Spidey Sense

The Colonel spent the weekend in a fever-induced hallucinogenic haze.  The massive swelling and intense pain (Category 6 on the Saffir-Simpson Nietzsche-Gregory Suffering and Whining Scale)  around a small site on his lower back led him to surmise that he had been bitten by a spider.  The fevered visions of webs shooting from his wrists seemed to verify that suspicion. 

The Colonel could have gone to the local hospital's emergency room, he guesses.  But he ain't smart and you can't make him.  Instead, he gutted it out for 48 hours and went to his personal physician's office first thing this Monday morning.  

The nurse practitioner who saw the Colonel took one look at the festering, swollen wound on the Colonel's back and immediately left the examination room, returning five minutes later in a full hazmat suit.  This did not particularly alarm the Colonel -- the Comely and Kind-Hearted Miss Brenda has a hazmat suit she dons frequently to do the Colonel's laundry.

"Colonel," she breathlessly declared, attempting mightily to maintain her medically professional demeanor, "I'm not sure I've ever seen anything quite like this."

"Oh, really?"  The Colonel was suddenly infused with a sense of perverse pride at his evident specialness.

"Well, you are in luck, Colonel.  I just so happen to be an arachnid bite expert, and based on the circumference of the site and the massive swelling, coupled with your fevered hallucinations, I think I know exactly what bit you."

Oh, really?"  The Colonel was intensely interested to hear the identity of the critter that had demonstrated the temerity to bite him.

"Yes.  I believe that you were bitten by the exceedingly rare Mississippi brown-spotted three-fanged vampire jumping spider."

The Colonel, who had theretofore been proudly presenting his formerly well-muscled back, turned to look her dead in the eye.  Even through the distortion of the hazmat suit's plastic face plate, the Colonel could see that she was maintaining a straight face.

The Colonel played along. "What's the prognosis?"

"Ordinarily, instantaneous death.  But in a small minority of cases, long-term lingering suffering."

"Well," the Colonel responded, "been there, done that.  Living through the Obama presidency, after all."   

The nurse practitioner broke out a hypodermic needle that was last used to harpoon a sperm whale, and injected a whale-boat load of steroids into the Colonel's formerly well-toned gluteous maximus, handed him a prescription for some more pharmaceuticals, and sent him on his way with wishes that he would feel better soon.

"No chance of that," the Colonel intoned in parting.  "Have you seen who is likely to be the next president?"    

  

Write-in Win for the Republic

The Colonel has come to the conclusion that it is indeed time for a woman to serve as President of these re-United States. 

The woman the Colonel knows the best, and with whose temperament, common sense, and integrity he is the most comfortable, is his bride -- the Comely and Kind-hearted Miss Brenda. Therefore, the Colonel is today announcing the beginning of a write-in campaign to elect Brenda Cannon Gregory as the next President of the United States.

Brenda Cannon was born in Memphis, Tennessee on the 9th of September in 1956.  Her father, LtCol. John W. Cannon, was a pilot in the United States Air Force whose career took the Comely and Kind-hearted Miss Brenda's family to assignments in Florida, Hawaii, New York, New Jersey, Washington, California, and the Panama Canal Zone.

She graduated with honors from Balboa High School in the Panama Canal Zone in 1974 and was a member of the National Honor Society.  She graduated summa cum laude from Mississippi University for Women with a BS in Business Administration in 1982. 

The Comely and Kind-hearted Miss Brenda married her high school sweetheart -- the Colonel -- in 1976, and upon his commissioning as a second lieutenant in the United States Marine Corps began nearly three decades of service in command of the Gregory family support echelon as the Colonel's career took him from one end of the empire to the other.  Moving every two years on average, she established home base for her family in Virginia (twice), North Carolina (twice), Mississippi, Georgia, Alabama, Hawaii, Rhode Island, South Korea, and South Carolina.  

The Comely and Kind-hearted Miss Brenda raised three children, who today are all highly productive and respected members of society -- credit entirely to her.

The Comely and Kind-hearted Miss Brenda possess the finest character of any person with whom the Colonel has ever been associated.

Never, ever, intemperate.  

Always in service.  The Colonel calls her "Twelve" -- she is driven by the unquenchable desire to tend to others.

She never lies. Seriously, the Colonel has tried for nearly half a century to catch the Comely and Kind-hearted Miss Brenda in even a half-truth.  He has failed miserably.

Because the Colonel was, during his career as an infantry officer in the Marine Corps, subject to immediate deployments for indefinite durations, the Comely and Kind-hearted Miss Brenda served as chief financial officer for the Gregory family.  She ran the family budget accurately to the penny.  She never once over-drew the checking account, nor ever ran up credit card debt.  

She lives her faith in Jesus.  Period.

She has impeccable pro-Life credentials -- started the first Crisis Pregnancy Center on Oahu in 1998.  Over one hundred babies saved in the first year!

She is a teacher.  Taught the fifth grade for a year in Jacksonville, NC.  Oh..., and kept the family going gangbusters the whole time while the Colonel was off galavanting in the Mediterranean.  

She is fearless and doesn't back down from a righteous fight.

Were it not for her severe allergic reaction to the kitchen, the Comely and Kind-hearted Miss Brenda would be considered in perfect health.

She has NEVER posted ANYTHING on Twitter, SnapChat, Facebook or any other social media.  

Rarely uses e-mail. 

Has never mishandled classified information.

Despises cronyism.  Has the most acutely developed sense of fairness that the Colonel has ever seen.  Can not be bought -- believe the Colonel, he's tried.  Will leave the White House no richer than she arrived and will not accept latter inducements for book deals or speaking engagements. 

She is an encourager; actively seeking out the down and out, and helping out with a positive word.  The Comely and Kind-hearted Miss Brenda will encourage ALL Americans to better themselves.   

Believes that government governs best when it governs least.  Will roll back every federal regulation not specifically enacted by legislation.

Believes that them that don't work, don't eat.

Doesn't personally own a gun, but can safely and effectively employ any one of the dozens owned by the Colonel.  

Respects the law -- has never even gotten so much as a speeding ticket.

Did the Colonel mention fearless?  Made a static line parachute jump at the age of 45.  Not a tandem jump, mind you.  A climb out out onto the strut of the airplane and let go all by herself parachute jump.  Um..., the big bad Colonel ain't even done that...

Confident, coherent, concise public speaker.  She won't need a teleprompter -- her speeches will not be that long.

Frugal to a fault.  Won't spend a dime on herself and keeps the Colonel's toys to a minimum.  Will hold the Federal government to the same standard.  Will slash the White House staff in half, for starters.  As the Colonel currently maintains her in a comfortable standard of living without want, the Comely and Kind-hearted Miss Brenda will return her entire presidential salary to the US Treasury. 

Will place the freedom, security, and economic well-being of the citizens of the United States above all other considerations.  Will endeavor to expand the territory of the United States in the American Hemisphere for the sole purpose of providing greater freedom, security, and economic well-being to greater numbers of Americans as CITIZENS of the United States. 

Believes that the Constitution of the United States in the greatest social contract ever devised by man and that a strict constructionist view of the Constitution is the only qualification for the bench at any level.  Will not appoint judges or justices who have demonstrated disdain for the Constitution by legislating from the bench.

The Colonel won't make the claim that she is "the most qualified person to be president."  However, he will declare, without hesitation, that the Comely and Kind-hearted Miss Brenda would be a darn sight far better president than any of the current pretenders to the throne.  

There is not enough ink, nor enough electrons, to adequately extoll the virtues of this good woman.  

Join the Colonel's cause.  Elect the ultimate outsider.

Brenda Cannon Gregory for President.   

Expeditionary Tourism

Thirty years ago -- give or take a deployment workup period or two -- the Colonel was deployed, along with a couple thousand of his closest friends, to the edge of the Empire as a centurion of the Republic.

Twice, at the end of the decade of Reagan, as a part of a Marine Expeditionary Unit capable of executing ship-to-shore "special operations" at the drop of a hat, the Colonel and a couple thousand of his closest friends went through a fever-pitched preparation phase and then deployed for six months to the Mediterranean area of operations aboard amphibious ships of the greatest navy the world has ever seen. 

The Colonel is convinced, beyond a shadow of doubt in his military mind, that the capabilities and commitment of he and a couple thousand of his closest friends not only maintained peace in the region, but so unnerved the Soviet Union that it collapsed.

Think the Colonel is kidding?  He kids thee not.

The Colonel, with a couple thousand of his closest friends, sailed through the Strait of Gibraltar and into the Med at the end of October, 1989.  Two weeks later, the Berlin Wall fell.

Coincidence?  The Colonel doesn't believe in coincidences!

Look, it's crystal clear to the Colonel -- and, he ain't all that smart -- that there are two reasons the Soviet Union collapsed:  blue jeans and the Colonel (along with a couple thousand of his closest friends).

Blue jeans, you ask?

Yes.  Blue jeans.

The government stores in Moscow didn't sell 'em.  The Muscovites wanted 'em.  Statist socialism failed to satisfy the people's wants.  

Blue jeans, the Colonel, and a couple thousand of the Colonel's closest friends -- someday the history books will get it right.

So..., having trained -- hard and effectively -- for every contingency on the spectrum of military operations, ranging from supplying woeful waifs with MRE gum to marching on Moscow through a battlefield macro-aggressed with nuclear fallout and lethal chemical agents, and... finding neither woeful waifs nor need for seizing Moscow, the Colonel and a couple thousand of his closest friends did the thing that Marines do second most best...

They pulled liberty.

For those not acquainted with the term, "pulled liberty" is a nautical term for having gone ashore to engage in unmilitary conduct both naughty and nice.

The Colonel did the latter, of course...

That's his story and he's sticking to it.  He is also thankful that this was a couple decades before the ubiquitous cell phone camera.

With peace breaking out all over the place -- as it always did whenever the Colonel was in an operational command -- the Colonel had no choice but to act like a tourist.

Oh sure, the Colonel, and a couple thousand of his closest friends, still conducted frequent bouts of training for military operations, but Southern Europe was their oyster.

And, there just weren't that many tourists getting in the way in those days.

From the Costa del Sol, to Provence, to the Riviera, to Roma, Napoli, and the Amalfi Coast, to Mount Carmel, Tel Aviv and Jerusalem, and dozens of points in between, the Colonel -- with Uncle Sam as his travel agent -- sight-saw the extent of the Roman Empire.

For their coincidental 40th wedding anniversary and 60th birthdays, the Colonel and the Comely and Kind-hearted Miss Brenda recreated the Colonel's Mediterranean travels earlier this year -- with just the Colonel's best friend this time.  

The sights were the same, with one exception -- thousands and thousands of tourists.  

Where 30 years ago -- give or take a deployment work-up period or two -- the Colonel had the Piazza dei Miracoli and the leaning tower of Pisa nearly all to his lonesome around which to wander mouth-agape, this summer the Colonel and the Comely and Kind-hearted Miss Brenda stood shoulder to shoulder with thousands of tourists jostling for the obligatory photo shot with the tower in the background.

Where 30 years ago -- give or take a deployment work-up period or two -- the Colonel sat nearly alone on the Spanish Steps, this summer the Colonel had to point them out to the Comely and Kind-hearted Miss Brenda shoulder to shoulder with thousands of tourists from behind a security fence.

Nearly everywhere in Spain, France, Italy, Greece, and Turkey, the experience was the same -- thousands upon thousands of tourists jostling for a position from which to momentarily see a sight.

The Colonel, who has a back-pack crammed full of life's disappointments, was..., well..., disappointed.   

He's sorry that the Comely and Kind-hearted Miss Brenda didn't get to see the Med like the Colonel got to, but the check is in that box -- not going back.

At any rate, the Colonel hopes that the thousands upon thousands of tourists sight-seeing in great selfie-snapping, sweaty packs appreciate that their ability to do so is attributable to a couple of thousand of the Colonel's closest friends sweating under their packs and scaring the Soviets into collapse.   

They probably have no idea.    

       

It's NOT a Crisis

ISIS is not a CRISIS.

This will sound like the most incongruous thing ever uttered by the Colonel -- from a not-so-deep well brimming with the Colonel's unfathomable incongruities -- but hear him out.

The so-called Islamic State is bad news.  Very bad.  Their ideology ranks right up (or down) there with the worst from history's library collection of inhumanities.  

But, ISIS ain't no crisis.

21st Century America, sitting on the beach, well above the high water mark, too timid to touch a toe even in the shallow surf for fear of a micro-aggressive jellyfish, thinks ISIS is a crisis.

But, ISIS ain't no crisis.

Some perspective, please, people.

Thirty years ago, the Colonel -- then a thirty-year-old Captain of Marines -- was earnestly preparing to fight a THERMONUCLEAR WAR with the Soviet Union.  Said preparation involved training to fight afoot through the fog of battle present on a European battlefield macro-aggressed with radioactive fallout, chemical agents, and biological toxins.

That, my friends, is what a real crisis looks like.

Oh, and by the way, by the time the Colonel was training to fight 'em, Soviet leaders had accounted for more dead than a half-dozen Hitlers, leaving very little doubt that the Politburo, ensconced in a bunker deep beneath the Kremlin would have any compunction to push the button.

ISIS is no crisis.

At most, the jihadis are a mild case of jock itch.  Irritating as all get out, but hardly a life-threatening condition.

President Obama was right -- even a broken clock is right twice a day -- when he said that the Islamic State did not pose an existential threat to the citizens of the United States.  They don't.  

The Colonel does not mean to make light of the pain and horror suffered by those targeted by psychopaths inspired by the jihadi jerkdom.  His blood boils with righteous indignation at their every affront to human decency.  Their inhumanity provides a textbook definition of the term.

But, in the grand scheme of things, the Islamic State is little more than a boil on our collective backsides.  Man up, lance it, slap a bandaid on it, and keep on trucking. 

So, can we please stop all the hand-wringing over how we are so frightened to be raising children in this day and age?

Seriously?  Remember "Duck and Cover"?

For those of you whose perspective is challenged by lack of age, "duck and cover" was the nuclear attack drill (in addition to fire drills) for school children of the Colonel's generation.   

For more perspective -- terror attacks have killed less than 100 American citizens on average annually since WWII.  Care to guess how many American citizens die in automobile accidents every year?

The number averages somewhere north of thirty-thousand.  Three zero, zero zero zero.

You thirty-somethings, worrying about raising children today, want to keep 'em safe?  Don't let 'em drive until they have children of their own.  

Want something serious to fret over?

Let's start with how to assimilate the populations of the Southern American Hemisphere when we finally decide it is in all of our best interests to form a pan-hemispheric republic under the Constitution of the United States.       

   

Submarines and Sailboats

The not-so-little country church to which the Colonel belongs, here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere, held its annual Vacation Bible School (VBS) this week.

The Colonel spent the week following a group of fifth and sixth grade boys around.

One does not "lead" a group of fifth and sixth grade boys.  Herding cats is a breeze by comparison.  

And, fifth and sixth grade boys aren't going to sit still for flannel graph Bible stories nor willingly participate in dancing and singing.  They would rather be fishing or wrestling or swimming or wrestling or playing sports.

Or wrestling.

So, that's what the Colonel's kids do.  One evening we take 'em fishing and then we tell 'em the story of the Greatest Fisherman (Luke 5, 1 - 8).

Another evening we run 'em through an obstacle course and then we tell 'em the story of the Greatest Warrior (Joshua 5, 13 - 15).

We take 'em swimming and tell 'em about the depths of God's love for them. 

This year, on the first evening we brought 'em out to the Colonel's Man Toy Storage and Sawdust Production Facility and let them put the finishing touches on a submarine silhouette.  They wrote "Submerged in Christ" on the sub, slapped on a couple of coats of polyurethane, and glued a cross on the conning tower.

"Submerged in Christ" became the overarching theme for the week.

You might not think so, but there's a spiritual lesson in comparing submarines to sailboats.

You see, a sailboat rides on top of the water.  The water influences it some, but the wind is the far greater influence.   

A submarine, submerged completely, is influenced only by the water that surrounds all of it.

So, the question becomes: are you a sailboat Christian or a submarine Christian?   

A sailboat Christian floats on a foundation of faith, but is blown hither and yon by the winds of popular opinion, cultural dogma, or political correctness.

A submarine Christian is completely submerged in the will of God as expressed through the teachings of His Son, Jesus.  Submerging in Christ insulates one from the whims of the world.

The Colonel knows it's not a perfect analogy -- nor even a very good one, for that matter.  

But, it worked for fifth and sixth grade boys.

   

Playground Politics

The Colonel is absolutely disgusted by the ever-sinking level of political discourse across the Republic.

He has always been uncomfortable with the sophomoric name-calling.  He is dismayed to see normally mature, intelligent fellow citizens become nothing more than nattering nine-year old playground denizens when referring to the political opposition. 

Can we just stop using the following (and their ilk), please?

"Dimocrats."

"Mudslums."

"Reptards."

"Libtards."

"Killary."

Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. 

It is beneath us.  Far, far, far beneath us.

Come on, people!  We aren't Venezuela, for crying out loud. 

Can we just stop gleefully cheering on the gutter-crawling, mud-slinging from those who purport to be our leaders?  This ain't a mud-wrestling match, fellow citizens! We are debating the future of our Republic!

The Republic that we are going to leave to our grandchildren.

Speaking of our grandchildren -- if we caught them using the kind of foul, disreputable language that passes for our political discourse today, we would refer them to their parents for appropriate punishment and correction. 

Disagree -- of course.  Just keep out the coarseness.

Forceful defense of your political philosophy -- absolutely.  Just dispense with the ad hominem attacks.

Anyone who disagrees with the Colonel on this is a thumbsuckin', booger-eatin', pants-wetter!

The Quiet Man

In June of 1966, the Colonel's dad, then a tech sergeant in the United States Air Force, went to Vietnam for a year.  The Colonel was ten; his brother seven.  

Dad was 34.

Tech Sergeant Gregory and his wife were natives of Columbus, Mississippi, so he moved the family back to Columbus for the year.  Or, forever...  They didn't know.

That was fifty years ago.  You would think that experience would have faded into an inconsequential blip on the memory radar by now.

You would be wrong.

Watching your mother deal with sending her soul mate off to war; watching your hero leave for a year, even at the self-absorbed age of ten...;  well, that's just not something that gets relegated to irrelevancy and suborned to the subconscious all that easily. 

Turns out that year was one of the most momentous years in the Colonel's life (to be eclipsed only by the summer a scant five years later when he fell in love with the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda).

It was during that year in Columbus, Mississippi that the Colonel got his first true exposure to the idiocy of racial segregation.

It was during that year, while his hero was off to war, that a surrogate stepped in as the Colonel's Scoutmaster and kindled a fire for camping and hiking.

It was during that year, while Dad was fighting in Vietnam, that the Colonel first stood toe-to-toe with another boy, landing and absorbing punches until the two of them were pulled apart by screeching teachers and sent to sit shoulder-to-shoulder outside the Principal's office.

It was during that year that the Colonel's mother entrusted him to walk little brother to school and back; and it was that year that Mom let them go to a Saturday matinee on their own.  Barrow Elementary and the Princess Theater were an equidistant three whole blocks from home, but it felt to the two boys as if they had been commissioned to explore the Louisiana Territory.

One Saturday the matinee was a Western.  "Lewis and Clark" sat front and center as a tall man, larger than life, filled the screen.  His posture and countenance did most of the talking for him, but when he did speak it was direct and to the point.  He called a man -- who wasn't even wearing a black hat with a big buckle -- "Pilgrim." 

The Colonel turned to his little brother and whispered, "Bruce!  Who does that big man remind you of?"

"Daddy!," they both exclaimed.

It was the first John Wayne movie the Colonel ever saw.  For years afterward, the Colonel had a suspicion that his dad had a side job as an acting coach.  

The Duke had Vernon Gregory down to a T. 

You might be nostalgic for John Wayne.  The Colonel ain't.

Senior Master Sergeant A. V. Gregory, Jr., USAF (Retired) turns 84 today.  Still a quiet man to match The Quiet Man.  

Still as big as Big Jake.

Still as principled as McLintock.

Still as strict as Sergeant Stryker.

Still as gritty as Rooster Cogburn.

Still the Colonel's hero.

Happy Birthday, Dad!                  

Discount Denial

The Colonel doesn't like discounts.

It's not that he particularly enjoys paying full price.  He just isn't comfortable with the concept of getting better treatment than his fellow citizens.

He gets it.  Companies that offer discounts to veterans are, if their motives are to be given the benefit of the doubt, attempting to show appreciation for service to the nation and defense of the Constitution under which their capitalistic venture is made possible.  There's nothing wrong with that.

It's just that the Colonel didn't dedicate the first three decades of his adult life for a buck-fifty off the price of a hammer or a buffet.

Make no mistake.  These re-United States owe veterans, and their families, a debt they couldn't possibly repay.

Think about it.  What's it worth to you to have someone else go to war in your stead?

But, that young American didn't go off to war for a paltry discount.  In fact, one of the motives for military service most expressed by young Americans with their right hands in the air is the defense of the concept of equality treatment.     

Seems to the Colonel that the money spent on discounts for all veterans could be redirected to the care of the few veterans who really need it.  Most veterans the Colonel has ever seen taking advantage of a company's discount weren't particularly needy.

No judgment intended.  Just an objective observation. 

Frankly, veterans in real financial or physical distress aren't frequenting Lowes or Golden Corral.  The veterans who really need help are having a hard enough time navigating the federal government's bureaucratic labyrinth.  

Parenthetically, this post wasn't intended as a diatribe against the Veterans Administration.  The are very good people doing very good things for veterans at the VA.  But the inherent inertia of a federal bureaucracy means the VA as a whole provides substandard care and service to the nation's veterans.  If the Colonel were in charge -- and he hears the loud collective frightful inhalations at that prospect -- the VA would exist in a form whose sole responsibility would be the determination of eligibility for and the disbursement of the financial benefits required by law.  

Want to see the very best medical care given to veterans?  Close the VA hospitals and enact law giving veterans head-of-the-line privileges at any hospital in the land.

But, about discounts.

The Colonel stopped taking advantage of "veterans" discounts a long time ago.  He guesses the next honorable step is to figure out how to steer his passed-on discount to someone who really needs it.

Putting on the thinking cap.  Will report findings at a later date.

   

Lions' Challenge

Thirty years ago this month, the Colonel was wrapping up his assignment as an Instructor at the Marine Corps' Basic School (TBS) in Quantico, Virginia.  It had been more of an education for him than for any of the second lieutenants who passed through the "Crossroads of the Corps" on their way to the Fleet Marine Force. 

Forty months previous, the Colonel, then a first lieutenant selected for captain, had come back to Quantico for the third time in his brief career.  He had been there twice already -- for Officer Candidate School (OCS) in '77 and for TBS and the Infantry Officer Course (IOC) in '78.   

After graduating from TBS and IOC, the Colonel's initial posting was as a rifle platoon commander in the 2d Marine Division at Camp Lejeune.  Three years at Lejeune had been followed by a year in the Western Pacific with a Marine Amphibious Unit.

Now he was back at Quantico, feeling not just a little bit cocky and sure of himself.  In fact, he was certain he was in possession of a set of orders to Quantico because he was perfectly suited for duty as an instructor teaching brand new second lieutenants all they needed to know to be successful in the fleet.  

When the Colonel reported in with the G-1 (Personnel Officer) at the Commanding General's HQ, he had his assignment speech well-rehearsed.  First he was going to wow the G-1 with his heel-clicking adherence to the letter of Marine Corps customs and courtesies, then launch into a quick synopsis of his accomplishments over the past four years, and then sum up with a succinct argument for immediate assignment to TBS as an instructor.

The major to whom the Colonel reported didn't give him a chance to get past "Good Morning, Sir."  He sighed wearily, "Stand at ease, lieutenant.  Lemme see you orders."

The Colonel handed over his orders and Officer Qualification Record (OQR) book.

"Gregory," he said, scanning the orders.  "Wasn't expecting you for another month or so.  Weren't you in the Philippines?"

"Yes, sir.  I was with 31st MAU.  We were pulling out of Subic headed into the Indian Ocean and they sent me back a few weeks early from there instead of trying to get me out later from Diego Garcia.  My relief was already aboard and I had trained him..."

The major cut the Colonel off with a wave of his hand, "Asked you for the time, not how to build a watch."

"Yes, sir."

"Okay, lieutenant.  A couple other officers have an appointment with the C.O. of the Basic School in an hour.  I'll call his X.O. and add you to the list of interviewees.  TBS gets first dibs on new officers.  If Colonel Deegan doesn't want you, come back here and we'll see if anybody else does."

Colonel Gene Deegan was one of a legion of legends in the Corps. Known as "Clean" Gene, he was famous for his circumspect conduct and his expectation of the same from his subordinates.  He would go on to retire as a major general and the Colonel had the great professional pleasure to serve under him on two later occasions.

When it was his turn to be interviewed, the Colonel reported in and was told, "Stand at ease, lieutenant.  Why are you here?"

The question took the Colonel a bit by surprise.  He thought it was obvious why he was there.  

"Sir?"

"Why are you here, Lieutenant Gregory?"  Colonel Deegan was studying the Colonel like a hawk studies a mouse.

"I, uh..., um, to interview for a job, sir."

"Got that, lieutenant.  But, why are you here?" 

"I want to be an instructor here at the Basic School."

"You and every other company grade officer in the Marine Corps," Colonel Deegan growled, and then looked down at a folder on his desk.

The folder wasn't the Colonel's orders.  It wasn't his OQR, either.

It was his Basic School record... and it wasn't stellar.  

It wasn't even planetary.  

More like dark side of the moon.

The Colonel began to mentally stash his dream of working at TBS.  "Looks like I'll be making coffee for majors at headquarters," the Colonel thought to himself.  He began to subconsciously assume the position of attention preparatory to his certain immediate dismissal.  

He was yanked back to full consciousness by Colonel Deegan's question, "Care to explain why your TBS academic record is so poor?" 

The Colonel really didn't care to explain, but he had to answer; and, all was lost anyway, so he lamely said, "I guess I wasn't challenged, sir."

The Colonel kids thee not.  That's what he said.  The most idiotic thing to say to a superior.  He has regretted that answer ever since.

He regretted it the greatest the moment it escaped his lips.  The Colonel fully expected a withering redress followed immediately by a summary dismissal.  

In other words, the Colonel was expecting to get his butt chewed and shown the door in a rapid one-two punch.   

Instead, Colonel Deegan quietly sat back in his chair and studied the Colonel with the look you give something repulsive that has stuck to the bottom of your shoe.

Then the look changed, and danged if a slight smile didn't cross Clean Gene's face.

"Well, lieutenant," he said slowly.  "Let's see if we can challenge you this time around."  

"Sir?"  For a terrifying moment, the Colonel feared that he was about to be assigned, not as an instructor, but as a student. This interview was going from bad to worse to worser at a rapid clip.  

"See the Adjutant.  Tell him I said to assign you to the Command and Leadership instructor group.  We'll see how you do on the boards and then look at putting you into a company as an SPC (staff platoon commander) later in the year."

Colonel Deegan must have seen the look of abject terror on the Colonel's face give way to a look of complete befuddlement, "Welcome aboard, lieutenant.  Now get out of here before I change my mind."

Turns out Colonel Deegan was true to his word.  The Colonel was challenged more over the next three and a half years than at any time before or since, and the challenge came from the competition of his peers.

There were approximately 80 captains assigned to TBS as instructors.  By and large, they represented the best and brightest -- the Colonel being a glaring exception to that rule, of course.  A disproportionate share of that group went on to distinguished careers and general officer rank -- again, the Colonel being a glaring exception.  The current Commandant of the Marine Corps was one of the Colonel's peers (and he uses that word in the loosest sense) on the TBS instructor staff.  The point is the Colonel's education the second time around at TBS was far greater and had more lasting effect than any other time in his career -- and it came from the example of his peers.

The Colonel learned some great leadership lessons from some great bosses throughout his career.  But, the lessons learned from the lions of the Corps at TBS from 1983 to 1986 shape him still.               

Glad Cad

Forty years ago this summer, the Colonel was halfway through his undergraduate studies at Ole Miss.  

Well..., the Colonel uses the word "studies" in the most general and non-descriptor fashion possible.  As the Colonel's college transcripts will attest, he was not exactly the model student.  Unless by model student you mean that he spent the vast majority of his matriculation at the "Harvard of the South" participating in every activity imaginable outside of actually studying.

And, the Colonel doesn't really claim to have attended a college -- he went to Ole Miss.  There is a vast difference.

But, that's not important right now.

What is of the greatest import with regard to this post is the fact that the most fantastically amazing change was about to take place in the Colonel's life.  He was about to get hitched for life with the love of his life -- the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda.   

There are those among the spare readership of the regularly irregular posts on this blog who will ask, "I thought hunting and fishing was the love of the Colonel's life?"

Those folks know him -- just not as well as they think.  It is true that the Colonel had a well-worn habit of introducing himself with, "hunting and fishing is my life -- the Marine Corps is my hobby...and, I'm passionate about my hobby."  But, that was a half-truth, at best...

Hunting and fishing was the Colonel's first love to be sure.  But the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda quickly and easily supplanted the pursuit of fin, feather, and fur.

Some among the readership of this blog -- you faithful few with nothing else of any measurable worth to do with your time but to spend it perusing posts hereon -- will ask, "I thought Ole Miss football was the love of the Colonel's life?"

Ah, but there is another layer of love, which, when peeled away, reveals the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda at the center of the Colonel's passion.  Make no mistake there aren't many things that will quicken the cold, flinty cinder that passes for his heart more than the melody of "Dixie" -- if buried not-so secretly under another more politically correct tune -- as the Colonel's Rebels take the field.

Yet, more often than not, in his lengthening life, the Colonel's Rebels have disappointed; let him down; crushed the cold, flinty cinder that passes for his heart; pushed him downtrodden out the exits; left him more bitter and further hating Bama and LSU.

In all the Colonel's years with the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda -- approaching a half-century -- she has never let him down.

The Colonel wishes that he could say that he has reciprocated -- but it just ain't so.  The Colonel is a cad.

He's a glad cad.

Glad that the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda saw something in the Colonel that the Colonel himself couldn't see.

Glad that when God said to the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda, "that knucklehead over there is the one" she followed His direction just as she has every day since -- providing the Colonel a rock of faith in his life against which every storm imaginable has crashed without impact.  

Glad that out of the 3.5 billion women on this planet, the Colonel found the only one who understands him, and loves him despite that understanding.  

Forty years ago, the Colonel and the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda decided they couldn't wait any longer to become man and wife.  In spite of all of the advice to wait until he graduated, they decided to dive headlong into the matrimonial morass -- clueless and unafraid.  They set a date -- July 31, 1976.  And, they kept it. 

If he could go back, the Colonel would do it all over again.

Well..., maybe he's try to limit the times he made her cry...      

Destructive to Morale

     "We're not accustomed to occupying defensive positions.  It's destructive to morale."
         --  Lieutenant General H. M. "Howling Mad" Smith, USMC, 1945

The Colonel is vehemently opposed to Donald Trump's campaign promise to "build a wall and make Mexico pay for it."  

But not for the mendacious motives espoused by the national-suicide socialists masquerading as classical liberals.  They would have the gullible and uninformed among us believe that building a counter-migrant wall on our southern border is heartless -- they would have the entire nation become one borderless sanctuary to countless millions who would, in their gratitude, vote their morally rudderless and ruthlessly intolerant party into permanence.     

Trump would have the gullible and uninformed among us believe that building a counter-migrant wall on our southern border will fix the problem of growing crime in our streets, and panders to countless millions who would, in their gratitude, vote his morally rudderless and ruthlessly intolerant neo-party into office. 

Know this, dear readers:  Walls, as stratagems of grand national strategy, are emblematic of empires in decline.  

So are wide-open borders.  

Walls are indicative of a fearful people.  Open borders are indicative of feckless leadership.

A wall, as the tactical obstacle in a strategic defense, is only as effective as the strength and efficiency of the operational forces dedicated to maintaining observation over, and integrity of, that obstacle.

When the Roman Republic/Empire, at the end of the Julio/Claudian era, transformed from an expansionist imperial power into a defensive imperial power (and began it's decline), it restructured its military to suit.  Where formerly Roman military strength had been concentrated into "multi-legion armies not committed to territorial defense" and therefore "inherently mobile and freely redeployable" (Edward N. Luttwak, Grand Strategy of the Roman Empire), the perceived need to be strong everywhere on the periphery of the Empire resulted in a centuries-long campaign of strategic wall and fortification-building.  These walls and fortifications (Hadrian's Wall in Britain is exemplary), although impressive in scale and design, were enormously expensive to build, maintain, and defend.  Far more expensive, in fact, than a concentrated multi-legion army -- a fraction of which could be deployed to quell a rebellious client state or destroy a rival's base of operations without leaving the heart of the Empire defenseless.

In Grand Strategy of the Roman Empire, Luttwak argues conclusively that the Empire's successes during the Julio/Claudian era actually resulted in long-term transformation of the peripheral "barbarian" nations by a process of "voluntary Romanization."  In other words, Rome's enemies learned how to beat Rome at its own game -- adopting systems of political and logistical organization that allowed effective resistance to, and eventual destruction of, the Roman Empire.

The Colonel would argue that, in terms of the arc of its imperial history, the American Republic has transitioned through and out of its own "Julio/Claudian" expansionist phase and is now faced with peripheral nations who have voluntarily "Americanized."

Mexico, for example, is currently reprising the 19th Century American model for continental population expansion.  Those aren't "immigrants" waving Mexican flags in California -- they are no less invaders than the American settlers who flooded Mexico's northern lands in the 1830's.   

Building a wall to "keep 'em out" not only panders to the most base of our human instincts, it will inevitably be highly destructive to our national morale.

The Colonel's answer:  A pan-hemispheric republic of American states organized and governed under an unabridged and faithfully executed Constitution of the United States.

You got a better idea?                  

Sea Story

The Colonel's flurry of activity over the past week or so, tackling long overdue chores and projects, has been reminiscent of the last two times he returned from long(er) "cruises" in the Roman's Mare Nostrum.

While the flurry of catching up on "honey-do's" has been similar, the accommodations aboard the most recent Med cruise vessel were a tad bit better than those the Colonel experienced on the Navy's BUGS (big ugly grey ships) three decades ago.  

At sea the first day the Colonel was reminded of an old Marine saying and shared it with the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda,

"Hey, you know the difference between being on a ship and being in prison?"

"No, knucklehead.  But, I'm sure you're about to enlighten me and then follow up with a largely fabricated and interminably long 'sea story'," she said in the loving way she reserves only for her man.

"Huh?  My sea stories are not interminably long," the Colonel countered.  "Anyway, the difference is that in prison you have cable television and no danger of drowning."

The Colonel's lady was clearly highly amused at his wit, "Whatever.  Now can you quickly sum up the accompanying sea story so I can get back to working on my tan?"   

"Get it?  No danger of drowning."

"I got it.  Why don't you go get some soft ice cream and leave me alone?"

"Soft ice cream?!?  When were you going to tell me about that?"

"I pointed it out to you earlier, but you were busy telling some largely fabricated and interminably long sea story about the last time you were here in the Mediterranean."

"My sea stories are not interminably long!" 

"Go tell that to somebody who doesn't know you.  Now go get some ice cream and give me some peace."  

The Colonel headed for the soft ice cream kiosk, but on the way passed a member of the crew who wished him a cheery "good morning!"  The Colonel noticed the man's name tag had Philippines below his name, "Where in the Philippines are you from?"

"Cabanatuan, sir."

"That's on Luzon, right?  I was at Subic Bay for several short stays 35 years ago.  Great country, the Philippines."

"Very good, sir.  Can I get you something to drink?"

He was clearly excited to hear that he and Colonel had so much in common.

"Eyud!," the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda hollered from her chaise lounge.  "Leave the man alone!  He's got work to do!"

"Yes, dear."

The Colonel clapped the man on his shoulder, winked conspiratorially, and whispered, "Gonna be on your boat for two more weeks.  I'll talk to you later and we can compare notes on the future of Filipino-American relations vis-a-vis the Chinese."

"Eyud!"

"Yes, dear!"   

Conversational Cruise Control

A two-week cruise across the Mediterranean with the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda -- celebrating their 60th birthdays and their 40th wedding anniversary -- provided the Colonel with a captive audience with whom to share his worldview.  

At dinner each evening, seated at a large table with new friends from across America and the globe, the Colonel, inspired by the day's excursion to a ubiquitous fragmentary remnant of some once-great empire -- Carthaginian, Greek, Roman, Moorish, Ottoman, etc. -- inevitably responded to some political inanity with a lesson in historical geopolitics.

Despite the shin-bruising inflicted on him by his adoring bride, the Colonel launched attack after attack on the weak defenses of knowledge and understanding possessed by his table-mates.

It always started so innocently.

"You sound like you are from the South, Ed.  Where are you from? Atlanta?

"No, there ain't nobody but transplanted yankees livin' in Atlanta anymore.  I'm from Mississippi."

You could see the mental images of bedsheets and burning crosses flash in their eyes.  "Mississippi," they would intone with a mixture of haughty superiority, disdainful disapproval, and patronizing sympathy.

The word "Mississippi" always has the same effect on the speech centers of yankees -- they start using smaller words and shorter sentences.  "So..., Ed from Mississippi, what do you do for a living?" 

"Well, George from the North Pole, in between Klan meetings and chasing girls at family reunions, there just ain't much time for work, now is there?"

At this point the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda volunteered, "He's a retired Marine; he's never been to a Klan meeting, and we are only related by marriage."

Introducing the word "Marine" into any conversation always elicits one of three immediate responses:

         -- "Thank you for your service,"

         -- "I almost joined the Marines," or

         -- "Semper Fi!," followed by a round of monosyllabic grunts and chest thumps as two Marines go through a recognition ritual as old as the Corps itself.

In this case, the combination revelation that the Colonel was a retired Marine, from Mississippi, elicited, "Well, you must be a big Trump fan, huh?  Guess you can't wait for him to start building that wall."

"Actually, I despise Trump only a little less so than the Clintons, Alabama, and LSU.  And..., empires that build walls don't last much longer as empires."

"Huh?  Wait, the United States isn't an empire."

Despite three, count 'em, three kicks from the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda, the Colonel bored in for the kill, "You folks up there just short of the arctic circle ever heard of a history book?  The United States of America is the greatest empire the world has ever known.  We don't like to call ourselves an empire, but we got all the hallmarks of one and then some."   

The Colonel's table-mates were now apprising him with looks ranging from that of finding a turd in the punchbowl to that of finding a rattlesnake in the cupboard.

The Colonel was undeterred by neither the looks nor the increasing violence and frequency of kicks to his shins, "Look, the future greatness of our Republic does not lie in the hands of an extra-constitutional executive.  The future greatness of the American Republic lies in the hands of a chief executive who will do two things -- unwaveringly uphold and abide by a strict interpretation of the Constitution; and, unite the nation in a grand mission."

"What kind of grand mission?  Sending a man to Mars?"

"Colonizing Mars would be nice, but the grand mission I have in mind is creation of a pan-hemispheric American republic stretching from the Hudson Bay to Cape Horn."

"That sounds like Manifest Destiny on steroids," one said.  Another snorted, "that's naked imperialism."

The Colonel's shins were absorbing a veritable rain of kicks -- the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda was getting quite a leg workout -- but he was on a roll and nothing short of a mortal wound was going to stop him, "You say that like it's a bad thing.  I thought we had already established that the United States was an empire."

"But, what about a people's right of self-determination?"

"Show me that clause in the Constitution. And, why shouldn't we share the protections of life, liberty, property, and the pursuit of happiness with the rest of our neighbors?  And don't tell me they are happy where they are -- under corrupt and ineffective governments unable or unwilling to provide security and freedom to their citizens.  If their nations were so great, they wouldn't be flocking to our shores by the millions as we speak."  

"But..., but, not all cultures are are compatible with our form of democracy."

The Colonel had them right where he wanted them, "First of all, that is a racist statement and false on it's face.  Our Republic is peopled with folks from every corner of the globe who brought their culture with them when they came to our shores.  Isn't it a classical liberal tenet that our nation's strength is in part derived from our diversity?  Secondly, we aren't a democracy -- the word appears nowhere in our Constitution."

By this time dessert was finished and the Colonel and his bride excused themselves to go avail themselves of other ship-board entertainment, "Pleasure to meet y'all.  Have a nice evening."

For two weeks the Colonel was in heaven.     

Planting and Planning

The Colonel plans on living until he is at least 120.  He has to. 

It's gonna take at least another half century for all the trees he's been planting to reach maturity.  

Look, the Colonel has never been accused of harboring measurable amounts of altruistic motives -- he wants to see the fruits of his efforts.  He doesn't really care about any legacy.  There ain't really gonna be anyone spending all that much time after he's gone talking about all the great things the Colonel accomplished.

Primarily, because there ain't a whole lot of great accomplishments to the Colonel's credit.  At least not measurable by historically great standards.

The Colonel has built a couple of bridges -- but, he's the only one that uses 'em.

The Colonel has a couple of buildings to his credit, designed in his head and built with his hands -- the chickens appreciated them.

The Colonel even has a road on his vast holdings here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere to his credit -- he had to cut it in order to get his tractor unstuck. 

The Colonel can't really even claim any credit for the fact that his three children have grown into amazing people accomplishing amazing things -- that credit belongs to the Colonel's Lady, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda.

With chainsaw, sawmill, and powered hand tools, he's turned a lot of trees into prodigious heaps of sawdust over the last decade, but the Colonel has planted far more than he has cut down.  

In fact, the Colonel's bent toward arboreal replacement is not a recent retirement reality -- he's been planting trees for as long as he can remember, and while his short-term memory has begun to atrophy alarmingly he can remember trees he planted many decades ago.

He just never got to stick around to see them grow.  Thanks, Uncle Sam.

But, the Colonel is, himself, finally planted and rooted deeply in the soil of his ancestors.  It took him fifty years of wandering the world to get to where he is now, and as soon as his feet stopped shuffling the roots drove down quickly, tapping into a stability and sustenance that only this particular place on this big blue marble ever provided him.

Yep, the Colonel needs to live a long life just so he can point to a large shady oak and proclaim, "the Colonel planted that!"

But, then again, with carbon dioxide levels skyrocketing, trees are growing a lot faster -- maybe the Colonel will only have to live to be 100.

The Colonel loves him some Global Warming.         

  

    

Ferocious Erudition

The Colonel has been called a lot of things over the years, and "angel" ain't one of 'em.  But, he hopes to be remembered as one.

Something in a scripture passage during his Sunday morning Bible study struck the Colonel differently than in numerous previous readings.

The passage in question is Luke's account of Stephen in the sixth chapter of the book of Acts. 

Stephen, as you will remember from your own countless perusing of the passage, was one of the seven men of good reputation, wisdom, and spiritual maturity chosen to administer to the equitable distribution of church resources among the widows of differing nationalities.  Because the Greek word, diakonos, was used to describe their duties, these seven men chosen to assist the apostles (allowing the apostles to devote their efforts to preaching and teaching) are considered to be the Christian Church's first deacons; although Luke does not indicate that they were so named.

Interesting word, diakonos.  As it passed from Greek to Latin to Old English to modern English, (with other linguistic detours the Colonel ain't schooled in) the word was long thought to be a conjunction of two Greek root words meaning "to hurry" and to "kick up dust."  

The Colonel likes that translation -- connotes a servant so devoted to his duties that his alacrity is physically manifest in the exhaust of his passage.

Alas, as much as the Colonel likes it, that translation of diakonos has fallen into disfavor amongst erudite folks whose grasp of Greek far outstrips his.  Modern Biblical scholars hold to a different set of root words whose conjunction connotes a servant trusted with protection and allocation of resources.  Given the responsibilities charged to Stephen, and the other six chosen with him; namely, the aforementioned "equitable distribution of church resources among the widows of differing nationalities;" it seems most probable, even to this knuckle-dragger, that this latter definition is more accurate.

But, despite the Colonel's verbose attempt to make it so, this post isn't about the origin of the word, and duties of one assigned as a, deacon.

No, weary reader, this post is about Stephen's ferocious erudition in the defense of his faith.  

As you will remember, from your numerous reading of the passage in question, Luke tells us that Stephen was ministering to a group of Christians who belonged to a synagogue composed primarily of freed slaves from regions outside of Israel.  As Stephen ministered to physical needs, he also ministered to spiritual needs -- preaching the Gospel of Jesus as the Messiah.  Said preaching rankled the synagogue leadership.

What rankled them most was the fact that, as Luke points out in verse 10 of Acts 6, they couldn't match the wisdom and erudition with which Stephen made his case for the messiahship of Jesus.  

Mind you, there is no indication that Stephen was a particularly well-educated man.  In fact, Luke indicates that the source of Stephen's wisdom and erudition was the Holy Spirit.  

Well, them high muckity-mucks in the Freedmen Synagogue couldn't best Stephen in the contest of ideas, so they dredged up some blasphemous mud and threw it at him.  Hauled before the Sanhedrin (Jerusalem's version of the county board of supervisors) and charged with blasphemy, Stephen sat facing the same sort of crowd that Jesus had just prior to His crucifixion.

Luke tells us that as the Sanhedrin was giving ole Stephen the stink eye, them sanctimonious Sadducees and Pharisees noticed something unusual about the look on Stephen's face.

Here's how Luke describes the scene in Acts 6:15:  "All who were sitting in the Sanhedrin looked intently at Stephen, and they saw that his face was like the face of an angel."

Now, if y'all are anything like the Colonel -- and he is seriously sorry if you are -- you have probably read that verse before and thought that Stephen was sitting there with this placid, sweet smile on his face.  

That's how the Colonel has always read the verse.

Until this morning.

This morning when he read the verse the Colonel was suddenly reminded of the times in Scripture when men and women were face to face with angels.  He was also reminded of descriptions of angels in Scripture and those descriptions explain why men and women face to face with angels were, at least, deeply impressed, and at most, scared plumb to death.

Angels -- real angels -- aren't cloud-sittin' cuddly chubby-cheeked cherubs.

Angels -- real angels -- are impressive beings capable of a ferocity unmatched by mere mortal men.

The Colonel is thinking that when the Sanhedrin looked at Stephen what they saw was ferocious faith.    

Look, just as there is no scriptural indication that Stephen was particularly well-educated, there is no indication that Stephen was a battle-tested warrior either.  Stephen's erudition and ferocious defense of his faith -- see the remainder of the chapter -- was not, in the Colonel's not-so humble opinion, a result of his experience.  Stephen's ferocious faith was God's Holy Spirit working through him.

Today, men and women of faith face Sanhedrins of sanctimonious legalists who have twisted the concepts of love and acceptance into hideous forms unrecognizable by the God who created those concepts.  

Stephen defended his faith with the wisdom of spiritual maturity available only through the power of God's Holy Spirit.  And, he faced death with the ferocity of an angel.  

The Colonel prays for angelic ferocity.