Hope on a Rope

The Colonel can't get into this time of year without remembering where he was during one of the best times of his life.

In the early Spring of 1988, the Colonel, then a captain of Marines, was in command of a 200-man reinforced infantry company designated the dedicated "heli-borne" force of the 26th Marine Expeditionary Unit -- Special Operations Capable (26th MEU-SOC).  That unit, trained to execute sea-based raids, was embarked on LPH-2, USS Iwo Jima.

The Iwo was a storied ship, named for the most storied battle in the Corps' history.  She was an accomplished ship, as well, having participated in combat operations during Vietnam, as well as wide-ranging forward deployments throughout the Western Pacific. Perhaps her most famous mission was recovery of the Apollo 13 crew at the splashdown completion of their jinxed mission.

By the time the Colonel and his company went aboard her, the Iwo was also getting a bit long in the tooth.  She had been the first of her kind -- an amphibious assault ship built from the keel up to carry and launch aircraft in support of the Marine Corps' vertical assault modus operandi.  Launched in 1960, the Iwo Jima was showing its age; but, was manned by a great crew and fully capable of getting it's embarked Marines to the fight. 

Those were heady days for the Colonel.  He was at the head of 200 of the most hard-charging young men you could imagine.  The Colonel spent a lot of energy telling them just how great they were and just how important their mission was as forward deployed representatives of the greatest Republic on earth, but they were largely self-motivated, and, if truth be told, actually motivated the Colonel far more than he motivated them.

As the "heli-borne force" for the 26th MEU-SOC, Charlie Company, 1st Battalion, 8th Marines was trained and ready to receive a mission, plan its conduct, and launch in a mix of CH-46E and CH-53E helicopters within 6 hours.  Raid missions for which they were prepared ranged from airfield seizure to in extremis hostage rescue.

One mission in particular sparks synapses in the Colonel's brain-housing group more and more these days -- Long-Range Ship Reinforcement.  

On station in the Mediterranean Sea area of operations, wherein the Colonel and his merry band of brothers were deployed, the United States maintained a small fleet of civilian-crewed, un-armed, RORO (roll-on, roll-off) ships crammed to the gunnels with vehicles, gear, and supplies to outfit and support a large Marine force that would fly into a friendly or captured airfield (thus the "airfield seizure" mission referenced above) and marry-up with that equipment.  The powers that be were, rightly, concerned that those unarmed ships were plum targets for enemies of US interests.  So, in the event of a credible threat to those ships, a small force of Marines (armed to the teeth) would fly in air-refuelable CH-53E Super Stallions for several hours, over empty ocean, and reinforce the threatened ship.  
There was teeny tiny problem, however.  Those ships didn't have any place for that great big helicopter to land.

So, the Marines, ever-adaptable, came up with a solution to getting a helicopter-load of Marines, and their weapons and gear, out of the helicopter when there was no way to land.

They called it "fast rope."  

"Fast-roping" is not rappelling -- where the one "on rappel" is attached by a snap-link or carabiner to a slender line.  Instead, fast-roping can be likened to sliding down a pole in a fire station.  Except the pole is a thick rope attached to a hovering helicopter; and, the helicopter, while hovering, ain't exactly stationary.  Neither is the deck onto which the fast-ropee is fast-roping. 

Oh, and because ships have all kinds of stuff sticking up on them well above the deck, the helicopter dumping its load of Marines via fast rope has to hover several stories (sometimes 60 feet or more) above the ship.  

The ship continues to sail.

The helicopter continues to hover/fly in concert with the ship.

The ship rocks, pitches, and rolls like a..., well..., like a drunken sailor still on sea legs.

The fast-roping few, with gear and weapons slung on shoulders and backs, grasp the thick rope in gloved hands, clench their boots on the rope, and slide down.

Fast.

The life-expectancy of gloves and boots in a fast-roping outfit is quite short.

Sometimes shorter than a single slide.

In the picture above, a Marine is fast-roping out of the "hell hole" of a CH-53E helicopter.  

Shuffle up to the gaping square opening in the floor of a helo hovering over a moving, rolling, pitching ship onto which you will now slide down a rope, with 80 pounds of gear on your back, and you will understand the appellation, "hell hole."

In fact, you will probably have several other four letter names on your lips.  The Colonel will leave that to your imagination.

Helicopter pilots, while justifiably proud of their ability to hover over, and maintain station with, a moving, rolling, pitching ship, are not overly fond of doing it for extended periods of time.

Thus the "fast" in fast-rope.

At, say, 60 feet, and with a frantic helo crew-chief yelling, "go!, go!, go!," because a frantic pilot is screaming into his headset, "get 'em out!, get 'em out!, get 'em out!," the fast-roping Marines are literally leaping into thin air with often the most tenuous grasps on the rope.  

And, there's a Marine right below them, still on the rope.

Now, imagine the scene at the bottom of the rope.  

There will be heapage, and great, curse-filled, scrambling.

Oh..., and the rotor wash of a CH-53E Super Stallion hovering at 60 feet approaches the wind speed of a Category 4 hurricane... 


Man, the Colonel misses those days!       

   

Ten Years in Mississippi

This week marks a very important anniversary for the Colonel and his Lady.  It was ten years ago, this week, that they closed on the sale of their home in Florida and closed on the purchase of the sweetest plot of land on the planet.

What makes it so sweet?

Well, for starters, it belongs to the Colonel and the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda.  That makes it special all by itself.

They put their names on the place.  They call their little slice of heaven on earth, situated at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere, Egeebeegee.

Nope.  That's not an Anglicized spelling of a word in the language of the former temporary tenants on the land.  

There might be more of a nod than not to the fierce Chickasaws, who displaced the mound-building Mississippians, who themselves displaced some other previous temporary tenants.  But, the name Egeebeegee has no real indigenous roots.  

It's just the Colonel's and the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's initials -- spelled somewhat phonetically.

The Colonel stresses the word "somewhat" because he believes several of his former English teachers surveil posts hereon and he hopes that qualifier will insulate him from the heat of their correction in case he has used the word "phonetically" incorrectly or has used passive voice when he should be using active voice or is failing to punctuate correctly or is abusing conjunctions and gerunds or is Faulknerizing his writing with run-on sentences that stretch for pages and cover more information in a single sentence, while the sun arcs slowly to rest, than most writers pen into a plethora of paragraphs, and, with no thought of the payment for the crime, breaks rules set down by ancestral English teachers, whose authority, like the passage of minutes on a clock whose keeper is a monk with the sole job of winding the clock, is unquestioned, even by the most questioning soul on his journey under that arcing sun, measuring his steps in cadence with the clock whose monk never fails to rise with the sun and attend to his clock-winding duty, and...           
(There, that should keep Mrs. Corbett busy for a while!)

This week, the Colonel and the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda have been reminiscing regarding the changes they've seen aboard Egeebeegee since their arrival.  Ten years in one place is an amazing achievement for a couple who together and between them have nearly three score domiciliary stops on this globe before coming to rest at long last here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere.  

In ten year's time, one can actually watch a tree grow -- amazing!

In ten year's time, one can mark the seasonal arcs of the sun, by the same landmark, enough times to finally prove the theory.

In ten year's time, acquaintances can become friends.

In ten year's time, an abode can become home.

In ten year's time, one can accumulate, without worry that one's accumulation will exceed the limits on one's PCS orders.

In ten year's time, one can build, repair, (note Oxford comma -- and it ain't the Tuscaloosa comma for good reason) and rebuild the bridge across the stream that divides the Colonel's vast holdings in half. 

In ten year's time, one can plant, and feast on the fruit of, an orchard.  

So, here's to the Colonel's ten years in Mississippi.  Ten more, please.

Moving On

A week spent packing up his in-laws' belongings and preparing their home of over four decades for sale stirred up a little dust and a lot of memories for the Colonel -- both of which made his eyes water more than just a little. 

The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda, her twin sister -- the beautiful and brash Miss Linda, and their mother -- the wise and courageous Miss Martha, lovingly and tearfully boxed up clothing and treasures representing six decades of the Jack and Martha Cannon Show.

As far as he is concerned that show was a hit, deserving of recognition and praise far beyond the capability of the Colonel's feeble phraseology.  So, he'll dispense with any further attempt at laudatory language.

Suffice to say, last week was hard, both physically and emotionally.

Two -- count 'em, two -- 26 foot U-haul trucks were rented and packed to the gills; one headed for Texas and the other to the Colonel's vast holdings here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere.  Per the Colonel's direction, every box had either "TX" or "MS" marked on it and every piece of furniture had a similarly marked strip of tape.  As helpers carried a box or piece of furniture out of the house, the Colonel and his brother-law ensured each went on the right truck.  

With more than a score of personal household moves under his belt, the Colonel has more than a little practice at packing boxes and packing trucks.  There are two cardinal rules to follow.  

    1. Heavy stuff goes in little boxes.    

    2. Boxes are loaded on the truck first -- floor to ceiling.  

Failure to faithfully follow the foregoing fails the faithful fellows filing in and out filling the truck. 

Packing a truck is a lot like working a giant, three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle -- once the boxes are loaded, all the stuff that didn't go in a box is stacked and packed in place, in layers, front to back and floor to ceiling.  Toward the end of this operation it is handy to have a fearless pre-teen to climb up on the pile and fill nooks and crannies with stuff.  

If you don't have a fearless pre-teen handy, a crotchety little Marine colonel with a fully-checked bucket list will do. 

At the end of the week, late in the night the day before the planned departure for the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere, the Colonel and his bride stood at the back of the truck marvelling at the job the Colonel had done packing one half of his in-laws' worldly possessions on a truck half as big as needed.

"Good grief, Knucklehead, is that a refrigerator up there on top?"

"Why, yes. Yes it is."

"How did you get it up there?"

"Not real sure.  The shooting pains in the Colonel's back are clouding his memory somewhat."

"How in the world are we going to get all of this unloaded back home?"

"The Colonel has been thinking about that all week, and he thinks he has a plan."

"Does your plan involve high speed in reverse and slamming on the brakes?"

"Um, yeah.  How did you know?"

"Knucklehead, this isn't my first move with you."


The Colonel is happy to report that no refrigerators or grandfather clocks were harmed in the making of this move.

Farm Surveillance

The Colonel thinks his phone has been tapped.

He also thinks someone is following his participation in FaceBook posts and discussions.

The worst part is the Colonel has strong suspicions that this surveillance is being conducted at the behest of, if not in-person by, someone very close to him.

Yep.  The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda is spying on the Colonel.

The evidence is just too clear and voluminous for the Colonel to come to any other conclusion.  He wants to believe that his bride of four decades would not trample on his rights so egregiously, but there's just no other way to interpret the evidence.   At least no other way the Colonel can cobble together enough brain cells to conclude.

He's said it before, and it bears repeating, the Colonel ain't smart and you can't make him.  But, it don't take a whole heap of smarts, nor a very sharp crayon, to connect the dots in this case.   

For example, every time the Colonel posts something on FaceBook about the commencement of a labor-intensive infrastructure project aboard the Colonel's vast holdings here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda suddenly makes herself scarcer than a government worker at an ethics rally.  How does she know that the Colonel's keen supervisory skills are about to be brought to bear?

The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda is spying on the Colonel.

Further, the Colonel thinks the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda is employing some sort of advanced smart-phone application that alerts her whenever the Colonel accesses the camera application on his phone.  The Colonel would like to document the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda in action, but the second he even momentarily diverts his supervisory attention to thumb open the camera application on his phone, she drops her tools and vanishes faster than a conventioner's morals in Vegas.

Look, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda is no less intuitive than the average member of her fair gender, but intuition alone is not enough to provide complete situational awareness of the Colonel's very intentions before he even knows them.  The Colonel is predictable, for sure, but this kind of prescience begs credulity. 

It's just too obvious.
  
The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda is spying on the Colonel, and the NSA only wishes they were as effective.

The Colonel is even starting to believe that the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda has developed her own version of predictive software that allows her to see the future with regard to the Colonel's actions.  The Colonel submits the following regular interrogation conducted by the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda whenever the Colonel leaves the Big House.

"Where do you think you're going, knucklehead?"

"Oh, just out to ride Semper Field for a while."

"Semper what?  You mean the smelly old tractor you get stuck in a mud hole every other time you take it out?"

"Uh, yes, dear.  And, the Colonel hasn't gotten it stuck since last week."

"You haven't ridden it since last week, knucklehead.  What field are you going to?"

"North field."

"Be careful."

Did you catch that last remark, dear reader?  That whole 'be careful' thing smacks of a combination lack of confidence in her man and pre cognizance of his actions.

Seriously, how does she know that the Colonel is going to throw any semblance of caution to the winds and drive his rusty red tractor with less situational awareness and more immature idiocy than a college coed in a daddy-bought SUV.  

The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda is spying on the Colonel.

She probably sees him walking back from the field and knows what he's gonna say.

"Hey, Babe.  Watcha doin'?"

"Cleaning up after you, as usual, knucklehead.  Where's your tractor?  Did you get it stuck again?"

How does she know?  The Colonel rests his case.

The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda is spying on the Colonel.        

        

Rebellion is Brewing

The Colonel delivered his annual address to the citizens and legal residents of the Tallahatchie Republic (a virtual nation state established with tongue in cheek and hand on wallet) yesterday.  It was neither televised nor recorded in any fashion, save indelible imprint on the very psyche of each and everyone in attendance.

The address was delivered in the cavernous family room of the Big House, sited on a ridge overlooking Eegeebeegee -- the Colonel's vast holdings at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere.

Excerpts, and description of the speech's reception, follow:

"Citizens, residents, and friends of our great enterprise: the Colonel bids you well and wishes to bring you up to date on the progress of projects and future plans to keep Eegeebeegee great.  Please hold your applause until the end."

The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda sighed and interjected, "Are you going to do this, now?  Wheel of Fortune is on."  

The Colonel leveled his steely-eyed gaze on his bride, "What part of 'hold your applause until the end' did you not understand?"

The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda returned the Colonel's steely-eyed gaze with her patented look that can cook a steak well-done, "Wasn't applauding, knucklehead.  Take your incoherent babbling to another room, willya."

"Who you callin' incoherent?" the Colonel retorted indignantly.  "Be careful that the Colonel doesn't declare you 'an enemy of the people' and have you deported."

"Deported?!"  The wattage of the Colonel's Lady's gaze increased exponentially, approaching temperatures suitable for welding steel. "Who do you think you are?  And, stop referring to yourself in the third person -- it's seriously getting on my nerves."

The Colonel comported himself, shuffled the ream of papers in his hands, and resumed his address, albeit in a lower tone and from a position out of the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's line of sight to Vanna flipping letters.

"The long dreary days of the month whose name will not be spoken come to an end this evening.  Tomorrow will dawn with the promise of brighter, warmer days.  And, the Colonel assures you the tempo of infrastructure projects will increase with the lengthening daylight and rising warmth.  There is no project too tough for us to tackle."

"Huh!," the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda huffed.  "What is this 'us' business?  You mean 'no project is too tough' for ME to tackle!"  

Sensing an opportunity to deviate from his prepared text in response to the crowd's enthusiastic reception, the Colonel ad libbed, "The Colonel pledges a redoubling of his supervisory effort to ensure that our republic's workforce stays on task."

"Workforce?!  So, now I'm just 'the workforce!'  Listen hear, knucklehead," the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda intoned, using her favorite term of endearment for her man, your 'workforce' is hereby on strike!"

The Colonel deviated further from his prepared remarks, "Strikes, slow-downs, stoppages, and other forms of workforce rebellion will be dealt with swiftly and severely..."

"Rebellion?!  I'll show you 'rebellion!'  I'll stomp a mudhole in your Manassas!"

Sensing an undercurrent of discontent in the crowd, the Colonel summarily adjourned the joint session of the Congress of the Tallahatchie Republic and beat an organized, if hasty, withdrawal to the friendlier confines of the Oblong Office, formerly known as the Colonel's Knotty Room, to revise and extend the contents of his remarks for the record.

The Colonel hopes the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda cools off soon.  It'll be time to plant and tend the garden before too long, and the Colonel is loathe to bring in migrant labor.               
  

Lava Dog Days

A memory milestone passed without mention a couple of weeks ago; not mentioned, but reflected upon with great fondness and profound nostalgia.

The Colonel, admittedly arriving at the conclusion solely through self-analysis, has led an amazing life, replete with opportunities and adventures of which most can only dream.  

He's travelled the globe, setting foot on every continent save Antarctica and visiting far more nation states than he has states in the republic of which he is a lucky citizen.

He's sailed "the seven seas," crossing lines to become both a shellback (Equator) and a bluenose (Arctic Circle).  

The Colonel graduated from the best high school in the world -- Balboa High in the Panama Canal Zone.

He graduated from the Harvard of the South -- Ole Miss.

The Colonel commanded the best rifle company in the Marine Corps -- Company C, 1st Battalion, 8th Marines; the best recruiting battalion in the Marine Corps -- Recruiting Station Macon/Atlanta; and the best recruiting regiment in the Marine Corps -- the Sixth Marine Corps District.   

And, along the happy and lucky way, the Colonel commanded the best infantry battalion in the Marine Corps -- 1st Battalion, 3d Marines -- of which he took command twenty years ago on Saint Valentine's Day.

The 1st Battalion of the Marine Corps' Third Marine Regiment was then, and is now, homeported in Hawaii aboard a tiny base on the windward side of Oahu.  Home for 1/3 (in the Corps' shorthand for its infantry battalions) may have been a constricted stretch of coral and sand between Kaneohe Bay and the extinct Ulupa'u volcanic crater, but the operating range for 1/3 was half the globe.

In the scant eighteen months (14 February 1997 to 14 August 1998) during which the Colonel had the high honor and privilege to command 1/3, the Marines and sailors (nicknamed "Lava Dogs") of the best battalion in the Marine Corps deployed across the Hawaiian islands and then across the Western Pacific.  

In January of 1998, 1/3 deployed to Okinawa, Japan for a seven-month rotation, "chopping" (operational slang for change of operational control) from the 3d Marine Regiment on Hawaii to the 4th Marine Regiment on Okinawa; going, in self-identification, from the 1st Battalion, Third Marines to the "Best Battalion, 4th Marines."

During those seven months on Okinawa, Marines and sailors from 1/3 further deployed (in battalion or company strength) to Australia, Hokkaido, South Korea, Fujiyama, and Indonesia.  One reinforced platoon went aboard the USS Independence (as a security force) for its final operational deployment to the Persian Gulf as part of Operation Southern Watch.

Throughout the Colonel's tenure as commanding officer, the professionalism and can-do spirit of the officers and men of the 1st Battalion never ceased to amaze.  The Colonel takes no credit for their amazing performance except that he was at least cognizant enough to recognize the enormous pool of talent and initiative upon which he was afloat, and that he was at least bright enough to give them free rein.

Many of the young officers and men of 1/3 during the peace-time of the late '90's have gone on to distinguished service in combat over the last decade and a half -- a half dozen in battalion-level or higher command.

The Colonel has many appellations by which he is proud to be referred -- among the best is "Lava Dog."               

Diaper Bowl

The Colonel heard a story this morning about a man named Brady, whose bunch pulled off the most improbable of comebacks to win a football game that occasionally interrupted the debuts of specially designed commercials.

The Colonel wouldn't know.  He didn't watch.

The most important football game in his year occurred the day before:  The Annual First Baptist Church of Abbeville Youth Versus Adult Flag Football Classic. 

Ordinarily, the Colonel makes an appearance, plugs in for a few plays, and then provides moral support from the sidelines for the balance of the game. In case you missed it, the Colonel is now officially "old," having recently marked the completion of his 61st air-breathing lap around the sun.  So, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda has not-so gently placed restrictions on the Colonel's gridiron glory-seeking.

The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda had a near-catastrophic lapse in her supervisory effort Saturday morning, however.  Well, actually, her mistake was trusting the Colonel to go to the game by himself with his assurances to her that he would not play but a couple of series of downs at the most.

See, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda knows that if the Colonel completely gives up playing football due to his physical age, he'll shortly thereafter start using his advanced age as an excuse and completely give up just about every other physical activity (to include putting on trousers in the morning).

Believe him when he tells you, "the Colonel's legs ain't for show."

The Colonel fully intended to keep his promise of minimal participation.  He did.  Honest.

The problem was, not enough youth showed up and the "Diaper Rule" was invoked.

The "Diaper Rule," stipulates that in the event one team or another is short players, either as a result of no-shows or mid-game emergency room trips, the teams' numbers will be balanced enough to continue play by shifting to the under-loaded team the player(s) on the over-loaded team closest to diaper-wearing age.

The Colonel played on the Youth Team.    

Every play of the game.  

Both ways.

The Colonel made several mental notes for future reference during the course of the game.

1.  Pursuit angles require age adjustment.

2.  Finding the fourth gear is a lot harder when you can't find the third gear to begin with.

3.  Climate Change seems to have reduced the amount of oxygen in the atmosphere.

4.  Spirals are overrated.

The main reason the Colonel didn't watch the Super Bowl on Sunday evening was the severe lactic acid build-up in his quadriceps made even reaching for the remote painful beyond description.  The Colonel's leg muscles were on strike and every other muscle in his body refused to cross the picket line.

The Colonel needs to brush up on his Morse Code.  The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda was having a hard time deciphering the Colonel's blinks and we watched her shows instead of the football game.   

    

  

Tides of Guff

The Colonel gets a lot of guff for promoting expansion of the Republic.

In complete disclosure, the Colonel gets a lot of guff for a lot of things he says and does.  If guff were gold, the Colonel would plaster his name on big buildings, host a reality TV show, and run for president.

He would be yuuuge!

Alas, guff ain't gold -- the Colonel will remain big ideas trapped in a diminutive physique.  

The biggest idea, the one that has bounced around in his brain-housing group for most of his life, is that the destiny of the American Republic is expansion.

The history of the American Republic was expansion.  The Colonel fervently believes the future of the American Republic is expansion.

Look, the Colonel admits that the Republic's previous two centuries of expansion have not been pretty.  Glorious, sure.  But, not squeaky clean.  To be sure, the indigenous populations extant on the North American continent five centuries ago suffered a terrible cultural inundation and physical loss.  A cottage industry of sorts has been established on the portrayal of the noble Native American as a victim of European racism.

The Colonel can relate.  His ancestors, Clan MacGregor, were in possession of lands, in the northern reaches of Britain, wanted by others.  The struggle for those lands did not go well for the MacGregors.  In fact, the name MacGregor was actually outlawed at one point.  The MacGregors lost nearly all of the lands they had originally controlled.  Lots of MacGregors left Britain and landed in America.

The truth is that had Clan MacGregor, and not their enemies the Campbells, been in the good graces of the English king instead, the MacGregors would have driven out and supplanted the Campbells.

It is the way of man.

And, if one takes an honest and clear-eyed look at the history of the inhabitants of the Western Hemisphere in general, and the North American Continent in particular, one will see that the "Native" Americans extant on lands at the arrival of Europeans, had themselves supplanted previous inhabitants, often violently.  So much for victimhood.

Widen one's scope of view worldwide, and millenniums long, and tides of humanity can be seen sweeping back and forth across the major continents, supplanting and/or assimilating the previous inhabitants.  

It is the way of man.

Focus forward centuries into the future, and one will see the trend continue -- tides of humanity sweeping back and forth, inundating and replacing. 

Given the way of man, the inexorable sweeping tides of humanity and cultures replacing and assimilating, there is no static option.  No standing still.  It's either grow or shrink.  Expand or wither.

The Colonel believes there has never been an empire in history possessed with a greater degree of altruism than the American Empire.  It has warts, certainly.  It has scars -- fading reminders of mistakes.  But, warts and scars are superficial.  Our Empire's heart -- our Constitution -- more than makes up, with beautiful protections and promises, for any superficial imperfections.

The Colonel further believes that the Constitution of the United States -- the beautiful beating heart of our Republic -- has no peer on the planet. 

It is the United States' Constitution, not our "culture," that makes us the greatest nation on the globe.

It is the United States' Constitution, not our military power, that makes us the strongest nation.

It is the United States' Constitution, not our economic power, that makes us the most prosperous nation.

Above and beyond the obvious cultural, security, and economic benefits of expanding the Republic, there shines the most brilliant reason for inclusion of greater territory -- the people.

The Colonel would have you reflect back to a point in our history when the United States annexed the northern half of the territory held by the Mexican government.  You can argue, effectively, the "legality" of that action.  It was a naked act of aggression. 

What you cannot argue is which half of that former Mexican empire has done the best for its inhabitants since.  The difference is not "culture."  That is a thinly-cloaked racist position.

The difference is our Constitution.  We should share it with more people.           

        

  

Timber!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Back to the reason for the season.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There's no mistaking the sound, however.

Particularly, if you forgot to move the truck.   

Different Year; Same Old Song

The Colonel has never been one to ascribe particular emphasis to the concept of a "new year."  Adding a sequential numeral to the current calendar track of Earth's revolution around the Sun -- arbitrarily offset as it is from the seasonal planetary wobble track -- just seems such an inane reason for hope, let alone celebration.  

Ebullient wishes of "Happy New Year" and solemn signatory to revolutionary personal resolutions based on the beginning of a dozen segments of an archaic numeration of the passage of planetary rotations, each loosely connected to the cyclical passage of the largest satellite through Earth's shadow, seems -- dare the Colonel say it -- idiotic. 

Seriously.  Why do we do it?

It really is just an arbitrary cause celebre.  But, the Colonel guesses that if you need a reason to party, the beginning of a new calendar year is as good a reason as any.

Still, if one is hard up for a reason to party, why not celebrate New Month?  Why wait a whole year to wish others health and prosperity, to resolve change of behavior, or to countdown in eager anticipation of something entirely new than the moment before.

Heck, why not celebrate New Week?  Well, the Colonel guesses many people do -- partying on New Week's Eve (Saturday night).

But, the Colonel's original point is that there is placed, in his not so humble opinion, far too much import to the midnight demarcation between the last day of December and the first of January. 

Now, the Colonel will admit in this year's case that there is ample motivation to place it firmly in the soon-forgotten rear-view.  The year 2016 hasn't been a banner year as far as years go.  Oh, it started off rosely enough -- the Colonel's Ole Miss Football Rebels appeared in (and won) the Sugar Bowl for the first time since Eli's  and Peyton's (aka Traitor Manning) daddy was slinging the pigskin in red and blue.  But, shortly thereafter the year took a nosedive.

There were a few personal mountain tops -- chief among them celebration (with a two-week Mediterranean cruise) of the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's 40th anniversary of wedded bliss with the Colonel -- but, the lows far outweighed the highs.

Actually, it's better said to say "the losses far outweighed the gains."

By the time the year began to wane, the Colonel had lost a promising young grand nephew, one of his domino playing buddies, and the finest father-in-law for which a man could ask.  And more potential personal losses are mounting up.

But, to look to a new calendar year for relief of the grief of the old is empty-headed at best.  

Grief is a constant in the condition of man.  There will always be losses, until the day one becomes the loss of another.  A new calendar year will not bring back lost joy. 

So, party hardy this coming Saturday night, if it brings you happiness.  The next day will not bring you any more joy than the previous.  Neither days, weeks, months, nor years -- cold calendar calculations at best -- bring joy.  

One's spiritual condition is not calendar dependant.  It is foolhardy to place hope for happiness in the mere passage of time. 

Sometime toward the end of the next calendar month the Colonel will complete yet another air-breathing trip around the sun.  Don't get him started on the inanity of celebrating birthdays...     
     

       

No Regulation without Representation

Included in the foundational document of our great nation -- the Declaration of Independence -- is a long list of grievances which provided the reasons on which the Continental Congress based its declaration that,

"these united Colonies are, and of Right ought to be Free and Independent States, that they are Absolved from all Allegiance to the British Crown, and that all political connection between them and the State of Great Britain, is and ought to be totally dissolved; and that as Free and Independent States, they have full Power to levy War, conclude Peace, contract Alliances, establish Commerce, and to do all other Acts and Things which Independent States may of right do."

Midway through that list of grievances is the following:

"He has erected a multitude of New Offices, and sent hither swarms of Officers to harass our people and eat out their substance."

Were the great men who affixed their signatures to that document -- mutually pledging their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honor -- to see the huge and onerous regulatory apparatus that today sends hither swarms of officers to harass our people and eat out their substance, they would no doubt exclaim in unanimous exasperation something along the lines of:

"We thought we won the war!  Nothing has changed!  In fact, things are much worse than under King George!"  

Or words to that effect.  The Colonel imagines the Founders would use far more colorful and impactful language than his meager attempt at channeling -- as was their genius.  

No doubt those great men would be apoplectically appalled at the overbearing governmental (Federal, state, and local) bureaucracy that controls every aspect of the American citizens' lives today, no matter how well-meaning the bureaucrats' intentions.  

Bureaucracies nearly always begin with the best of intentions -- to save us from ourselves.  Bureaucrats nearly always end up expanding their power and justifying their existence with more and more regulations.  Bureaucracies become principalities in and of themselves, answerable to none but themselves.

Our elected representatives, at all levels of government, create and empower these bureaucratic principalities, and then allow them to run roughshod over the rights of those they are elected to represent -- in effect, abdicating their responsibilities and betraying their oaths. 

Were the great men who affixed their signatures to the Declaration of Independence -- mutually pledging their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honor -- to speak to our situation today, the Colonel fervently believes they would say,

"No regulation without representation!" 

Those great classical liberals (not to be confused with today's statist socialist progressives we call "liberals"), upon seeing the state of regulatory affairs in their United States, would no doubt tear the powdered wigs from their heads and wail in mourning, reprising Charlton Heston's final line in the cinematic classic "Planet of the Apes,"  

"You maniacs!  You blew it up!  Damn them!  Damn them all to hell!"

Or words to that effect.  The Founders were far more eloquent and far less profane than 20th Century movie script writers.

It should be pointed out at this juncture that objective historians note that the standard of living and range of rights enjoyed by mid 18th Century Colonial Americans were, in fact, far higher and more expansive than those of the average Londoner at the time.  Current demographers and social scientists make a similar claim about the standard of living and rights of American citizens vis-à-vis the rest of the world.  But one should never confuse the cleanliness and security of one's cage with the blessings of freedom and self-determination.

It was personal and commercial freedom, relatively unfettered by bureaucratic regulation, that catapulted a colonial back-water to hemispheric dominance in little more than four generations and to world power in little more than four more generations. 

For the last four generations, the American Republic has stagnated under a blanket of bureaucratic control that keeps it warm and safe, but stifles the growth that comes only from rising to challenges. 

Truly making America great again will mean sacrificing the Republic's social security (not be confused with the agency of the same name) in the short term, for the sake of long-term growth-inducing challenge.  Therefore, the first action of the new Presidential Administration and the Congress, must be, not just token regulatory reform, but full-scale bureaucratic house-cleaning.  Strip it down to the bare bones.  Eliminate any regulation, and its parent bureaucracy, that sacrifices individual and commercial freedom at the alter of transitory security. 

Then, watch the American Republic soar.   

Misunderestimation

Allow the Colonel to make this crystal clear right up front:

When he voted in the Republican Primary, Donald Trump was the Colonel's 17th choice.

That's right -- the Colonel would have voted for Gilmore over Trump. To be brutally honest, the Colonel has never liked Trump.  Never have been a big fan of ostentatious narcissistic bullies.

And, the Colonel will freely admit that he way underestimated Donald Trump's ability to mount a winning presidential campaign -- even against the most flawed Democrat Party candidate in history.  The Colonel, as many of you who frequently waste precious rod and cone time perusing posts hereon will remember, early on endorsed a Rubio/Kasich ticket that he believed had the best chance of both defeating Hillary Clinton (in the Electoral College count) and effectively governing over the next four years.  And, after watching Trump's performance in the "debates" (a term defined, in the current American lexicon, with less firmament than a newborn's diaper deposit), and his inability to resist spending political capital on defending himself against attacks designed to do just that, the Colonel was convinced the polls were all wrong.  The Colonel didn't believe that the race was going to be any closer than about 15 points.  

The Colonel was wr...

The Colonel was wwrr...

The Colonel was wroooo...

The Colonel misunderestimated.  (It's a word -- just ask W)

Look, the Colonel gets it.  The Donald tapped into a seething reservoir of discontent.  He said what 60+ million American citizens wanted to hear. But, that doesn't make the Colonel trust him any more than he trusts a threatened copperhead not to strike.

And, while the Colonel is decidedly not a practitioner of the unmanly art of political correctness, he is uncomfortable with Trump's rhetoric.  Just as uncomfortable as he is with the divisive rhetoric, and tenuous grasp on the truth, of the current temp help in the Oval Office.

For the Colonel's many friends who are currently toasting with tankards of Trumpade: he hopes you are right.  He hopes President Trump will restore Constitutional governance to our great Republic.

But, the Colonel has learned from painful experience that "hope" is not an effective strategy, nor even a satisfactory operational or tactical course of action.  The Colonel fervently believes that the future greatness of our Republic lies not in the hands of an extra-Constitutional strongman, but in a chief executive whose every action is bound by a strict interpretation of the Constitution to which he or she solemnly swears his allegiance and defense.  The Colonel is not ready to place complete trust in Trump's willingness to abide strictly by the Constitution while he endeavors to deliver on his promise to "make America great again;" whatever that means.  The Colonel fears that Trump's narcissism and the counsel of sycophants will win out over strict Constitutional governance just as surely as it has in Obama's case.

But, we could have been in far more worse hands come January.  A Hillary Clinton presidency, with certain attendant corruption the likes of which have not been seen since the Grant administration, was a prospect too horrible to entertain, even for a plurality of the voters in several states that went for Obama two elections in a row.   

For that reason, he will admit, the Colonel was a sniff short of giddy as the elections results trickled in last Tuesday.  He may not have been on the Trump Train, but the Colonel was for dang sure not looking forward to the certain full-scale assault on the Constitution that would have continued under a Clinton administration.  

Bottom line:  The Colonel's actual declaration of the Tallahatchie Republic is on hold.  But, Trump had better watch his... actions. 

 

Morning with Martha

It may seem that it was way too early to laugh, but the Colonel and his lady, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda, and her twin sister, the courageous and skilled Miss Linda, couldn't help it.  

It also may seem that making the Colonel's recently-widowed mother-in-law the object of our collective mirth was the absolute height (depth?) of inappropriate behavior.  You would probably be right.  But, don't judge just yet.

See, the Colonel's father-in-law, the man whose every waking moment for the past decade has been consumed with providing constant care to his bride of over six decades, was relieved of that duty by his heavenly commanding officer and called to his eternal home earlier this week.  The man had more than fought the good fight; lapped the field in the good race; pulled...  you get the picture.

He more than rated his relief.

And, as he fought for his last breaths, the Colonel leaned in close and made him a solemn promise.  He could go.  The Colonel would take over.  Miss Martha would be well taken care of. 

This morning, the strong and serene Miss Martha had an appointment with an oral surgeon.  Not. A. Problem.

The Colonel has this.  Besides, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda and her sister, the highly experienced registered nurse were on hand to provide support as required.

Reveille went off as planned.  That was the last thing that went off as planned.

Shortly after the Colonel marched down the passageway banging on hatches and announcing the end of the nightly rest period, he retired back to his rack to wait for the women to clear the shower facilities.  

The Colonel awoke an hour later to a strangely quiet house.  

Reveille had failed to launch.  The rocket was not only still on the pad, it was cold and empty of fuel.  No venting of gasses.  No countdown.  No...  you get the picture.
  
The Colonel's next actions were reminiscent of those of the first class porter on the Titanic post berg-bump. Only with a little more alacrity and alarm.  

Bedroom doors in the house have now been sufficiently tested for impact resiliency.

Being now an hour behind his carefully choreographed operational plan of the day, the Colonel began closely supervising every aspect of three women's morning preparation.

That went about as well as you would expect.  The Colonel retired once again to his rack to wait out the firestorm of indignation his efforts had ignited.

When the smoke cleared, the Colonel ventured out to see how well preparations had progressed in his forced absence.  He arrived in the kitchen just in time to hear the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda ask her sister, the highly experienced registered nurse,

"You didn't give her the whole pill, did you?"

"Yes," the highly experienced registered nurse answered stiffly.  "Why do you ask?"

"Read the directions on the bottle," the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda said, her voice rising a half octave with each word.

The Colonel saw a situation developing and inserted himself into said situation for the purpose of situation dissipation.  "What's the problem here, ladies?"

"Oh, no," the Colonel's sister-in-law, the highly experienced nurse, exclaimed.  "The bottle says give her half a pill!"

"Half a pill of what?," the Colonel inquired.  

"Valium!"  Both women exclaimed together.

"Valium," the Colonel asked. "Valium, Valium?"

The Colonel looked over at his mother-in-law.  A sleepy smile looked back.

"Let me get this straight," the Colonel attempted to clarify.  "You gave her a whole Valium when the prescription said to just give her half a Valium?"

"Yes!," said the twins.

"Yesh," said the twins' mother.

Needless to say, things were going widely astray of the Colonel's carefully choreographed plan, and they weren't going to get rounded up anytime soon.

The next forty-five minutes, during which the Colonel and his "helpers" got the strong and serene Miss Martha into the car, drove a half-hour to the oral surgeon's office, got the strong and very serene Miss Martha out of the car and into a wheel chair, wheeled the strong and serenely zonked-out Miss Martha into the reception area and then down to the operating room and into the operating chair, was nearly a scene-by-scene recreation of the cinematic tour de force "Weekend at Bernie's."  

The Colonel would like to report that unlike the scenes in which Bernie's head constantly hit hard objects, the strongly drugged and very serene Miss Martha suffered no such indignities.

The Colonel would like to report that, but he can't.

At one point the Colonel attempted a "dead-man lift" he had practiced countless times during his infantry days.  Unfortunately, his infantry days were a couple of decades ago and his "dead-man lift" was a bit out of practice.  

The Colonel dropped his mother-in-law.   

He'll rot in hell, he knows.

The Colonel's prayers this evening will include sincere apologies to his hero father-in-law.  Somehow, he thinks that, just maybe, the great man was watching with a smile on his face.  Of course, the Colonel knows today's antics will be added to the long list of such episodes his father-in-law took such great joy in retelling about his jarhead son-in-law.  

Fair enough.
   

The Colonel wishes to assure his meager readership that no mothers-in-law were actually harmed in the making of this blog.    

   



  

Mr. Jack

One of the best men the Colonel has ever known -- and he has been privileged to lead a life full of great men -- has lain in a coma for the last seven weeks.

The call came at dinner time and within 20 minutes the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda was out the door and on the road, driving most of the night to get to his bedside.  

Her father -- hard as a set of woodpecker lips -- had dismissed for weeks the headache he chalked up to his chronic sinus issues.

It wasn't his sinuses.  It was a bleed on the outside of his brain.  It had gone on for weeks.

Weeks.

Weeks in which this tough old man continued to do his duty.  You see, he is his wife's primary care-giver and that is his all-consuming passion.

Weeks in which he ignored the pain and continued to drive Miss Martha to appointments and tend to her every need.

He mentioned his pain to his doctor and asked for some sinus meds. The doctor, who had treated him for decades, saw something he didn't like and sent him for a CT scan.  The results put him immediately in ICU and surgery soon thereafter.

Following surgery, he was awake, but very agitated.  He knew he had responsibilities and he was not going to stay in bed.  The doctors sedated him so that he would rest and recover.

He has had only one very brief moment of consciousness since.

And, now, the doctors say complications are setting in, and Mr. Jack's body is failing him fast. 

The Colonel writes this quickly this morning.  He doesn't want to wait until later to write what's on his heart.  The Colonel worries that his quick, feeble words won't do the great man justice, but it can't wait.  


Some men live their entire lives and never know for sure whether anything they ever did really made a difference in their world. 

Some men live their entire lives making sure everybody knows the difference they are making in their world. 

Jack Cannon was the rare man whose impact was felt literally world-wide and yet never once sought recognition.

In the summer of his 16th year, the Colonel and his best buddy started chasing two of Jack Cannon’s greatest accomplishments – his twin daughters, Brenda and Linda. When Jack realized he couldn’t chase them off, he "adopted" them. Jack and Martha had invested their lives in their girls and they weren’t about to let a couple of knucklehead boys mess that up.

For the next three years the Colonel had a ringside seat watching Jack and Martha fight the good fight -- raising their daughters to love the Lord above all else, giving them every reason in the world to love their family above all else on earth, and setting the highest examples of integrity, selflessness, service, and devotion.

Jack Cannon was many things to many, many people.

To some he was a teacher. The Colonel was but one of his many formal and informal pupils. His lessons, both practical and spiritual, were simple and yet life-long.

To the pastors in whose churches he served as a worker, deacon, and administrator, Jack Cannon was always the “go-to guy.” If something needed to be fixed – he fixed it. If a project needed leadership – he led. If a softball team needed a coach – he coached and played. Jack Cannon plugged in and performed at 110% at any and every task no matter how large or inconsequential.

When the Colonel first met him, Jack Cannon was a major in the United States Air Force. One of the great works of God in the Colonel's life was His orchestrating Air Force assignments that placed SMSGT Gregory at the same base in the Panama Canal Zone, at the same time, with Major Cannon. 

Jack had come to Panama straight from a year flying dangerous missions in Vietnam. His flying skill was so widely recognized that he was requested by name to serve as the pilot/air crew commander for the general commanding the Air Force’s Southern Command. In that capacity, Jack flew all over Central and South America, and would return from each trip with a small souvenir for Martha and the girls and harrowing tales of flights in and out of challenging airfields for the Colonel and his buddies.

Jack loved flying. Perhaps the cruelest thing the Air Force ever did was give him his last assignment at Tyndall Air Force base --command of the, then, Transportation Squadron – a non-flying command. Jack could have been bitter; could have just coasted in the job. But, as much as Jack loved flying, he was even more committed to doing the best job possible no matter the assignment. The Transportation Squadron was not doing well when he took over – by the time he left it was the best transportation squadron in the Air Force, having won awards that said so.

Jack had several medals and commendations for his heroism and skill as a pilot. His awards from his time in Vietnam, however, were shrouded in a bit of mystery. In Vietnam, he flew a top secret electronic counter-measures aircraft – the EC-47. Not until the Colonel was commissioned years later and held a security clearance did Jack tell him any details of his missions in Vietnam. Later, when the Colonel held a top-secret clearance, he tried to get Jack a copy of one of his awards from the Air Force and was rebuffed – it was still too highly classified, nearly 30 years later.

But, that was okay with Jack. In fact, that was the way he conducted most of his service to others his whole life.

One year around Christmas, the Colonel and the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda were visiting her parents and Jack said to the Colonel, “C’mon, got a project.” Most times “a project” was fixing something at the church. This time was different. The church had collected baskets of food to give out to needy families and the "project" was to deliver some of them. Simple enough; ring the doorbell, hand them the basket and get a whole load of “feel good” about how wonderful we were giving them food. 

But, no. That wasn’t Jack’s style. He waited until he knew the people weren’t home and then he and the Colonel snuck in, put the food in the cupboards and fridge, and left without leaving a sign. Oh, and the Colonel was the one crawling through an unlocked window to gain access.

With Jack Cannon there was never any doubt. 

There was never any doubt about his intentions.

There was never any doubt about his word.

There was never any doubt about where he stood -- always clearly in the bright daylight of ethical conduct and always on the right side.

There was never any doubt he loved the Lord.

There was never any doubt that Jesus’ teachings and commands were his guides.

There was never any doubt that the Holy Spirit filled his heart and soul. The gifts of the spirit were more evident in his Christian walk than in any other man the Colonel has ever known. There is not a shred of doubt in the Colonel's heart that Jack Cannon will soon be worshipping at the feet of Jesus for eternity.

There was never any doubt that he loved his family. Martha and the girls were his greatest treasures. He and Martha raised two amazing daughters – two of the most fearless, most fiercely loyal, and yet most kind-hearted women the Colonel has ever known. They are, in character, spitting images of Jack Cannon. 

In the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda, the Colonel sees her father every day, and that’s a very good thing.

God has blessed the Colonel's life with scores of great leaders and great men of character – none more influential than Lieutenant Colonel John W. Cannon, United States Air Force. 

Thank you, God… and… Thank you, sir.