Giant Retirement Gift

Just when the Colonel was settling into a comfortable, self-imposed, re-retirement routine of not giving a rip about nothin' or nobody, the Good Lord gets his undivided attention with a reading of His word.

The Colonel has read the book of Joshua in whole or in part many times in his life, and, true to the way God works, nearly each study has provided a different lesson.

This lesson hurt -- convicting the Colonel of an error, to add to the many he already recognizes, in his spiritual walk.

In the 14th Chapter of the Old Testament Book of Joshua, the writer pauses in his recounting of the allocation of the Promised Land among the tribes of Israel to relate the actions of Caleb.

Caleb comes to Joshua, the man God ordained to lead the Hebrews into the Promised Land upon the death of Moses, and reminds Joshua of a significant event in both of their lives 45 years before.

A little more than a year after leaving Egypt, Moses led the nation of Israel away from Mount Sinai and straight to the southern borderlands of Canaan -- the Negev Desert.  As any good operational leader should, Moses sent a long-range reconnaisance patrol north (Numbers 13: 17-20). 

Caleb and Joshua were two of twelve "spies" sent north.   When the twelve spies returned, they brought good news and bad news.

The good news: The land from which their patriarch Jacob (aka: Israel) had fled to Egypt to escape famine was once again rich and bountiful.

The bad news: In the Hebrew nation's 400-year absence from the Promised Land, other peoples had settled the land and built strong, heavily-defended, walled cities.

More bad news: Some of those walled cities housed "giants" (Numbers 13: 31-33).

The other ten spies focused the report of their reconnaisance patrol on the bad news and, although Joshua and Caleb counseled that God would deliver the land into their hands no matter the seeming insurmountable odds and obstacles, the Hebrew people collapsed into open revolt calling for a return to the "safety" of Egypt.

God's judgement on His people for this lack of faith in Him was to condemn them to forty years of exile, wandering in the wilderness, until the unfaithful generation (with the exception of Joshua and Caleb) had all died.

The Nation of Israel's wandering eventually took them north along the eastern side of the Dead Sea.  After Moses' death, God commissioned Joshua to lead the Hebrew army west across the Jordan River north of the Dead Sea. 

For the next several years, the Hebrew army executed an invasion campaign that defeated a total of 31 kingdoms, and, in the aftermath of this campaign, Joshua divided up the land between the tribes.

As Joshua was divvying up the Promised Land, his old reconnaisance patrol mate, Caleb, came to him with a reminder and a request.

The writer of the Book of Joshua relates Caleb's words thus:

“You know what the Lord said to Moses the man of God at Kadesh Barnea about you and me.    I was forty years old when Moses the servant of the Lord sent me from Kadesh Barnea to explore the land. And I brought him back a report according to my convictions, but my fellow Israelites who went up with me made the hearts of the people melt in fear. I, however, followed the Lord my God wholeheartedly.   So on that day Moses swore to me, ‘The land on which your feet have walked will be your inheritance and that of your children forever, because you have followed the Lord my God wholeheartedly.'

 “Now then, just as the Lord promised, he has kept me alive for forty-five years since the time he said this to Moses, while Israel moved about in the wilderness. So here I am today, eighty-five years old!  I am still as strong today as the day Moses sent me out; I’m just as vigorous to go out to battle now as I was then.  Now give me this hill country that the Lord promised me that day. You yourself heard then that the Anakites were there and their cities were large and fortified, but, the Lord helping me, I will drive them out just as he said.”  (Numbers 14: 6b-12 NIV)

Joshua remembered, and kept Moses' promise to Caleb.

Heretofore the Colonel has always read this passage as a retirement reward for Caleb's, and, by extension any man of God's, life of faithfulness.  

But, take a look at the last sentence of Caleb's request above.

Caleb was asking Joshua to fulfill the promise of Moses by giving him choice land... on which giant enemies still lived!   

Some "retirement" gift!

Only Caleb, 85 years young, wasn't retiring.  He still had giants to face.  The writer of Joshua later tells us that, with God's help, Caleb conquered the giants in his territory.  

So, what is the point toward which the Colonel has led you in no doubt frantic anticipation?

Glad you asked.

1.  The Colonel is convicted that there is no retirement from the Lord's work here on earth.

2.  The Colonel is convicted that one must be careful what one asks of God.  Even the greatest blessings may still harbor great responsibility. 

3.  God is in the giant-killing business, and the battle against our "giants" belongs to the Lord. 

Now, where did the Colonel leave that slingshot?  

Cornucopia Costs

It's the time of year when the Colonel's vast holdings here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere begin to give back to the Colonel and his kin.

The return on investment is a little out of whack, though...

God's Garden, so named by the Colonel and the produce therefrom dedicated to His service, has, just this past week, begun to yield fruit (okay,... veggies) for the intense labor invested by the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda and her man.

A dribble of fresh spinach, new potatoes, crook-neck squash, and green beans has flowed from row to plate and there is great anticipation of the freezer and quart jar-filling torrent to follow.

It had better be a torrent -- the nozzle on the Colonel's money hose has been wide open for the past two months stimulating the local economy via garden and hardware shops.  

And..., as the Colonel's time is invaluable, there's no way to calculate the hourly costs committed to the cause of counted-on cornucopia.  

So, let's just tally up the tangible, shall we?

The least expensive element in gardening is the seed and seedlings.  Still, the Colonel's cash outlay for enough of said seed and seedlings to sow in an acre of gardens has thus far been well into three figures.  

To coax green from the Confederate Concrete that passes for soil hereabouts requires generous applications of fertilizer.  Fertilizer, thanks to our federal government's absolutely absurd energy policy (or lack thereof), ain't cheap. 

Triple thirteen (13-13-13) on a bag of fertilizer used to refer to the chemical content.

Nowadays it more closely refers to the price.

With visions of vegetable bounty dancing in his head, the Colonel happily ran up his credit card balance for seed and fertilizer; thinking all the while that once seed and seedlings were sown and planted and fertilized, that would be the end of capital investments and all that would remain would be the time and elbow grease required to cultivate and harvest.

So, the Colonel merrily planted and fertilized and waited for Spring rains.

He waited.

And waited.

Interesting little fact about plants: they need water. 

They need sunshine, too.  But, sunshine without rain is to plants like taxing the rich to buy the poor vote is to effective governance. 

Eventually the producers get too dry to soak anymore.

As the days since planting passed without precipitation, the Colonel began to panic over the parching of his planned-for produce.

Did the Colonel mention that the aforementioned gardens are a considerable distance from the Big House?  "Considerable," in this case, defined as roughly a quarter of a mile.

After a week of hauling water in buckets and ladling out the precious liquid by hand, the low-watt idea bulb in a dark recess of the Colonel's little used brain-housing group began to flicker and throw sporadic light across the cavernous space between his ears.  A few of those sporadic particles of light illuminated just enough photo-receptive cells to energize a lone synapse to fire.

"Eureka!," the Colonel exclaimed, straightening from the back-bending task of pouring water on pitiful plants.

"I hope you've found gold," the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda responded from a row over.  "We are fast depleting our life-savings on this stupid garden and on Motrin for my back."

"No gold.  But, I've just had a great idea!"

"Well, let's hear it, Einstein," the Colonel's Lady responded encouragingly.  "If your idea is to let Kroger do our gardening for us, I might just approve it." 

"Kroger?!? No, dear, not Kroger."

"Fine, Big Star it is then.  They're cheaper, and you haven't discovered gold."  

"Oh, Sweetthing!  You are such a kidder!"

"Who's kidding?  Just say the word and I'll be back down here in a New York minute with an acre's worth of RoundUp."

"No! You're not gonna kill my garden!" 

"You're right, Knucklehead.  No sense wasting RoundUp; the sun will burn it up in a few more days." 

"No it won't!" The Colonel stood to his full height (five, six and three quarters -- and don't ever forget the three quarters) with arms akimbo and a look of undaunted determination fixed on his ruggedly handsome facial features.  "I'm gonna install an irrigation system."

"Great," the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda grunted with no little sense of sarcasm.  "There goes the money I've been putting aside for new shoes.  And why are you grinning like a mule eating briers?"

"New shoes?  I just got you a new pair of muck boots.  Besides, how much could a couple thousand feet of 3/4" PVC cost?"

Fertilizer ain't the only thing that ain't cheap, thanks to our federal government's absolutely absurd energy policy (or lack thereof).

The irrigation system was fully operational the day before the drought broke.

The Colonel and his beautiful bride picked an ice cream bucket-load of green beans this morning.

The Colonel figures each bean is roughly worth its weight in gold.

Eureka!   

Tom Hardy, Marine

Thomas William Hardy, of Columbus, Mississippi, passed away earlier this month.   He was 93. 

Only weeks before his death,  Hardy climbed into his sail plane for one last flight; logging the last hour in a flight record opened nearly eight decades before.

A 1939 graduate of Mississippi State, Hardy put his degree in Mechanical Engineering and his love of flying to work together as an experimental test engineer with the Pratt and Whitney Aircraft Corporation. 

When his nation went to war, he went with it.

Flying F-4U Corsairs with the famed "Checkerboards" of Marine Fighter Squadron (VMF) 312, Hardy was credited with three official victories against Japanese pilots.  

Like most in his generation, Hardy was circumspect about his wartime experience.  He was not, however, bashful about his love of flying. 

His octogenarian aerial adventures in the skies over Mississippi are the stuff of local legend.  One newspaperman in his hometown went as far as to call Hardy, "the Edmund Hillary of Mississippi."  Most who knew of his sail plane sorties were unaware that his time in the air also included time logged in mortal combat during a war fought when he and his nation were much younger and the battle lines were drawn between America and its enemies -- not between Americans.

The Colonel had the good fortune to meet Tom Hardy eight or ten years ago.  The Colonel's father and buddies have for many years held a Sunday afternoon sporting clays match in which Hardy was a frequent participant.  At one such outing, the Colonel was introduced to an elderly, yet spry, gentleman with, "this is Tom Hardy.  He was a Marine fighter pilot in World War Two."

The Colonel began to launch into a practiced spiel reserved for Marines from generations before his own, wherein he thanks the older veterans for their legendary service that "makes being a Marine such an honor today."  

Hardy didn't allow the Colonel to finish, "We're here to shoot.  Let's shoot."

We shot.

Men like Tom Hardy are a rare commodity.  They are quietly heroic, living their lives with more purpose and energy than a dozen lesser men who believe, and pronounce, themselves superior.

Semper Fidelis, First Lieutenant Thomas William Hardy, USMC. 

The Colonel will insist on finishing his homage when we meet again.   

Then, you can give the Colonel some flight lessons.

Heroes: Incentive, or Inspiration?

War is both the most base and the most noble of man's endeavors.  Those who have marched with fellows into the maw of destruction know no other more horribly soul-crippling nor no more honorably self-sacrificing experience the rest of their however long lives.


Veterans, survivors, of war know that the heroism of their fallen comrades provides not incentive for more war, but inspiration to serve something larger than one's self and conviction to ensure that the sacrifices of the few for the freedoms of the many are not forgotten nor wasted.


Chris Hayes, whose grip on the reality of a world that pits good against evil is more tenuous than a newborn's grasp of the trim of his blanket, has not the first inkling of a clue.  Frankly, he deserves no more attention than to pity the desolation of his vacuous view.


You and the Colonel knew many like him in the formative years of our high school and college matriculation. 


They wore peace symbols, not out of any real conviction for peace, but because it was cool.


They blithely blathered about disarmament without thinking for a moment that evil never reciprocates.


They naively spouted Marx and sought to to shine a bright spotlight on the relative few inevitable imperfections of our constitutional republic and its conduct in support of self-determination abroad, while never once pausing to credit the overwhelming good that our nation did in the lives of others around the globe.


They refused to respect anything -- not the flag that caresses the caskets of freedom's fallen, not the norms of a society that spawned the greatest leaps forward in man's long history, not their fellow citizens' right to the "free exercise" of religion in the public square --  except their own warped and deluded sense of enlightened intelligence.


They sneered in denigrating contempt at those who, in admirable early-onset maturity, followed a call to serve something larger than themselves.

Many of these awakened from the self-induced slumber of their self-righteous self-absorption and became productive members of society, at both ends of the political spectrum.


The rest became journalists and college professors.   

   

Limitation Lamentations

One of the Colonel's favorite movie lines is the observation made by Clint Eastwood's character, "Dirty" Harry Callahan, in the cinematic tour de force, "Magnum Force." 

"A man's got to know his limitations."

The Colonel has rarely been one to follow that advice.  And, with regard to the Colonel's physical limitations, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda knows no... well, let's just say she's never been a Dirty Harry fan.    

Take the Colonel's latest forays afield in agriculture, landscaping, and animal husbandry, for example.

The Colonel, as the thousands of you who hang on his every written word in posts hereon have by no difficulty ascertained (except for the LSU grads who think the Colonel just used a naughty word), has been on an involuntary writing hiatus of late. 

Part of it has been his fault.

Part of it has been the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's fault.

Let's start with her.

Now, far be it from the Colonel, whose occasional lack of judgement, frequent loss of situational awareness, and catastrophe-defying clumsiness is the stuff of local legend, family lore, and several not-so-flattering semi-annual Marine Corps officer fitness reports, to cast aspersions on the judgement of his blushing bride of nearly 36 years (although the last part of this sentence prior to the parenthetical pause you are now perusing does call her matrimonial decision-making into question).  However, even she has a hard time refuting her reputation for underestimation of project scope and resource requirements.

Case in point: Renovation of the flower beds and lawn in front of our church.

Six weeks ago, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda approached the Colonel during one of his frequent reverse prone strategic planning sessions and, in her ever-so-loving and gentle way, gained the Colonel's attention.

"Hey! Knucklehead! Wake up! You're burning daylight and I've got a small project I need your help with."

The Colonel opened one eye and regarded his soul-mate with apprehension bordering on stark terror.  He attempted to divert the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda by engaging her in loving small talk.

"Dear, one should never interrupt a steely-eyed Marine in the midst of deep thought, and one should never end a sentence in a preposition.

"What?!?"

"Dear, you said you have a project, and the Colonel quotes, 'I need your help with.'  You used the preposition 'with' at the end of the your sentence.  Not good grammar.  Let's try the sentence, again -- this time placing the preposition in the sentence correctly."

"Buddy, if you don't get a move on, you're gonna be black-eyed instead of steely-eyed.  I've just got a little project up at the church I need your help with..."  

"Ah, ah, ah..."

"...Jerk!"

"That's better!  Now, what is this little project on which you need the Colonel's help?"  

"Grrrr!!  Get up and get in the truck.  We're just going to move a few bushes and some clumps of monkey grass.  Shouldn't take the two of us more than 30 minutes with a shovel."

Four weeks of 10-hour physical labor-intensive days (involving the removal of two acres of monkey grass, moving forty-seven holly bushes, installation of an irrigation system and the laying of ten pallets of sod) later, Miss Brenda stood astride her prostrate man (collapsed in a mud puddle created by his own sweat) and proudly pronounced, "Phase I is complete!"

"Phase I ?!?," the prostrate Colonel croaked through dehydrated vocal chords.  "Just how many phases does this 30-minute project have?"       

Lest anyone get the impression that the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's projects have been the sole reason for the Colonel's absence from his appointed place of duty enlightening and entertaining the masses via the written word, the Colonel must admit that he shares some responsibility.

A few days prior to the initiation of the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's landscaping project / reenactment of the physical labor involved in the construction of the Panama Canal, the Colonel and Grandson #2, aka: H21CC-2 (Hope of 21st Century Civilization, Dash 2), loaded up the truck and headed into the center of the southern cultural universe, and home of the Harvard of the South -- Oxford -- to stimulate the economy at the local garden shop.

Said local garden shop was supposed to be receiving a shipment of Barred Rock chicks that morning and the Colonel was desirous of increasing and diversifying his monochromatic Rhode Island Red hen herd by the acquisition of one half dozen of said Barred Rock chicks. 

Alas, upon their arrival at said local garden shop, H21CC-2 and the Colonel were disappointed to learn that the shipment of said Barred Rock chicks had yet to arrive.

"Not a problem, little buddy," the Colonel reassured his third favorite person on the entire planet, "we'll go over to the Tractor Supply Store and pick up a few things and then come back and get the chicks later."

Upon arrival at the second stop in the Colonel's economic stimulus trip, the keen ears of H21CC-2 picked up the peeping of chicks.

"Pop!  They have some chicks!  We can get our chicks here!"

The Colonel bets you didn't know that four-year olds do not have a very keen appreciation for the differences between fuzzy yellow chicks that will become non-descript plain ol' white chickens and fuzzy black chicks that will become beautiful Barred Rock hens with which the Colonel was desirous of increasing and diversifying his heretofore monochromatic hen herd.  

To a four-year old, a chick is a chick.  And this particular four-year old wasn't budging from his position adjacent the wash tub full of chicks until he had some of his own.

Bottom line?  Instead of six, the Colonel now has twelve new mouths to feed. 

And water. 

And feed, again. 

And water, again.

And check on every 30 minutes.

Between landscaping and chick raising, who's got time to write?

Oh, and there's the garden.

Well..., gardens.  

The small garden up here on the hill next to the Big House aboard  Eegeebeegee -- the Colonel's vast holdings here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere and the capital of the Tallahatchie Free State -- has been wildly successful at the production of tomatoes and squash.  So much so that the Colonel felt emboldened last year to open up, down in the bottom behind the Big House, another quarter of an acre to cultivation wherein he raised a bumper crop of corn, okra, and cantaloupes.

And cantaloupes.

And more cantaloupes.

Countless cantaloupes.

Cantaloupe for every meal, cantaloupes.

Cantaloupe for every neighbor within a three mile radius, cantaloupes.

The Colonel invites you, at this juncture, to revisit the opening lines of this missive and recall the point he made regarding his frequent failure to heed Dirty Harry's advice on personal knowledge of limitations.

The garden in the bottom behind the Big House has trebled -- nay, quadrupled -- in size this year, replete with rows and rows and rows of beans, peas, spinach, onions, potatoes, okra, corn, squash, cucumbers, watermelons...,

And cantaloupes.

So, pardon the Colonel for his blogging truancy.  He's been a little busy...

Oh, and did the Colonel mention he got to go on vacation last week with his in-laws?  Wait until you read about that.

Of course, it might be a week or two before the Colonel gets back to his keyboard...               

Power and Authority

One of the Colonel's favorite Biblical accounts of the life of Jesus is found in Luke's letter to his presumed patron and recent convert to Christianity, Theophilus, wherein the unlimited power and authority of the God-Man Jesus is demonstrated.

In the fourth chapter of his Gospel, Luke describes the miraculous nature of Jesus' ministry in Galilee -- healing, restoring sight, exorcising demons -- and, more importantly, reveals the truth of God's anointment of Jesus with His authority, and power to exercise that authority.   Luke presents a representative account of each of the aspects of God's power and authority:

Jesus displays power over evil by driving out a demon possessing a man in the synagogue of Capernaum (Luke 4:35).
   
Jesus displays power over illnesses with the healing of Simon's mother-in-law (Luke 4:39).

But, the example of Jesus' power and authority that most gets the Colonel's rapt attention is found in the fifth chapter of Luke's Gospel.

Luke tells us that the two examples of Jesus' power and authority were not isolated events.  Jesus was healing and exorcising so many, that people came to Him from throughout the region, crowding Him so that the only way he could have enough space to teach was to commandeer one of Simon's boats from which to talk to those gathered on shore.

After Jesus completed his sermon, He turned to Simon and told him to "Put out into deep water, and let down the nets for a catch" (Luke 5:4).

Now, Simon was a fisherman.  A commercial fisherman.

Simon, the character and personality of whom we become more familiar with after Jesus nicknames him "Peter," was a supremely self-confident man's man. 

An outdoorsman.

A man of action. 

A man who was certain that he knew more about the natural world in general, and fishing in particular, than anybody else on the planet -- well, in the region of Galilee, at least.

Simon would have made a good Marine.

Luke tells us that the supremely self-confident Simon gave Jesus a quick lesson in fishing.  The Colonel begs your indulgence as he embellishes Simon's words in a vernacular with which he is more comfortable:

"Boss, we've been bustin' our backs all night long and ain't got the first fish to show for it.  We just finished cleanin' the nets and all we are gonna accomplish here in the bright daylight is gettin' em dirty all over again.  But, if you wanna go fishin', we'll go."

The Colonel has heard and read a lot of folks who put the emphasis on Simon's obedience to Jesus' command in this instance. 

The Colonel rather wants to believe that, although Simon had witnessed many of the miracles performed by Jesus, he hadn't really been "touched where he lived."

Simon was just humoring his rabbi.

Simon had seen Jesus drive out demons and heal folks, but that was on land.  On the water was Simon's domain, the place that he knew better than anyone -- even better, in his estimation, than Jesus.

Luke tells us in verses 6 and 7 of Chapter 5, that when they let down their nets, fish filled them in such great numbers that the nets began to tear apart.

Remember, Simon and his partners were not sport fishermen.  Their very livelihood depended on their nets holding the greatest number of fish they could possibly imagine catching. 

Their nets were not designed to give the fish a sporting chance.

It is crystal clear to the Colonel, even given his severely restricted mental faculties and lack of a quality education (he didn't go to college -- Ole Miss is something else entirely), that Jesus exercised his power and authority over nature itself. 

Simon's nets just didn't happen to encompass a large school of fish.

Jesus exercised his power and authority over His creation.  Jesus directed every fish within fast-finning distance into Simon's nets.

This was, the Colonel believes, intended to get Simon's undivided attention.

This touched Simon at the very soul of who Simon was. 

Fishing, in today's business vernacular, was Simon's core competency; his market niche.

Nobody out-fished Simon...,

Except, Jesus.

Simon's reaction, as his partners' boats (plural!) filled to the gunnells with fish, is telling:

"Go away from me, Lord; I am a sinful man!" (Luke 5:8)

The question comes to the Colonel whenever he thinks of this story,

"What do you think you do better than Jesus?"

When Simon realized that he had harbored the belief that he knew more than God about what was his core competency, that was the point at which, the Colonel believes, Simon realized the full extent of Jesus' power and authority over every aspect of his life -- and the full extent of his sinfullness.

What do you think you do better than Jesus?

Lost in Translation

An interesting discussion ensued after dinner last night at the Colonel's table.

Okay, it's the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's dining room table at which the Colonel is allowed a regular seat; but that's not important right now.

After-dinner discussions in the Colonel's house most often revolve around a recounting of the day's antics -- actors young and old.

Okay, it's the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's house the crushing mortgage for which the Colonel is allowed the great privilege of paying monthly; but that's also not important right now.

Last night's discussion wasn't so much about the hilarity of the very recent past as it was about concern for the future, in a country divided by two completely antithetical visions of the role of government. 

To the delight of the Colonel and his #1 son (and to the dismay of the distaff side of the household), the discussion wandered out of the flowered meadow of easy theoretical options and strayed into the minefield-littered battlefield of practical consequences.

As he has learned to do with his increasingly wary family, the Colonel lay quietly in conversational ambush until the moment at which the other participants were so deeply engrossed and so heavily invested in the discussion as to prevent their escape from the educational kill-zone at the moment of his initiation of direct lecture fires.

"Citizenship in our republic is a two-handed proposition.  On the one hand, the Constitution that establishes and limits the powers of our federal government guarantees a wide range of personal rights and liberties.  On the other hand, acceptance of the title 'citizen' in our republic carries with it the inescapable responsibility to conduct our personal activities within the boundaries framing that wide range and to accept the less-than fully democratic principles on which the republic was founded."

Caught in the direct fire lecture kill-zone, most of the Colonel's family waited patiently and quietly for the lull in firing indicating that the Colonel was reloading, knowing that to return fire was an invitation to escalation of the Colonel's use of verbal force and certain prolonging of the lecture firefight.

#1 son dashed the hopes of the rest, returning fire with relish.

The Colonel feels constrained at this point to explain to the LSU and 'Bama grads who may have erroneously stumbled upon this post in their frantic search for meaning in their lives beyond football, that "returning fire with relish" does not mean that #1 son threw hotdog toppings at the Colonel.

"But, Fearless Father and Former Roguishly Handsome Soldier of the Sea," -- the Colonel's progeny always display the utmost formal respect -- "the Federal Government is doing things with my tax dollars that I vehemently disapprove of on principle."

Okay, the Colonel will admit that his progeny do not address him so formally and respectfully.  But, if four decades with the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda have taught him anything, it is to translate aggressive address into more palatable pablum. 

"But, you senile old flatulent fool..." is caught by a filter just behind the Colonel's tympanic membrane and converted to "But, Fearless Father and Former Roguishly Handsome Soldier of the Sea..."  

#1 continued, "I feel like my vote counts for nothing.  I'm so tired of voting against things and they happen anyway."

"Ah, my son, welcome to the Colonel's world.  I haven't voted for anything or anyone since November of 1984."

The Colonel carried on and held forth for three of four more hours on the topic of citizenship in the republic and the role of each of the three co-equal branches of the federal government under a constitution specifically designed to frustrate accumulation of federal power at the expense of the several states and the many freedom-loving people residing therein. 

The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda finally interrupted him,

"Hey, you old... [translator kicking in] roguishly handsome protector of my virtue and plentiful provider for our progeny, you do know that you have been sitting here at this table, in the dark, talking to yourself for the past three hours."  
           

Hummingbird Holocaust Harbinger

The first ruby-throated hummingbird arrived here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere late last week -- none too worse for the wear after his long flight across the Gulf of Mexico from his winter home in the Yucatan.  He is the first of a flock that will eventually number in the several dozen, over-summering and taking advantage of the Colonel's sugar largess aboard the vast lands of the Tallahatchie Free State.  

The first hummingbirds normally arrive here after the 1st of April each year. 

However, this calendar year has started off anything but normal.

Although the first three months of the year were supposed to be Winter, the icy-breathed old man stayed in Canada and Spring sprung in January.

Among the loyal legions of you who regularly imbibe of the irregular literary libations ladled out in periodic posts hereon, there are certainly several who have just leaned back in their ergonomic chairs, taken a swig of their lattes, and exclaimed,

"Aha!! Global Warming!!"

Among the loyal legions of you who regularly imbibe of the irregular literary libations ladled out in periodic posts hereon, there are certainly several LSU and 'Bama grads who have just leaned back, scratched the peak of their hat racks, and asked,

"Whatsa ergonomic chair?"

Start drinking lattes and it will come to you.  That, and an insatiable desire to purchase anything with Barak Obama's likeness plastered on it.

Little known fact: Lattes cause liberalism.

The Colonel digresses. 

The Colonel is not a Global Warming (or Climate Change, or Environmental Evolution -- call it whatever you wish) denier.  Nor does he strongly contest the contention that modern man's carbon fuel effluence has contributed to the increasingly effective carbon dioxide greenhouse surrounding this big blue marble.  

He just doesn't think it is really anything over which to commit collective suicide.

The Colonel can accept the bases of most of the theories and notions about the consequences of the Earth's atmospheric temperature fluctuation -- whether amplified by modern man's actions or not.  

He is just not ready to discard the adjective "modern" in order to attempt arrest of the amplification.

The Colonel wonders, with what is left of his rapidly diminishing cognitive abilities, "Wouldn't it be much more modern for man to figure out ways to adapt to the change in climate to our advantage, rather than frantically cutting off our collective post-modern proboscis to spite ourselves?" 

Even the most casual review of the history of man reveals clearly that among his greatest attributes are his abilities to shape, and adapt.

Still, there is an even deeper and more worrisome problem with the climate change fear-mongers.  The fear they purvey is a spirit-killing spear to the heart of man.  

In his 1950 Nobel Prize for Literature acceptance speech, William Faulkner eloquently expressed the point toward which the Colonel has heretofore ineloquently bloviated,

"Our tragedy today is a general and universal physical fear so long sustained by now that we can even bear it. There are no longer problems of the spirit. There is only one question: When will I be blown up?"

Faulkner spoke generally to a world gripped by the fear of impending and seemingly unavoidable nuclear holocaust. 

He spoke specifically to young writers who, accepting the prevailing conventional wisdom that man's minutes were irrevocably numbered in the shadow of runaway nuclear fission mushroom clouds, had, in his words, 

"...forgotten the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself which alone can make good writing because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat." 

Faulkner warned that man, generally, and a writer, specifically, 

"...must teach himself that the basest of all things is to be afraid: and, teaching himself that, forget it forever, leaving no room in his workshop for anything but the old verities and truths of the heart, the universal truths lacking which any story is ephemeral and doomed--love and honor and pity and pride and compassion and sacrifice. Until he does so, he labors under a curse. He writes not of love but of lust, of defeats in which nobody loses anything of value, and victories without hope and worst of all, without pity or compassion. His griefs grieve on no universal bones, leaving no scars. He writes not of the heart but of the glands."  

Faulkner spoke to the young writers of his age, but his words hold the power of universal inspiration today.  He summed up his firm faith in the God-given spirit of man with,

"I decline to accept the end of man. It is easy enough to say that man is immortal because he will endure: that when the last ding-dong of doom has clanged and faded from the last worthless rock hanging tideless in the last red and dying evening, that even then there will still be one more sound: that of his puny inexhaustible voice, still talking. I refuse to accept this. I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail. He is immortal, not because he alone among creatures has an inexhaustible voice, but because he has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance."

To which the Colonel need only add,

Ditto.
  

Nose for a Fight

Determining three months ago that he was turning himself into a bipedal food blister, the Colonel took corrective action and placed his sorry, not-so-slim self on an indefinite weight control and personal appearance program.

By the end of two months, the Colonel had shed eleven pounds. 

A much needed haircut helped him accomplish his goal of twelve pounds lost in 60 days.

During the next thirty days, the Colonel discarded an additional eight pounds off of his rapidly trimming frame, two pounds of which were lost just yesterday.

This morning, the Colonel's rather prominent proboscis is sporting a rather impressive collection of lengthy lateral lacerations, from which the Colonel estimates he lost at least two pints of blood -- at slightly more than one pound per pint.

Here's how it happened.

The Colonel and his trusty red tractor, Semper Field (not to be confused with his boat -- Semper Fish, nor his sawmill -- Semper Filet, nor even his rusty red pick-up -- Semper Fillit) were bush-hoggin' one of the many far-flung fields aboard the Colonel's vast holdings here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere.  The Colonel and Semper Field had completed cutting about half of the field when out of the corner of his eye the Colonel caught movement at the other end of the cleared expanse.

As the Colonel watched in amazement, onto the freshly-flayed field sauntered the biggest, orneriest, longest-fanged, sharpest-clawed bobcat in three counties and half of a fourth.

The Colonel brought Semper Field to an idling halt and gave the fierce feline his rapt attention.

The Colonel trained his finely calibrated Mark I, Mod A starboard eyeball on the cat and whistled low to himself -- the beast stood at least two and a half feet at the shoulder, with a head the size of a youth-league basketball.

A youth-league basketball?  Well, it weren't quite as big as a regulation basketball, and the Colonel ain't gonna be made out a liar over a stupid basketball.

The bobcat had spots as big around as one of the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's dessert plates and yellow eyes the size of half-dollars.  

And the yellow eyes were fixed on the Colonel.  

The Colonel's been in enough scraps to know when he's being called out, and this bad cat was clearly calling the Colonel out.

The Colonel ain't backed down from a fight, ever.  And, the Colonel ain't afraid of nuthin' nor nobuddy -- exceptin' the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda.

The Colonel took Semper Field out of gear and turned off the engine.  As the diesel rattled to a stop, the Colonel could clearly discern, even with his infantry weapons firing-depleted and tinnitus-afflicted hearing, the cat's low menacing growl, despite the fact that a good 100 meters separated cat and Colonel.

The Colonel climbed down from Semper Field and advanced on the bobcat with his vocal chords vibrating a growl of their own.  

The cat's eyes fairly gleamed as he trotted toward the Colonel.

The Colonel broke into a trot of his own and as the closure rate increased and the gap d' clash decreased, the Colonel's last few remaining cognitive cells lying fallow in a forgotten cranny of his bony brain-housing group jostled together just long enough to allow a synapse to fire and send a tiny charge to his low-judgement warning light.

The problem with his low-judgement warning light is it always flickers on well past the point at which the Colonel's low judgement level will allow him to do anything about it.

The thought did flash briefly across the cavernous expanse between the Colonel's ears that this cat might very well be capable of putting that last entry in the Colonel's health record -- Semper Final, if you will. 

But, the faintly blinking low judgement warning light and the last flashing thought of possible passage to his eternal reward were blotted from the Colonel's muddled mind by the searing pain attendant with punching the bobcat in a claw with his nose.

The Colonel's nose, with ample target area for even the most casual of area weapon engagements, split open in three places like a ripe tomato swiped by a..., well..., a bobcat's clawed paw.

Blood poured forth from his lacerated schnazz at a rate that the Colonel estimated would result in complete emptying of his body's hemoglobin reservoir within minutes.

As much as the Colonel was deeply enjoying the catfight, his low blood-level warning klaxon cut through the snarlin', growlin', screechin', and screamin' that emanates from any good tussle with a wildcat and the Colonel, despite the previously mentioned light-warned judgement deficit, summoned enough discretion to effect a not-so-valorous fighting withdrawal and eventual break in contact with the bobcat, long enough to rip off the remains of his shredded t-shirt and apply it with direct pressure to the grievous wound...

Not buying it?

Okay, here's what really happened.

The Colonel and his trusty red tractor -- Semper Field -- were bush-hoggin' one of the many far-flung fields aboard the Colonel's vast holdings here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere when the Colonel was suddenly and deliberately attacked by the killer cane of the most robust blackberry bramble in three counties and half of a fourth.

Said killer cane was thirty-seven and one-half feet long and as big around as the barrel of the Colonel's trusty deer rifle -- Semper Fire.

Thirty-seven and one-half feet long?  The Colonel could have just said thirty-seven or thirty-eight feet, but he ain't gonna be made out a liar, or exaggerator, over a stupid blackberry vine.   



Not only was the blackberry cane in question lethally long and pointedly potent, but it was heatedly hostile and mobile to boot. 

The Colonel and Semper Field were half a field away from the killer blackberry cane's bramble.  The killer cane's bobcat claw thorns fairly glistened as it leaped from it's bramble and raced toward the Colonel's nose...

That's the Colonel's story, and he's stickin' to it.                      

Barfoot's Burden

Eva Russo/AP

"Even as a nonagenarian, Col. Barfoot awoke every morning to hoist the American flag. At dusk, he lowered and folded the flag, hugging the triangular bundle to his chest as he walked back inside."

T. Rees Shapiro, The Washington Post, March 5, 2012

One of the Colonel's pantheon of personal heroes passed to his eternal reward last week.  To the last he demonstrated the gritty determination, exemplary leadership, and principled patriotism that carried him from the cotton fields of Mississippi through three wars and a career in the Army of the United States that spanned the better part of four decades.

Van T. Barfoot was born on June 15, 1919, in Edinburg, Mississippi, a still-unincorporated community in the geographical heart of the state.  He voluntarily enlisted in the U.S. Army more than a year before Pearl Harbor.

In January of 1944, then-Technical Sergeant Barfoot landed with the 157th Infantry Regiment, 45th Infantry Division at Anzio, Italy.  He was already a seasoned combat veteran of landings and subsequent operations in Sicily and at Salerno, neither of which were pleasant.

Anzio was particularly unpleasant.

A general's failure to capitalize on the Anzio landing's operational surprise -- the main German defensive lines had been flanked and the road to Rome lay wide open -- allowed the enemy time to reorient and surround the beachhead.   Bitter stalemated fighting ensued for the next four months as the Americans endured constant enemy shelling from the surrounding heights while dug in on the pestilence-ridden lowlands of the coast.

On the 22nd of May, 1944, the Allied force, preceded by a massed artillery barrage and heavy close air support, broke through the surrounding Axis lines and advanced on Rome.  Technical Sergeant Barfoot's unit advanced on the town of Carano, and, at the end of the day, went into temporary defensive positions.  Barfoot led a patrol that night to scout the German defenses at Carano.

At the vanguard of his company's attack on those defenses the next day, Barfoot led a squad into the attack of the key German positions.  The ferocity of the fight that ensued can only be imagined, as the dry military prose of official accounts of the battle fall way short of describing the horrific nature of close infantry combat attendant with the certain knowledge of one's mortality.

Barfoot fought like a tiger.

His Congressional Medal of Honor citation follows:

 "For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of life above and beyond the call of duty on 23 May 1944, near Carano, Italy.  With his platoon heavily engaged during an assault against forces well entrenched on commanding ground, 2d Lt. Barfoot (then Tech. Sgt.) moved off alone upon the enemy left flank.  He crawled to the proximity of 1 machinegun nest and made a direct hit on it with a hand grenade, killing 2 and wounding 3 Germans.  He continued along the German defense line to another machinegun emplacement, and with his Thompson Submachine gun killed 2 and captured 3 soldiers.  Members of another enemy machinegun crew then abandoned their position and gave themselves up to Sgt. Barfoot. Leaving the prisoners for his support squad to pick up, he proceeded to mop up positions in the immediate area, capturing more prisoners and bringing his total count to 17.  Later that day, after he had reorganized his men and consolidated the newly captured ground, the enemy launched a fierce armored counterattack directly at his platoon positions.  Securing a bazooka, Sgt. Barfoot took up an exposed position directly in front of 3 advancing Mark VI tanks.  From a distance of 75 yards his first shot destroyed the track of the leading tank, effectively disabling it, while the other 2 changed direction toward the flank.  As the crew of the disabled tank dismounted, Sgt. Barfoot killed 3 of them with his tommygun.  He continued onward into enemy terrain and destroyed a recently abandoned German fieldpiece with a demolition charge placed in the breech.  While returning to his platoon position, Sgt. Barfoot, though greatly fatigued by his Herculean efforts, assisted 2 of his seriously wounded men 1,700 yards to a position of safety.  Sgt. Barfoot's extraordinary heroism, demonstration of magnificent valor, and aggressive determination in the face of pointblank fire are

a perpetual inspiration to his fellow soldiers."

Barfoot recieved a battlefield commission to second lieutenant in the days following his heroics at Carano. 

Told he was to receive the Medal of Honor for his actions, Barfoot asked that the award, normally attendant with great fanfare and ceremony (often presented by the President), be presented in the field at the front, instead.  Barfoot, ever the consummate leader, wished to share the honor with his men.  

Colonel Barfoot finished his outstanding career of military service to his nation in 1974, adding the wars in Korea and Vietnam to a record of great sacrifice and devotion that needed no addition. 

For the next four decades, Colonel Barfoot lived in well-deserved peace and quiet in rural Virginia.  

Then, he moved into the suburbs of Richmond.

Barfoot erected a flagpole in his front yard and faithfully attended to the daily duty of flying the colors of his beloved country correctly and reverently. 

This Colonel never met that Colonel.

But, this Colonel knew, and was led by, many like him.  They, like Barfoot, were never flippant about flying the flag of the United States.  If the flag couldn't be flown correctly, with the honor due the sacrifices made under it for the great nation for which it stands, it was not flown at all. 

When the idiot so-called leader of the homeowner association in  Barfoot's suburb demanded that the flagpole be removed, Barfoot quietly refused.  

The story got national attention, not by Colonel Barfoot's initiative, but by the actions and words of others who knew Barfoot and understood the heart of an issue for which the idiot so-called leader of the homeowner association had no earthly clue. 

Barfoot continued to fly his flag correctly and reverently until his death.

Our nation was made greater by Colonel Barfoot's sacrificial devotion and service to it, and will be less without him only if we forget his legacy.          

     

Hail March!

The loud, celebratory music emanating this morning from the ecologically diverse environs of the Colonel's vast holdings here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere is in recognition of an annual calendar event hallowed by all the voting citizens of the Tallahatchie Free State -- namely, the Colonel.

The scourge of the Julian and Gregorian Calendars, the month known as (the Colonel loathes to even give it mention by name) February, is dead and buried; its page on the calendar ripped clear and cast into the smokey fires of Gehenna like the clothing of a plague victim.

Named for the Latin term februum, meaning purification, [the month the Colonel loathes to even give mention by name] was called Februa for the ancient Roman mid-winter full moon ritual of atoning for sins. 

Appropriate. 

The Romans elevated sinful excess to an art form and [the month the Colonel loathes to even give mention by name] is, in the Colonel's not-so-humble opinion, the most miserable month of the year; and, therefore, entirely fitting as a calendar setting for rumination and reflection on one's imperfection.

But, [the month the Colonel loathes to even give mention by name] is dead for another ride 'round ol' Sol.  It shall receive no more attention.

The loud, celebratory music referenced in the opening lines of this missive is not so much for the deceased, as for the arrival of a new month pregnant with promises of rebirth and victory.

The name of this wonderfully manly month is March, aptly named for Mars -- the Roman god of war.  Spring begins in March, and with Spring came the start of the traditional Roman military campaigning season.  

Mars..., Martial..., March. 

Pardon the Colonel for a moment while he pauses to beat his gnarled fist upon his hoary chest and utter monosyllabic grunts signifying reconnection with the long-slumbering, war-like sliver of his soul hidden deep within the shrivelled lump of barely viable tissue formally known as his heart.

The Colonel also feels compelled to extend his pause in this paucity of purposeful prose to ensure that the 'Bama and LSU grads are keeping up with the rest of the thousands of you who loyally lap up literary libations ladled out in posts hereon.

For you T-town pachyderms and Red Stick kitties who may have stumbled upon this blog in your continuing search for hounds-tooth hats and Mardi-Gras beads, respectively, the above use of the term "martial" is not a reference to the inhabitants of the Red Planet.

March, beyond the martial references above, is also a favorite of the Colonel's for the following reasons:

1.  It is not [the month the Colonel loathes to even give mention by name].

2.  It contains the beginning of the turkey season.

3.  It contains the beginning of Spring Football (or at least the close approximation of that sport played by the Ole Miss Rebels). 

4.  It contains March Madness.  Make no mistake, the Colonel is no fan of that girls' game.  The sooner March Madness begins, the sooner it ends.

5.  The crappie (please pronounce with a short "a" or the Colonel will hurl anti-yankee epithets in your general direction) start biting.

6.  Did the Colonel mention that it is not [the month the Colonel loathes to even give mention by name]?

Peter Principle Proof and Pride

If one finds the out-of-print first edition of the Dimwit Dictionary (aka: Words for Dummies) and leafs to the definition of the Peter Principle, a picture of the Colonel will be found in the margin.

When it comes to recognizing incompetence the Colonel knows whereof he speaks.

Prior to 1968, organizations, large and small, suffered from an unrecognized malady that sapped strength, frustrated progress, and fueled water cooler whisper campaigns.  In that year, however, the eyes of the masses were opened to the truth  --  Dr. Laurence J. Peter, a life-long teacher who never once worked outside of the not-so-hallowed halls of academe, published The Peter Principle, in which he postulated that "In a hierarchy every employee tends to rise to his level of incompetence," and that "Work is accomplished by those employees who have not yet reached their level of incompetence." 

Duh!

During his long and not-so-illustrious career as a roguishly handsome soldier of the sea keeping the rapacious wolf of repressive socialism away from the door of freedom, the Colonel not only witnessed Dr. Peter's principle in action, he perfected it as a personal pathway to promotion.

The Colonel, as any one of the thousands of you who loyally lap up the literary libations ladled out in posts hereon will remember from frequent mentions, while not as severely handicapped as those most unfortunate and pitiable 'Bama and LSU grads, is nonetheless shackled by a lack of applicable education -- an undergraduate degree in Political Science (the last refuge of desperate students frantic to maintain the college cash flow from Uncle Sam, or Daddy, as the case may be) from Ole Miss, and two masters (MS in Human Resource Management; MA in Strategic Planning) notwithstanding.

The Colonel challenges anyone to come up with a viable vocation, other than academia and the military, in which that mishmash of (ahem) education has any value. 

The Colonel couldn't.

So, the Colonel saws logs and raises chickens.

The Colonel digresses.

One might correctly surmise that during his productive years the Colonel's lack of applicable education might have easily led to either a career as a homeless dumpster diver or college professor.  But, to paraphrase that great philosopher and astute observer of the human condition, Paul Simon, the Colonel's lack of education didn't hurt him none; he could still see the writing on the wall.

And that writing, in bold red crayon, said: 

"Surround thyself with talent and hold daily talent contests."

In orange crayon slightly below and to the right were the admonitory words:

"...and stay out of the way."

The Colonel ain't smart.  But he could read well enough, and was savvy enough to follow crayon course corrections.

The Colonel offers, as proof of his perfection of the art of staying out of the way, a dozen lieutenants, captains, and majors who kept him out of jail and now share his appellation. 

The Colonel keeps up with their careers by stalking their wives' facebook pages -- not many self-respecting active duty Marine officers maintain their own pages. 

The Colonel is quite certain that several of these colonels have yet to achieve their proof of the Peter Principle -- there are stars in their futures.       

Flying Colors

Sixty-seven years ago today (or yesterday, if you want to be a stickler for the International Date Line) five Marines and a Navy corpsman were immortalized by a snapshot of their actions on a windswept volcanic island in the Pacific.  

We know their names. 

We know what became of them. 

Yet, not one of them is identifiable by face in the picture.

What is clearly identifiable is the symbolic object of the devotion that drove them across the fireswept beaches of a sulfur-stinking island half-a-world away from home and loved-ones.  

The six men in the picture had, to that point, survived five days of savage fighting that had claimed the lives of nearly three thousand Americans and would claim another four thousand before the strategic island was declared secure a month later. 

More Americans gave their lives in sacrifice for their nation in thirty-six days at Iwo Jima than have died in all the military operations since the Eleventh of September, 2001.

The Colonel is not so simple as to opine that the honored dead at Iwo died for the flag.

But, the flag they followed ashore; the flag they planted on Mount Suribachi (and thousands of other objectives in their global war on fascism); the flag they draped over the coffins of their fallen comrades was sacred to them for what it represented.

It represented home.

It represented family.

It represented ideals that most could not fully articulate, but felt in their hearts and souls nonetheless.

Their kids burned that flag or slapped peace symbols on it.

And, their kids do far worse to it.

The Colonel was at first heartened by the outbreak of overt flag-waving post 9/11, and then quickly disgusted by it.  There were some truly respectful displays of the flag -- but, the majority flying the flag, in the Colonel's not-so-humble opinion, were doing so out of the most shallow conformation with the culture's latest fad.

How does the Colonel reach this harsh condemnation of his fellow citizens' actions?

It's a simple test.

Those who truly fly the flag out of respect, care for it.

They don't let it rot, tatter, and fade, nor fly in the dark.

They fly it more prominently and more respectfully than the flags of their favorite college football team.

They don't plaster it on their cars and pick-ups where it quickly accummulates layers of grime.

They don't wear it as an article of clothing or integrated in the cloth.

They stand quietly and respectfully when it is presented or passes by -- hard to do when it's plastered on the bumper of a beater.

It is not the flag's physical colors and cloth we should love and respect, of course.   The flag's true beauty, like all true beauty, is visible only to the eyes of the heart.    

The Colonel does not mean to discourage you from flying our flag.

He asks only that you use as your guide in its care the memory of men and women whose last full measure of devotion was laid on the altar of freedom while advancing the ideals of freedom and human dignity represented by the flag.

When you raise the flag, remember the men who raised it on Suribachi.

When you handle the flag, remember the flags that covered the caskets of those who fell.

When you fly the flag, remember the men and women whose last view in this world, a world away from home, was of the cherished symbol of home.      

Clipper Crisis

The physical manifestation of the Colonel's short-lived supposed mid-life crisis ceased to exist at roughly 1130 local, yesterday.

The Colonel got a haircut. 

All of 'em, actually, and tight to the thin skin covering the Colonel's brain-housing group.    

The Colonel adds emphasis to the word supposed above because not even he was certain of the reason for the six-month lapse between hair trimmer scalp massages.  

The Colonel's Lady, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda recently opined that she believed the Colonel was going through his mid-life crisis, and if so, further gently opined that a little extra hair on the Colonel's normally close-clipped and mostly-bald pate was about all the crisis manifestation she was willing to endure. 

She is always loving and understanding.

"Listen, Knucklehead.  You can let your hair -- what little is left of it -- grow out, if you want.  But, don't even think about getting a sports car and spending more time driving around the Square!"

"What?  You think the Colonel will start chasing loose women?"

"Ha! You'll need more than that wispy ring of head fuzz and a sports car to turn heads, you old goat." 

At this point in the always-uplifting life-discussions with his soul- mate, the Colonel normally demonstrates his maturity, breaks contact, and retreats to his workshop to sulk.

Instead, the Colonel ignored the low maturity altitude warning light blinking brightly in the back of his paltry populated nerve center and pressed the issue.

"Ain't goin' through no mid-life crisis!  The Colonel will get a haircut when the Ole Miss Rebels win a football game."  

This bit of information seemed to allay, somewhat, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's fears about her man's sanity,

"That's the second-most crazy thing I've ever heard you say!  Your Rebels can't even be counted on to show up on their home field.  You're likely to have a pony-tail, if that's what you're waiting on to cut that mess!"  

"The Colonel doesn't..."    

"Quit referring to yourself in the third person, Knucklehead!  Grow up and join the civilian world!"

The workshop beckoned and the Colonel broke contact for a sawdust sulk.

So, why did the Colonel finally get a haircut?

Well, as the thousands of you who imbibe loyally of the literary libations ladled out in posts hereon will remember from a previous post, the Colonel has been getting in shape for the most anticipated gridiron contest of the year -- The Annual First Baptist Church of Abbeville Adult v. Youth Flag Football Game.  Normally played, rain or shine, the Saturday before that game of much lesser import -- the Colonel thinks it's called the Super Bowl -- this year's game was postponed two weeks due to lightning.  

Yesterday morning, the Colonel's team -- the Adults (based more on age than action) soundly drubbed the Youth.        

Immediately upon arrival at the Big House, the Colonel broke out his hair clippers and restored his dignity.

The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda smiled at the sight,

"Thought you weren't going to get it cut until Ole Miss won a football game?"

The Colonel, remembering his Lady's third-person appellation admonition, reminded the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda,

"I AM OLE MISS!"     

The Colonel Don't Smile

The scowl on the Colonel's manly mug doesn't necessarily mean he's unhappy with something or someone. 

And, confronting him with the well-meaning admonition to "Smile!" ain't often gonna reward the well-meaner with much more than a meaner demeanor.

Don't take it personal.

The Colonel don't dance; the Colonel don't paint; and the Colonel don't smile... much.

The Colonel comes from a long line of frowners.  Study the portraits of his progenitors as far back as you care and you'll not find any of the men grinning like a mule eatin' briars.

The congenital cloudy countenance has actually served the Colonel well.  He didn't have to work hard to master the "war face" required of Marines.  The Colonel's mien was already in a facial fighting crouch long before the Corps' master trainers even began their duty of turning him into the steely-eyed deliverer of destruction and master of mayhem, abject fear of whom kept the Red Army in barracks for the better part of three decades.

One of the activities enjoyed most by his family is following the Colonel in a crowded public event.  The Colonel's frown alone parts throngs like Moses at the Red Sea. 

The Colonel would have a bank account rivalling Trump's if  he had a dollar for every time someone told him to "turn that frown upside down," or informed him that "it takes more muscles to frown than it does to smile." 

If the foregoing was fact, the Colonel's visage should be far more muscular and far less wrinkled than is clearly the case.

Now, lest the multitudes of you who liberally imbibe in the literary libations ladled out in posts hereon think the Colonel is completely bereft of emotive capability with which to display happiness and joy (the two being quite separate), there are indeed things that make the Colonel smile:

Any sighting of the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda, following an absence of more than a few minutes.

The sight of the Colonel's grandsons (the Hope of 21st Century Civilization, Dashes 1 and 2) scampering merrily ahead of him down a forest-flanked path leading to one or more of the far-flung fields comprising the Colonel's vast holdings here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere.

A Marine joke told by a member or veteran of a sister service.  The Colonel always smiles when he is about to get to do something he really likes to do, and the Colonel really loves to fight.

A Rebel touchdown against 'Bama or LSU.   

Lots of practice at frowning in that department lately.               
     

Eegeebeegee Building Boom

The Colonel's priority project this wimpy winter is preparing the Big House aboard his vast holdings here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere for the inevitable disastrous weather of a future tilt of the northern hemisphere away from Ol' Sol.

The Big House, built ten years ago by the previous owners of the fair land now known as Eegeebeegee, the capital of the Tallahatchie Free State, has several shortcomings.  Chief among these is the lack of an integral heat production system with combination combustion chamber and carbon effluent elimination tower.

For the typical 'Bama and LSU fans who refer to the fifth grade as "my senior year," the Big House ain't got no fireplace and chimney.

Oh, it has an alcove in which a set of gas-fired faux logs sit quite unsatisfyingly.  But, c'mon, the Colonel ain't no sissy.  He's gonna burn real logs or nuthin'.  Besides, natural gas has not been discovered on his vast holdings, yet.

Wood, on the other hand, is in great abundance.

For the 'Bama and LSU grads whose lack of education misleads them to believe that wood comes from Walmart, the Colonel has a lot of trees.  Wood comes from trees.  Multiple weekly visits to Walmart results in mental atrophy.

No, LSU fans, the Colonel didn't just say you can find a trophy for your football team at Walmart.  You gotta find the fifty yard line, first. 

The Colonel has researched several options for installation of a wood-burning furnace, all of which have failed to receive approval of the final arbiter in all matters regarding additions and renovations to the Big House -- the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda. 

For some reason, she has a problem with the Colonel wielding a sledge hammer in close proximity to her nest.  It's as if she has some sort of knowledge of some sort of disaster that may or may not have occurred the last time the Colonel wielded a sledge hammer in close proximity to her nest. 

There is no photographic proof.

The Colonel's Lady did, however, give preliminary planning approval to the Colonel's concept of construction for the walling-in of the already roofed and wired back porch.  The Colonel's plans currently call for installation of a wood-burning stove in the new space.  The Colonel has been in the planning stages of this project for roughly twenty-seven and one-half  months.

Many of the thousands of you who regularly imbibe of the literary libations ladled out in posts hereon may indeed be wondering at this particular project's planning paralysis.  

The Colonel would have you know that what looks like operational procrastination on his part is, in fact, a strategic pause to accumulate resources.

If you really have nothing better to do with your time and have persevered to this point in the present post, you will remember that previous paragraphs pointed out that there is no paucity of pine on the Colonel's place.

Four years ago, in a rare moment of exceptional mental clarity occasioned by the random accumulation of several of the few remaining synaptic connections within the grey goo congealed in a forgotten corner of his cranial cavity, the Colonel realized that, with the abundance of timber aboard his vast holdings, a sawmill would serve to obviate the need for multiple monthly economic stimulus trips to the local lumber yard to acquire materials for his building projects.  The Colonel's sawmill, Semper Filet, star of the YouTube viral sensation of the same name, has since produced prodigious amounts of both lumber and sawdust from timber harvested aboard his vast holdings.  

The Colonel intends to build the addition to the Big House using only timber -- pine for stud walls, cedar for outside lap siding, and cypress for inside panelling -- harvested and converted to lumber aboard Eegeebeegee.  The Colonel has calculated (without removing his footwear) that the lumber needed for framing the stud walls of the new addition to the Big House will necessitate the harvest of approximately six pines -- the last of which was felled yesterday in an egregious violation of Tallahatchie Free State blue laws.

The lumber produced from the first five of the six pines is currently drying in the Colonel's Man Toy Storage and Sawdust Production Facility adjacent to the Big House.  

The Colonel estimates that the lumber should be dry enough for commencement of construction sometime mid-Summer.

Completion is tentatively scheduled for no later than the commencement of the Mayan calendar-calculated civilization collapse and resultant zombie apocalypse.