Mississippi MASH Hero

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Only he didn't.

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

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

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

Entirely fitting.

Catch #2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

10 November 1775

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Semper Fidelis, Marines! 

Yes, for Life

A week from tomorrow, 8 November 2011, the Colonel and his fellow Mississippians will vote on Initiative 26.  The question on the ballot is, "Should the term 'person' be defined to include every human being from the moment of fertilization, cloning, or the equivalent thereof?"

A "yes" vote will amend the Mississippi Constitution to define the word “person” or “persons”, as those terms are used in Article III of the state constitution, to include every human being from the moment of fertilization, cloning, or the functional equivalent thereof.

In practice, such a definition of personhood will protect unborn children from infanticide within the territorial confines of the state.

As the two or three dozen of you who regularly waste valuable rod and cone time perusing posts hereon can well imagine, Initiative 26 has generated no little controversy and placed the Colonel's state (Sorry, MSU, but it's the Colonel's state, too) squarely in the cross hairs of the sharpshooters on both sides of the abortion argument.

Out-of-state Pro-Choice advocates have flooded the state in numbers not seen since the Freedom Riders of the Sixties, obfuscating the debate with fear-mongering and falsehoods.

And, therein lies the greatest irony of ironies. 

One would think that those who consider themselves the heirs of the righteous Civil Rights movement and wave highest the banner of social justice and defense of the defenseless would hear that the drummer leading this parade is beating out a far different march.

Despite the canards and protestations to the contrary, it is clear to those who think for themselves and fall not in line with the current cultural definition of "cool," that the abortion rights movement is about nothing more than convenience.

Based on a "right of privacy" not found in our Republic's Constitution, and cloaked in the supposedly unassailable right of a woman to decide the future of the child she carries, the practice of pre-birth infanticide has destroyed more American lives than all of the wars in which America has participated -- each and every year, since 1973. 

The Colonel finds no little irony in the fact that the vast majority of those currently climbing the ramparts of class warfare to protest the ravages of rampant capitalism on the defenseless middle and lower classes, will, in the same frame of feckless mind see no contradiction of conscience in their support of a practice that has decimated two generations. 

The Colonel has long-since ceased attempts to debate the issue on its merits with those who oppose his position.  It always ends the same way.  After the Colonel has simply and completely demonstrated the scientific, legal, and moral bankruptcy of the euphemistically-named "Pro-Choice" position, his opponent has either attempted to obfuscate the issue with off-topic canards or resorted to name-calling.  The Colonel, taught by the best, is unbeatable in the latter and has no time for the former. 

Many of the Colonel's friends and acquaintances have taken umbrage with his support of the criminalization of abortion.  Were every one of the small circle of his acquaintances and even smaller circle of his friends to oppose his position, the Colonel would maintain it still.  It is a matter of his most jealously guarded principles of manhood.

Real men -- gentlemen -- know that there are a few very important things worth fighting for, even when others would back off in the ill-conceived notion of "civility" or the inane, suicidal concept of "tolerance."  Real men -- gentlemen -- have no higher calling than to fight to protect the most defenseless among us.

The Colonel votes Yes, for Life.  

Pigskin Prescience

The Colonel would once again like to thank the Ole Miss season ticket holders in Section H of the hallowed halls of Vaught-Hemingway stadium for selling their tickets to the opposing team's fans.  This week, however, the Arkansas fans were refreshingly different than the Bama Bandwagon Boors who invaded the Colonel's space last week.

Despite witnessing yet another epic gridiron collapse by his Rebels, the Colonel actually thoroughly enjoyed his weekend.

Some of the Colonel's Ole Miss NROTC classmates were in town for our annual reunion to reminesce, catch up, share sea stories, and give stern (and not-so stern) advice to the current middies in matriculation preparing for careers as naval officers.   The revelry was interrupted by a football game, to which the Colonel dutifully marched and assumed his appointed place of duty.

The Hog fans sitting in front of him seemed pleasant enough and the Colonel felt comfortable enough, when his Rebels had jumped out to an early 17 to nuthin' lead, to reassure them that they would indeed enjoy the rest of the game just as much as Rebel fans had enjoyed the initial quarter of play.

"Y'all don't worry, now.  You're gonna win this football game."

The Arkansas fan squinted out from under his hog hat and gave the Colonel a look the picture of which he is quite sure is in the Diamond State Dictionary alongside the definition of the word "quizzical"

On cue, the Rebels imploded.  Arkansas scored 29 straight points and the game ended in their favor, 29 to 24.

As he bade the Hog fans safe travels home, one turned to the Colonel and asked, "Can you really see the future?"

"No," the Colonel responded, "but I got a great view of the past."
 

Bama Bandwagon Boors

There is nothing more pathetic to the Colonel, not even fair-weather fans, nor even his own perennial passion for lost causes, than a bandwagon fan. 

The Colonel would like to pause at this juncture and thank the many Ole Miss season ticket holders in his section of Vaught-Hemingway Stadium who sold their tickets to Tide fans for last Saturday evening's game.  Were it not for that contemptible act of cowardice and capitalism, the Colonel would not have had the pure joy of having every one of his beliefs regarding Alabama fans confirmed.

It should be said that after cheering lustily for his Rebels' early first quarter successes, the Colonel settled resignedly into his seat and actually admired the play of arguably the finest football team in the land.  His Rebels were trounced by a far superior team, as he expected.  Alabama is awesome.

Their fans..., not so much.

Call him an old-fashioned sportsman, but on the rare occasions that the Colonel has visited other stadiums to watch his Rebels play, and on the even rarer occasions when his Rebels enjoyed success on foreign turf, the Colonel has never dreamed of mouthing off and acting disrespectful to the home fans.  And, anytime the Colonel has witnessed fellow Ole Miss fans crossing that line, he has been quick to provide corrective instruction.

With all that said, the Colonel would like to expose what he believes is the most odious actor in all of sportsfandom.  The Colonel calls him the "Bama Bandwagon Boor."

The Bama Bandwagon Boor doesn't just cheer for his team, which is expected.  He sits in the middle of the other team's fans and taunts them on every play.  

The Bama Bandwagon Boor speaks about Bama's successes in the first person plural, "We're gonna beat y'all lak a drum."   

Most egregious of all, the Bama Bandwagon Boor never set foot in a classroom at the University of Alabama.   

The Colonel is not referring to the those who for whatever reason did not pursue post-secondary education.

The Colonel refers specifically to the despicably disloyal low-life who went somewhere else for his college education, and cheers instead for Alabama.  Nothing else in his life of viewing a plethora of pathetic sights does more to stir the pangs of pity in the Colonel's hardened, shrivelled, walnut-sized heart.

Case in point is the twenty-something preppie punk in Bama colors seated in much too close proximity to the Colonel and his Lady, and their perpetually spring-loaded for a scrap #2 son last Saturday.

Early in the game, obvious pass interference by a Bama defender was ignored by the refs.  It wasn't a close judgement call.  It was blatant.  The Colonel's #2 son loudly complained, "Here we go again."   

The punk began mocking loudly, "Conspiracy, conspiracy!"

#2 leaned in and opined that "even a moron could see" that it had been pass interference.

To which the punk responded, "Who you calling a moron?  I went to Vanderbilt!" 

The Colonel and #2 were stunned speechless at this disloyal punk's brazen admission of his Bama Bandwagon Boor club membership. 

#2 might have been speechless, but the Colonel easily detected that he was on the verge of initiating physical hostilities.  As much as the Colonel loves a good scrap, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda was in attendance and as the punk had yet to cross any line disrespectful of her personally the Colonel didn't want to subject his lady to the spectacle of her men bloodying this boor.  So, the Colonel resorted to the tried and true method of dealing with errant children.  He cranked his facial features into the scornful scowl mastered by few, but common among Marines, put his vocal chords on the stun setting, pointed his bony finger at the punk and commanded, 

"Siddown and SHUT UP!"

The punk Bama Bandwagon Boor blanched and obeyed.

Which leads us to the Colonel's final observation regarding Bama Bandwagon Boors. 

They are cowards.                

Booing the Bear

Alabama is in town tomorrow and the Colonel is praying for a mercifully quick and huge blowout.   The Tide are four touchdown favorites over his Rebels, but the Colonel believes that is giving the Ole Miss squad far too much credit.  Bama's lead will likely be four touchdowns by the end of the first quarter of play.

There are a few perennially positive proponents among the Colonel's friends who view this particular David and Goliath tilt in the same light as others in relatively recent gridiron history wherein the heavily under-dogged Rebels rode a wave of mediocre play less significant that a ripple on one of the Colonel's farm ponds into a contest with a highly ranked team and emerged a miraculous victor.   

Making Tim Tebow cry in the Swamp three years ago, comes to mind.  Florida, the two dozen or so of you who regularly waste valuable rod and cone time perusing posts hereon will remember, went on to win the national championship that year.

But, not even in the Colonel's kindest comparisons can he place the current Rebel football team in league with the '08 nine and four, Cotton Bowl Champions squad.

The Colonel fondly remembers an Ole Miss - Alabama game from the increasingly far distant past that were the halcyon days of his matriculation at the cultural center of the southern universe.  Bear Bryant had achieved great fame (infamy in some quarters) as Bama's coach and he and his team were roundly booed as they took the field at Memorial Stadium in Jackson.  Ole Miss pulled off a 10 - 7 upset and, as it was the Bear's anniversary of the beginning of his air-breathing ride round Ol' Sol, the Ole Miss fans ceased booing the Bear long enough to sing "Happy Birthday" to him.

The Colonel harbors not even the slightest expectation of a similar outcome this year.
  
Oh, and did the Colonel mention that our star running back and half of the starting offensive line have been suspended for the game?  Not that it would have made any appreciable difference against a Bama defensive unit that many pro scouts believe could start in the NFL -- right now.  

The good news for 'Bama is they will be able to save a few bucks this year.  There won't be a need to pay off the refs to steal a close game.

The equally good news for Ole Miss fans is that the game won't be close enough to have it given to the Tide by the refs.  That has happened far too many times and the Rebel fan base's hearts, already stressed by fried chicken clogged arteries and the loss of every beloved tradition that made trudging into the stadium to watch the inevitable second half collapse at least spiritually worth the effort, can't stand many more shocks to the system without suffering complete calamitous collapse.  

However, the Colonel is nothing if not fiercely loyal to his alma mater and its football team; and so, he will trudge into Vaught-Hemingway Stadium tomorrow afternoon, cheer lustily as his Rebels take the field, and remain rooted in his assigned place of duty until the bitter end.

Oh well, at least the Colonel can look forward to booing the bear.   

Microcosm

This past weekend, the Colonel's adopted hometown, the not-so thriving community of Abbeville, Mississippi (Population: 419), held its annual Autumnfest.  The weather obliged with blessedly cooler temperatures worth festing and a good time was had by all.

Abbeville's Autumnfest has something for everyone.  Arts and crafts vendors, food booths selling southern staples from homemade peach ice cream to funnel cakes, bouncy houses for the kiddies, and an after-dark street dance to live music--all packed into space at town center so compact that one can stand anywhere and watch all of the action everywhere.

Yet, after witnessing a handful of Abbeville Autumnfests firsthand, the Colonel has begun to detect the unmistakable texture and taste of a stale cracker.  There is no identity beyond the name of the town, and a palpable sense of going through the motions.

Abbeville is no Mayberry.  It once was.  But "progress" by-passed the town thirty years ago and although residents remain in mostly well-maintained homes, town center is now a hollow shell.  

The Colonel knows full well that the town's leadership will take great umbrage at his descriptions.  They have worked hard to revive Abbeville.  It has thus far failed to respond to resuscitation, despite efforts to refurbish the few remaining buildings that formerly housed businesses.

One could easily say that the poor economy is mostly to blame for Abbeville's plight.  But the truth is Oxford (cultural center of the southern universe and home of Ole Miss), with a plethora of businesses easily serving a relatively prosperous population of permanent residents and university students, is only a fifteen-minute drive down the road which, straightened three decades ago, bypassed Abbeville and left her to dry up like a shallow oxbow cut off from a river's course.  Progress is an unsympathetic beast.

There are some, the Colonel among them, who believe that Abbeville's fires of relevance can be rekindled.  The trick will be to use just enough of the town's history as tinder without burning down all of the traditions and sense of community upon which the present citizens (many of whom have lived in Abbeville their entire, long and short, lives) rest their senses of self.

The problem is that, as with any town, large or small, politics of the personal-power-preservation persuasion all too often displace positive leadership. 

The Colonel doesn't pretend to know the weave of even the first thread of the political tapestry here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere.  There is way too much history, even for this history buff, to understand.  But, he is enough a student of leadership to recognize a people in political paralysis.  

No personal indictments intended by the Colonel.  He knows, loves, and respects many of the actors in the play.  They are good people. 

But the play has no script, no discernible plan for subsequent acts.   

In this, the Colonel's beloved town is no different than most, he guesses. 

And certainly no different than his beloved Republic.

If Abbeville wants to survive it must have a plan to expand. 

So must our Republic.      

National Coffee Day

By whose proclamation the Colonel knows, nor, frankly, cares not, but today in the good ole U.S. of A. is National Coffee Day.

The Colonel can't speak for the rest of the nation, but here, on the grounds of Eegeebeegee, capital of the increasingly less whimsical and increasingly more plausible Tallahatchie Free State, every day is Coffee Day.  Each and every day, seven days a week, thirty (give or take one or two) days a month, twelve months a year.  No day is gainfully begun until the contents of a steaming cup of joe are coursing through the Colonel's bloodstream.

And, here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere the coffee is consumed without pollutants.  No sissified sippers here.  Straight and strong, thank you very much.

The Colonel's preferred mug?  Of the scores in his collection, he's a mite partial to the red one with the gold eagle, globe, and anchor emblazoned on its side.

National Coffee Day, huh?

That ain't near good enough.

By the power invested in him, by him, the Colonel declares that henceforth here in the Tallahatchie Free State every day from daybreak til noon is National Coffee Morning.

Beary Bad Ball

Writing about the plight of one's college football team is a lot like complaining about a persistent rash.  Friends tend to distance themselves and enemies exult.

So, the Colonel apologizes in advance to the dozen or so of you who persist in wasting valuable rod and cone time perusing posts hereon for subjecting you to the following. 

Yesterday at church, the Colonel sat with his pre-service coffee klatch and opined that he was actually heartened that after having been away from the cultural center of the universe here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere for 30 years, he had returned to find Ole Miss football right where he left it upon his graduation  --  mired in mediocrity.

Actually, referring to the current state of Rebel football as mediocrity is an insult to mediocre programs everywhere.

Ole Miss football is, well, just awful.

At times like these, and there are times like these all too often in the life of an Ole Miss football fan, the Colonel is reminded of something credited to Robert E. Lee and paraphrases it here: "It is good that Ole Miss football is so terrible, or else I would grow too fond of it."  

The Colonel could be boorishly snide at this juncture and point out that the gridiron slump coincides with the administration's evisceration of every tradition at the University of Mississippi in the name of political correctness.  But, he won't go there.

Okay, maybe just a short side trip over there.

Long-time Ole Miss mascot Colonel Reb has been banished and replaced by a bear.  Supposedly, finding the bear was the culmination of a free and open mascot search.  However, if one peeks out from under his tin-foil hat for a moment he'll have no problem recognizing the signs of a massive conspiracy that perpetrated this fuzzy fraud on Rebel Nation.  One needs look no further than the rallying cry that began to appear in print coincident with the disrespectful disappearance of Colonel Reb: "Be A Rebel!"

The Colonel will pause briefly to help the Alabama and LSU grads among the few of you upon whose screens this missive has materialized to catch up.  Look at the first four letters of "Be A Rebel."

Keep looking. 

Sound the letters out.

Okay, while the tide and tiger alums work on figuring it out, the Colonel will continue.

Back to the sorry state of Ole Miss football.  With a 1 and 3 start to the season (the one win being an anemic effort against an FCS opponent), even the most fervently faithful and perpetually positive fans are having a hard time calculating how the total in the win column will even match last year's.  (For those of you who mercifully don't closely follow the merciless misery that is Ole Miss football, the win total last year was 4 -- the same as five of the last ten years' result.)  

As a result, Rebel Nation is on the cusp of yet another winter of discontent wherein the following questions will be asked ad nauseum:

1. How much longer will the Harvard of the South (by reciprocal agreement, Harvard is allowed to call itself the Ole Miss of the North) be allowed by the Stalinist purveyors of political correctness to use the appellation: Ole Miss Rebels?  

2.  How much longer will incompetence and ineptitude continue to be the two critical criteria by which athletic directors and coaches are hired at the University of [name of school and state found to be offensive and hereby redacted pending politically correct replacement]?

3.  How much longer will the [offensive title of the author redacted] continue to expend his meager treasure on season tickets?

The [offensive title of the author redacted] loves [offensive name of the state redacted], and can think of nowhere else on [offensive reference to a possessive Deity redacted] Green Earth he would rather live.  It's just a good thing the [offensive reference to a militaristic organization redacted] provided him with lots of training at being miserable.       

Suit Up or Stay on the Porch

During a recent weekend of watching far too much football on TV, the Colonel and # 2 son saw a Marine recruiting commercial, a frame of which featured a recruit exiting a hut in which he and 50 of his closest friends had been exposed to a heavy concentration of tear gas.  The Marine Corps bills this as "an exercise to boost confidence in the standard issue field protective mask."  

Okay.  If you say so. 

The recruit in question is in a condition two short steps from agony.  The tear gas is assaulting every orifice, the eyes being but two of many.  Every pore stings.  Every drop of formerly viscous fluid recently resident in the sinus cavities has achieved a state approximating the flow rate and volume of the Niagara river over American Falls.  With sinus cavity and tear duct evacuation at levels unprecedented in the recruit's young life, the close up picture captures him at one of the least flattering of a whole catalog of unflattering moments in his three months at boot camp.

Demonstrating the arrogance only ignorance can summon, #2 son turned to the Colonel and snidely suggested, "He needs to man up."

For the next twenty-seven and one-half minutes, #2 was on the receiving end of one the Colonel's patented and practiced personal one-on-one "teaching moments."  Said teaching moment reminded #2 that he had little germane experience from which to draw such conclusions and included a play-by-play recreation of the annual gas chamber training required of all Marines.   

At the conclusion of the teaching moment -- "Arethereanyquestions?Ididn'tthinksokeepyourstupidopinionstoyourself!" -- #2 sat in the stunned silence that he and his siblings had practiced and patented as response to many, many of the Colonel's teaching moments over their lives blessed with the presence of the man curmudgeoned before his time. 

Then, a stray synapse fired across the wide gap separating two of the Colonel's few remaining cognitive cells lying fallow in the amorphous goo puddled in a recess of his combination brain-housing-group and cap rack, and the Colonel was reminded of an incident early in his training as a steely-eyed defender of freedom and the American Way.        
     
Too many years ago for him to count -- even removal of footwear will not provide sufficient appendages for enumeration -- the Colonel was assigned collateral duty as the Nuclear, Biological, and Chemical Defense Officer (NBCDO) for the 2d Battalion, 2d Marines.  In order that the Colonel might best perform his duties as NBCDO, he was detailed to a four week course of study at the prestigious institute of higher learning known as the Fleet Marine Force, Atlantic, Nuclear, Biological, and Chemical (FMFLANTNBC) Defense School.  At this school (and the Colonel uses the term "school" in a manner so loose that a newborn's diaper deposit looks like a granite composition by comparison), the Colonel and forty other Marines were educated in the fine arts of chemical agent detection and decontamination, downwind nuclear fallout hazard plotting, and the appropriate wear and care of the (then) state of the art butyl rubber suit.

The butyl rubber suit was the early forerunner of the relatively lightweight HAZMAT suits now in vogue in apocalyptic and post-apocalyptic movies. 

The butyl rubber suit weighed more than the Colonel.  

The entire annual production of two large rubber plantations in IndoChina went into the construction of one butyl rubber suit. 

When conditions called for the wearing of the butyl rubber suit, conditions were bad.  Very bad.

Early in our first week of training, the old salt instructors at the ivy-covered halls of the FMFLANTNBC Defense School regaled the students with tales of how tough and realistic training had been in the "Old Corps" and that one of the most realistic portions of training in the old days was to expose NBC Defense trainees to a live blister agent similar to the mustard agent used in World War I.  As they told us, the blister agent was so caustic in concentration that even the tiniest droplet on the skin would cause a huge blister that in some cases would reoccur on the site for the remainder of the life of the one exposed.  Sure enough, a grizzled old NCO rolled up his sleeve and showed the class a nasty scar on the back of his hand, "It hasn't blistered up in two or three months..."    

At the beginning of week two, the instructors informed the class that permission had been granted by Headquarters to resume student exposure to live agents.  Several members of the class actually "ooorahed!" The Colonel was not among those so easily motivated by the prospect of pain and permanent scarring.

At the beginning of week three, the instructors told the class that a sufficient quantity of live agent had been requisitioned from an Army chemical agent repository and that it should arrive in time for the class to be individually exposed on Friday afternoon.  

At the appointed hour that Friday, the students returned to the classroom following lunch break to find a squad of hospital corpsmen (that's pronounced "core men," Mr. President) lined up in the back, each carrying their large battlefield medical pack.  The head instructor reminded the class of the extreme toxicity of the chemical agent and gave some instructions about remaining motionless when the instructor administered a tiny amount to the back of each student's hand.  He then waved to the back of the room.

Every student turned to look.

A Marine entered through the double doors at the back of the classroom carrying a large jar of liquid.  

He was wearing a butyl rubber suit. 

The butyl rubber suited-Marine carefully carried the large liquid-filled jar to the front of the class, placed it gingerly on a table, and slowly unscrewed the top.  He then dipped a wand into the liquid, dabbed the tiniest of drops onto a large square of cardboard. and then carefully replaced the jar's lid.  The cardboard square was passed around the room for all to examine.

"Marines," intoned the head instructor solemnly, "this tiny amount will cause a severe blister on your skin."  

To emphasize a point that frankly needed little emphasis at this point, a slide projection of a horribly blistered hand flashed on the screen at the front of the classroom. 

A Marine muttered "[expletive deleted] this," and stood as if to leave.

"Siddown, Marine!," bellowed the head instructor.  "This is not a voluntary exercise!"   

The butyl rubber suited Marine returned to the large jar on the table at the front of the classroom and slowly and carefully removed the lid.  He then tucked the slender wand under one arm and picked up the jar in two heavily-gloved hands.  Turning slowly around to face the class, he stepped toward the first row of desks.  

The slender wand slipped out from under his arm.

In one quick motion, the butyl rubber suited Marine attempted to cradle the jar in one arm and attempted to grab the falling slender wand with a free hand.

Both attempts failed. 

The jar's liquid contents sloshed heavily across the front row of students in a scene reminiscent of the splash zone in front of Shamu's tank at Sea World.

Pandemonium.

Unmanly screams.

Loud wailing combining fervent prayer and frequent use of the words [expletive deleted] and [expletive deleted].

At the back of the classroom, a tight knot of ten or twelve Marines attempting to escape the horrors at the front of the classroom, were attempting, at the exact same moment, to exit the four-man wide double doors.

Both attempts failed.

Deep sobbing and other-worldly moans of anguish and despair became suddenly and incongruously mixed with gales of hilarious laughter.  

The Colonel, attempting to extricate himself from the tangle of Marines clogged at the rear exit, and attempting to demonstrate appropriate officer conduct by leading the chemically contaminated classroom exodus from the front (both attempts failing), heard the laughter and deduced that the experience of dying a horrible and excruciating death, in addition to eliciting prayer mixed with the words [expletive deleted] and [expletive deleted], must also cause one to laugh uncontrollably.

The next ten and one-half minutes can only be described as a free-fire zone of expletive-filled indignation, the most frequent refrain being repeated use of the phrase, "That [expletive deleted] ain't right!"   

The Colonel learned an immensely valuable set of lessons that day.

1.  Fear ain't funny, unless you are the one doin' the scarin'.

2.  Marines are heartless fatherless creatures who'll do anything for a laugh.

3.  Never trust a man in a butyl rubber suit.     

The Lost Decade

Ten years ago, this morning, the Colonel put on his uniform and eased bedside to kiss the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda goodbye, before heading to the office.  He hadn't slept.

How could he?

How could anyone?

The last twenty hours had seemed to last weeks. 

A young Marine had tapped on his office door frame the morning before and said simply, "Colonel, you need to turn on your TV."

The set was across the office and rarely on.  Not a good example for the boss to have the boob tube on during working hours, even if it had become a military tradition to keep CNN on to find out where the next hot spot was -- CNN's field reporters had become our best strategic scouts.  He could tell by the look on the Marine's face that there was something big happening and the Colonel waved his permission.

The picture that filled the screen was instantly recognizable, if incongruous.  One of the towers of the World Trade Center was afire at the top, black smoke billowing downwind against a vividly clear sky.  The news anchor was breathlessly and a bit incredulously repeating the first reports that a small plane had accidentally crashed into the tower.  Clear blue skies and huge gash in the building belied that.  The Colonel's worst fears were confirmed only a minute later when the next hijacked airliner bored in on, and exploded into, the South Tower.

Our Nation was under attack.

For the previous two decades the Colonel had been privy in varying degrees to the shadowy, half-hearted battle these re-United States had been fighting against terrorism -- enough to come to the conclusion, shared by many of his fellow military professionals, that our small scale retaliatory actions were doing nothing more than demonstrating a lack of resolve, emboldening the enemy, and feeding a cycle of violence.

That morning, as he sat on the bed beside his Lady, the Colonel was convinced that the nation was about to go to war.  The Colonel quietly told the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda that she needed to be prepared to see her man and their two sons (not then in uniform) go off to fight in what he was sure would be a war rivaling the major wars of the previous century and eclipsing totally the "drive by" that had been the quick campaign to free Kuwait.

"Are you sure?", Miss Brenda asked.

"No doubt in my military mind."  The Colonel answered confidently.  

The Colonel seriously over-estimated the wisdom and fortitude of our nation's political leadership.

Instead of DECLARING and waging WAR on the states fomenting and funding terrorism, our political leaders waged war on their own people, and their rights and freedoms. 

Oh, they talked big:  "You are either with us or against us!"  But, our actions were small and shadowy and ineffective; and we left many, many terrible regimes in place who were solidly "against us."

It has been the Colonel's contention for the better part of the last ten years that the United States was frittering away time, opportunity, blood, and treasure in what has become "The Lost Decade."

A real war, ruthlessly prosecuted against the states backing militant  fascism and using its tactic of terrorism, might just have had the same result as our real war, ruthlessly prosecuted against the militant fascist states that had threatened freedom in the first half of the last century  -- relative peace and unprecedented prosperity for the American people in the second half of the century.  

Oh, and a real war to end the threat of terrorism from militant fascist states would have been OVER six or seven years ago, and would have cost the same if not less than the phony war in which we are currently in the tenth year.

Despite the pandering politicians' pronouncements to the contrary, the Colonel must have you know that we are no more safe from the threats against our liberties and way of life than were we ten years ago.  If anything, we are more at risk than ever.  And, the American people are paying the price for our leaders' (the Colonel uses that word in this context as loose as a newborn's diaper deposit) lack of exceptional American statesmanship.    

But, what does the Colonel know?  He's just a graying centurion who reads history books.       

Happy Birthday, Miss Brenda!

The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda begins her [number censored]th air-breathing trip 'round ol' Sol today.  Born in the year [number censored], the Colonel's Lady has been witness to momentous marvels and marvelous moments in the history of man on this big blue marble.

During her time on the planet:

Two territorial possessions of the Republic were granted Statehood.

Men walked on the moon.

Al Gore invented the Internet and founded a false religion.

The Cold War ended.

The Culture War began.

Elvis died.  Or did he?

Saddam did the stupid. Three times.

Walter Mondale lost 49 states.  Ronald Reagan found them.

Ole Miss won a National Championship in football.  Really.

The United States gave away a canal it built on the isthmus of Panama to a country it created on territory taken from Colombia.  

The United States invaded Cuba, Grenada, Panama, Iraq, and Afghanistan to depose/arrest their leaders.  Four out of five ain't bad.

More than just a passive witness, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda has been a trend-setter and over-achiever from the moment she and her twin sister disembarked from my favorite mother-in-law. 

She is a world traveler. 

She graced the new state of Hawaii with her pre-school presence; lived in Washington, California, New York, New Jersey, and Tennessee as a kid; and then, as a teen, landed in the Panama Canal Zone happily coincident (dare we call it serendipity?) with the arrival of the Colonel to that tropic. 

As spousal support unit to her Marine, the Colonel's Lady has made spartan dwellings happy homes in Virginia (twice), North Carolina (twice), Mississippi (twice), Georgia, Alabama, Hawaii, Rhode Island, South Korea, South Carolina, and Florida  -- in all, EIGHTEEN different abodes adopted and adapted to serve as wonderful, welcoming homes for the Colonel and kids.

She is an organizer par-excellence. 

No church, community, club, school, nor business has experienced her membership without fundamental transformation -- for the good.  Even the Colonel's hen herd has been subject to her organizational will -- eggs are laid with precision placement and perfunctory punctuality.   

She is a consummate care-giver.

The Colonel's Lady is so constantly concerned with the comfort and confidence of others, that the Colonel's numerical call-sign for the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda is "Twelve"  -- she always feels the need to "tend to" others.

The Colonel feels the need to pause as this juncture for the benefit of the 'Bama and LSU grads among the two dozen of you who regularly waste valuable rod and cone time perusing posts hereon, and explain the punchline in the preceding paragraph.  The Colonel will attempt to use the smallest words he can.

Her nickname is "Twelve" because she thinks she must tend to (ten two) others.  

The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda is a talented musician.

She plays the piano and plucks the Colonel's heartstrings.  She is the Colonel's angel -- often up in the air harping about something or another the Colonel has done, or hasn't.

The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda loves the Colonel.  The Colonel reminds her of this often...

...often coincident with the purchase of a new gun or power tool. 

He could go on and on, but suffice it to say the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda is the Colonel's favorite person in the whole wide world.  

Happy Birthday, Miss Brenda!      

Willis A. "Buddy" Hinson, Marine

One of the last of a rapidly diminishing group of living American heroes was laid to rest today.  He was a charter member of the Greatest Generation; more than fulfilling his duty to his nation in his youth and yet active until his death as a champion of causes great and small.  He was eulogized by his pastor as a man who always "took care of things;" at the age of 89 he remained on the go and always in service.

Willis A. Hinson  (Buddy to his friends and Great Uncle Buddy to the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda) was one of that rare breed of men who early in their adult lives recognize that there are indeed things worth fighting for and that a small minority of hard men are needed to fight for the rest.  At the age of eighteen, more than a year before Pearl Harbor, Buddy Hinson enlisted in the United States Marine Corps.  For his twentieth birthday Uncle Sam gave Buddy an all-expense-paid trip to the South Pacific.

By the summer of 1942, the Imperial Japanese Army had earned an aura of invincibility--they had virtually steamrolled every Allied force in their way from China to the Philippines to Singapore.  The inexorable Japanese march south had reached the last rim of islands to the north of Australia -- the Solomons -- and there seemed nothing to prevent invasion.  There were scant Australian forces available to defend against the impending attack -- most of Australia's military manpower was fighting Rommel's Afrika Corps in the deserts of North Africa.

Enter Buddy Hinson and several thousand of his closest friends.

In August of 1942, the woefully understrength and ill-equipped 1st Marine Division was thrown ashore on the key island in the Solomons -- Guadalcanal.  The Japanese had been constructing a large forward airbase on Guadalcanal from which to support future operations against Australia.  Buddy Hinson was a machinegunner with the 2d Battalion, 7th Marine Regiment (2/7) of the 1st Marine Division.  The U.S. Navy landed the 1st Marine Division with the mission to seize and hold the airfield, and steamed away.

The Imperial Japanese Army and Navy had a problem with that.

For the next three months, the American Marines, soldiers, and airmen holding tenuously to the former Japanese airfield endured unimaginable horrors as the Japanese threw everything at the mud-mired men but the kitchen sink.  Ferocious Japanese naval bombardment preceded determined land assaults by increasingly larger and larger Japanese army forces against the American perimeter.

At the end of October, 1942, a final do or die assault was mounted by the Japanese.  On the afternoon of the 23rd of October, Marine commanders detected a Japanese force massing on a hitherto unassailed flank and hurriedly repositioned 2/7 on a low ridge of hills astride the expected Japanese avenue of approach.  The battalion commander placed his 33-man machingun section on a spur that extended off the ridge and had a field of fire covering the expected Japanese line of attack.  The Marines got into position as darkness fell and had very little time to dig in and prepare defensive positions.

Fast forward to the first, and last, sadly, time the Colonel got to spend any time talking with Buddy Hinson -- about six years ago.  The Colonel knew Buddy had been a World War Two-era Marine, but not much else about his service.  Buddy and the Colonel participated in a quick round of chest-thumping traditional among Marines and then Buddy sharpened his eyes and leaned in,

"You ever heard of Mitchell Paige?"  

Ever heard of him!?!  Mitchell Paige was among the pantheon of legendary figures the exploits of whom young Marines memorized like favorite bedtime stories.  The Colonel knew that Platoon Sergeant Paige had received the Congressional Medal of Honor for his valor during a particularly brutal fight on Guadalcanal and had gone on to serve a distinguished career; retiring as a Colonel.

"Yessir!" The Colonel answered Uncle Buddy. 

"Well, I served with Mitchell Paige on Guadalcanal."   

The Colonel pressed him for more, but true to the character of his generation, Uncle Buddy gave little other information about the most significant event in his life.  But, the Colonel could tell there was a great story behind those sharp eyes.

To his discredit, the Colonel quickly forgot about the incident, until the other day when he heard that Uncle Buddy had passed away.

The Colonel began a crash course on the Guadalcanal exploits of Willis A. Hinson.  The Colonel was amazed at what he found.

Platoon Sergeant Mitchell Paige's 33-man machinegun section was positioned at the very point at which the Japanese commander had marked for his forces to assault and penetrate the Marine lines.  When the assault came at 0200 on the morning of 26 October 1942, Paige was on the right flank by the #1 machinegun and Buddy Hinson was on the left flank, manning the #2 machinegun.

Within minutes nearly every Marine in Paige's outfit were dead or severely wounded.  Early in the fight Paige looked over to see Hinson fall from a head wound, and then moments later looked back to see Buddy back on his gun, operating a 3-man weapon singlehandedly. 

Suffering from his severe head wound, short of ammo, and now the lone Marine alive on his end of the line, Hinson followed his last order from Paige and put his gun out of action before crawling back to the rear.

The Japanese pouring through the gap in the lines beat Buddy back to the rear and were advancing on the Battalion command post.  Paige was still on his ridge, now behind the advancing Japanese.  He picked up a weapon and took the Japanese under fire, blunting the attack enough to allow an adhoc Marine counterattack force to form and begin to push the Japanese back.  Paige picked up an eighty-pound, 3-man, water-cooled machinegun, cradled it in his arms and joined in the counterattack which re-established the Marine defensive line.  THE STUFF OF LEGEND.

At the ceremony at which Paige was presented with the Medal of Honor, he deflected credit from himself and heaped praise on the men, Buddy Hinson among them, who fought and fell in that climactic battle.

Others have told the Colonel that Buddy used to joke that, "Paige got a parade; I got a pat on the back."  Still, Hinson was devoted to his wartime leader until Paige's death in 2003; and to Paige's memory until his own death this week.    

Until Guadalcanal, the Imperial Japanese Army had never been beaten.  On Guadalcanal, a few great Americans stood toe to toe with the cream of the Japanese military...and won.  After Guadalcanal, eventual American victory over the Empire of Japan was never in doubt.

The Colonel had the honor of telling Mitchell Paige's and Buddy Hinson's battle story this morning at Uncle Buddy's funeral service.  The Colonel is quite certain that Uncle Buddy is now guarding heaven's gates and that the Colonel will have to answer someday to Uncle Buddy for telling a story Hinson would rather not have been told. 

The Colonel is looking forward to the butt-chewin'.       

Public Enemy

The Colonel has found out a great deal about himself recently and would like to thank the kind folks who so civilly and courteously enlightened him.

1.  The Colonel is a terrorist. 

Of all the "ists" he has been called, this one comes as quite a surprise.  Still the Colonel would like to extend his thanks to an unnamed member of the Democratic Caucus of the House of Representatives for making him aware of this fact.  It must be a fact, because the Vice President of the United States was the person to whom the comment was directed and he not only did not chide the congressman (as he surely would have done, were the Colonel not a terrorist) but he is reported (by another Democrat congressman in the room) to have agreed with the assessment.  The Colonel is a terrorist.

2.  The Colonel has Democratic Congresswoman Maxine Waters' permission to take a noncircuitous trip to Hell. 

The Colonel was heretofore not aware that Congressional permission was required for such a trip, and thanks the gentlelady's gracious grant of such.  Heck, Hell can't be much worse than Mississippi in August..., or California anytime, for that matter. 

3.  The Colonel is a hostage-taker.

There was a time when he was part of an elite organization whose missions included in-extremis hostage rescue, and the Colonel is chagrined to learn that he must now retrain. 

4.  Jesse Jackson says the Colonel is actually a neo-klansman.

This, too is quite disconcerting.  Heretofore in posts hereon, the Colonel has vociferously denounced the Ku Klux Klan and it's mouthbreathing, sister-chasin' members. 

(Good thing the Colonel doesn't have a sister.) 

5.  The Colonel is really an enemy of the state.

Democratic Representative Frederica Wilson, she of snappy red cowboy hat wearin' fame, says that the real enemy is the Colonel.  The Colonel assumes she means that he is no longer bound by the oath he took nearly four decades ago to "support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies foreign and domestic."  If this is true, it actually comes as quite a relief -- there are so many churlish characters currently undermining our Constitution that the Colonel has been in quite a quandary over where to start to "defend the Constitution against all enemies" and was beginning to feel a bit guilty about his inability to prosecute an adequate defense.

There has been one recent description of the Colonel that he already knew about himself.  President Obama described the Colonel a while back as clinging to his faith and his guns.

He got that right.

Storm Warning

The novel the Colonel has been working on supposes a Category III hurricane hitting the Northeast megalopolis -- overwhelming the Feds -- followed in a couple of weeks by a 7.8 temblor on the New Madrid fault. 

So much for originality...

News of the 5.8 earthquake that rattled the East Coast today is taking up all of the oxygen in the room, but the Colonel's eyes have been glued to a hurricane gathering steam south of the Bahamas.  Hurricane predicted paths five days out are notoriously inaccurate. 

But, this much is clear:

If a Category IV hurricane races up the Eastern Seaboard this week, or any week, there is great potential for a disaster that will make Katrina pale white in comparison.

The following Forward extract from the Colonel's book in progress (working title: "Tallahatchie") provides a concise 200 year history of hurricanes hitting the vicinity of New York City.

"Three years after the earthquake series [New Madrid, 1811/12] that struck the middle Mississippi Valley, a Saffir-Simpson Scale Category 3 hurricane struck New York City, washing over Long Island and dramatically rearranging the barrier island features.  Another even stronger Category 4 storm, the so-called Norfolk and Long Island Hurricane struck the city in 1821, swamping Manhattan under a 13 foot tidal surge.  Seventy-two years later a mere Category 2 hurricane made landfall on Long Island and completely washed away a mile long barrier island and brought waste deep water to the streets of Brooklyn.  One and a half million inhabitants were eyewitnesses.  

 

In September of that year a hurricane formed off the west coast of Africa and rapidly grew to Category 5 strength.  The monster storm roared straight west across the Atlantic until it was north of the Bahamas and then turned north.  On the afternoon of September the 21^st, only a couple of hours short of astronomical high tide, the storm sliced across the middle of Long Island, having weakened to a strong Category 3.  Still, the hurricane carried with it a storm surge in excess of fourteen feet.  Making landfall as it did to the east of Manhattan, the city only experienced 75 mile per hour winds and minor flooding as winds backed up the East River.  The Eastern end of Long Island, on the storm’s stronger right side, took the brunt of the storm.  Barrier islands and inlets were rearranged; roads and structures washed away, and 100 people lost their lives.  The storm barreled north across Long Island Sound and bulls-eyed the city of Westerly, Rhode Island.  The eastern quadrant of the storm pushed full moon and Autumnal Equinox tides straight up Narragansett Bay and poured thirteen feet of water into downtown Providence.  Although on the weaker western side of the hurricane, water piling up in Long Island Sound inundated Connecticut’s coastal cities and caused the most damage from a natural disaster in that entity’s 350 year history.  By the time the storm tracked over Massachusetts and New Hampshire and then dissipated over Ontario, Canada, nearly 800 people were dead.  The storm destroyed or severely damaged 30,000 dwellings, destroyed 25,000 automobiles, and severely disrupted rail and road transportation for weeks.

Today, the behemoth megalopolis that is New York and the major cities to its north and south, and whose built-up areas merge and extend nearly without interruption from Washington, DC to Boston, is home to three times the population that existed in 1938.  The building boom that ensued after the Second World War has increased the density and subsequent vulnerability of the infrastructure in the region by a factor of 10...  "

Finding Miss Brenda

As the two dozen or so of you who regularly waste valuable rod and cone time perusing posts hereon will recall, the Colonel's vast holdings are situated just north of the cultural center of the universe and home of the Harvard of the South (by reciprocal agreement, Harvard is allowed to call itself the Ole Miss of the North): Oxford, Mississippi.

Oxford is a wonderful place; a delightfully traditional, yet understatedly progressive (in the best, not political, sense of that word) town whose resident population doubles and halves with the convening and adjourning of classes at the school for which the town's founders named itself to attract the state's grant of it's flagship university one and two-thirds centuries ago.  There are times in the year when it is a pure joy to amble through town, cruise it's byways, and frequent its stores and shops.  But, anyone who has lived in this area for more than a year knows that there are times when it is just plain prudent not to get on the road and go to town if you can avoid it.   

Last Friday -- Move-In Day for the population-doubling attendees of Ole Miss' Fall Semester -- was one of those days.

The Colonel's consort, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda, evidently didn't get the memo.  And the Colonel, willfully oblivious to specific times and dates -- with the exception of the time for sunrise and sunset and the opening dates of the college football and hunting seasons -- agreed, in his calendar ignorance and preference not to do chores outside in the sauna of August in Mississippi, to accompany his Lady on her bi-weekly shopping foray.

Traffic was gridlocked on every major artery into and out of Oxford. 

Actually, "gridlocked" is an understatement that does not account for the antics of hundreds of coeds in SUVs attempting to rewrite the laws of physics.  Where only a week before, the Colonel had cruised contentedly and with so little competition for lane space that he could dawdle and gawk at the beauty of a southern town in quiet, unhurried serenity, there now existed a clogged river of revving engines and unblinking brake lights.

The Colonel sat patiently at a traffic light through a half dozen cycles, and then turned to his bride, "Do you trust me, Honey?"

"Of course not!  What are going to do with my car?  Don't do something stupid!"

With that ringing endorsement bolstering his confidence, the Colonel gunned the engine, leaned on the horn, and executed a series of tire-squealing turns that so startled two dozen motorists in close proximity that two dozen other drivers not in close proximity heard through their cell phones loud gasps followed by the unmistakable sound of a cell phone hitting the floorboard.

Notwithstanding the distracting harmonic blend of high-pitched tire squeal and high-pitched female screech resonating in his ear drums, the Colonel managed to reorient 90 degrees, dart down a little known sidestreet (little known because it isn't exactly a street), squeeze through an alley, and zig-zag across a parking lot to reach their intended destination.

"You're going to get a ticket!"

"Not likely; ain't no cop gonna try that move!"

The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda was still complimenting her man's driving skill as they walked into Kroger, "I can't believe you did that!  You never cease to amaze me!"

The Colonel reached for his lady's hand to thank her for her compliment but she brushed his hand away.  Obviously, she didn't feel worthy to even hold his hand.

Inside the store, 27.3% of the female student population of the state's flagship university were cramming the aisles making a run on Lean Cuisine and Diet Mountain Dew.  Miss Brenda sent the Colonel to grab a bunch of bananas while she navigated down the bread aisle.  Upon completion of his mission, the Colonel turned to reacquire target lock on Miss Brenda and was dismayed to discover that she wasn't anywhere in sight.

The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda has long since mastered the art of instantaneous in-store disappearance.  The Colonel can turn his head for just the most minute of moments and Miss Brenda will vanish into thin air in a move not even David Copperfield could replicate.  When that happens, the Colonel has learned that the smartest thing to do is to go hang out in the sporting goods department and let Miss Brenda find him.

Kroger doesn't have a sporting goods department.

They got everything else.  Tools.  School supplies.  Flowers.  Light bulbs.  Kitty litter.    

But, they ain't got a gun, fishin' pole, nor carton of stink bait in the whole place. 

"Don't panic," the Colonel told himself, surveying the sea of petite young ladies into which his bride had disappeared.  "Just look for the prettiest lady in the store."



When the Colonel got tired of that, he decided it was time to go find Miss Brenda.     

Borrowing is for the Birds

The Colonel's ornithological passion and enlightened desire to provide help for the least among the residents of his rump republic is beginning to reveal unintended consequences.  There is palpable fear here aboard the Colonel's vast holdings at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere that currying favor with the feathered fauna on the grounds of Eegeebeegee is creating a dependency class for whose provision the resources of the Tallahatchie Free State are increasingly stressed to sustain.

Take, for example, the state bird of the Colonel's virtuous and less and less virtual republic, founded as much hand-on-wallet as tongue-in-cheek: the ruby-throated hummingbird.

From the first of April through the end of October each year, the grand gardens adjacent to the Big House play host to a hummer host whose natural numbers have swollen to unnatural levels due to several large sugar-water feeders that attract veritable buzzing clouds of the diminutive hovering jewels.  So many hummingbirds have habituated to the handout that the Colonel's grocery bill swells seasonally with the addition of several tons [literary license warning light blinking] of sugar with which he daily replenishes the dole. 

With so many handout-habituated hummingbirds hovering hungrily [abnormal alliteration alarm sounding] above the grounds of the capital of the Tallahatchie Free State, their notorious territorially anti-social behavior is manifested exponentially.  Above the ever-present hum of scores of pairs of wings, a shrill chatter of complaint about disrespect rises and falls as the tiny birds crowd in constant contention at the limited leads to the Colonel's largess.  It is a good thing that hummingbirds are of such limited mass and without the means to ignite flames or carry markers, else the Colonel would fear for a feathered flash mob of arson, looting, and vandalism.  

"Cut 'em off!," the callously conservative, yet otherwise kind-hearted Miss Brenda cries.  "They can fend for themselves quite well!" 

"Too cruel!," the Colonel counters.  "Besides, they love me.  See how they flock around me when I refill the feeders?"

"They're eating us out of house and home!," the Colonel's consort complains.

"Don't worry," the Colonel mollifies his mate, "I'll go borrow some sugar from the neighbors."

"They'll eventually stop loaning you sugar," the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda warns.

"Have no fear, my dear, I'll plant some sugar cane."

"Where?"

"Why, in the fenced-in garden, of course.  Can't have the critters eatin' all the cane."

"Where are we going to grow our vegetables then?  We have a lot of mouths to feed, right now."

"C'mon, Miss Brenda, we'll worry about that next year..."

Dakota Meyer, Marine

"The President of the United States in the name of the Congress takes pleasure in presenting the

 MEDAL OF HONOR

to

CORPORAL DAKOTA L. MEYER
UNITED STATES MARINE CORPS

 
For service as set forth in the following

For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the repeated risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty as a member of Marine Embedded Training Team 2-8, Regional Corps Advisory Command 3-7, in Kunar Province, Afghanistan, on 8 September 2009. When the forward element of his combat team began to be hit by intense fire from roughly 50 Taliban insurgents dug-in and concealed on the slopes above Ganjgal village, Corporal Meyer mounted a gun-truck, enlisted a fellow Marine to drive, and raced to attack the ambushers and aid the trapped Marines and Afghan soldiers. During a six hour fire fight, Corporal Meyer single-handedly turned the tide of the battle, saved 36 Marines and soldiers and recovered the bodies of his fallen brothers. Four separate times he fought the kilometer up into the heart of a deadly U-shaped ambush. During the fight he killed at least eight Taliban, personally evacuated 12 friendly wounded, and provided cover for another 24 Marines and soldiers to escape likely death at the hands of a numerically superior and determined foe. On his first foray his lone vehicle drew machine gun, mortar, rocket grenade and small arms fire while he rescued five wounded soldiers. His second attack disrupted the enemy’s ambush and he evacuated four more wounded Marines. Switching to another gun-truck because his was too damaged they again sped in for a third time, and, as turret gunner, killed several Taliban attackers at point blank range and suppressed enemy fire so 24 Marines and soldiers could break-out. Despite being wounded, he made a fourth attack with three others to search for missing team members. Nearly surrounded and under heavy fire he dismounted the vehicle and searched house to house to recover the bodies of his fallen team members. By his extraordinary heroism, presence of mind amidst chaos and death, and unselfish devotion to his comrades in the face of great danger, Corporal Meyer reflected great credit upon himself and upheld the highest traditions of the Marine Corps and the United States Naval Service."

Affection Reflection

Thirty-five years ago this past weekend, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda made the biggest mistake of her life and the result was the best thing that could have ever happened to the Colonel.

On Sunday, the 31st of July, the Colonel and his lady celebrated the 35th anniversary of their wedding.  

For about twenty years now, the Colonel and Miss Brenda have brought the house down with the following routine:

Innocent Questioner:  "So, how long have you two been married?"

The Colonel:  "Thirty-five years...[2-beat pause for maximum comedic effect]; three of the best years of our lives."

[4-beat pause while IQ and any interested by-standers trade puzzled looks]

The Comely and Kind-hearted Miss Brenda:  "Those were the years he was deployed."

Gets 'em every time.

In what is sure to become a highly anticipated annual ritual, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda sat with the Colonel for a rare quiet and reflective interlude Sunday afternoon. 

With five adults and two pre-schoolers under the roof,  the two dozen of you who regularly waste valuable rod and cone time perusing posts hereon have no idea how rare quiet and reflective interludes are here at the Big House aboard the Colonel's vast and well-defended holdings at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere.

The Colonel and his Lady sat for nearly an hour recalling, recounting, and remembering where they were on each of their wedding anniversaries; beginning with the first (and certainly not the last) spent separated--he at Officer Candidate School in Quantico, Virginia and she ensconced in a tiny efficiency apartment on campus at Ole Miss.  Many anniversaries were coincident with duty station moves.  Many others were remembered for being the first with a particular child, or without that child as he or she left the nest.

The Colonel and Miss Brenda chuckled at the memory of the tenth anniversary trip to the Bahamas.  While checking through customs, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda clung tightly to the Colonel's arm and gushed to the customs agent, "It's our tenth anniversary!"  

The agent looked up from the paperwork and dead-panned, "I...don't...care."

There must be a government gulag somewhere in North Dakota, to which all prospective Customs and TSA agents are sent to strip them of all humanity, feeling, and common sense. 

The Colonel made a point of reminding the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda that for their 20th, he took her to Hawaii...and they got to stay for three years.  She made an even sharper point of reminding the Colonel that she was not a beach person and that Hawaii is a great place to visit, but an even greater place from which to return.  The Colonel thereafter refrained from attempting to convince his Lady that she had been fortunate to have been married to a roguishly handsome soldier of the sea whose postings took her to far-flung exotic locales about which most others only read.  

Truth is, the Colonel has been the fortunate one.