And Then There Were Five

A little over thirty years ago, the Colonel and his Lady, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda, conducted an after-action review of their attack to achieve life goals they had set not long after they had become a steady couple.  

Their early attraction had turned to addiction and instead of attempting to kick the habit, the Colonel and Miss Brenda had decided to make a life of it.  They dreamed together, and the longer they dreamed the more those shared dreams became shared goals.  Anyone who is blessed with the extreme good fortune of knowing the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda knows that once she sets her heart and head on something the world just needs to get off the tracks and let the Brenda train roll on through.

By the time they had been married eight years, the Colonel and Miss Brenda had pretty much put checks in all of the goal boxes on the Gregory Family timeline.

Finish college. Check.

Start a career.  Check.

Actually, those were Miss Brenda's personal goals.  The Colonel didn't really go to college -- he went to Ole Miss -- and serving as a Marine infantry officer wasn't as much a career as it was perpetual play time with rather dangerous activities and a more than likely opportunity for loss of limb or life.  

Good times...

The Colonel digresses.

So, thirty years ago, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda reminded the Colonel that there was a rather large box still to be checked on the timeline for the Ed and Brenda Show.

See, as far as the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda was concerned the early goals were set in concrete by now and the Brenda Train was barrelling down the track...  

Oh, did the Colonel mention that the goals included three children -- two boys and a girl?

Yeah, well, the Colonel will proudly state for the record that he is incapable of producing anything but male progeny (and, so far, male grand-progeny).  Two boys joined the family in rapid succession and it became clear that if the Colonel and the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda were going to include a little girl in the gang (per the set-in-concrete life goals), it was going to require actions outside of the traditional birds and bees route.

The Colonel and his Lady decided to adopt.

A year later, 29 years ago -- today, a precious four and a half-year- old little girl joined, and completed, the family.  

Her Chinese name was unpronounceable, so the four voted on a 'murican name for the fifth.

Jessica Ann.

The Colonel likes to think that God had that planned all along.     



    

Finding Soldierly Solace

The Colonel has been officially retired from the United States Marine Corps for an even dozen years now. 

After spending the better part of three decades immersing himself completely in the role and mindset of a warfighter, the first several years out of uniform were..., well..., difficult.

The Colonel spent the first year -- the entire year, everyday -- fishing.

He was living in Panama City, Florida.  What else could anyone expect the Colonel to do?  The Colonel and his boat, SemperFish, became as one.  They glided the bays and bayous in self-imposed solitude, seeking elusive finned quarry and finding a measure of solace the need for which the Colonel was initially unaware.

In fact, as excited as he was to finally take off the pack, the Colonel grieved for several years after leaving active duty.

He grieved loss of daily contact with Marines -- men and women with whom the Colonel shared bonds unfathomable to the uninitiated.  

He grieved loss of a worthwhile mission.  There was nothing in his new civilian life that provided the meaning and adrenal gland workout of preparing young men for battle -- on any battlefield. 

He grieved loss of identity.  The Colonel had achieved rank and authority far beyond his wildest dreams and further beyond the wildest imagination of anyone who knew him in the less-than-stellar early years of his career.   When he put in his papers, the Colonel was commanding a regiment of Marines recruiting a new battalion of young men and women for service as Marines every month.  The Colonel went from the dead sprint of that challenge to the slovenly loaf of a fisherman overnight.  He soon began to wonder who he was.   

And, then, when he got most of the way through the grieving process, the Colonel re-engaged.  He was too old and set in his military ways to learn to be a true civilian, but he figured he could mold and shape enough of his military mind and mindset into acceptable thought and behavior for success in the civilian world.

It worked.  To a point.

But, the strain of adapting to the slovenly thought and behavior widely acceptable in the civilian sector, and the constant stress of navigating the minefields of political correctness and others' "feelings," proved too much for the Colonel's self-discipline, and when the cracks began to appear they rapidly widened into chasms from which toxic anti-social molten ejecta spewed and set fire to so many of the Colonel's carefully crafted military to civilian bridges that no retreat back to normalcy was possible.  
   
So, the Colonel withdrew from the civilian battlefield.

And, now, he finally thinks he's found his place.  He doesn't fit in anywhere and he doesn't care.

Don't pity the Colonel.  Or do.  He doesn't care.

The Colonel doesn't hate you.  He just doesn't care.  He hopes and prays the best for you, but he doesn't care what you hope and pray for him.

The Colonel doesn't even care what you think about what he writes...


...just don't stop reading, okay?   



    

One of Those Mornings

It's one of those mornings.

It's Monday, but the Colonel has never hated Mondays.  His (semi) adult career was actually so much fun and most often so rewarding that the Colonel really looked forward to getting back together post-weekend with some of the greatest people, and finest story-tellers, on the planet.

No mistake, the Colonel loved him some weekends.  All Marines live for the weekend...; well..., Marines live to FIGHT -- anywhere, anytime, against anybody -- but, making it to the weekends (or any break in training for that fight) was always the unspoken goal of the week.

The Colonel liked Mondays because many of the Marines with whom he worked always had great weekend liberty stories to tell with great relish and little regret.

Since he retired, and then re-retired to the farm here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere, the Colonel has come to view Mondays as pretty much the same as any other day of the week.

In fact, what DAY of the week it happens to be matters so little to the Colonel anymore that the only reason he even has a calendar  is to keep track of hunting and college football seasons.

More than anything else nowadays, the weather determines the Colonel's daily activities.  

This morning it's raining -- for the first time in what seems like a month of Mondays.  It has been so dry here aboard the Colonel's vast holdings that Lake Brenda has passed quickly through the pond and puddle stage and is bordering on the stage for which the appellation "mudflat" is most appropriate.  The Colonel's catfish are growing legs and heading north -- with or without documentation.

Rainy mornings didn't used to be any deterrence to the Colonel's mission of preparing young men to travel to exotic lands, meet new people, and... win hearts and minds.  The Colonel was raised by hard men whose mantra was "If it ain't rainin', we ain't really trainin'."

But the Colonel is no longer in the business of preparing young men for deployment abroad and employment in the manly art of breaking things and wreaking havoc in the homeland of the Republic's enemies.  If it's rainin', the Colonel's writin'.

And so, he has. 

The Force Slept

In case you might have missed the biggest news in years, the Colonel will let you in on one of the worst kept secrets of all time...

A new Star Wars movie is coming out.

The Colonel remembers, vaguely, watching the first movie in the summer of 1977 -- 38 years ago.

Thirty-eight years!

There's been a lot of gravel crunched under the Colonel's boots since that summer.  And, a lot of mud squished, sand squenched, and dirt disturbed into great clouds of choking dust.

But enough about the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's housekeeping...

The summer the first movie came out the Colonel was participating in a six-week sleep deprivation study on the banks of Chopawamsic Creek at Marine Corps Base Quantico, closely supervised by a score of sanctioned sadists skilled in the fine art of mental manipulation and menial task motivation.  

A year later, the Colonel and the 250 other rising college seniors participating in this right of passage would be commissioned second lieutenants in the United States Marine Corps.  But, for now, the title was "Candidate" and it was not a particularly prestigious title.

Toward the end of that not-so delightful detour in what had been an otherwise carefree college career, the candidates of Bulldog 77 were granted 18 hours of liberty.  Most found a quiet place to eat a leisurely meal and then spent the balance of their free time catching up on their sleep.  A few came back to the barracks raving about a science fiction movie for which they had sacrificed three hours of their precious free time.  

The Colonel knows, the movie was only two hours long.  But, this was in the days before multiplexes and the line to see this movie on the one screen in the theater was around the block.  So, seeing Star Wars that summer was a three-hour experience.

That night, after lights-out in the 50-man squad bay, one of the candidates who had seen the movie announced in his best Obi-wan voice, "use the force, Luke," and switched on his flashlight. Another candidate switched on his flashlight, and breathed hoarsely, "the force is strong with this one."

The two candidates leaped from their bunks and closed on each other swinging their flashlight beams with a low hum.  As they swung their beams together they both made a crashing noise...

You get the picture.

The squad bay filled with low laughter.  Most of us weren't sure what we were laughing about.  Some of us were laughing because we knew what was about to happen next.

Suddenly the lights blazed on and the flashlight duelists froze as a gravelly voice boomed from the now wide open double doors at the end of the squad bay.  

"What kinda fairy dance are you two fools doing!  C'mere!  Front leaning rest position, move!"   

The two candidates scampered front and center and dropped into the push-up position.

"Begin!"

Obi-wan and Darth began four-count push-ups, counting each move of the exercise and each repetition out loud.

The Marine gunnery sergeant who had been the bane of our existence that long hot summer stepped between the two exercising candidates and strode a half dozen steps further into the squad bay.

"I heard laughing!  Who was laughing at my two fairy dancers!"  

From the far end of the squad bay, a candidate, erroneously emboldened with the knowledge that graduation was only a few days away, let out a loud and obviously fake snore.

Forty-seven candidates, save the snorer and the still counting exercisers, lay tensely still and quiet in their racks, anticipating the command to "Get on line!"  

Seconds ticked by.  

"Snoooore..."

"One, two, three, twenty-eight..."

The command to get out of the rack and line up in the center of the squad bay never came.

Instead, our demonic drill instructor only quietly commanded Obi-wan and Darth to "recover."   The lights went out, and a voice that was far too human bid, "Goodnight, candidates.  Reveille is 0330."  

Four days later, the Colonel and four of his Ole Miss NROTC (Marine Option) buddies were headed back to Mississippi leaner and meaner than ever.  Stopping overnight in Knoxville, the five decided to take in a movie.  

The Colonel fell dead asleep somewhere shortly after "these are not the droids you're looking for."    

                    

  

Calling Out Rebel Nation

The announced attendance was just north of sixty thousand, but if you can prove there were any more than two-thirds that number actually in the stands at Vaught-Hemingway Saturday to watch Ole Miss take on New Mexico State, the Colonel will give you a free swing at his scowl and jowl-shrouded jaw and give you fifteen minutes to drum up a good crowd to watch you take your best shot.

The Florida Gators chomped down hard on the Colonel's Rebels' special season hopes last week and their teeth did more deflating than the ball-boy in the Patriot's locker room.  On the way to Gainesville last week, Rebel Nation was feeling the rare high of a top five ranking and liking their chances to represent the SEC West in the title game.  Late Saturday night, a week ago, those dreams crawled mauled from the Swamp and limped back to Oxford like the remains of Pickett's division retreating from Cemetery Ridge.

But, holy apocalypse, Batman, the world didn't end.  The season's not over.  The Rebels are still 5 and 1.  A trip to Atlanta is still possible...  

...might be to play in the Peach Bowl, but, the good news is TCU will likely not get left out of the final four this year and take out their frustrations on us, again.   

Rebel Nation is quite possibly the most cynically fickle collection of fair-weather fans in the history of collegiate sport.   Our football team is playing some of the best ball that has been seen here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere since Johnny Vaught won four National Championships, and we can't be bothered to show up and cheer for 'em on a glorious fall day with which God specifically blessed Oxford.  

Yeah..., we were pouty-face disappointed our boys didn't defend their there-to-fore undefeated season against Florida any better than the French army defended Paris in the summer of 1940.  And, yeah..., it was a truly terrible New Mexico State team that made the trip from several thousand square miles of kitty litter to several thousand square miles of kudzu to be the Homecoming hors d' oerves.   

But, true fans SHOW UP.   And, true fans STAY.

Okay, the Colonel will admit that he left the Tennessee-Martin game early.  But, the Colonel is old and it was 157 and 1/2 degrees in the stands.  He was sweating like an old, bald Marco Rubio, and grandson #2 had a belly ache that might have had something to do with rapid ingestion of four pounds of cotton candy while sitting in a sauna.

The Colonel will have you know, however, that he and the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda stayed to the end of game yesterday -- even if it was about as exciting as a Spring Game.

The Colonel takes that back.  Seeing Archie Manning catch a football thrown up to his sky box from the student section was pretty exciting.  Students caught a ball that the PAT net didn't and the most noise all game came from the game of "keep the ball away from security."  Archie threw the ball back to the students -- wonder who it was that was last person to catch a pass from a Manning in the Vaught...       

Speaking of Archie...  Rebel Nation loves to recount the glories of his tenure under center, and how fans faithfully filled the stands to watch his exploits.  We fail to remember, however, that Mr. Manning's Rebels only won seven games his senior season.

Of course, playing with a broken arm might have contributed to the loss column significantly, but you get my point.

Or, maybe you don't.  The Colonel knows there are at least a few readers of his barely literate swill that are rabid Bama Bandwagon Boors, or equally rabid and just as pitiable bandwagon LSU fans, and are so used to win-filled seasons (even if you won't admit that is the only reason you are a Bama or LSU fan) that you can't conceive of not going to a game if you had season tickets.    

At any rate, loyalty ranks right up there with integrity in the Colonel's character estimation.  

See you in the Vaught, Rebel Nation.       

The Colonel Ain't Modern

There's a foul, simpering creature masquerading as an American man nowadays.  The Colonel calls 'em YUCKs -- Yankee Urban Civilian Knuckleheads.  Recently, a YUCK gained some wildly undeserved attention by opining on the attributes of "the modern man" in the New York Times.  Said YUCK's opinions are enumerated below, interspersed with the Colonel's not-so humble ripostes.

1. When the modern man buys shoes for his spouse, he doesn’t have to ask her sister for the size. And he knows which brands run big or small.

-- The Colonel doesn't buy shoes for the Comely and Kind-hearted Miss Brenda.  But, he does know she wears a size 6 in muck boots.

2. The modern man never lets other people know when his confidence has sunk. He acts as if everything is going swimmingly until it is.

-- The Colonel's confidence never sinks.  He sinks other's confidence.

3. The modern man is considerate. At the movie theater, he won’t munch down a mouthful of popcorn during a quiet moment. He waits for some ruckus.

-- The Colonel rarely subjects himself to the enhanced interrogation technique that is attendance at a movie along with the flotsam and jetsam of modern American society; and, when he does, he ain't paying three bucks for ten cents worth of popcorn.

4. The modern man doesn’t cut the fatty or charred bits off his fillet. Every bite of steak is a privilege, and it all goes down the hatch.

-- Filet?  It's T-bone for the Colonel; and, standby to watch him gnaw on the bone.  

5. The modern man won’t blow 10 minutes of his life looking for the best parking spot. He finds a reasonable one and puts his car between the lines.

-- Car?  The Colonel's rusty red pick-up, Semper Fillit, gets jealous if the Colonel even looks at a car.  

6. Before the modern man heads off to bed, he makes sure his spouse’s phone and his kids’ electronic devices are charging for the night.

-- The Colonel ain't got watch, nor cell phone.  You have no idea how liberating that is.

7. The modern man buys only regular colas, like Coke or Dr Pepper. If you walk into his house looking for a Mountain Dew, he’ll show you the door.

-- The Colonel drinks Mountain Dew.  Dr. Pepper is a girl's drink.

8. The modern man uses the proper names for things. For example, he’ll say “helicopter,” not “chopper” like some gauche simpleton.

-- The correct military terminology is "helo" or "bird."  Stupid YUCK.

9. Having a daughter makes the modern man more of a complete person. He learns new stuff every day.

-- Daughters are great, but not necessary for manhood completion. Uniformed service to the Republic, on the other hand, is the most surefire way to become a well-rounded American.

10. The modern man makes sure the dishes on the rack have dried completely before putting them away.

-- The Colonel calls this MOTO (mastery of the obvious).  Did this YUCK not have a mother?  Or, did he have to find an ap to tell him this?

11. The modern man has never “pinned” a tweet, and he never will.

-- Tweet?

12. The modern man checks the status of his Irish Spring bar before jumping in for a wash. Too small, it gets swapped out.

-- What, no foo-foo body wash?  Poser.  YUCK.

13. The modern man listens to Wu-Tang at least once a week.

-- Wu-Tang?  Explains a lot.

14. The modern man still jots down his grocery list on a piece of scratch paper. The market is no place for his face to be buried in the phone.

-- Grocery list?  Seriously?

15. The modern man has hardwood flooring. His children can detect his mood from the stamp of his Kenneth Cole oxfords.

-- The Colonel's progeny never had to judge his mood by the sound of his boots striking the deck -- his mood was always bad.

16. The modern man lies on the side of the bed closer to the door. If an intruder gets in, he will try to fight him off, so that his wife has a chance to get away.

-- Skip down to 25.  Nuff said.

17. Does the modern man have a melon baller? What do you think? How else would the cantaloupe, watermelon and honeydew he serves be so uniformly shaped?

-- Melon baller?  Pervert.

18. The modern man has thought seriously about buying a shoehorn.

-- To go with your 20 pairs of shoes, YUCK?  Girl.

19. The modern man buys fresh flowers more to surprise his wife than to say he is sorry.

-- Well, even a YUCK can get one out of twenty-seven right..

20. On occasion, the modern man is the little spoon. Some nights, when he is feeling down or vulnerable, he needs an emotional and physical shield.

-- C'mon, grow a set...

21. The modern man doesn’t scold his daughter when she sneezes while eating an apple doughnut, even if the pieces fly everywhere.

-- Apple doughnut?  Guess they ain't got Krispy Kremes way up there at the North Pole, huh?

22. The modern man still ambles half-naked down his driveway each morning to scoop up a crisp newspaper.

-- "Half"-naked?  The Colonel's vast holdings here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere allow for full nudity whenever he is so inclined, it just isn't real smart -- what with the abundance of ticks, skeeters, and chiggers.      

23. The modern man has all of Michael Mann’s films on Blu-ray (or whatever the highest quality thing is at the time).

-- Snob.  YUCK.

24. The modern man doesn’t get hung up on his phone’s battery percentage. If it needs to run flat, so be it.

-- See 6.
25. The modern man has no use for a gun. He doesn’t own one, and he never will.

-- The Colonel finds firearms to be some of the most useful tools in his kit -- he has many, many firearms.  The Colonel also has seven different hammers, two dozen screwdrivers, four chainsaws, two table saws, three utility trailers, and a tractor with five different implements.  See 16 above -- this YUCK probably thinks he'll have time to discuss Marquis of Queensbury rules with an intruder...

26. The modern man cries. He cries often.

-- The Colonel hasn't cried since he found out his mother was a civilian.

27. People aren’t sure if the modern man is a good dancer or not. That is, until the D.J. plays his jam and he goes out there and puts on a clinic.

-- The Colonel don't paint; the Colonel don't sing in public; and the Colonel don't dance.

Fumbles, Interceptions, and Breaks

Saturday was one of the longest days of the Colonel's life.

There have been longer days.

The last few days of shipboard deployments come to mind -- sailing slowly westward across the Atlantic, crossing time zones and setting the clock back an hour every other day.  Time truly warps at sea -- the Colonel remembers looking at his watch and the time would be 0700.  Eight hours later he would glance at his wrist and the time would be 0705.

Those were longer days.

Still, Saturday seemed to stretch laconically, each minute bending time and winding the Colonel's dysenteric bowels into ropes of tension so tight he could taste the friction.

Many of you, faithful readers and wasters of rod and cone time, may have missed the fact that there was a college football game of some import played in a small college town in Alabama Saturday night.  The Colonel's Rebels played the Tide. 

And, because Bama Bandwagon Boors comprise one of the largest demographics in the South (fairweather football fans who couldn't find the city of Tuscaloosa on a map of Tuscaloosa County, yet use the term "we" incessantly when talking about Alabama football), the game was reserved by ESPN for it's prime time slot -- kick-off at 9:15 ET.

9:15 ET in the PM.

That's a few hours past the Colonel's bedtime!

Has the Colonel mentioned that Saturday was a long day?

The Colonel tried everything he could think of to make time pass quickly.  

He asked the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda if she had any small projects that needed doing.  The Colonel's Lady maintains a list of "quick" projects.  Her definition of the term "quick" and the Colonel's definition vary wildly -- one of Miss Brenda's "quick" projects can easily consume the better part of a growing season.

The Colonel's best friend rattled off half a dozen projects from memory and the Colonel set off in pursuit of rapid time passage.

Forty-five minutes later, all of the quick projects on Miss Brenda's list were completed.

Awww, Come On!

The Colonel tried taking a nap.  He fell into a deep slumber, dreaming fitfully of fumbles and interceptions.  

Ordinarily one of the Colonel's naps would make ole Mister van Winkle jealous.

Five minutes after assuming the supine position, the Colonel woke refreshed and wide awake.  

The Colonel could continue to bore you with the minute by minute   minutiae with which he attempted to abbreviate an interminable day, but he will be merciful instead.  Suffice it to say that by sundown, the Colonel was exhausted.  

The only thing keeping him awake was the gnawing reality in the acid-filled pit of his cast-iron stomach that no matter how good of a football team the Colonel's Rebels put on the field that night; no matter how well they played; no matter how masterfully the coaching staff orchestrated alignments and assignments; there was just no way Ole Miss was going to escape T-town undefeated.

It was going to take all of the above AND take more breaks than a worker on a union contract.

Ole Miss doesn't get breaks against Alabama.

Any Ole Miss fan (and, we are admittedly a small band) can recite year by year, game by game, quarter by quarter, more than a century of the breaks going in favor of Alabama.  

To be sure, most years Alabama was clearly the better team -- but this year...  This year... felt different.  Last year was miraculous, beating top-ranked Bama at home; and magical, tearing down the goal-posts and parading them through Oxford.  But, this year's team looks even better than last years.

Still, Saturday night's game was in Bryant-Denny stadium, where Ole Miss had won only once before.  Visiting teams don't get breaks in Bryant-Denny.  They get broken in Bryant-Denny.

But, as the Colonel watched in stunned unbelief punctuated with manifold losses of military bearing, the breaks fell lightly into the Rebels' outstretched hands like manna from heaven. A recovered fumble here, an interception there, and the boys in powder blue helmets had a two-touchdown lead.

In the second quarter...

In Tuscaloosa...

But, time and the Alabama Crimson Tide wait for no man -- they came storming back and the Rebels took a flimsy 17-10 halftime lead into the visitors' dungeon.

The Colonel has seen this game countless times before.  Defeat snatched from the jaws of victory is a Rebel tradition.

Someone forgot to let Freeze and the boys in on that particular Rebel tradition.

The score was 30 to 10 late in the third quarter and the Colonel was as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. With good reason.  Alabama hadn't gotten any breaks all game -- they were way overdue and way underpaid.

With time slowed to an inexorable crawl late in the waning minutes of the game, the Rebels clung to a slim 43 to 37 lead.  Ole Miss had hung forty-three points on the vaunted Tide defense -- in Tuscaloosa -- and still had not been able to put the game away.  

The cold, shrunken, flinty cinder that passes for the Colonel's heart was on the verge of exploding from his chest and filling the room with shrapnel... when, wonder of wonders, the inevitable game-winning Tide comeback faltered in a fast flurry of incompletions.

The Colonel sank into the warm embrace of his over-stuffed leather chair and pinched himself -- surely, he was still dreaming.

The dream endures.

Free Laremy Tunsil

It's a theme as old as conflict itself.

Gideon had the Midianites.  David had Goliath.  Moses had Pharoah.  Leonides had Xerxes.  Gandalf had the Orcs.  The AFL had the NFL.

Ole Miss has Alabama.

Free Laremy Tunsil.


The Colonel's Ole Miss Football Rebels hold a winning record, or at least a respectably close record, with every team it plays regularly.

Except Alabama.

In the half century the Colonel has been a Rebel, he has seen the boys from Oxford defeat the Tide...

Wait for it...

Seven times.

Seven.  Even using Common Core, counting to seven is pretty stinking simple.

Free Laremy Tunsil.  


If you include the years before the Colonel became a Rebel -- all the way the back to the inauguration of the series in 1894 (contrary to popular belief in the Colonel's family, he wasn't around back then) -- the record against Alabama, and the refs (yes, the Colonel went there; and will again, just wait), looks even worse.

Nine wins total.

Nine.

Common Core still doesn't make the accounting difficult.

Free Laremy Tunsil.


Needless to say, as rare as a win against Alabama (and the refs) is for Ole Miss, back-to-back Rebel victories over the Tide are rarer still.

How rare, you ask?

Put down the Common Core manual.

Ole Miss has never beaten Alabama two years in a row.

N. e. v. e. r.

Not even including 'Bama wins vacated by the NCAA.

Free Laremy Tunsil. 


Last year, as delirious fans rushed the field and tore down the goalposts, the Colonel hugged everyone still standing in Section H of Vaught-Hemingway Stadium.

The Colonel ain't a hugger.

But..., his Rebels had just beaten Alabama, and the refs, and the Colonel lost his military bearing for a few minutes.

Sue him.

Oh..., and if the Colonel's Rebels pull off the UPSET OF THE CENTURIES (19th, 20th, and 21st) this coming Saturday in Tuscaloosa, the Colonel is going to open up a booth in the Grove the following Saturday and post a sign saying "Free Hugs."

Free Laremy Tunsil.


Ole Miss has opened the 2015 season with an offensive explosion not seen in Mississippi since Grant took Vicksburg.  The men in red and blue have out-scored their first two opponents 149 to 24.

Take away the three defensive touchdowns and the Rebels have scored...

Pick up that Common Core manual and turn to page thirty-seven...

... eighteen touchdowns.

E. i. g. h. t. e. e. n.  

Or, in Common Coreese:  Ten tens, minus two twos, plus eight eights, circle the fours, enter the number six and draw a line through it... 

Or, in Coloneleese:  Count all the fingers on both hands, take off your boots and count all the toes not missing feeling from that long winter in North Norway thirty-five years ago...

The Colonel doesn't mean to brag (well, he does, but for instructional purposes only), but... no SEC team has ever scored 73 or more points in back-to-back games.  

E. v. e. r.  

Well..., now one has.

Free Laremy Tunsil.


Granted, their first two opponents weren't exactly SEC calibre foes like, say, Jacksonville State or Toledo, but the Ole Miss offense has lit up the scoreboard without the services of one of the best offensive left tackles to ever play the game -- Laremy Tunsil.  

Thanks to an NCAA violation fishing expedition made possible by a humiliated step-father's claims (Laremy decked the clown for pushing his mother, and the deckee retaliated by claiming Tunsil broke some rules regarding contact with agents), Laremy Tunsil has not played in the last two games -- held out by an overly cautious Ole Miss athletic administration.  

And, we're not talking Johnny Football - level allegations.

Not even close.

Johnny MONEY Football was proven to have done far, far worse.

Half game suspension.  

Free Laremy Tunsil.  

So, perhaps the most potent offense, and defense, Ole Miss has ever fielded, heads east this Saturday to Tuscaloosa, where they have won...

(Excuse the Colonel while he does the Common Core math...)

...once.

O.N.C.E.

Here's where even the most die-hard, Walmart-bought "197 National Championships" T-shirt-wearing Tide fan has to admit...

You want Laremy Tunsil on the field for Ole Miss.

If only to shut up the Rebel Nation "the whole world hates us and stacks the deck against us any way they can" conspiracy theorists when the Tide (and the refs) send the Rebels back to Oxford with another loss in Tuscaloosa on the record.

Free Laremy Tunsil.   


Oh..., and...

BEAT BAMA!  

Leveraging Reality

The names, faces, and dates may be different, but some things never change.  

Since the founding of our Republic, there have been more than 75 separate Acts of Congress, Treaties, Presidential Executive Actions, and Supreme Court Decisions regarding immigration and citizenship naturalization.

Seriously.  Seventy-five.

Curiously enough, the crafters of the United States Constitution, though they constructed one of the greatest blueprints for self- governance and protection of individual natural rights ever devised by man, left mostly silent any reference to controlling immigration into the sovereign territory of the United States.

Granted, Article I, Section 8, Clause 4 granted Congress the power to "establish an uniform Rule of Naturalization...," but the issue of controlling immigration at that point in the history of our young nation was more about ensuring that new members of American society were loyal to the United States and not closet enemies still owing allegiance to some European crown.

At the birth of our nation, the founding fathers saw every reason in the world to encourage immigration by any and all (and by "any and all" the Colonel means Northern European) who would join in the republican (little "r") experiment and swell the ranks of liberty lovers.  

There was land to settle.

There were enemy tribes to defend against and subdue.

There was subdued tribes' land to settle. 

There were dynastic European empires still seeking to control the continent and prevent American expansion.    

There were cities to build and canals to dig.

As early as 1790, the Congress asserted its Constitutional powers over naturalization, setting in law the requirements for becoming a citizen of the United States.  All one (as long as "one" was male, white, and free) needed to do was reside in the United States for two years, present oneself to "any Common Law Court of Record" in any state in which one had resided for at least one year and swear an oath of allegiance to the Constitution of the United States.  

A quarter century later, famine in Ireland, and political repression in Germany, spurred the first great wave of immigration with which the United States had to deal.

Although there was significant nativist backlash to the millions of Irish and Germans pouring ashore in the first half of the 19th Century, by and large their addition to American society was a net positive to the expanding nation.  Irish laborers built cities and railroads.  German farmers spread west and tamed land for agriculture to feed the masses back East.

Both the private and public sector took advantage of this Celtic/Teutonic tide.  

Industry exploded with cheap labor.

Corrupt politicians (the Colonel apologizes for the redundancy of terms) bought votes from the new immigrants by bribing judges to issue citizenship papers on men who, in some cases, were still reeling with sea legs.  Political machines controlling major cities thumbed their noses at the Constitution and Federal law with impunity. 

War affected the nature of citizenship in the United States and influenced attitudes toward immigration, as well.

The 1849 Treaty of Guadalupe-Hidalgo, concluding the War with Mexico, granted citizenship to 80,000 Mexicans living in the territory ceded to the United States.  The Gold Rush of that same year made them the minority, overnight.   

When it became obvious in the North that the Civil War was not going to be won by a few quick battles, Union war planners leveraged their immigrant manpower advantage.  By the end of the war nearly 1 out of every 4 Union soldiers spoke German as his native tongue, and cheap immigrant labor manned the forges of military might.

After the Civil War, the building of transcontinental, and regional, railroads demanded manpower for which immigrant labor was tailor-made.  Irish laborers laid rail westward.  Chinese immigrants (many victims of human trafficking not much less inhumane than African slavery) laid rail eastward.

So many Chinese flooded the labor markets on the West Coast that Congress passed a law in 1880 suspending all Chinese immigration. Although initially effective, the "illegal immigration" from China to America soon returned to previous levels and continues unabated to this day, despite dozens of laws passed to "control" Chinese immigration over the last 135 years.  

For half a century after 1880, political and religious repression, war, and famine in Eastern and Southern Europe spurred a huge explosion of emigration in search of liberty, security, and a chance for prosperity.  The United States, alone, held the only sure hope. Immigration from Europe to America averaged over a half-million people a year for the period 1880 to 1924 -- totalling 25 million in 44 years.  

As this "Great Wave" of European immigration came ashore on the East Coast, another wave began to grow to the South.

The security and economic crisis caused by the 1910 Mexican Revolution drove thousands north for safety and prosperity.  There was both farm and industry work north of the Rio Grande, and when the United States entered World War I in 1917 the need for Mexican labor increased significantly to fill the void left by a million American men mustered to fight the Kaiser.

That same manpower need happened again when the United States entered WWII and in 1943 the United States and Mexico agreed to a "temporary" program known as the Bracero Program, whereby both nations organized and controlled migrant workers (known as "Braceros") who provided replacement labor as American men mustered to fight Tojo and the Fuhrer.  The Bracero program was so successful and so beneficial to both nations that it continued for nearly two decades after the war ended.  A whole generation of migrant workers from Mexico (five million over the 22 years of the program) established a pattern that exists to this day, regardless the immigration debate.    

Over the course of the 20th Century, and into the first two decades of the 21st, Presidents, the Congress, and the Courts have wrestled with the issue of immigration.  Most legislation or executive actions have been effective only in that they served to pander to constituencies. 

Cities now openly flaunt their disregard for the Federal government and the laws of the land with regard to immigration -- "Sanctuary Cities" being only the latest manifestation of a political phenomenon that is as old as the Republic.

"A" solution to the current illegal immigration crisis is, certainly, to elect politicians who will enforce the laws on the books, seal our borders, and send the illegals home -- whether that home is Mexico, Russia, or China.  The Colonel would argue that the United States has been encouraging this illegal immigration, at least tacitly, all along and that to renege, if you will, is at least "bad form."

Another solution, at the opposite end of the spectrum, is blanket amnesty.  Easiest "solution," but not necessarily a fix to the long-term problem.  That just encourages more of the same.

We'll probably end up doing something that will be less of a compromise and more like kissing your sister.  Unless you're from Alabama, where family reunions are great places to pick up chicks.

Just kidding -- love you guys... mean it... War Tide; Roll Eagle.

Obligatory swipe at Alabama aside, the politicians ain't gonna "fix" this problem.  They never have.   The "non-politician" politicians won't either.  They never have.   

The Colonel hates to sound like a broken record, but the solution that best leverages the reality of the situation is the one that uses the manpower of the rest of the hemisphere to our advantage.

Expand the Republic.  



   

Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow

Tomorrow, the Colonel will join a lucky, if long-suffering, small nation of kindred spirits as he and 60,000 of his temporarily closest friends conduct a near-religious rite, replete with pilgrimage pageantry, legionary parades, historical hymns, and rote chants whose roots in antiquity are so deeply buried that the meaning of their words are as obscure as the mud at the bottom of the mighty Mississippi herself.

Tomorrow, on the campus of Ole Miss, the Old and New South, in general, and the Old and New Mississippi, specifically, will cease the culture clash for a few hours, forget the feelings-based fights over the truly inconsequential and hug and holler out what connects them in ways they don't even fully understand and are certain no one else does.

Tomorrow, the Colonel will join at least four live generations, and the ghosts of at least a dozen more, in reverent revelry under the oaks, elms, and magnolias forming the ceiling of one of the most holy cathedrals in the South; a naturally beautiful ten-acre park at the heart of one of America's most beautiful campuses, serene for the most part of any day of any season and frenetic sea of happy humanity on seven Saturdays in the fall.

Tomorrow, the Colonel will join the throng of expectant Rebel revelers pouring from the Grove toward the beckoning stands of Vaught-Hemingway Stadium, like parishioners parading from church to coliseum with the roar of the lions in their ears, to roar themselves in throaty, primal support and gleeful, grinning approval of valiant feats of skill and gridiron gladiator victory.

Today, the Colonel will prepare. He's old. The flinty, shriveled cinder which passes for his heart is cold and unstretched by months of inactivity and unready for the voltage the Colonel's Rebels will likely put through it this season.

The Colonel, from long experience, has learned to temper his expectations with regard to his Rebels.

But, this just might be the year.

Gotta get ready.

Are you ready, Rebel Nation?

Knowing Nothing

The populist siren call of ant-immigration is not a new phenomenon in the life of our republic. Donald Trump is but the latest (and, sadly, probably not the last) in a long line of populist demagogues who rally discontented voters by demonizing and fixing blame on the newest members of American society.

Nativist sentiment has manifested itself in political movements several times since the founding of the republic.

A wave of Irish and German Catholic immigrants flooded cities on the Eastern Seaboard in the first half of the 19th Century, straining physical and societal infrastructure. Overcrowding, high unemployment, and the inevitable soaring crime rate -- coupled with anti-Catholicism -- created a toxic brew of resentment and retaliation. 

The resultant sectarian violence would make Northern Ireland's "Troubles" look like a domestic squabble in comparison.

Institutional violence against immigrants in northern cities during this time would make Bull Connor blush.

Unscrupulous, power-hungry politicians climbed into the saddle aboard the wild steed of anti-immigration sentiment in the late 1830's and by 1856 had forged a third-party movement that named a former U.S. President (Millard Fillmore) as its Presidential Nominee.

Fillmore lost, of course. Buchanan won that election.

The party went by many names -- The American Party, The American Republican Party, The Native American Party -- but members were universally referred to as "Know Nothings" because most local chapters began in secret and members denied their early participation with the phrase: "I Know Nothing."

Seriously. The Colonel ain't makin' this stuff up.

And, finding a curious echo in the current Trumpista movement, the vast majority of Know Nothing party membership were middle class with a distinct disdain for politicians. As the movement grew, Northeastern state legislatures, in particular, became majority Know Nothing, the new members by and large possessing no prior political experience.

The Know Nothing movement faded as the country fell inexorably into the gravity well of civil war. By the second year of that war, whole divisions of the Union Army were completely Irish or German immigrants, many stepping off a boat in New York or Boston and right into formations that marched toward Richmond.

And, therein lies a probable solution to our current debate.

Jeb Bush is right, you know. The vast majority of illegal immigration to our country is an act of love. They love our freedom. They love their children. They fear the violence and repression in their native lands.

Oh sure, there is a small, but not insignificant, percentage that have come here as a clear and present threat to the security and welfare of our citizens.

But, security is rarely found on the defense.

Walls don't work.

Qin Shi Huang's Great Wall didn't keep out the Mongols.

Hadrian's Wall failed to secure Britannia for Rome.

No, dear readers, walls and other defensive measures are not the answer.

Offense wins.

You take it from here...

Goofing Off, Generally

Twenty years ago, this month, the Colonel graduated from the Armed Forces Staff College in Norfolk, Virginia.

The class was a collection of U.S. and Allied officers and DoD civilians completing the second phase of Congressionally mandated Joint Professional Military Education (JPME II).

In the early 1980's, Congress passed legislation that reformed the Department of Defense and drove the services to work together in a much more "joint" manner. Interoperability was a mandated goal of the Goldwater–Nichols Department of Defense Reorganization Act of 1986.

Goldwater-Nichols codified many of the recommendations of Reagan's Packard Commission that had critically assessed the stove-piped U.S. Military and its warfighting command structure.

Among other things, Goldwater-NIchols established the position of Chairman of the Joint Chiefs with a Joint Staff that would oversee service procurement and operations of joint combatant commands.

To hold the services' feet to the fire with regard to ensuring that they assigned their best officers to joint duty -- not necessarily considered a plum assignment within any of the services -- Goldwater-Nichols mandated that before any officer in any service could be selected to "flag" rank (brigadier general or rear admiral) that officer had to have completed JPME phases I and II and served in a joint assignment for at least three years (waivers for shortened joint tours granted for officers selected for command tours within their services.

What this meant in practical terms was that as an officer reached the rank of major and lieutenant colonel (lieutenant commander and commander in the Navy) that officer's service began to pay much closer attention to the "tickets" being "punched." By and large, the services' requirement for an officer's selection to flag rank was that the officer successfully completed command tours as a lieutenant colonel and colonel. Under Goldwater--Nichols the services now had to "dual-track" the "ticket punching" of officers on their way to eligibility for selection to flag rank.

The two tracks -- command and joint -- actually began to influence each other.

If an officer got his or her "joint ticket" punched early in his or her career (as a major), the likelihood that he or she would get a command tour as a lieutenant colonel was increased, because the services, taking a long view of their officers' careers, had to ensure that they had a large enough pool of Goldwater-Nichols -qualified colonels (Navy captains) from which to select flag officers.

There is no other way to explain how a mediocre Marine infantry officer by the name of Gregory achieved the rank of Colonel.

After surviving a tour on recruiting as a major, the Colonel was rewarded by assignment as a student at the intermediate level command and staff college of his choice.

The Colonel chose the Air Force's Air Command and Staff College (ACSC).

He could blow smoke up your trouser leg and tell you his choice was a purely professional one designed to broaden his professional military education, but the Colonel will be honest.

ACSC is aboard Maxwell Air Force Base in Montgomery, Alabama -- halfway between the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's folks in Panama City, Florida and the Colonel's folks in Columbus, Mississippi.

That, and, seriously, how hard could the Air Force's staff college be?

After three grueling years of recruiting duty, the Colonel was ready for a year of hunting, fishing, and general non-military goofing off.

All of the services' intermediate and senior level schools (command and staff, and war, colleges) were required by Goldwater-Nichols to include introduction of joint education (JPME Phase I) and include officers from the other services on their instructor staffs as well as in their student classes.

As the Colonel (then still a major) completed his year as a student at ACSC, the opportunity to stay on staff as an instructor presented itself -- not due to any particular excellence as a student, mind you. There were two Marine officers (one major and one lieutenant colonel) on the instructor staff and they both had orders to leave at the end of the school year.

The Colonel called his assignment monitor at Headquarters, Marine Corps (HQMC) and volunteered for the job. The monitor said something to the effect of, "You wanna stay in Alabama?!? I had you penciled in for a staff job at HQMC. Wouldn't you much rather live in Northern Virginia?"

The Colonel's druthers most certainly did not include working at HQMC as one of a hundred majors on a staff, and, oh, by the way, commuting in and out of D.C. everyday.

But, one dare not tell his assignment monitor that he would rather not do what the monitor wants him to do.

"Look," the Colonel offered helpfully. "I know you aren't going to find any volunteers to come live here in Alabama." The Colonel pronounced "Alabama" in his best Forrest Gump accent, paused for effect, and concluded his sales pitch with, I'm already here; saves you a PCS move."

The monitor was quiet for a long moment -- he was no doubt doing the calculus of what course of action was going to save him the most staff time. Finally, he said, "Okay, but you need to call the joint duty monitor to get his approval."

"Joint duty monitor?" The Colonel had no idea that the job was actually a joint assignment. No where else in DoD can one go on vacation for three years and get joint duty credit.

The joint duty monitor was an easy sell and the Colonel told the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda later that evening that, "We will probably end up retiring right here in Alabama. I'll make it to lieutenant colonel, take the 20-year retirement, and find a job at Walmart or something to keep you in the standard of living with which you have grown accustomed."

After a year teaching airpower theory -- yeah, that was a hoot -- the Colonel was assigned to the small instructor branch that taught the joint education requirements mandated by Goldwater-Nichols. The Navy commander running the Joint Branch welcomed the Colonel with, "You got your JPME Phase II ticket punched, yet?"

"Huh?"

"You haven't been to the Armed Forces Staff College, yet, have you?"

"Uh, nosir."

"Well, call your monitor and get in the next class -- they're three months long and you should be able to knock it out and be back in time to start the next academic year here."

The Colonel (still a major, but selected for promotion to lieutenant colonel) spent the summer of 1995 in Norfolk, Virginia at the Armed Forces Staff College, where he majored in golf and softball.

One morning, the Colonel was sitting in his seat in his conference group's small classroom -- strategically situated nearest the coffee machine -- when the conference group leader walked in and announced, "Gregory, report to the Commandant's office, ASAP."

On the way to his office, the Colonel rehearsed his excuses for any number of reasons why the school's commandant would call the Colonel onto his carpet.

The Colonel reported in and the commandant smiled broadly and waved a piece of paper at the Colonel, "Congratulations, major, the Marine Corps has selected you for battalion level command!"

"Sir, the major apologizes for his poor showing on the last exam. I'm just a knuckle-dragging infantry Marine, and... Excuse me, sir, did you say I was selected for command?"

Needless to say, there was a bit of a celebration that night at which the Colonel will neither confirm nor deny that prodigious amounts of adult beverages were consumed.

A few months later, the Colonel pinned on the the silver oak leaves of a lieutenant colonel of Marines. A couple of months after that, the Colonel got a call from his assignment monitor, "Congratulations, a battalion just came open and you are the next in line. Report to 3rd Marines for duty this summer."

"Third Marines? That's in Hawaii, ain't it?"

"Yep, pack your board shorts."

Three years later, after successful command of an infantry battalion -- due completely to the excellence of some of the best Marines with whom the Colonel had ever served -- and a year as the executive officer of the regiment, the Colonel was selected for attendance at the Navy War College in Newport, Rhode Island.

While at the Navy War College, the Colonel was selected for promotion to colonel. And, because he had his JPME Phase II and Joint Tour tickets punched, the Colonel was designated a Joint Specialty Officer (JSO) -- another requirement of Goldwater-Nichols.

Designation as a JSO got the Colonel assigned to an insane job running the operations division at US Forces, Korea, in Seoul.

But, that's another story.

Bottom line: the Colonel owes his success to a deep desire to just goof off.     

Constitutionally First

The 4th of March passes quietly and without fanfare in most, if not all, of the lives of the citizens of these re-United States. 

However, the day is of much greater import than the 4th of July and should be celebrated accordingly. On the 4th of March in 1789, the Congress of the United States met for the first time operating under the precepts of the Constitution of the United States.

In June of 1776, the band of rebels, traitors, and opportunists calling themselves the Second Continental Congress appointed committees to draft two critical documents. One committee wrote the Declaration of Independence. The other was tasked with formulating a constitution that would unite the rebel alliance governments of the 13 British colonies on the American continent declared as independent states by the work of the former committee, into a confederation that would cooperate in government, not just for the struggle against the British crown, but in perpetuity. 

A draft of the Articles of Confederation and Perpetual Union was finally completed in the summer of 1777, approved by the Second Continental Congress in November of that year, and submitted to the states for ratification. While the states wrangled and dithered over ratification, the approved draft served as the de facto constitution. The last state, Maryland, to ratify the Articles of Confederation, did so on March 1, 1781.

The Articles of Confederation and Perpetual Union proved to be a weak and relatively ineffective constitution as far as the central governance of the new nation was concerned. As luck would have it, British bungling, and the arrival of a French army and fleet to aid the American rebels in 1781, outweighed the dysfunction of the rebel government. 

And, luckily, the British occupied and governed a significant portion of the colonies throughout the Revolution. 

But, once the United States were truly on their own to govern the entire lash-up, the inherent weaknesses of the Confederation government became glaringly obvious. In short, the operation of the central government was completely at the mercy of the sovereignty of the states in all but a relatively few, and minor, matters over which the Articles of Confederation gave it power. It was as if, using today's re-United States as example, the states had all of the federal government's powers of taxation and appropriation exclusively, and the federal government had no power to compel the states' compliance in any matters.

The Confederacy was so dysfunctional (as would be the Southern Confederacy in the next century) that even ratification of the 1783 Treaty of Paris, ending conflict between the United States and Great Britain and granting the United States everything for which they had fought, languished for months because the Confederacy could not compel enough state representatives to attend a congressional session.

A Constitutional Convention was convened in Philadelphia to draft a new, more federally strong constitution. Thirty-eight of forty-one delegates to the convention signed and approved the new constitution on September 17, 1787, and it was sent to the states for ratification.  Article VII of the new constitution required 9 of the 13 states' ratification for it to become effective. The ninth state to ratify, New Hampshire, did so on June 21, 1788, and the new constitution designated March 4th of the next year as the date on which the First Congress of the United States would convene under the Constitution of the United States.

The 4th of March is a day to reflect on the fact that the endurance of the Constitution of the United States is no mere accident. The original Constitution, with appropriate amendments mostly strengthening the protections of the people for, and by, whom the Constitution exists, has proved a remarkable standard of government, unique at its origination and copied in whole or in part by numerous new nations since. The Constitution, in its present amended form, is, in the Colonel's not-so-humble and not-so-little experienced opinion, the single greatest and most effective government, as Lincoln said, "of the people, by the people, for the people."

All who find themselves, by election of the people, representatives of the people's will and guardians of the people's rights would do well to daily reflect on their solemn oath to "support and defend" the people's Constitution against "all enemies, foreign and domestic." 

Failure to govern according to the Constitution makes one a "domestic enemy" of the people.

Pay Attention, or Pay the Piper

There is a clear and defining difference between "standing up" and "taking a stand."

The Colonel begs you, with tears in his eyes and all the love he can muster in the flinty cinder that passes for his heart, to discern that difference in the motives of those who would vie for your vote.

Contrary to shallow popular belief and star-struck sentiment, discerning the motives of someone who would assume the mantle of leadership is really rather easy.

That ease of discernment, however, does not come with the sole reliance on the study of sound bytes or parrotting of carefully crafted slogans -- no matter how compelling.  Discernment requires a bit more study.

Discernment does not require an exceptional education, nor any particularly acute mental faculties -- were that the case, the Colonel would be out of luck.

The first requirement for knowing the difference between "standing up" and "taking a stand" is understanding the definition of each term. They are polar opposites.

One who stands up draws attention to one's self.

One who takes a stand draws attention to the principle on which one stands.

One who stands up denounces the actions of others and derides their "stupidity."

One who takes a stand makes no claim of personal character superiority, nor relative intellectual superiority.

Standing up screams, "Look at me!" Use of the first person pronoun is prevalent. (For the LSU grads, that's the word "I")

Taking a stand calmly pleads, "Look at the issue!"

Standing up means drawing approving attention, with the most strident appeals, to the audience's biases and prejudices.

Taking a stand means drawing attention to the merits of a principle -- even when that principle runs counter to the audience's biases and prejudices.

By the Colonel's count, at least half of those vying for our vote, of both parties, are just "standing up."

The Colonel pleads with you, with tears in his eyes and all the love he can muster from the flinty cinder that passes for his heart, to look beyond the flashy and feel beyond the simple appeals to your baser nature.

TAKE A STAND with a principled, "others first" leader -- and go down, if you must, fighting the good fight.

As for Me and My House

The Colonel will never be a candidate for Sainthood.

The only miracles associated with his time on earth involve his salvation, convincing the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda to marry him, and achieving any rank in the Marine Corps beyond second lieutenant.

That, and the precedent for a Southern Baptist's canonization is kinda hard to find...

The low opinion the Colonel holds for himself is matched only by his opinion of those with whom he disagrees. Although hamstrung by a lack of education (he went to Ole Miss instead of college), he still considers himself at least the second smartest person in any room -- and he often has a hard time finding the first.

But, the Colonel is not-so quickly coming to the conclusion that his principled opinion, while fortified with the brick and mortar of studied fact and built on the bedrock of conviction, is corroded to inviability by his own attitude and conduct.

The Colonel's heart is as cold and unfeeling as one of his diabetic-riddled toes in a duck blind in January.

His lack of empathy would make Genghis Khan wince.

The meter measuring his concern for the welfare of others is pegged on empty.

The Colonel could blame his scorched earth nature on three decades of training to visit his nation's righteous wrath on enemies of the Constitution, but that would be a cop out worthy of comparison with a Nuremberg defense.

This toxic brew of narcissism, selfish pride, and positional self-righteousness, while quite entertaining personally, is poison delivered straight to the heart of any cause, no matter the moral strength of the argument.

So, the Colonel's quandary is this:

How does he stand up for what is Godly, right, and just, without the mangudai in him attempting to lay waste to the homeland of his opponent?

Look, the Colonel knows the answer. Second smartest guy in any room, remember?

God doesn't need any of us to fight His battles for Him.

The Colonel believes that God expects him to take a stand...

...behind Him.

And, the place to stand is at home.

The Colonel doesn't mean to ignore the evil in the world. He means there is plenty of evil to confront within the confines of his own home and heart.

Joshua's challenge to the Israelites sums up what the Colonel means best.

"Now, therefore, fear the LORD and serve Him in sincerity and truth; and put away the gods which your fathers served beyond the River and in Egypt, and serve the LORD. If it is disagreeable in your sight to serve the LORD, choose for yourselves today whom you will serve: whether the gods which your fathers served which were beyond the River, or the gods of the Amorites in whose land you are living; but as for me and my house, we will serve the LORD." Joshua 25: 14 - 15

The Colonel is convinced, without the shadow of a doubt in his military mind, that confronting evil begins at home.

Fair warning, though:

When God gets the Colonel's heart right and turns him loose, there will be hell to pay...