed most of the day and several inches had accumulated. The temperature was dropping precipitously -- it was going to be one of the coldest nights of the year. But, that hadn't deterred his neighbors from their annual ritual of asking him to join them at church for Christmas Eve services. He had politely refused, and even wished them "happy holidays," even though he considered it hypocritical to do so.

His principled disbelief in the basis for the holidays prevented him from even recognizing Christmas in any way. There was no decorated tree in his house, no silly lights outside, and certainly no gift giving. He was no hypocrite.

As darkness fell, he heard the bells ringing from the church down the road, and he marvelled at the waste of time, energy, and resources devoted to Christianity. How could anyone with half a brain buy in to the "immaculate conception" fairy tale? If there was a God running this universe, and he was fairly certain there wasn't, why would he waste his time on the insignificant life forms on an insignificant rock circling a nondescript star in a galaxy of billions of stars, in a universe of billions of galaxies?

It was snowing again, and he reached over and turned on the outside light so he could watch the flakes fall. His attention was drawn to the ground just at the edge of the circle of light, where a flock of small birds was huddled motionless in the snow. He was immediately concerned. He had seen this kind of behavior before and it normally resulted in the death of all the birds in the flock. Stunned by the sudden onset of bitter cold, they would just sit there and freeze. He hated to see that happen. He loved his birds and it just tore at him anytime he found one dead. He had to do something for this flock.

He quickly pulled on his coat and boots and stepped outside in the snow. He thought maybe he could scare them into some life-saving activity. Maybe he could chase them into the air and they would fly somewhere safe. He waved his arms and stomped his feet, but the birds just moved out of his way and continued to huddle in the snow.

He walked across the yard to his workshop at the back of the lot, opened the door, turned on the light, and stooped to turn on the space heater in the corner. He propped open the door and then stepped outside and into the shadows. He hoped that if he remained motionless and hidden the birds would see the light and warmth of the workshop and move inside.

After a few minutes, it was obvious that the birds weren't going to take the initiative to move into the workshop on their own. He would have to try to move them himself. He walked over to the flock and bent to pick up a bird, but it fluttered away and landed on the other side of the flock. He tried several times to catch a bird, but the results were always the same. He tried to herd the birds toward the warmth of the workshop by stooping and waving his arms, but the birds just scattered in front of him and then rejoined to huddle in the snow.

Again and again he tried to shoo the birds toward the lifesaving warmth, and he became increasingly frustrated at his failure to save them.

The temperature was dropping perceptively and he noticed that one of the birds had slumped lifelessly. He redoubled his efforts to herd them to the workshop. Another bird slumped in the snow. He was frantic now, speaking to the birds, trying to reason with them, and then caught himself, embarrassed.

He said to himself aloud, "If I could just become a bird for one minute, I could lead them to the light and warmth of the workshop and save them from dying in the snow."

At that moment, the bells on the church down the road began to ring again.

The old man sank to his knees in the snow and understood.

Tallahatchie Free State 2012 Gift Catalog

Christmas 2011 will be celebrated here aboard the Colonel's vast holdings at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere with all of the joy and familial...

*** We interrupt the Colonel's latest literary libation to bring you the following crass commercial message.***

Due to overwhelming demand and underwhelming supply, the following Eegeebeegee Christmas Gift and Tallahatchie Free State Souvenir items have been sold out for this season, but will be available for advance ordering beginning in late Spring 2012:

The Comely and Kind-hearted Miss Brenda's Wild Blackberry Jam Sampler.  Spoon a dollop of Miss Brenda's Wild Blackberry Jam on a hot buttered biscuit and take your taste-buds to a whole 'nuther existential plane.  Blackberries lovingly hand-harvested by the citizens and legal residents of the Tallahatchie Free State at the height of their finger-staining ripeness.  A six ounce jar for only $29.99, plus S & H.  A bargain at twice that price!

The Semper Filet Souvenir Sawdust Display Board.  Keep your family, friends, and the many guests in your home entertained with the ultimate conversation piece.  A half dozen samples of the most prodigious product of the Colonel's sapling to sawdust process mounted on a rustic mill-sawn foot-long 1 x 6 board.  All logs converted to lumber and sawdust come from timber harvested by the Colonel on the Colonel's timber plantation at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere.  For a limited time only... $299.99 each, plus S & H.  (The Colonel's signature $0.37 extra.) 

The Colonel's Carbon Creator Special.  For that special person on your gift list who has everything, but needs to leave a lasting legacy for his or her progeny.  Prior to harvesting, the Colonel will name a tree in honor of the giftee.  The tangible gift (in addition to the intangible personal knowledge of making a tree-hugger cry) is a framed collage of photographs depicting the Colonel's death-defying and maim-missing chain-saw dance 'round the base of the standing tree, the Colonel's death-defying and maim-missing chain-saw dismemberment of the fallen tree, the conversion of the tree's logs into lumber and sawdust, and the bonfire consummation of all tree products not converted to lumber and sawdust.  Personalized with placards in each photo on which the giftee's name will be scrawled in a special ink composed of kudzu extract, loblolly pine charcoal, and North Mississippi red clay (aka Confederate Concrete).  $499.99, plus S & H.

The Colonel's Bucket List Headliner.   The trip of a lifetime!  An all expense-paid working vacation aboard the Colonel's vast holdings at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere.  Your stay will include 1/4 star accommodations and a customizable smorgasbord of chores aboard the Eegeebeegee Timber and Wildlife Plantation.  Drive the Colonel's muddy red tractor, Semper Field.  Operate the Colonel's toothy sawmill, Semper Fillet.  Skinny-dip in Lake Brenda.  Attend an ad hoc meeting of the Congress of the Tallahatchie Free State.  Pick-up bed tour (in the back of the Colonel's rusty red pick-em truck, Semper Fillit) of Ole Miss and the cultural center of the southern universe -- Oxford, MS; available.  $1999.99 per day.  Photos with the Colonel at a small extra charge.

*** We now return you to regular programming...***    

It Ain't Over

Despite the erroneous media hyper-ventilation and political victory lap-taking to the contrary, the announced "end" of US combat operations in Iraq (redux of 2003's "Mission Accomplished"), and the projected end of same in Afghanistan, will not mean the "end" of the war with Islamic extremists and their rogue nation supporters.  It is far from over, and is indeed on the threshold of a far more dangerous phase.  While the people of our nation may believe the war is over, our enemies do not.

If the war was really over, there would no longer be a need for the unconstitutional punishment meted out on the traveling public by the Transportation Safety Administration, in the name of safety and security.

If the war was really over, people throughout the Middle East and Southwest Asia would be governed by, if not a close facsimile of our constitutional representative republic, at least forms of government that respected and protected basic political, economic, and religious freedoms for men and women.

If the war was really over, our nation's hard and soft power-projection capabilities would be focused on the increasing threat from the Peoples' Republic of China (neither of the people, nor a republic -- but, the Colonel digresses). 

As any of the thousands of you who regularly imbibe of the literary libations ladled out in posts hereon will no doubt remember from dozens of treatises on the subject, the Colonel believes with every fibre of his being and without a doubt in his military mind that "the war" could have been over at least five years ago.

Let's spend a little time coming to the correct understanding of just what it is that these re-United States have been involved in for the past decade, shall we?  The Colonel has wasted a great deal of his few remaining brain cells and your valuable rod and cone time in previous posts hereon, explaining, in exacting detail, the correct nomenclature of the diplomatic, economic, and military operations in which our nation and its allies have participated since 9/11.  He won't subject you to a retelling, nor dull the easily-glazed eyes of the Bama and LSU grads who may have accidentally stumbled onto this blog whilst in a frantic search for hound's-tooth hats and Mardi Gras beads.

Suffice it for the Colonel to say, the military operations in Afghanistan since 2001 and Iraq since 2003 are not separate, distinct, and exclusive wars in and of themselves.  They are theater campaigns, in a far larger war.  And, while the American military campaigns in Iraq and Afghanistan may be ending, the conflicts there ARE NOT. 

Several decades ago, leaders in many countries (primarily in the Islamic world), whose continuance in tyrannical power over their downtrodden and exploited populations was threatened by American-led Western freedom-supporting presence in their region; formed, bank-rolled, and trained irregular para-military formations to carry out asymmetrical attacks against American and Western interests, in order to dissuade those free governments from interfering in their not-so free governance. 

For the Bama and LSU grads, the Colonel will spell out the previous point more simply.  Bad guys like Gaddafi didn't like the fact that Western (American) values and ideals were giving their people "revolutionary" ideas.  Bad guys like Gaddafi paid other bad guys (and gals) to blow up airplanes and nightclubs to send a message to the sponge-spined, weak-willed democrats (little d) to stay out of the bad guy's business.  We call the bad guys (and gals) that blow up airplanes, terrorists.

That war, begun long before 9/11, ain't over. 

And, so far, we're losing it.

Freeze Warning

"Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen"     --Paul's letter to the Hebrews, Chapter 11, Verse 1

The Colonel, as his family well knows, and the thousands of you who regularly imbibe in the barely literate literary libations ladled out in posts hereon have surely surmised, enjoys an albeit diminishing reputation for unerring accuracy in his prognostications.  There was a time when, before the ravages of age and mental gymnastics endured attempting to make sense of Ron Paul's appeal to more than three dozen survivalists hiding out in a remote canyon in New Mexico reduced the Colonel's mental faculties and powers of observation to the few remaining synaptic connections still firing across the ever-widening gaps between the atrophying cells lying fallow in the grey goo lodged in forgotten recesses of his bony brain-housing group, if the Colonel told someone a chicken could plow they hooked up a rooster.

That was then, this is now:

The Colonel finds himself, more often than not of late, retracting, retracing, regretting, and otherwise admitting his error on previous predictions and proclamations.  For example, the Colonel was way wrong when at the beginning of the season he predicted that the Ole Miss Rebel football team would stink up the kudzu-clad hills here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere and win only four or five ballgames.

The Rebels went two and ten.  Epic frontal lobe fail on the Colonel's part.    

Predictive failure is happening with such increasing frequency lately that the Colonel is starting to succumb to self-doubt and beginning to make apologies for prognostications and proclamations not yet proven false.  

So it is with the University of Mississippi's hire of Hugh Freeze to remedy the failure of Huston Nutt (and the failure of Ed Orgeron, David Cutcliffe, the despicable Tommy Tuberville, Billy Brewer, Steve Sloan, Ken Cooper, and Billy Kinard before him) to reincarnate the great Coach Johnny Vaught.  A fortnight ago, the Colonel posted the following prediction regarding Archie Manning's mission to find the next Johnny Vaught :

"...So, sometime here in the next couple of weeks, a new head football coach will be announced here in Oxford. He'll be a good guy and all. Young, energetic, positive.

And totally not up to the task of competing in the Southeastern Conference.

Ole Miss football will flounder on, sub-par, for the foreseeable future. That young, energetic, positive coach will last three or four seasons, at most, before giving way to the next young, energetic, positive, and totally not up to the job of competing in the SEC, head coach..."  http://thecolonelscorner.blogspot.com/2011/12/life-at-end-of-tunnel.html

Three days later Archie Manning sent the Colonel a personal message announcing the results of his committee's exhaustive head coach search. 

Okay, it wasn't exactly intended as a personal message for the Colonel -- there were a few tens of thousands others who got the same message.  The Colonel took it personal, though. 

Archie told me, us, that a young, energetic, positive man by the name of Hugh Freeze would be the next Head Football Coach at Ole Miss.

A short time later, the Colonel watched as Coach Freeze made his first speech to Rebel Nation.  The man's faith and fervor was impressive.  The Colonel couldn't help but feel a surge of hope stirring deep within the shriveled cinder that passes for his heart.  The first play from scrimmage was yet unseen, but the Colonel felt a rekindling of the fires of faith.   

Self-doubt crept from hiding deep in the Colonel's soul and whispered compellingly into his tinnitus-tortured ear, "You could be wrong.  Freeze could be Vaught reincarnate.  He's so positive; so likable; so convincingly earnest.  He's been a winner everywhere he's been in charge." 

Oh, how the Colonel wants to be persuaded! 

The Colonel may indeed be proven wrong once again, but in the meantime he'll cling bitterly to his guns and maintain his football faith rooted firmly in what he has seen.   And, he'll offer Freeze the following warning:

You have embarked on the single most challenging endeavor of your young career.  Your on-field foes at LSU, Bama, and the School Beneath Us pale in comparison to the off-field foes arrayed against your success and dreams of retirement here in Oxford.   You'll be tempted to take sides for or against the tradition-trashing insanity that dwells in the hallowed halls of the Lyceum. 

Don't.  (The Colonel will keep up that fight for you.)

Find and bring us players who share your integrity and want to fight for Ole Miss.  No matter the outside pressure, stay focused on your team.  Love 'em and lead 'em.  Like you said in your introduction, it's really all about family.

Oh, and one more thing...

Beat State!
         

Sawdust Savant

Warning:  Graphic images of a real tree's conversion from log to lumber contained hereon.   

As the thousands of you who regularly imbibe in the barely literate literary libations ladled out in posts heron will no doubt recall, one of the critical components of the Colonel's sapling to sawdust production system aboard his vast holdings here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere is his trusty sawmill, Semper Filet (not to be confused with his trusty red tractor, Semper Field; nor his rusty red pick 'em up truck, Semper Fillit; nor even his former boat and Redneck Riviera partner in redfish and speckled trout population control, Semper Fish).

It has slowly dawned in the rapidly dwindling collection of cells lying fallow in a small puddle of grey goo lodged in a cavernous crevice of his bony brain-housing group, that the Colonel should consider posting a video of the intricately choreographed ballet that is his death-defying and maim-missing dance round the periphery of Semper Filet as the machine makes manageable boards from barely manageable logs. 

The Colonel is indebted to his lady, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda, for her assistance as videographer of the clip proudly presented in this post.  The Colonel is indebted to the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda for a great deal more than her assistance as videographer...but, there's no room in this tome, nor allowance in your patience, for that recounting.

The first scene in the video clip below portrays the Colonel in the final phase of manhandling a log into the waiting arms of Semper Filet.  What is not shown in this clip is the Colonel's death-defying and maim-missing chain-saw-armed dance around the base of the standing tree -- allowing the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda to witness that evolution would result in either her insistence that the Colonel immediately cease all further felling of timber or significantly increase the amount of his life insurance.  The clip also does not show the death-defying and maim-missing chain-saw-armed dismembering and conversion of the tree into ten-foot logs, for the same reason.

Succeeding scenes show conversion of the log into a squared cant, from which boards are cut.  Still shots at the end of the video show 1) boards stacked for drying in the Colonel's Man Toy Storage and Sawdust Production Facility and 2) the most prodigious product of the process.

Now, if you will excuse the Colonel, he must begin drafting his Academy Award acceptance speech.

Lessons Infamously Ignored

"Yesterday, December 7, 1941--a date which will live in infamy--the United States of America was suddenly and deliberately attacked by naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan."

With these words, President Franklin Delano Roosevelt established the predicate for his request that the Congress of the United States formally declare that a state of war existed between the United States and Japan.  

While Japan's attack on the U.S. military bases in the  Hawaiian Islands was the proximate casus belli, the seeds of the conflict were planted decades before, in much the same way as those of the coincident conflict in Europe.  Nationalism, like a phoenix risen from the bitter ashes of defeat and global disapproval (in the cases of Germany and Japan, respectively) had fostered an appetite for, and an acceptance of, militant dictatorships promising geo-political glory under the banner of imperialist expansionism and clad in garments of overt racism and brutish megalomania.

The British and the Russians had already been long at war with Nazi Germany by the time Japan awakened, in Admiral Yamamoto's words, "... a sleeping giant and filled him with a terrible resolve."  It took the United States and Great Britain, in a mutual nose-holding alliance with the Soviet Union, nearly four more years to bring the Second World War to a conclusion satisfactory to the Allies.   

The end of that war brought about, for all practical purposes, the end of the British Empire and ushered in the Superpower Age of the competing American and Russian Empires.  Ironically, it was the British Empire's sacrifices and stalwart resistance early-on against Hitler at the Channel and against Tojo in South Asia that bought time for the Russians and Americans to get their logistical and operational acts together.  

And, contrary to much of the revisionist and shallow progressive pablum that passes for history in American schools at even the highest levels today, it was not so much the military build-up for WWII that pulled America out of the Great Depression, as it was the fact that at the war's conclusion only the United States, and to a  lesser degree the Soviet Union, survived without their industrial capacity in ruins.  That, and the fact that the United States' economy was not shackled by central planning like the Soviet's command economy are the primary reasons for America's global economic superiority for the predominance of the second half of the 20th Century.

The point of this missive, for which the thousands of you who regularly imbibe liberally of the literary libations ladled out in posts heron have no doubt reached the uppermost limits of your patience in anticipation of the Colonel's arrival thereto, is that there are several lessons to be drawn from the American experience following her rude awakening seventy years ago, today.  Unfortunately, many of those valuable lessons have already been ignored, to our Republic's loss and its leaders' discredit.  Two of the most important are provided below:

Lesson #1:  War is an ugly business, the wining of which requires great sacrifice at home and the visitation of great and widespread destruction on the strategic home of the enemy.  Example: There were NO civilian vehicles for private ownership built in the United States in 1943 and 1944.  See history of the strategic aerial bombardment of Japan for an example of great and widespread destruction visited on the strategic home of the enemy. 

Lesson #2:  The illusion of victory achieved by a long, protracted, limited war (see U.S. strategic objectives since September 2001) is just that -- an illusion.  A people, any people, grow weary of a war's sacrifice much more quickly than even the most dynamic and persuasive leaders can muster persuasive speeches to prevent; and an enemy, any enemy, can draw increasing strength in the face of  timid military strategy.

Combine the foregoing lessons ignored and the result is strategic failure at the cost of an egregious waste of blood and treasure.  Watch carefully the inevitable fall of Iraq, Afghanistan, Egypt, Libya, et. al. into the hands of the very militant Islamists whose ideology drove 19 young men to use American airliners as guided weapons of mass destruction on 9/11.

And that's all the Colonel has to say about that.        

Life at the End of the Tunnel

The Colonel returned last evening to his vast holdings on the placid shores of Lake Brenda, here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere, after a short trip to the future 32nd through 40th states of Mexico (currently the former Republic of Texas) to briefly reunite the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda with her sister and parental units.  A good time was had by all -- even by the, for all practical purposes, unentertainable Colonel.

The physical distance from Mississippi, provided by the geographical imposition of the not-so great state of Louisiana, and the cyber-space access suspension, imposed by the Colonel's Lady for the duration of the trip, served to isolate the Colonel from the incessant cowbell ringing and bulldog barking that has permeated the state since the on-field collapse and season finale of the worst football team fielded by the Harvard of the South since the Hoover administration.

Worst than the team fielded in 1974 -- the Colonel's first fall of matriculation at Ole Miss -- that went 3 and 8, losing to then-lowly South Carolina at homecoming.

South Carolina went 1 and 10 that season.

(For the errant Bama and LSU fans who have stumbled upon this post in search of tree poison or a good corn dog recipe, the Colonel feels the need to explain the significance of the last sentence.  He'll type slowly.  Ole Miss was so bad in 1974, that the South Carolina Gamecocks' only win that season was against the Rebels.)

Worst than the team fielded in 1942, that was the last (and first) team to lose three in a row to in-state rival, the former Mississippi A & M.

Ole Miss didn't field a football team in 1943, ostensibly due to the country's involvement in World War Two.  The Colonel rather believes that after suffering the shame of losing three in a row to Mississippi State, Ole Miss needed a year break from the game.

The two schools renewed their rivalry in 1944.  Ole Miss won that game, and the next nineteen straight.

Does the Colonel think that history will repeat itself? 

Nope.

Ole Miss football great Archie Manning is heading up the search committee tasked with finding a replacement for former Head Coach Huston Nutt and soon to be (thankfully) former Athletic Director Pete Boone.  The Colonel thinks the world of Archie, but he ain't got the chance Lee had at Petersburg of finding a really good coach for Ole Miss. 

Frankly, there ain't a really good coach in the land, worth his salt and in his right mind, who would subject himself to the tradition-trashing politically correct administration and Grove and Square party-centric fan base extant at the University of Mississippi.

So, sometime here in the next couple of weeks, a new head football coach will be announced here in Oxford.  He'll be a good guy and all.  Young, energetic, positive.

And totally not up to the task of competing in the Southeastern Conference.

Ole Miss football will flounder on, sub-par, for the foreseeable future.  That young, energetic, positive coach will last three or four seasons, at most, before giving way to the next young, energetic, positive, and totally not up to the job of competing in the SEC, head coach.

The University itself will eventually succumb to the inexorable tide of politically correct idiocy.  The nicknames Ole Miss and Rebels will be found by the liberal loonies running the asylum to be socially insensitive, and a once-great tradition-soaked school will become just another cookie-cutter public university.

Not such a bad thing, actually. 

Maybe without Ole Miss, the Colonel can finally get a life.  
   

Mississippi MASH Hero

"When the sun goes down, the tide goes out,
The people gather 'round and they all begin to shout,
'Hey! Hey! Uncle Dud,
It's a treat to beat your feet on the Mississippi Mud.'"

During his formative years, the Colonel was a fan of the movie M*A*S*H and the television series of the same name.  Both were adaptations of a book written by H. Richard Hornberger and published under the nom de plume, Richard Hooker.  Hornberger's book was based on his own Korean War experience as a surgeon in a Mobile Army Surgical Hospital -- the 8055th.

Ironically, as wildly successful as the movie and television series were, Hornberger profited little from their popularity, having sold the film rights to the story for a pittance.  And, as the left-leaning writers of the TV show increasingly used their medium as a thinly-veiled message against the Vietnam War, Hornsberger is reported to have refused to watch the show. 

The Colonel takes pride in the fact that there is a strong Mississippi connection to the M*A*S*H story -- beyond the above-quoted lyrics to the song sung by the crazy general in the first episode of Season 3, "The General Flipped at Dawn."

The commanding officer of the real MASH unit that was the inspiration for Hornberger's book, was a Mississippian by the name of Dr. Jeremiah Henry Holleman. 

Born in Hattiesburg in 1916, Dr. Holleman recieved his undergraduate degree from Millsaps College in 1939 and his medical degree from the Universities of Mississippi and Tennessee in 1943.  After surgical training at Carraway Methodist in Birmingham and The University of Pennsylvania in Philadelphia, Dr. Holleman joined the U.S. Army's 89th Infantry Division in time to participate in their assault across the Rhine in the early Spring of 1945 and the first liberation of a concentration camp.

After serving as a battlefield surgeon and witness to the horrors of the Holocaust, Dr. Holleman would have been entirely justified to have decided to sit out the next war in the civilian surgical practice he had opened in Columbus, Mississippi.  

Only he didn't.

In 1951, as the war on the Korean peninsula settled into a meat grinding impasse, Dr. Holleman rejoined the U.S. Army and was assigned as the commanding officer of the 8055th Mobile Army Surgical Hospital.  Pioneering the mass casualty concept of triage, and developing new vascular surgery techniques, the 8055th was credited with saving the lives and limbs of over 5000 soldiers, with an amazing 97% survival rate. 

With the signing of the Korean Armistice in 1953, Dr. Holleman returned home to his surgical practice in Columbus, Mississippi where he served as a leading citizen and benefactor for the next half century.

Dr. Holleman, a real American Hero, died earlier this month.  He was 94.  Dr. Holleman was buried on Veterans Day in Columbus' Friendship Cemetery -- the site of the first Decoration Day (later Memorial Day) ceremony.

Entirely fitting.

Catch #2

The Colonel made the grave error the other day of asking the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda for her unvarnished critique of the lucidity, efficacy, and interest of his regularly irregular posts hereon. 

The Colonel's Lady not only laid off the varnish, but the sandpaper as well.

How rough was it?  Well, it was so uncomfortable that the only reason he didn't immediately vacate her immediate presence was because the Colonel was driving. 

He briefly considered exiting the vehicle while on the bridge over the Tallahatchie, but that song's already been written.

The criticism from the Colonel's favorite person in all the world wasn't so much like a sharp stick in the eye...; it was more like multiple thrusts of a rapier under his ribs.  The Colonel was faced with the choice to either face it like a man, or respond like a little girl. 

"...tedious, infantile, sophomoric, redundant," the comely and suddenly, shockingly not-so-kind-hearted Miss Brenda paused twenty minutes into her caustically cruel critique, "Hey, are you crying?!?  Oh, for goodness sake; Man-Up!"

"Ye, ye, ye, yes, dear," the Colonel stammered between sobs.

"And, another thing," the Colonel's Lady continued, "this bit about 'the three dozen who waste rod and cone time reading your posts...'"

"You mean," the Colonel sniffed and corrected, "'the three dozen or so of you who regularly waste valuable rod and cone time perusing posts hereon...'?"  

"Yeah, yeah, yeah; whatever.  Hate it."

"But that's one of the Colonel's signature catch phrases," the Colonel whined.

"And, quit referring to yourself in the third person around me.  Hate that, too!"

The comely and suddenly, shockingly, not-so-kind-hearted Miss Brenda was not only repeatedly ramming her rapier under his ribs, but was violently twisting said repeatedly-rammed-rapier at the hilt-deep conclusion of each thrust. 

"But, but, dear," the Colonel defended, "self-deprecation is one of the Colonel's most cherished literary devices."

"Well," the Colonel's Lady retorted, "I don't like anyone deprecating on my hubby; not even my own hubby."

The Colonel thought she might be confusing deprecation with defecation and briefly considered delivering a short lecture regarding the fine art of differentiating the two.

But, then again, she probably already knows the difference -- she's (new Colonel's Lady-approved signature catch phrase to follow) one of the thousands of erudite, discriminating, and culturally conscious readers who closely follow and appreciatively drink up the literary libations provided here at the Colonel's Corner. 

10 November 1775

Prominent in the Colonel's pantheon of personal military heroes is Lieutenant General John Archer Lejeune, 13th Commandant of the United States Marine Corps.  Ninety years ago, this week, in his capacity as Commandant -- fresh from the fighting in France, during which he served as the Commanding General of the U. S. Army's 2d Infantry Division -- Lejeune ordered that "a reminder of the honorable service of the Corps be published by every command, to all Marines throughout the globe, on the Birthday of the Corps." 

On this Birthday of the Corps, therefore, in compliance with the will of the 13th Commandant, Article 38, United States Marine Corps Manual, Edition of 1921, is published as follows:

"(1) On November 10, 1775, a Corps of Marines was created by a resolution of the Continental Congress.   Since that date many thousands of men have borne the name 'Marine.'   In memory of them it is fitting that we who are Marines should commemorate the Birthday of our Corps by calling to mind the glories of its long and illustrious history.

(2) The record of our Corps is one which bears comparison with that of the most famous military organizations in the world's history.   During 90 of the 146 years of its existence the Marine Corps has been in action against the Nation's foes.   From the Battle of Trenton to the Argonne, Marines have won foremost honors in war and in the long eras of tranquility at home, generation after generation of Marines have grown gray in war in both hemispheres, and in every corner of the seven seas, so that our country and its citizens might enjoy peace and security.

(3) In every battle and skirmish since the Birth of the Corps, Marines have acquitted themselves with the greatest distinction, winning new honors on each occasion until the term 'Marine' has come to signify all that is highest in military efficiency and soldierly virtue.

(4) This high name of distinction and soldierly repute we who are Marines today have received from those who preceded us in the Corps.   With it we also received from them the eternal spirit which has animated our Corps from generation and has long been the distinguishing mark of Marines in every age.   So long as that spirit continues to flourish, Marines will be found equal to every emergency in the future as they have been in the past, and the men of our nation will regard us as worthy successors to the long line of illustrious men who have served as 'Soldiers of the Sea' since the founding of the Corps."

To all of his brother and sister Marines, the Colonel hefts this morning his customary mug of joe and wishes each and all "Happy Birthday" on this the 236th anniversary of the founding of our beloved Corps.

Semper Fidelis, Marines!