Cathy got me thinking about catch phrases and personal mottoes.   Those things that people put at the bottom of emails sometimes, often quotes from a dead poet or general or politician.  I prefer my catchphrases to be my own.  I also like it when others have a catch phrase that people associate them with.

Lately my catch phrase has been “Speak truth to power,” which isn’t so much my own, as it is so common that there isn’t anyone specific to quote.   A lot of folks continue to toss it back to me in emails and letters, so I must have been using it more than I thought lately.
I’ve had other personal catch phrases in the past: “How much for a thousand of them?” comes to mind.   (I like to shop, especially in the developing world where that question is not only valid, but often very frugal).

In our medieval household, we used to joke about how spiff we’d look by imagining a conversation with someone who didn’t know us.  Them: “Who’s that?”  Squire: “That’s Viscount Richard.”  Them:  “Can he fight?” Squire: “No, but he looks good!!”

I  remember in the “way back” when I’d be working on armor in my garage at the multi-armed monster made of railroad iron (no Keith, I still don’t want to know where it came from) and I’d be looking for a tool.  Two particular catch phrases come to mind.  Me: “Where is my drill?”   David: “You don’t know do you?”  Me: “Michael, do you know where my drill is?”  Michael:  “If it was up your A$$ you’d know!”  Me: “Very helpful…both of you.” (I’m not making this up…really.  Cleaning it up a bit, since there are children who read this site, but not changing one word).  You can see why we didn’t get a lot of armor made.  Once I started chasing them around the garage with the located power drill… other catch phrases would fly.

Of course, the newest one…from Dave during our sessions of gaming, and based upon two obvious occurrences: “An arrow in the butt is better than a spear in the winky!”   Now who says we are stuffy and old-fashioned?  I can’t wait to see the T-shirt.

I’m certain that there were dozens of others…I’m just getting that CRS stuff.  So I’m hoping you all will fill in the blanks.  Didn’t we used to have a lot more catch phrases?

In November of 2004 parts of northern Sri Lanka were inundated with water following a period of intense rains. (this was the month before the Asian tsunami struck). I had traveled to the north to visit Sri Lanka Army units there and to meet several of my friends who were serving senior officers in the army.

I knew from previous visits to the forward defensive line that at least one of the divisions there suffered from a very high incidence of snake bites, not surprising considering there are 97 species of snakes in Sri Lanka, 24 of which are venomous. One surgeon told me that she saw an average of one soldier a day who had been bitten by a snake, and while the army had anti-toxin in sufficient quantity for all units, she still lost several soldiers a year. Snakes were a constant menace.

It was this division that I was visiting and I was quite surprised to find the soldiers in one brigade had been forced to move out of their bunkers by the rising waters and were sitting, in the open, on the tops of their bunkers while the water lapped at the edges of their sandbags. I supposed it might be some consolation to them that the enemy bunker line was also inundated, but it seemed surreal, seeing soldiers sitting in the open, within a few hundred meters of each other across a no-man’s-land of water and occasional floating mines. Several plastic mines had already floated to the surface and washed up against trees or other objects, detonating and sending a shower of mud and debris on those closest. No one had been killed by a floating mine, but leaders were certainly concerned that it could happen. Rain continued intermittently, causing the water to rise and more mines to break free from the mud.

Because the roads were underwater, the platoon leaders were rowing food out to the soldiers on the bunker line, and because of limited boats, the soldiers were only getting two, rather than their regular three meals a day. As we took a little tour of one part of the line I noticed several crocodiles skulking just under the water’s surface, which was just a few inches below the tops of most of the bunkers.

We approached one bunker and the soldier sitting on duty there continued to focus on his left and right limits, even though his mental health must have been precarious. Sitting in a soggy uniform on top of his bunker in open in sight of the enemy, eating fewer meals than he was accustomed to, and wondering how long it would be before a crocodile ventured onto the top of a bunker in the darkness, and now comes a boat with the Division, Brigade and Battalion commanders escorting some foreigner that can barely speak Sinhala. I really pitied the poor soldier at that moment and thought…”man this really sucks for him.”

Wondering how he was coping with it all, I sympathized with him, through the Brigade Commander (I could understand a lot more Sinhala than I had vocabulary for) and asked if he thought things were bad. His face lit up and he beamed with happiness. “Oh no sir! Everything is wonderful. Since the waters have come up, the crocodiles are swimming around and eating all of the snakes!”

What an amazing attitude and what an amazing thing perspective is! This little moment in life taught me not to judge another person’s situation too quickly. When the tsunami hit Sri Lanka six weeks later, perspective and attitude became two of my biggest allies.

SIX Weeks!!  Where has the time gone?  Oh yeah, retirement ceremony, getting a new job, starting my three week interlude vacation, ripping the carpet out of my son’s room and putting in laminate hardwood, putting new furniture there, working in the basement and on the fairy playset, the tornado that destroyed Cian and Cathy’s house (they came to live with us), starting my new job…but still…six weeks is WAY too long to go without writing.  What happened to all the people who were supposed to scold me?  :-)  Even my hasselbot hasn’t been sending me emails to tell me to write.  So I guess I’ll just have to find the mental fortitude to do it myself.

I LOVE my new place of work.  Granted, it’s only been two days (Friday and Tuesday) and it’s still the honeymoon period, but everything works, the people are nice, the work suits me, and the commute is ten minutes less than my old job.  I am thrilled.  I even get to walk through a beautiful park in downtown DC from my car to my building.  What could be better?  (I suppose that walk won’t be pretty this winter, but this is the honeymoon, we’ll get to the winter when we get to it).

My retirement ceremony was beyond description.  LTG Maples was a remarkable speaker, though I’m still not sure who he was talking about, my colleagues made a slideshow of pictures of my life (set to music) that set me to tears, and the retirement picnic on the weekend was a blast.  Perhaps when I am more distant from the emotions of the day…I can describe it better.  Meanwhile, I have to sort through all the little notes that I have about things I should be writing about.  Oh yeah…I still have to get the good COL out of the nexus…

I had “a procedure” today, one that apparently isn’t named in polite company. If you are a man about my age or older, you have probably already had this procedure and will know what I am talking about, if not, consider yourself blissfully unaware. In keeping with the apparent rules of medical etiquette I will not name the unspeakable act that I endured, but I hope to paint a picture that will allow you to understand, even if you are not a man about my age, what my last thirty-six hours have been like.

My last meal was Sunday evening. I took my family to our favorite local Italian restaurant specifically so that I could gorge myself on solid food. Since I wouldn’t be allowed to drink alcohol for a while after “the procedure” I had a nice glass of Pinot Grigio with our appetizer. Friends who know me understand that while I can drink several glasses of scotch with little affect to my sobriety, but a mere two glasses of wine change my perceptions of reality. I don’t get drunk (probably because I never have more than two glasses of wine), but I do get happy. The first glass of wine made me smile more than I normally do and also infused me with enough bravery to switch to a glass of red wine that boasted flavors of “strawberry, black cherry and new saddle leather.”

I am not an expert wine taster, but I had not ever recalled leather being used as a descriptor for good wine and was curious. When our waiter came and set the glass in front of me he said, “here’s your new leather,” then stepped back to watch me take a sip. This must be some kind of joke, I thought. Oddly enough, it tasted amazingly like it was advertised, only in a good way. Strawberry, followed by hints of black cherry and then a subtle but clear taste of “is that a piece of leather in my mouth?” Now, I have cinched enough armor straps with my teeth before to have a good idea what leather tastes like, though I wondered, as I sipped my “saddle” wine, what most normal people who tried the wine thought about it. When the meal was over I swallowed my last sip of wine and regretfully put the glass down thinking, that is the last normal thing I’ll have for the next day and a half. How right I was.

When I awoke Monday morning the ordeal was to begin, and I was only allowed to have clear liquids for breakfast lunch and dinner. Water, white grape juice, white cranberry juice, tea or coffee with no milk, clear broth with no solids, clear jello that wasn’t red or orange, or popsicles. I drank a cup of warm chicken broth for breakfast and chased it with a cup of lemon flavored tea. By ten o’clock I was starving. I brought a bottle of white cranberry juice with me to work and sipped cups of it all day to curb my hunger. Several times I reached into my desk to pull something our of it and finally had to ask Bob to take all the food out of my office. “All of the food” consisted of half a bag of uneaten and long stale fritos, but they were solid and tempting beyond belief.

Bob and Fred, two of my wonderful friends and both men about my age who have probably already endured “the procedure” took great joy in my situation. They were kind enough throughout the morning to describe their lunches to me in great detail. Bob, sinister fiend and blind scuba diver that he is, went so far as to wave his lunch near my face so that I could smell the awesome solidity of his food. Okay, I admit that I found myself standing in his cubicle so that I could smell his food but, who needs enemies with helpful friends like these? At one point in the afternoon, after I had swallowed more than half the bottle of white cranberry juice I came to the awful realization that this might be the only day in my life that my lunch would look exactly the same going out as it did going in. Great. What a high point in life to achieve.

The drive home was difficult because I normally chew one or two pieces of candy to keep myself awake. I listened to the radio and tried to ignore all the restaurant commercials, food commercials, and references to food. For dinner I had two cups of broth and a glass of juice, and had a lemon ice, sort of a popsicle in a cup, for dessert. I napped until it was time to begin the “cleansing.”

There are millions of people in the world who have never tasted the luxury of white cranberry juice and will never have the privelege of eating a lemon ice. Many of them would kill for three cups of chicken broth in one day. Heck, there are children in Africa who would be lucky for one cup of broth a day and I thought to myself, as I sat in my “misery,” that regardless of how weak and listless and deprived I felt, it could be a whole lot worse. I wasn’t starving, even if I felt like I was, and no one in my family would be dead tomorrow for lack of food. Funny how one day of food deprivation puts things into perspective. I was lucky, I thought, to be living the life I lead.

I drank the first evil bottle of potion in the privacy of my own room. Thankfully I was alone because I would never have wanted anyone to see my face twist into demonic shapes or hear the sounds of taste buds in anguish. The label on the bottle read “pleasant lemon-ginger taste,” when it should have read “rancid taste of Bog Lord infested swamp-ooze and salted honey with an overpowering aftertaste of you-have-got-to-kidding-me-how-will-I-ever-get-the-other-five-ounces-down?” I imagined offering my medicine to some African children and watching them flee in terror. “No way man, I’d rather die of starvation.” Right. I agree. This isn’t worth it. Okay, down the hatch.

Let me jump ahead and spare you the details by saying that I had to do that twice throughout the evening, the second time at 02:30 in the morning. The second time was harder as my body already knew what was coming and I really had to fight myself to force it down. “No really, you have GOT to be kidding!” All the hours from the first bottle of bio-drano until the moment we left for the hospital this morning, were spent either “purifying” in the bathroom, or lying in bed wondering when the next round of “purification” would clamp down on me with great vengeance. By the time we arrived at the hospital at 0700 o’clock, I was tired and drained. No, really.

Some time before 0800 (you get the idea, I’m going to stop saying “o’clock” now, as though I might mean something else…), they came for me. I glanced one last time at my wife, who had driven me in my weakened state and who would have to wait patiently while “the procedure” was performed. “I love you,” I remember thinking, though I don’t recall if I had the strength to actually say it. Eva, a lovely African American nurse, met me at the door of the clinic and led me to a curtained room where I was allowed to change into “real pajamas like you wear at home” and told to lie down on the hospital bed. It was there that I first realized that the all the preparation had little to do with making the actual “procedure” more efficient for the endoscopic camera and everything to do with gaining my total and complete submission to “the procedure.” Real pajamas? I didn’t have to wear one of those silly hospital gowns? This wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

I lay there on the bed in my subdued and now somewhat pacified state while Eva hammered me with questions for the computer. Did I smoke, did I drink, did I have any allergies? “I already filled out the three page form that answered all of the questions,” I said. “Oh you do have a form don’t you?” she asked. She continued to ask me questions anyway. Perhaps they want to compare your wirtten answers with your verbal answers to ensure that you aren’t an impostor. I dutifully answered her questions.

The doctor came in and introduced himself and asked if I had any questions. “Where is Doctor Young?” I asked. This doctor had a friendly face and looked competent in his green hospital scrubs and white lab coat, but he had the build of a football player and the hands to match, so I was somewhat concerned. “He will be in the room supervising, but I’ll be performing the procedure. Is this your first?” I nodded. “Can’t you tell?” I asked. “Don’t worry he said, I’ve already done this several hundred times and Doctor Young has done it several thousand. ” Doctor Young had been the doctor that wanted me to have “the procedure,” but Doctor Younger would apparently be doing the dirty work. What? Me worry? Hah! No way.

“I just need you to sign these forms before we can begin,” Doctor Younger. I read the forms. Blah, blah, blah, possibility of death… blah blah…stopped heart, blah, blah, blah…stopped breathing, blah, blah,blah…chance of perforated internal organs. Perforated? But not totally destroyed I guessed, so blah, blah…won’t hold responsible. Yeah sure, I’ll sign. Why not? I mean, I have real pajamas. What could go wrong?

Eva got the IV ready and asked if there was anything she needed to know before she started. “Yeah I said, I have rubbery, roly-poly veins that are hard to stick.” “Really?” she asked. She looked at me as though I was a challenge. “Yeah, I’ve been stuck as many as seven times before someone got a vein. She smiled as she put a rubber strap around my arm and asked me to make a fist. She began to stare at my arm while she opened the needle package, ripped pieces of tape to hold it on with and prepped the surface of my skin. She knelt next to the bed then and, I’m not making this up, she began to sing to my veins. I tell you this because I had not had any sedative at this point. I was wide awake and though weak and subdued, was not delirious. She slapped each vein several times and hummed and sang and coaxed until she found the one she wanted. She began to tell the vein in a sweet little made up song that she was coming for it and that it shouldn’t give her any trouble. She slapped it around several more times while I sat there in awe, and then she slid the needle in. There was barely even a prick of pain until she pressed down on the needle with one thumb to hold it while she put the tape on. “There,” was all she said. Wow. I mean, wow. It was like magic.

“Uhm, there is an air bubble in the line,” I said. “Oh, it’s okay sweetie,” she said. “It would take a whole syringe of air to kill you. Don’t worry.” So I didn’t.

“Good morning sir,” Ray said as he drew back the curtains to move my bed into the actual procedure room. “I’m Ray. I’ll be taking you to the docs now. Is this your first time?” Did they all have to ask that? “Yes,” I said. “It’s a pretty simple procedure,” Ray said. “Okay,” I said. Yeah right, I thought.

As the door to the room opened I heard a woman’s voice come over the hospital loudspeaker with some urgency. “Attention on-call Stat team, code blue in room C7, I say again, code blue in room C7, I mean C14. Yeah C-14, code blue is what I meant.” I tried to look up at Ray to see his reaction. “That can’t be good whatever it is,” I said. “They’ll take care of it.” he said. I still don’t know what it was.

Jiffy Lube. That’s all I can say. My bed was wheeled into the center of the room. On the left side of the room were three monitors, a wide-screen that I can only assume was hooked to the camera, and lots of wires and tubes. Too many tubes, I thought. On the right, Doctors Young and Younger were setting controls on a large machine that had even more wires and tubes, several hinged arms like one sees in a dentist’s office, and more tubes. They didn’t look up or speak as I entered the room and I assumed they were deciding which tubes would be suitable for “the procedure.” The lighting in the room was subdued, but the radio station blaring in the background added to the crew-drill efficient $29.95 feel that guarantees your car in and out in thirty minutes or your money back. I was amused at my own sense of humor. Isn’t that usually a danger sign of something?

“Good morning sir,” a pleasant female voice said. I looked up into the pretty asian face of my nurse and chuckled to myself (those that have read Airport Skiing will understand my laugh). “I am Agnes and I will be in the room with you today,” she said. Okay, I thought, if you say so. She busied herself with settings on the monitors. This really can’t be that bad, I thought. Won’t take but a few minutes, and it will all be over with.

“Please lower your pajamas down below your knees,” Ray said. The room stood still. I couldn’t hear the radio, and I didn’t notice Agnes or the two docs any longer. It was just Ray and me. He wants me to lower my pants? He gave me that impatient look, you know, the quick glance that says “you are lying in a bed with an IV in your arm and haven’t eaten in over a day while I had a hearty breakfast and am standing above you and want your pants down now so you can do it nicely or I can do it for you and you won’t like it if I do it for you.” You know that look? So I did as the nice man asked. I also complied when he told me to turn on my side and face Agnes. See what I mean about compliance? Weakened by lack of food and sleep and lulled into submission by real pajamas I was completely at the mercy of “the procedure.”

“Do you have any allergies?” Agnes asked. I thought, I put this on the form and it’s in my records and Eva already asked me the question so it’s in the computer, but I said, “yes. To pain.” She looked at me somewhat sternly, but smiled slightly. One of the doctors Young asked “you’re allergic to pain?” as if he had never heard that one before. Over my shoulder I thought I saw him waving some black tube around in the air and they all chuckled. Was he making a joke too? I couldn’t tell. When you are lying in the fetal position under a thin hospital sheet at the medical equivalent of Jiffy Lube and three men and a woman make inside jokes (no pun intended) about your predicament, I guess some of the humor is lost.
I lay there trying to calm myself and if must have worked because Agnes asked “Is your heart rate usually low?” “Yes,” I replied, “it hovers between 45 and 50 usually. If it gets up to 70 while I’m lying still, something is wrong.” “Good to know,” she said as she put a syringe on the inlet valve of my IV. The syringe looked empty and for a moment I was thinking about what Eva had said about an empty syringe killing me. What silly things one thinks about in such moments. My arm began to burn. “Is it supposed to sting?” I asked as rubbed my arm with my other hand. “Yes, it does sting a little,” Agnes said. You could have told me that before you did it, I thought, but couldn’t seem to get the words out. Another syringe? I braced myself for more pain as Agnes pushed the plunger on the second syringe. I don’t recall her finishing the plunge.

“Let me just get this IV out of your arm and get your clothes for you sir, and then I’ll go get your wife,” Eva said, smiling. My head was swimming. How did Eva get here in the…oh…how did I get here in the recovery room? It’s over? That was it? What time is it? My glasses were sitting on the table next to me and I was able to read computer chart on the monitor at my side. I was under sedation for nearly forty minutes, and had been in the hospital for less than three hours altogether. “The procedure” was complete, I had no pain or discomfort, and would be out of the hospital in just a few more minutes.

I thanked Ray and Agnes when I saw them scurry by to begin their next “procedure” and they smiled you’re welcome as they passed. Doctor Younger came to see me, I thanked him, and he showed me some intimate family photographs and told me that depending on the results of a few tests I wouldn’t have to revisit them for five to ten more years. Hallelujah! A procedcure-less decade!!! I hope that in the next five to ten years they invent some potion that really does have a pleasant lemon-ginger taste, or any taste commonly known to man for that matter. That foul liquid was the absolute worst part of this whole ordeal. My family was supportive, the hospital was efficient, the docs and medical team first rate and the pajamas were real. What more could I have asked for?

When I was a young E-5 going through Officer Candidate School at Fort Benning Georgia, many of us took to randomly pinning a Second Lieutenant’s gold bar inside of our OCS helmet liner to remind us why we were enduring the mind games and physical hardships. When things got difficult during the day, we’d sneak a peek at the gold bar for inspiration, and hope we didn’t get caught. Having a gold bar inside one’s helmet liner was a Class One Honor violation and could have resulted in immediate expulsion. Why we played with such fire, I can’t remember.

When I graduated from OCS after fourteen weeks I pinned a silver bar inside my Battle Dress Uniform cap and continued to soldier. I figured no one outside of OCS would be checking so no one would be the wiser. After many months of schooling I found myself in Germany as the Platoon Leader of the last US Nike Hercules nuclear air defense unit, and custodian of a still classified number of nuclear warheads. It was a low stress job. Yeah, right. Okay, it was a high stress job, and I found myself looking inside my hat on more than one occasion, wondering if I really wanted to stay in and deal with constant stress. When the army finally promoted me to First Lieutenant, I was quite shocked to find that my personal secret was no secret. The Battery Commander, Captain Lloyd, removed the silver bar from inside my hat and moved it to the outside, then, much to my shock and awe, took his own captain’s rank and pinned it on the inside of my hat. My little personal ritual was apparently public knowledge, and now I would have to continue it at least until I made Captain.

Years later, when I was promoted to Captain, I was working at Brigade headquarters and assumed the senior officers on Brigade staff were unaware of my “next rank” ritual. The Brigade S-3 surprised me by handing me a gold Major’s oak leaf to pin inside my cap. I was once again stunned. As the years rolled by I always kept the oak leaf inside my cap, and only occasionally did someone notice and ask about it. If asked, I would explain casually and would receive, almost universally, a positive response, a smile or some witty remark like, “maybe you should put a different rank in there and see if you get promoted below the zone.”

I was frocked to Major in India, and actually never had a real promotion ceremony. By the time my actual promotion date came around, I was working my first tour at DIA and everyone already thought I was a Major, even though in fact I had been a promotable Captain allowed by the Army to wear Major’s rank. Since I had no promotion ceremony, I used the day of my promotion to change the rank inside my hat to a silver oak leaf, the rank of Lieutenant Colonel.

Oddly enough, when it was time for me to be promoted to Lieutenant Colonel, I had no military officers in my chain of command available for a ceremony. It was something of a joke around my office on Army Staff, that I was technically already a Lieutenant Colonel, but had no one to officiate a ceremony, so continued to wear my Major’s oak leaves. When a new Colonel arrived several weeks later he was incensed to find that no one had been able to help me find a senior officer available to pin my new rank on me. We immediately had a promotion ceremony, promotion party, and changing of the “next rank.”

I had a Colonel’s eagle pinned inside my hat the entire time I was a Lieutenant Colonel, and often thought back to the days in OCS when having rank there could have ended my career before it really started. The rank was a source of inspiration, a sign of how far I’d come, and a reminder that nothing is gained without risk. By the time I was halfway through my years as a Lieutenant Colonel I found myself in Colombo, Sri Lanka in the position of Defense and Army Attache. I had a car and driver and tended to go from one covered portico into the car to another portico and into a building. Only when I visited the Sri Lankan army in the field, or when I travelled around the Maldives in uniform, did I wear a hat. Since I seldom wore a hat, I seldom had cause to look inside it which means I seldom saw the eagle and didn’t think much about it. That is one of the reasons I was shocked to find one day that the Army, cursed with malfunctioning computers or desperately seeking crazy guys like me, chose to announce that I would be promoted to Colonel. I couldn’t fathom it. I was being promoted to Colonel when so many officers who I believed (and still believe) were better than me, were not. It was difficult to deal with.

My promotion date fell during the period I would be on leave after leaving Sri Lanka, so I asked the Commander of the Sri Lankan Army if he would do me the honor the day before I left country. While technically my promotion should have been given by a Senior Officer of the United States Army, I decided to make due with what I had. It was a wonderful ceremony in the Army Commander’s office, with an official (Sri Lankan) Army photographer, followed by a Sri Lankan reception. I got on the plane the next day and got busy with moving back to the United States, settling in and getting on with life.

Soon my leave was over and I was at Senior Service College (the Industrial College of the Armed Forces) wearing civilian coat and tie on most days, and Class B greens the rest. I didn’t wear a field cap at all and didn’t get around to putting the “next rank” inside. In truth, I thought about pinning a silver star inside, but it just seemed pretentious and disrespectful in a way that none of the earlier ranks had. I pinned Colonel inside because I never in a million years thought I’d be one, I certainly wasn’t going to pretend there was any chance I’d stay in the army long enough to be a general.

Many of you have probably already figured out what just hit me today. I have remained true to my “next rank” tradition my entire career. My retirement ceremony is three weeks from tomorrow and I have been displaying my “next rank,” that of a civilian (none, for those of you who are slow) inside my hat since the day I made Colonel. Hooah!

I mean, super!.

So I’m back it seems, though I’m not quite sure where I’ve been.   Mostly writing resumes, applying for jobs, interviewing, and trying to keep up with my current job at work.  Dealing with appliance issues around the house (heating unit, dishwasher, water heater all needed work or replacement in the past two months) has taken up a bit of time, though my wife usually has to deal with the repairmen more than I.  Friends have asked why I’m not writing, relatives have commented as well, so I’m back, shamed into the writer’s seat.  Keep reminding me, it seems to work.

My retirement ceremony is set for 28 April, preparations are underway.  It is an interesting verbal dance I have each week with my deputy.  “I don’t need a ceremony,” I say.  “It’s not for you anyway,” he says.  “Can’t we just…?” I try.  “No,” he asserts firmly.

I’d be happy with a handshake and an escort to the door.  Everyone around me insists that my wife and kids deserve closure, that friends will want to see me formally retire, that seniors and colleagues will want to say goodbye.  Okay, whatever…I will soldier on.  My real concern is that I think I will cry when I try to say goodbye to the Army publicly.  No that’s wrong.  I know I will cry.   I’m happy to be moving on to a new phase in my life, but twenty-eight years of Army gets in your blood.   I’m not sure how to face the changeover without expressing emotion.    I may even have to plan in advance what I’m going to say, something I NEVER do.   Whatever it takes I guess.
I ‘ll tell you how it goes.

Today I drove through the back gate of Ft. Myer, something I’ve done a few thousand times in the past twenty-eight years. Today however, I had one of those crossovers through the nexus that most people refer to as memories. Perhaps it was the angle of the sunlight on the guard shack where the two Military Police (MPs) were standing, perhaps it was the smell of the spring air - all I know is one moment I was driving through the gate to visit the retirement office and the next I was nineteen again and passing through the gate in the other direction while the MPs stood gaping with their mouths open.

I don’t recall what was wrong with my car on that day in 1981, but three of my friends and I were in a quandry over how we would get to SCA fighter practice in Fall’s Church. Neither Ken nor Tim had a car, mine was out of commission for some reason, and Jeff, well Jeff had a little green Triumph Spitfire with two seats and a micro trunk. So the four of us stood by his car in the parking lot scratching our heads and trying to figure out how to stuff four armor bags into a space made for one. It didn’t work. I am a master packer, but I couldn’t get more than the shields and a few pieces of loose armor into that miniscule space.

I don’t recall if it was one person in particular or more of a group think moment, but before long we had our solution. We put the shields in the trunk along with what few swords would fit and donned the rest of our armor. Jeff was driving (in armor), Tim sat in the front seat (in armor) and Ken and I sat on the trunk of the car with our legs crammed in the tight space behind the passenger seats. We each held a pole weapon and a greatsword with points skyward as Jeff pulled out, stopping only to raise the visor on his Spangen helm so that he could at least pretend to be able to see where he was going.

There were no seat belt laws in Virginia that we knew of in 1981, but there were definitely seat laws. Only two of us actually had seats. There surely must have been a law about driving with little ability to turn one’s head. I recall that we all expected to be stopped by the MPs at the gate, but as we approached, the two on duty turned to look at us and gaped with mouths open as we passed. I have a vague recollection of having to dismount to leave post, but perhaps I am confusing that with what I thought we should have done at the time.

I clearly recall driving all the way to Syr Strykar’s house in Falls Church with the four of us chanting and singing and screaming and causing quite a commotion. We passed several police cars but they just gaped and watched us drive by. I guess it was a simpler time then. Today there would probably be SWAT teams and take downs and guys in white coats with padded ambulances.

As I drove through the gate this morning and had the rapid flashback, I actually toyed with the idea of recreating the event just to test the theory. I wonder what would happen…?

What fun we had! Cutting and lopping and panting and puffing.

First we started removing all the branches that we could with the loppers in order to reduce the overall weight of the trees and to make room to get the saw in. I have plans for the cedar so I only cut it into manageable lengths rather than into short logs. My son might argue that my definition of manageable and his are somewhat different, but he was a real trooper and stayed with me right to the end.

You might notice that the tree is somewhat…larger…than we are. But I figured, even without a chainsaw, we could do it in oh…a few days or so. I had no idea my son would work so diligently. If there were a merit badge for perseverance, he would definitely have earned it. After we removed many of the smaller branches with the lopper, we still had to take the inch and a half to two inch branches off with the bow saw. The wood was green (okay red) so it wasn’t the easiest cut but it did go pretty smoothly, and we had most of the branches removed in about an hour.

Here’s a pic of us removing many of the branches near the base of the four trees.

Admittedly, they weren’t huge trees, only about as big around as our legs near the base, but when you only have a 24 inch long bow saw…they were big enough.  I realized after the trees were down that the roots were dead, and that there wouldn’t have been anything I could have done to save them…but you come explain that…I dare not try.

And one after we have most of the small branches removed.

Getting the stump out of the ground, even though most of the roots were dead, was the hardest part of all.  Teamwork, shovels, the lopper and a whole lot of grunting, eventually removed it, though we had to wait until Sunday when friends were over so that five of us could lift it and carry it into the woods.

 All that remains is the gaping maw that once held the roots…a reminder that I still have to fill in the hole, which incidentally is another thing my wife would like me to do.  In truth, she carted most of the branches away while my son and I carried the logs.  She also filled in much of the hole, though I’ll have to find dirt from elsewhere in the yard to fill it up the rest of the way.   This is now officially registered as project number 136 on my “Honey Do” list, which I put at around….June.  

“Oh, look at that tree in the backyard honey, you better do something to it before it falls over,” my wife said Saturday morning.

“Uh-huh,” I said.

“Maybe you could cut some branches off of it or something, it’s leaning pretty far,” she added.

“Uh-huh,” I added, wisely.

Four hours later, after working in the basement, framing some more shower walls, working on the pocket door, (whoever invented that modern space saving miracle is a genius, but not a proponent of “easy to assemble”), and generally doing everything except look at the tree, I wandered outside. It would be easy to say that I went outside to look at the tree, but in fact, I had forgotten completely about the tree.

I had actually gone out to get the roto-tiller from the shed and to try and start it. Since it is technically still winter and the roto-tiller hasn’t had a tune up yet, starting it was likely impossible (a theory that was eventually proved), but I did manage to stretch my right arm to be somewhat longer than my left. This is of course, what several hundred increasingly frustrated yanks on the starter cord of a mid-winter resting roto-tiller will create. That, and an absolute obliviousness to everything in close proximity.

So my loving wife, and, I should insert here in case she reads this, very wise woman that she is comes outside and asks “did that tree fall down?” (I emphasize down here because she didn’t really ask if it fell down, but whether it fell down). Now I hadn’t even noticed the tree, even though it was twenty-five feet long and lying horizontal on the grass not ten feet from where I was yanking on the roto-tiller cord, but her emphasis on down confused me. Helpful husband that I am, and confused over her question, I laughed and replied, “no sweetheart…the wind blew it down.”

“Really?” she asked.

“NO not really!” I said, “of course it fell down, what do you think?”

“I thought maybe you cut it down,” she said. I looked down at the roto-tiller. She has been known to hand me the flat tip screwdriver when I ask for a phillips…but cutting down a tree with a roto-tiller? More confusion. I looked up at her.

“I can’t believe that tree fell down,” she said. I love this woman! I looked at her. I looked at the tree. It was lying in the yard roots akimbo, never to reach up towards the sky again and she couldn’t believe it had fallen down.

“Well sweetheart,” I said rather mockingly (though with a great deal of love), “there it is! Proof that it fell down.” I smiled at her. She laughed, then she gave me that coy wife smile that is usually reserved for the “I’m not going to say I told you so but I told you so discussion…”

“See what happens when you don’t listen to your wife?” She walked away, leaving me staring at the four eight to ten inch thick cedar trees that spouted from the same root at about two feet above the ground…er beside the root.

I went to get the chainsaw to begin the hard labor of rendering the tree movable, but since it is technically midwinter and the chainsaw….OH NO…I’m not falling for THAT twice. I didn’t even bother trying. Instead, I went and got the next next best thing to a chainsaw…my fifteen year old son and a bow saw…what fun we had.

Pictures and the rest of the story to follow.

Where did the month go?   I can’t believe how hectic the past few weeks have been.   So much to catch up on…no time to write by the time I get home.  Snow today, mostly north of us, but I still had to drive through it.  I have no problem driving in the snow…many others who live here however…no, I best not start that rant.  “Oh look, a snowflake!  Let me drive my car into something…”

So I had several job interviews, and have another one tomorrow.  Why do they all keep asking me what I want to do?  Am I really supposed to know that by now?  Unfortunately making a choice about what my next job should be has never been something the Army has burdened me with.   Now I have to choose.  I think today however I was able to put a priority list together.   Proximity to home is the highest consideration (the two and a half hours of driving each day are getting old).  Next would be something I’m willing to do (even if it isn’t a perfect job) for more money.  Then, something I’d like to do for a bit less money.  Then (how I hope I don’t get all the way down here on the list), something in DC, that I don’t like doing, for not much money.

We had plumbers in the basement last week putting in pipes (which proves I put the wall back in the right place this time), so the luxury bath is roughed-in.  Now all I have to do is finish the ceiling framing and get the wiring in and we can get it all tiled and inspected for the final installation of fixtures.  We’ve decided to do a partial inspection and get the one room out of the way completely.  I’ll post pictures when it is all done.  Roman bath here we come…

Helped a friend build a basement room last weekend as well.  I am in a husbands co-op with two other guys.  One Saturday a month we spend a whole day working on the honey do list at one house (which is usually one major project).  We put in a hardwood floor one Saturday and built a room (framing, wiring and plumbing) last Saturday.  In March they”ll come here and help me with some project, most likely in the basement.  All the framing should be complete by then so perhaps we can finish wiring and putting up the canister lights.

I am very aware that I owe an installment or three on the Thraveon project.   Life continues to intervene.    If only I could slip as easily into the nexus as Grey Connor…

Popcorn.