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Last Updated : Sunday, 30 March, 2003
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| Daynotes On a Budget Hosted By... Last Updated : Sunday, 30 March, 2003 |
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Monday, March 24, 2003 |
Update At 0830
Fascinating
I've been e-mailing a friend of mine who is in the military. He's in the Army reserves, and was recently activated. He's not presently in Kuwait or Iraq, though there's some chance he might end up over there.
It's interesting to get the opinion of someone I trust as to how things are going, and one of the points he made was in regard to the "embedded journalists" who are providing much of the footage and public information about this war.
Apparently, the military is aiding in the largest single "reality TV show" in the history of the planet. Let us hope this record stands. The embedded journalists are, certainly, going through hell. They're bouncing along in the back of vehicles with suspensions that aren't exactly comfortable, they're in an environment that makes most literary descriptions of hell look like a vacation paradise, and they're doing it all hungry, tired, and on-edge, because they don't know when the opposing Iraqi army might fight, surrender, or start lobbing chemical-laden shells at them.
The major difference is that, in a week or two, these reporters will be out of Iraq, back in comfortable studios, or their homes or apartments, reporting on other world events, and the soldiers they're accompanying will remain in that hellish environment - some, perhaps, for a few years.
Do I respect the journalists? Some, yes. There are families who gain comfort from the images of their loved ones on television. Unfortunately, not all the images are comforting. But let's not forget that it's the soldiers they're reporting on who are doing the job, and while it might seem like "Reality TV" to us, it's life and death to them.
I suppose this is as good a time as any for me to clearly state my present position on the war. Yes, I was opposed to it. Yes, I'm unhappy it's going on. But I am all in favor of it finishing quickly, and the Iraqi civilians having their country back, or, as I told my buddy, "I pray for both sides. That our soldiers return safely, soon, and that the Iraqis who oppose us find death a swift comfort."
I want it done RIGHT this time, as opposed to the 1991 version, when we took billions of dollars of equipment, thousands of bombs, went in, did a half-assed job, and then told a lunatic dictator "and don't you forget it." Funny thing about history and madness - there's very little logic involved in the overall strategy.
Or, as Forest Gump said, "Stupid Is As Stupid Does".
Speaking Of Stupid
Got a spam today apparently babble-fished all to heck.
"Carry On That Assembly Going Eternally" was the subject line. Against all better judgement (you do these things when bored and the children are on spring break), I opened it. I must have been insane. It was for herbal viagra. Right. Just what I need. Perma-woodie. Sheesh. And when they bury me, it'll be an open casket, or a permanent small room with a dome. Well, maybe not. Since I'm just plain average, it'll be a small dome. More of a pup tent, really...
Add to that the small irritant of "some Assembly required" - lovely. I can't imagine a worse time, place, or state to encounter those three little words.
Update At 2220
Beat Me If I Get Annoying...
But I've put up a puppy page as well. Less of a "look at my dog" page and more of a "say, you wanna see new puppy pix, I'll post 'em over there."
And the "there" is right here.
No new pictures today. We had a few incidents of note...
First, there was the walk to the park where the first "Sub-toddler" (I'd estimate 18 months or thereabouts) grabbed onto Daisy and went "wubwubwub" in her fur. Daisy literally ignored the child (his mother and I were watching very closely, I had Daisy's leash in one hand, and the other ready to grab just in case). So far, so good.
We also had some definite herd behavior, as well. Daisy would get most upset when we weren't all in a consistent configuration. As in, if we weren't all together, she got anxious. Back to check on the rear guard, forward to check on the lead dog, and back into the middle, and around... She was nervous.
Finally, we had our first "pop the leash right out of my hand" moment. Jack loves to roll down the hill in the park. We never got enough snow (until about three weeks ago, and it lasted about two days, then it all melted) to go sledding down the hills, but he loves rolling down them. He went rolling down the first time, and Daisy was a bit concerned - he was giggling the whole time, and the dog couldn't tell if he was injured or happy.
The second time (with Daisy and I at the bottom of the hill) Jack was coming down the hill and squealed. Pop went the dog, pop went the reel in the leash, and pop went the leash from my hand. Rather than tear off into the wild blue yonder, she galloped up to and planted paws either side of Jack, who lay there giggling. Daisy was concerned.
So that was our day. Now, I've got a problem. The name "Daisy-Dog" has been spinning through my head of late (no, I know not why), and I cannot for the life of me remember where I picked it up. I seem to remember reading it, rather than hearing it, but I cannot for the life of me remember author or book. I'm nearly certain it was fiction, but what or where, I do not recall. HELP?!?!?
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Tuesday, March 25, 2003 |
Update At 0715
Funnies
I heard one this morning I had to share.
Seems Canada has gotten over it's concern regarding the war in Iraq, and is prepared to commit two of their largest battleships, 6,000 troops (including 100 tanks), and over 50 of their fighter/bombers.
Unfortunately, after applying the prevailing exchange rate, we got a canoe, two Mounties, a moose, and half a dozen flying squirrels.
Made ME chuckle, it did. As did Daisy crawling up in our bed this morning and laying down. She's a good girl, though. We told her down, and she did. Not too shabby. I think she's far perkier than had been believed previously, which might just be a good thing. I think she knows this is a permanent home.
Yup, Severely Impacted Cranio-Rectal Inversion...
Don Armstrong and JHR both pointed out that I was partially right in that Daisy-Dog was fictional; she appeared (as a nondescript breed) on the top half of the Sunday front page comics every sunday when I was a kid - it was a comic strip called "Blondie". Uh, duh.
Mr. Dufferin, of course, states that he'd like to be the millionth person (no, the first actually) to remind me that Chris Ward-Johnson's dog is also Daisy. Yup. Knew that. Hadn't yet made the connection to it, though.
Dang Near Forgot
This morning, after starting the car, I went across the street to get the paper. I heard an odd noise and looked up. Mind you, there's perhaps two dozen local airports within fifty miles of my house, plus the Minneapolis/St. Paul International airport, so airplane noise isn't unusual. But the sound of this one was.
I looked up, and maybe a thousand feet over head was a rather unusual plane. The tailfins were similar to that on a B-24 (horizontal tail with the rudders on the outside edge of the wing, rather than in the center), but it wasn't a B-24 as it had only two, or at most, three, engines. Oh well. I know there's a group out at the Eden Prairie Airport that does restorations of older aircraft, who knows what this one was...
Update At 1630
News Roundup
Well, let's see what else catches my eye this morning.
First off, Russia denies selling anything to Iraq. Um. Right. I guess, I wouldn't be surprised to see some Russian firms selling to someone - anyone - so long as the money was good. And that's just the profit motive.
However, I think I've got a cure for that. Russia can help to pay for the rebuilding. What? They didn't want this war? Right. They wanted to see (and have a showcase for) their military goods that oppose American equipment. Apparently so they can sell to more third-world lunatic dictators.
And it's pretty clear that Dick Cheney's former employers are getting some juicy contracts to put out fires in Iraq. One wonders, one does...
Oh, let's see what else is out there... Hmmm. Seems the French want to cut down on smoking. I could applaud, but then I might risk ostracism for that - I could ask why, but it might be misconstrued. I mean, I am American, and I'm sure some might wonder...
And on to even more fun... Last week I had to be one of the few males on this continent to be wanting the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit edition to get the heck out of the way. The following edition had an article on Kirby Puckett and his fall from grace, written by Frank Deford.
I respect Deford, he's a good sportswriter and has some interesting slants on the news. But, like any other "-Coaster" (as in east or west), he is guilty, again, of at least over-simplification of any complex issue here in the midwest.
Deford claims Puckett was pretty much the king of the town, here, for his simple act of moving to Minneapolis. Hell and Bullshit. The guy grew up in the projects of Chicago, so he knew cold and snow. It didn't intimidate him. He came to Minnesota because Andy McPhail, who is now running the Cubs, saw talent. That's why. Puckett could have made more money elsewhere as his career went on, which is, I'm sure, a huge reason for him to stick around town.
Deford claims that Puckett hated dealing with kids. I'm sure that's true. I mean, Puckett must have had a pathological hatred of children to stand out there after every other player had left the ballpark and made sure every kid standing there had an autograph. In this day of the autograph being sold by the players and others for exhorbitent amounts, Puckett certainly was a fool not to sell his.
Deford also seemed to pray on some of the more ... unintelligent participants of his story. For starters, the "mistress" Puckett is supposed to have had, a woman by the name of Laura Nygren, is presently upset that she was both misquoted and not compensated for her interview. Nygren was quoted over the weekend as saying that she never was interviewed, Deford would just call to chat every so often. Right, toots - a nationally-known sportswriter is going to be calling you just to chat, because he likes you. And when it comes to those jilted in love, their credibity is certainly higher than others. I mean, after all, they've been HURT, right?
One of the other people quoted in the article, Jeff Dubay, from KFAN radio, is also claiming to be misquoted. Now, I'm a big believer in the integrity of the media - they'll stick together like glue so long as there's a profit to be made by doing so. And in this particular case, I can see where Dubay telling tales after school to someone like Deford might cost him the confidences of other professional athletes around town.
In the end, though, Deford misses the fundamental truth - Puckett was one of many heroes from those wonder years of 1987 and 1991. Puckett's bat and paunch were endearing - not any more than Kent Hrbek (local boy's) antics, or Dan Gladden's blonde hair sticking out the back of his hat, or Gary Giatti's resemblence to Liza Minelli, or Jack Morris's scowl, or Al Newman's smile, or Juan Berenger's big, greasy mustache. They were, altogether, a team. The likes of which we hadn't seen before, and would not likely see again any time soon. They came out of nowhere - worst-to-first - and surprised the hell out of us in doing so. Had they lost the World Series, they would have remained the toast of the town much like Bob Lurtsema, Fran Tarkenton, Alan Page, Carl Eller, Paul Krause, Chuck Foreman, Jim Marshall, and the other Vikings from those four failed SuperBowl bids are still today.
That they managed to win, together, was something we'll never forget. That each was human and imperfect isn't going to change what they did. It changes how we look at them now, and I now pity Puckett, mostly because he tried. Really, he did. But he didn't fall as far as Deford says he did, mostly because most of us never really had him up there with Paul Bunyan and Ole and Lena jokes anyway. Kirby was an Athlete. Nothing more, nothing less.
At the moment, he is an accused athlete. We're not sure what happened. Heck, we may never know, until the competing books come out, and we can attempt to de-spin things. Like that's possible. Puck's fallen, a bit. Will he remain down? Undoubtedly. If he's convicted, then there's the horrible images to come, of him being led out in handcuffs, and all the rest.
What's worse is if he's acquitted or there's a hung jury. Either way, Puckett's reputation is tarnished, probably forever. His "influence" led the Twins to hire him, and I suspect that the Twins have now let the man go, for the same reasons the rest of the world has run - he's accused.
Had his influence been as powerful as Deford suggests, the Twins would be starting this season in a new ballpark, instead of that crummy, old, twenty-year-old Metrodome. And we'd see half a dozen rainouts, at least two snow-outs, and countless other problems with the new stadium, all because the Twins want the newest - which will last roughly twenty years until the next round of "I wants" comes around.
While I'd love open-air baseball, the bottom line is perhaps we'd better keep a lid on things. It'll hold the egos in check, if nothing else. Unless the players, and the sportswriters, leave the building.
Fascinating
It's been almost three whole days, but boy, is Daisy taking over.
It was interesting to watch her at the park today. I kept her on the short leash, which meant she stayed very close to me. While the kids played, she watched, intently, as they did so. If they separated, she was very concerned. I guess she doesn't like her sheep split up.
This afternoon, after watching a movie, the kids went out to play in the front yard. As we don't yet have anything to tie her down to, I kept her out of the front yard. She'd go back and forth between the front door and the garage door, whining occasionally. If one of the kids would yell or shriek outside (didn't have to be one of mine), she'd whine louder. Once in a while she'd "woof". Not an out-and-out bark, just a soft "woof" to let us know she's concerned.
I took her across the street a bit later (Jack's bike chain fell off), and she positively leapt for joy to see Rhiannon. Now the kids are playing hide and seek with her. I think she's better at the seek part, myself...
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Wednesday, March 26, 2003 |
Update At 2145
'Umor, Again
Mr. Beland write :
As a Canadian friend pointed out, this can be taken one of two ways. First, probably the intention, that Canada has shit for military power - or the second, his favored interpretation and supported by the wording, that two Canadian Mounties are the equivalent of 6,000 of our troops.I seem to remember a song sung by a fellow in a mountie uniform. "I'm a lumberjack and I'm OK/I sleep at night and I work all day/I wear women's clothes and skip and jump/and like to sniff wild flowers". Hmmm.
And there are apparently a lot of people upset that the French want in on contracts to rebuild Iraq after the war. Hell, folks, there's going to be plenty of room and plenty of opportunities. In fact, I could write the Request for Proposal for the DoD right now...
Thank you for your interest in rebuilding a new, greater Iraq. The Department of Defense wants you to know that while safety is our primary concern, we cannot guarantee all will return alive. The following opportunities exist at the present time:1) DESERT ORDINANCE DISPOSAL
DUTIES : Finding unexploded ordinance in the desert, and whacking it with a hammer to determine if it is inert. Please note the opposite of "inert" is "Kaboom".
REQUIRES : Hammer, walking stick, and the ability to outrun explosions in the event you cause one. Please note the last is possible, despite anecdotal evidence to the contrary - it's been seen in a number of American movie classics recently.
NUMBER OF POSITIONS AVAILABLE : Unknown at present. Expected to be a fair number of them, of course, and this really depends on how much ordinance transfers from "inert" to "kaboom".
2) UNKNOWN BIOLOGICALS ANALYSIS
DUTIES : Opening various containers of undetermined contents and sniffing them. Not all are labeled, not all are labeled clearly, and we don't trust the ones that are.
3) CHEMICAL DISPOSAL UNIT
REQUIRES : A nose, and a hearty constitution. If you're going to flop over dead after your fiftieth or sixtieth whiff of Anthrax, please do not apply.
NUMBER OF POSITIONS AVAILABLE : Really unknown. Some folks will be cleaning the various "Saddam Fridges" left about, and those could be pretty safe. Then again, they might not be, we just don't know. If we knew, we'd be eating the stuff he left.
DUTIES : Various methods exist for the disposal of chemicals. You might wash them down your sink, flush them down your toilet, or boil them in your kitchen to a powdery residue. This is one you can actually do from home, and we'll gladly deliver seventy-foot semi-trailers full of the stuff to your home.
4) OIL WELL FIRE SUPRESSION
REQUIRES : That you be anywhere other than Iraq - or, any other civilized country on the planet - with the exception of France, of course.
NUMBER OF POSITIONS AVAILABLE : Thousands, really. We've got truckloads of shit we just don't know what to do with, and need someone to dispose of it. Safely, of course. If some of this stuff gets out of hand, it could wipe out an entire country. Or two!
DUTIES : Using the latest in fire-supression gear, you will step into a pool of water, then, when fully soaked, you'll dive onto the top of the burning oil well to attempt to put it out. A great job for daredevils and skydivers! Smokers need not apply, however.
Thank you for your interest in the DoD's "Building a New Iraq" program.
REQUIRES : The ability to walk at least five hundred yards with kitchen sponges stapled to one's skin, and the ability to hold very still on an oil well. Should you have any resemblence to Spongebob Squarepants, for example, this might be a good position for you to try.
NUMBER OF POSITIONS AVAILABLE : While the number at present is expected to be low, we're fully expecting that burning trenches and other silly stunts will necessitate more than a few volunteers for this sort of work.
How's It Going?
Well, to be blunt, unwell. My #1 consulting client has put a rush order on a web site he needs tomorrow. Done. Of course, his check, due to me March 15, with late fees from the February check, is late. Which means he'll get more late fees.
I've got a couple irons in the fire, and a few actual call-backs on resumes are starting to come in. Perhaps I've been out so long I'm starting to look good, or perhaps I'm just grasping at straws, I don't know. I know that in the overall, I've got about a month or so here before things start to get on thin ice, and a month or two after that before the ice is out completely, metaphorically speaking.
Really, though, there are others who are worse off, and need more help than I do right now, which is typically the way of the world. And I'm not in Iraq or someplace where my life is in danger, so that's good.
But there's a rather clear focusing of purpose when the light at the end of the tunnel becomes that damned train. You know what's coming, you know what's going to happen, and you dance like hell to get out of the way.
I have been through this all before. I'm sure that it'll happen again and again - this is the lot in life of the 21st century worker. Find a job, do a good job at it, and watch it outsourced to a foreign country with cheaper labor, so that we can continue to buy cheap goods here in the United States.
I wonder, I guess, if those in the board rooms and executive suites of the various offices have done any sort of homework on these sorts of issues. Not the micro-economics of "if we cut jobs, we'll save ourselves money" but the macro-economic issue of "if we cut our payroll, and other companies cut their payroll, who the hell's going to buy our goods?" I suppose there's a break-even point, somewhere, but with news this week that Northwest, a major employer locally, laying off another 4000 employees (including 2000 locally), you have to wonder "well, who's going to fly Northwest if we're laying people off?"
I'm sure there are all sorts of models showing how the effect of a layoff to a community is relatively small, and it is a minor bobble in the world at large - but in my world, it's pretty much leveled it.
The last eight months or so have been nothing but boredom, hell, and terror, combined with a small amount of joy and exhiliration - mostly coming from dancing through yet another minefield full of problems and getting only minor scars.
Now I'm looking at something that wasn't even a consideration eight months ago - jobless, after nine months, and trying to find a way to feed a family, house them, and keep us all safe and warm.
Yeah, I added a mouth last week. That mouth is going to cut down on wasted food (she eats table scraps, so there's less trash going out). I'll get more exercise, which will contribute to lower food bills and some smaller medical bills for us in the future (I can hope). But there's also the fact that I got two callbacks on resumes this week. That hasn't happened since ... I don't remember when. I consider Daisy to be a good luck charm, too. Sure, she's another mouth. She's going to save us YMCA dues, kid toys, and some entertainment costs. There's also the incentive to "get home to see Daisy" which reduces the incentive to eat out (there's something comforting about having a dog snoring under the table when you're eating dinner).
Yeah, the short-term looks damned bleak. I don't know what's around the corner. I'd like to hope it's an upturn, but the way my life is going, I can't tell - could be up, could be down, could be a left turn into something completely different.
There are a couple careers that I've ruled out either through my own ethics or my own abilities. I know any sort of Multi-Level Marketing deal isn't for me. I'm not going to convince someone of something I'm not utterly convinced about, and I've yet to see any MLM idea that makes sense for everyone, not just the first twenty people on-board.
So yeah, I'm nervous. I'll get through it somehow. We always do.
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Thursday, March 27, 2003 |
Update At 1445
Daisy Update
Yes, I know, three days now without Daisy Pictures. I'm sorry, but you'll have to get used to it. Rather than shove pictures of my dog down your throat, I'll just tell you one other good reason we have her.
Last night Ann was watching Blackhawk Down - I was studiously ignoring it, working on a web site. As we were still awake, Daisy was downstairs, watching TV with us. At one point, Daisy went upstairs. About eight or nine minutes later, I heard Jack crying. Ann went up (I scare him when he has the night terrors, apparently), and Daisy was right there, concerned about Her Boy.
Shilohs are often used for companion and guide dogs - and I know that there are several out there who also do seizure alerts. Seizure Alert is when the dog can sense, somehow, a change in the person they're with, and there's a seizure coming. The lead time warning they get is fairly reasonable - three to ten minutes, from what I've seen - so if you're driving, you've got plenty of time to pull over, or do whatever you need to to protect yourself.
I wonder if Daisy could already sense the onset of Jack's bad dream, and was up there protecting him?
And In Other News
I guess I do respect the war protester's rights to protest, but the reports in this country that people are blocking emergency vehicles, staging "die-ins" and blocking legitimate business bother me more than a little.
I'm not happy that we're at war. Then again, I think if you find someone who is, I'm pretty safe in saying there's a dangerously unstable person there. War is never pretty, never the desired outcome, and is never, ever, a preferred solution.
Unless, of course, you're off your nut.
But there are some good examples of poor behavior, such as in Seattle, where people block a bridge, thus preventing emergency vehicles. I'm reminded of the story my mother told about the train engineer who slowed down to keep the fire engines stopped on one side of the train tracks. He went home that night - to a burned-out house. True? Dunno. Appropriate? Damned straight.
I'm not saying people shouldn't protest. It's their right. As is civil disobedience. As is various other forms of stupidity, such as jumping off tall buildings. Without a parachute.
So go ahead. Keep protesting. But remember. If you piss someone off, they're liable to ignore your message and focus on you. And it wouldn't hurt if you presented your case while clean, well-dressed, neat, and otherwise presentable. Showing up with a rats-nest of dreadlocks, smelling of six months of living in a tent, with every piece of clothing you own on to keep warm, and we're liable to hand you a couple of bucks for a hot meal - then move away quickly.
But that's our right, too. The louder the rhetoric gets, the quieter I tend to get, until I can hear myself again. Not the gunfire or the bombs, or the screams of the offended. I'm more worried about the families of our soldiers who won't be coming back, or those who are currently POW (and we hope WILL be coming back), and the Iraqi families who are seeing their loved ones die - because Saddam said so.
There are people worried that we might have accidentally bombed a market in Baghdad. Frankly, any sort of destruction in Baghdad is probably - not certainly, but probably - our fault. But let's not rush to judgement. After all, Saddam gassed Kurds, brutally attacked Shi'ites, and we got blamed - for not supporting the Shi'ite majority in southern Iraq, and not doing anything about the Kurds in northern Iraq.
Now a bomb falls where it could do the most ... well, propaganda damage. Gee. I'm betting Tommy Franks and his generals are looking at this very hard. If they did do it, they're looking to find out how. If not, would you believe them?
Not that it's out of the question that Saddam couldn't have done this. After all, he's eminently stable, reliable, and perfectly dependable. Just to go out on a limb here, I'm guessing we'll see more of this before the end of the war - horrible events, like "Hospitals" destroyed, like "orphanages" blown up, and like "bunkers of innocents" killed.
When you have an enemy who violates the "rules of war" what do you do? Follow the rules until they break them, then make specific single exceptions for that one rule. Sure. But should this man have been left in power? Hell no.
Update At 2230
Ah, Spring
DESPITE the fact that we have snow (yes, wet, gloppy snow) falling outdoors tonight, I know, deep in my being, that it is spring. For somewhere in my head, someone popped out the bung on both ends of the barrel that is my sinus cavity, and fluid is pouring in one end, and flowing out (at half-rate, of course) from the other.
I've never, ever liked drippy noses. Not when I was a kid and the snotchannel in my upper lip turned into a river down to the lower portions of my face, not with a mustache, nor with a beard. Though, I suppose, if you do find someone who does enjoy the drippy nose, I'll spot you five buck on their commital paperwork. Seriously.
Other than that, we should all prepare for tomorrow - yes, folks, it's another one of those French holidays, the Surrender of Paris to Viking raiders in 845. I tell ya, it's hard to avoid those "France Capitulates" holidays any more... 
Oh well. Tomorrow is another day. Thank God.
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Friday, March 28, 2003 |
Update At 2230
Childhood Memories of a Hellion Boy
As a kid, I've got many, many memories of my mother. Most of us do. It's not that unusual.
Mine center around breakfast in "the old house". My mother and father built that house, without taking on debt, back in late 1963/early 1964. That house, with land, ran less than your average SUV does today. It was a three-bedroom, one bath house with a single-car garage, a full basement, a chalky-white-and-black paint job I hated to touch, and a heavily-wooded lot, off the main road, in a little almost-cul-de-sac development that had two ways out. Our first Christmas in that house, when I was all of about 15 months, my folks had something like $40 to spend for food, gas, clothes, and Christmas that year. Mom used double-and-triple coupon days to stretch things, and even though we had a rather boring menu that month (so I'm told), clearly, it didn't scar me for life.
I honestly do not remember it, but my mother said I got a bunch of empty boxes that year, and was delighted with them. Sounds like me - construction material.
But I remember my mother sitting by the table nearly every morning for a while in a faded peach or very light green acetate/fake silk robe and nightgown, a few months (or more) pregnant, with coffee and cigarette in hand, as my father would come down the hall, into the sunlight. He would sit at his chair, with suit-coat on, tie properly tied, pencils and pens in his shirt pocket, sprinkle sugar on the half-a-grapefruit he'd eat each morning with two slices of dark toast, have his coffee (with half-and-half, no sugar) and then head out the door to work.
No lunch to go with, of course, as this was the time of "real manly men" who worked through lunch so he could get home early and eat a big meal with the stay-at-home-wife-and-kids. That was the way it worked in my world.
After dad went out the door, no breakfast in hand, occasionally a briefcase, we were left at home, all day. Mom didn't drive in those days, and we didn't have a second car - I got the "second" car when I was nineteen. Most families in the neighborhood didn't have second cars. Not because of cost. Because of need. I remember one of my friends moving in, and they were ultra-cool, because in addition to the regular car they had (a sedan), they also had an army-surplus Jeep.
Back then, in the early 1970s, we were two miles out from the nearest "town" which consisted of a bridge, two factories, two schools, a couple of houses, and a few churches. Oh, and a police/fire/town hall building, as well. Not even a barber shop. And the "grocery" store made more money on candy than it did on anything else, including milk.
Mornings were for just Mom and I. And the assorted and ever-growing collection of sisters I had. Some days we'd spend it downstairs, where my father took 1/4" plywood and some scrap 1x4s, some carpet, and fashioned a "play area" in the south-east corner of the basement for us. No windows, heavily protected, if there was a storm, we could come down and play, and no one would notice the thunder, lightening, or strong winds. We'd play, and stay out of the ever-growing pile of "stuff" that was moved to shelves to be "stored" in the basement.
When I was probably five or six, my father brought home a real-live-plantable-tree. They didn't do that sort of thing very often, because we had plenty, and the back yard was pretty cool. It was about forty feet wide, going back from the house, and quite a bit more than the width of the house (which was, perhaps, another forty feet). We had the front yard, a good thirty or so feet from the road to the front of the house, the south side yard, which was thirty or so feet to the "South woods" where I wasn't allowed to go exploring until much, much later, then the back yard to the west, then the "north-side" yard, barely ten feet wide, next to a vacant lot my parents later purchased as an investment.
But the back yard was flat as a pool table for the first twenty-five or so feet running back from the house. Then there was this straight-as-a-line ridge running across the yard, parallel to the back of the house, that rose up about two feet. Nothing obvious - no old Roman road or anything - just a ridge that disappeared in the vacant lot next door. The rest sloped up, gently (perhaps a rise of three or four inches in the twenty feet), to the fence.
I was lucky. We had vacant "woods" on all four sides of us. The smallest was to the north, where there was but one lot, about seventy feet deep and a hundred or so feet wide, between our house and the next. The brush was so thick in that lot that when the building contractor made a mistake with a house some years later, it took the bulldozer twenty minutes to get into the middle of the lot - good thing, too, as my father owned the land, and they had time to confirm it with the contractor before mom ran out there.
To the east was the "back yard" of the house along the main road - about an acre of heavy brush, which they later cleared and put a house on. But when I was a kid, the first three lots were heavy brush, only one had a trail through it, and the drop-off at the edge of the tar road could kill you if you weren't careful - and it got worse every spring.
To the south, it's now streets and sewers and garish Christmas-light displayes, and all connected to Sartell city services. Back then, there was a "junk pile" with lumber (a key ingredient in all "scrouge-up" treehouses), appliances (none of this namby-pamby removing the latches on the refrigerators or freezers - we just had bullet holes in them for ventilation), and assorted "oddities" - the weirdest of which was the "chipmunk beater" which turned out to be a major portion of the car horn for a 1952 Buick something-or-other we found further out in the woods - but that's a whole 'nother story.
To the west, the "Pasture" - where we built those 'nother story treehouses. And hunted chipmunks. And got chased by bulls, cows, and the occasional skunk. Something like forty or fifty acres, now covered in perhaps a hundred houses, packed so tightly together that when you sneeze, both neighbors say "bless you".
Today, that yard layout makes no sense. Why put your garden in the darkest portion of the yard? But then again, it required so little in the way of work, and it blocked some of the barb wire fencing, so I suppose Mom had her reasons.
Along that oddball ridge line in front of the garden in the back yard were four trees. Four magnificent oaks - red and white, tall, leafy, full of acorns, and impossible to climb (the lowest branches were about thirty feet up). Two on the south side, about eight feet apart, and two more on the north end, about six feet apart. One on the north side was dying, surrounded by a mess of wild grape and raspberry vines we'd pinch fruit from and lob at one another (or smear in our hair) during the months they ripened. And avoid the thorns the rest of the time.
Mom and dad wanted to put a tree in between the two sets, and purchased some variant of towering wooded leafy splendor which would, in future years, crown the back yard in magnificent shade. Or would, if it survived the little shit I was.
Of course, the tree was sickly when transplanted. Of course, I was fascinated by a tree I could get my arms around. Of course, I played near it. Of course, it snapped off at the ground.
I'll never forget the terror of that moment. Holding a nine-foot tall stick, recalling in abject terror the whole previous Sunday. The long lectures - "Do NOT go near that tree." The promises I'd made, to not even LOOK at the thing. And there it was, in my dirty hands - busted, dead, and so was I.
Ever the genius, I quickly formulated a plan. Since I was not allowed near the tree, I would protect the tree with my assorted yard toys. Tonka trucks of all sizes (not the little crap of today, but the big, heavy, all-steel toys of back then), the pedal car, the wagons, and others all crowded around the tree in a vain attempt to stabilize it, hold it up, and keep me in the land of the living.
Alas, while my motive was good (well, my self-preservation is good, in my opinion), my methods were, in a word, pathetic. Mom took one look out the back yard, and that was it. I came in, and she said "so, what happened to the tree?" I said "nothing. I just thought it was lonely so I parked a couple of my trucks and stuff by it."
She bought it, all right. Hook, line, and sinker. For maybe a millesecond.
"If you move them, will the tree still stand up?"
She could tell my my dirty, tear-stained face (yeah, I'd cried - you'd be amazed what you'd do when you're six and dead-bang busted with no way out and no liquid assets to get you as far as Grandma's - never mind her house was less than a mile away, I wasn't allowed to cross the road, and it was across THREE roads - one of them VERY busy by country standards), and that was it.
"In your room. Your father will deal with you. When he gets home."
The four most terrifying words, when conjoined, in the English language. Dad had at least a twenty-minute drive home, plus the time between when Mom informed him and when he would reach home, to formulate some dastardly, evil, cruel, heartless punishment - which almost always consisted of a spanking and a talking to. And the talking to usually was worse than the spanking.
It took me years to realize that the stern look on her face wasn't because she was mad. It took a very, very long time - and my own hellion daughter - before I realized that her refusal to deal with me at all wasn't because she was unprepared, or incapable of making the final decision, or even scolding me to within an inch of my life.
No, it was because if she said anything else, even one word, she'd start laughing until she cried. You're not really a parent until you can say "been there, done that". As I have. Many times. And no doubt will continue to do.
I think often of that tree, and the many others I killed, those I saved, and some of them that are still around. Some of the smallest trees I found and transplanted to the edge of her then-garden at the new house now tower over it, ruining that plot for a garden - another heavily-shaded spot shot through my good graces, I suppose.
Not quite thirty years later, those trees mark where I learned responsibility - not to the environment, or to the land, or to myself. To my mother. It's not what you do when she's watching, but what you do when she's NOT watching that counts. Because sooner or later it would show.
It took only weeks to go from that essential and fundamental understanding to the bigger picture, and how I would relate to the world. It's not what you do when you're on stage in the spotlight or under the gun that counts. It's what you do when no one's looking, when no one will see it, when no one will be bothered to find out until years later, that defines "character".
My mother is, and has been, one of the few people who I honestly think understands me. Ann is the only other woman who's even come close. And after thirteen years, she still sometimes gets it wrong. That's OK. She hasn't had twenty-five years of direct daily experience, or nearly forty of observation, to realize why I do things.
Several years ago my mother went to the hospital. Until you realize that my mother took perhaps two "sick days" in the entire time I was growing up, and was only at the hospital to pop out another sister or get one of us patched up, you'll not understand just how monumental that event was.
Mom went to the hospital. She felt unwell, and had been passing blood in her stool. A number of tests were done, and something of a miracle occurred. On her kidney, they found a spot. Smaller than a dime, they found a spot, which was kidney cancer.
Kidney cancer is rarely, if ever, caught early. It's typically caught as a "oh, man, it started there years ago" sort of thing when it infects, infests, and rips out other organs people require for dignity, for life, for living. But mom caught this one without a bounce - a one-hundred pointer, as we used to call it in five-hundred.
A quick in-and-out surgically, a confirmation, several months of tests, and she was fine. She lists to port occasionally, and shouldn't over-indulge in beers, with only one kidney, but she's been mostly fine.
The cancer scare had a number of positive side effects. It scared her completely off cigarettes. For a woman who had paid lip-service to stopping smoking ever since I knew it was bad for her, going "cold-turkey" was amazing. And she did.
She also spent a lot more time paying attention to her body. When her appendix, and later gall bladder, troubled her, she went to the doctors, and they took care of it.
When she was feeling tired earlier this year, she went back to the doctors, who did another series of tests. They showed a small spot on her right femur which was, most likely, a recurrence of renal cancer. She told us. And said not to say anything. After all, this was just after my youngest sister had packed up all of her important earthly possessions and moved clear across the ocean to England. She didn't want to panic the baby of the family. That's my mom - "don't worry about me, I'll be fine."
After repeated tests on the cancer, a "scrape" (no, I don't want to see the scar, I'm told they went through the buttock), and some more looking, they determined it was a recurrence of the renal cancer which she'd beaten once. And I told myself "she's beaten this thing once, she can do it again". All the while knowing that she will be fighting this thing for the rest of her life, however long that might be.
Mom started radiation therapy this week. The four-week session (which might be dropped to three, if it goes well) will destroy the tumor and she will, somehow, regrow enough bone to be strong enough to get around. The bone will, supposedly, be stronger than it is now.
But there are many, many days since I found out when I think back to that tree trunk. Huge to me then, today it would be smaller than my thumb. And I remember how easily it snapped. I remember how it towered over me, like she did, and how today, when I see her, I can see the top of her head. That tree would still tower over me today, but it's dried and gone to dust. As we all will, some day.
I pray to God daily that my mother is stronger than all those trees I destroyed. I'm not yet ready to say goodbye. I need to transplant a few more trees for her. To show her I get it. And pass it on to my kids.
Overall, A Good Day
Though it didn't seem like it would be.
Last night, at 1:10 am and again at 3:15 am, Daisy barked. Not a "woof" and be done with it, but a real "Quick! Come Quick! Something's There! Come Quick, Damnit!" The first time I, in my usually addled state, stuck my head out the back door - into a snowstorm. In my undershorts.
Lest I leave you with that mental image for all of time, I'll continue. Ann checked it out at 3:15 (I, apparently, have learned to sleep through anything now), and still nothing. This morning, prior to 8 am, Daisy was in our room (something she's done only once before), whining. Out she went, and did her business. Then romped in the snow (yeah, we got about an inch). Jack went out later and they had a grand old time.
A bit later, as we were getting ready to head out, I got a call from The Client, and we discussed web sites for about an hour. It's amazing to me that very intelligent people will take a car to a mechanic and follow his advice, a pet to a vet, a kid to a doctor, or themselves to a dentist, but when they see a web site, they're all experts.
And I'm not talking the minor details, either. Things like "well, this looked good in print, let's try it on a computer screen." Right. Let's take what looks good on glossy paper, under bright flourescent lights in a well-lit office and try to duplicate it so that it looks good on an LCD screen for a laptop - or any other computer.
After struggling with fonts, colors, and all the rest, we determined what she could live with, and I swallowed my recommendations (which I'd made five times previously, on record), and said "you're the client, we'll get it done" and done it shall be. I might develop a migrane from looking at faint gray on a white background on a laptop monitor, but the client will be happy.
After that fracas, we decided to tag Daisy. Yes, real, live, genuine, personalized dog tags, to connect her to us. Stop one was the Vet, where our skinny girl seems to have picked up twelve pounds since we got her last week (I think she was under-weighed last week, she weighs 72 pounds this week), and also so she could go there without getting shots/poked/prodded/annoyed. The girl was most appreciative of Daisy, and gave her a dog biscuit. Which Daisy turned her nose up at - she likes the soft treats. I've spoiled her.
After that, we went over to PetSmart, where we found a dog-tag-making machine, and that it would cost us $50 for a full-boat grooming - yikes. Guess not. We looked there for a bit, got a "shedding brush" which is, as far as I can see, a chunk of double-sided band-saw blade in a handle (it's supposed to thin her heavy winter coat), and then went to the phone store to see what they could do about my dying phone - nothing, it turns out, other than hit me up for a $42 battery. Well, it's a good investment, I suppose, in the off case that Ann's phone might need one. I'm just hard on the things.
Then we hit the other pet store, where they had the same tag-making machine - this one, out of order. And we got a call from some friends who visited Monday night. Seems on Tuesday she got interested and started looking for a German Shepherd - And found one. And picked it up, today. She was certain, on the phone, that Jade was bigger than Daisy. I had my doubts, but we figured we'd see Jade later in the day and make our comparisons then.
We did find that Daisy does attract a lot of attention where ever she goes, and she is polite and well-behaved with all of them. At first, she seemed nervous, like "I just got this family broken in, and now they're ditching me?" But by the time we went back to stop #2 (which was also #5, if you're still counting), she was rather tired getting back into the car. No hop up, just a rather steady climb. "Yeah, back in again. I need a nap. How do you people do this?"
Back home for the drop-off-dog/get-grocery-list stop, and then on to the grocery store, where we, as usual, forgot a few things, then back home. And Jade and her new family came over.
Jade is a former police dog who apparently was no longer needed, but is still well-trained. Jade was about an inch shorter in height and at least four inches shorter in length than Daisy, but Daisy backed away from her anyway. Jade got rather snarly towards the end, which Daisy didn't like, but I took care to only let Jade sniff me and see who I was - I never petted Jade, so Daisy would know she was still my girl.
Daisy was still uncomfortable until we got back in the house, and then she finally relaxed.
The best part of the day, however, was getting a call from my buddy - the one who had been called up. The good news is that he's home. And you know that if there's a "good" news portion, there's always a following other shoe which will get you in the end.
He's got three weeks at home, where they will be building a new unit to replace the one he'd worked to train and had been with for nearly 20 years. As the only original member of the unit (other than the CO), he's got a tall order. Three weeks from now, he ships overseas, to Kuwait. Two weeks after that, his unit must be ready to handle their duties. Fortunately, it won't be front-line scouting, as we'd originally feared. It's likely to be worse, because if his unit gets a call, we'll all be able to look at France and Germany and Russia and China and say "Here's your smoking gun."
And, as we all know, the key problem with a smoking gun is that it's been fired. At least once.
So it goes. He and his family, and all the rest of the troops, ours and others, are in our prayers.
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Saturday, March 29, 2003 |
Update At 0200
No, Really
Yeah, I know. Back too damned soon. It took until Friday - Six whole days - before Tish decided to voice his opinion in his usual fashion.
I'd conked out in bed about 12:30 am, with the TV still on, remote in my hand. Ann came in, got into bed, and then uttered the fateful words "do you smell cat pee?"
Well, no. I've got this river, see, and it starts behind my eyeballs, and it's draining in two different directions - down my throat and out my nose (or "nodze"), so no, I didn't smell anything. Heck, I got a very faint whiff of brownies this evening when she took them out. The visitors earlier yesterday said "wow, I smell cake. It smells good." Nope. Nada.
So of course, I said "no" and tried to fall back asleep. No joy. Ann rolled over, discovered that not only had Tish gotten her pillow, he'd also gotten her side of the bed.
Unfortunately for Tish, I happened to get a very, very good hold on the scruff of his neck, picked him up, rubbed his face on the bed, then tossed him out into the living room. In front of the giant beast that had apparently made his life a living hell. She looked at him and put her head back down.
Gilligan, bewildered, was also banished from the bedroom, and both cats are now locked in the laundry room for the immediate future. I've made my trip to Cub (a 1:10 am trip to the grocery store - how pathetic is that?) where I picked up urine odor remover, animal stain and odor remover, two two-pound boxes of baking soda, a big bottle of Fabreeze, and a small air freshner. One way or the other, the bedroom will be livable again.
And we'll figure out what to do with Tish. We won't put him down, but we will have words with him. One of the pages Ann found on the internet suggested locking the cats into a space with their food, water, and boxes, and keeping them there for two weeks. Seems a mite draconian, especially with Daisy trying to get used to the house, but on the other hand, the little shit pissed on my eight-hundred-dollar bed, for cripes sake. I'm not going to take that laying down.
Pardon the pun.
Update At 1100
Well, I'm Up
Actually was launched off the futon over two hours ago as Rhiannon came out of her room to use the bathroom - which is in the laundry room - which was a few feet from my head. Of course, while the futon is relatively comfortable, it doesn't do much when you've got two cats yowling and pawing at the door to get out all night long.
Rhiannon opened the door, and they were off. Well, Tish took off like black lightning, while Gilligan just wandered out, bewildered. Rhiannon corralled Gillie, and got him back in there (poor guy), and Tish ended up in our room hiding under the love seat - which was still covered with stuff. Unstack that, finding in the process a number of missing items, and then Rhiannon and Ann hauled Tish out while I held the loveseat up.
Tish is back in his "jail" along with Gilligan. Neither of them is happy about things, but I'm not sure what else to do. We need to let Gillie and Tish have the run of the house, but they're not going to do so unless they know Daisy's safe. They're not going to get to know Daisy, though, because she's huge.
I can't have Tish peeing all over, so the choices are either to break him of this habit, or to figure out how he and Daisy will get comfy with one another. And yes, I'm aware of how stubborn cats are. What the cats aren't aware of is how stubborn I am. I have, on regular occasions, out-stubborned a cat. I will this time, too...
Update At 2330
Saturday, Bleary Saturday
Yeah. Something like that.
Sheet and blankets are in the dryer, having been through the run twice, methinks. Everything's pretty well over it. The "Cat Urine And Spray Remover" stuff (main name was called "Out", no brand) worked well enough last night that you can't smell the urine in the bed any more. So that's a good thing.
We also did another "pet store run" today - ran over to Apple Valley to check out the Petco over there, and Daisy sure seemed to know the place. Quite excited to be there. I'm pretty sure that if I ever again get stuck in a ditch, I'll pull out a tow chain, hook it to her harness (see below), and get Ann out front to hold treats in front of her. Guaranteed she'll pull a Mack truck up a ten-foot embankment, if she gets it into her mind to go.
She did more preening and showing off today. One little girl (eighteen months or so) took one look at her and said "Puppy" and came running. Daisy just froze, the little girl came up, grabbed her fur, and stuck her face in it. Her father came over, slowly, so as not to spook Daisy, and the little girl just kept saying "Puppy".
Now, for those of you who would happen to want to stick their faces in my dog's fur - do not under any circumstances do so when your face is sticky. The little girl pulled her face back, and she had a better beard than I do. And this was on a FEMALE well below the age of puberty. Of course, nearly all of the hair (from what I could see) was borrowed, but there ya go.
Daisy helped clean the child, by doing the usual lick from chin to eyebrows. Her dad said "oh, kisses." No, Bath.
Petco does Last hope adoptions every weekend, somewhere. The group we got Daisy from was there, and a couple of people recognized her. Cinder, fortunately, wasn't there, or we'd have had another heart-breaking parting on our hands. But we wandered that store, picked up a "doggie seatbelt harness" which should keep her from bumbling around the back seat too much, and otherwise just got out of there. Daisy seemed to like the harness, which kept her from flopping all over, anyway. Stopped at PetSmart to check with their help, and then came home. Where we found Daisy wasn't thrilled with her harness - she could ALMOST get out of the car, but not quite.
There is something absolutely twisted about going around back to get the dog out, and ending up with a horse like Daisy between your knees. Three times now she's been head-down straight into my legs - I think she likes it there.
And now, given the late hour and my relative lack of coherency, I'd best find a segue out of that or this site might get a whole lot more traffic than I'd intended.
Once home, we checked on the cats, who actually seemed to like being locked in the laundry room, so tomorrow I go looking for a solid-core 30" wide, 1 3/8" thick, which I'll chop in half, cut a cat-hole in the bottom, and then hang (with the two extra 98¢ hinges I picked up at Target in their clearance bin - thank God for small favors).
Jeez, this dog business is getting to be a bigger pain in the butt than I'd ever contemplated.
Well, Now We Know
I heard earlier today that the Iraqis are using suicide bombers, and that the Iraqi leadership awarded the idiots posthumous medals. Tonight, word that we've discovered uniforms with the flags, etc., ripped off, and a metal cot with a car battery attached. Frankly, I'd like to see that stuff sent, special delivery via diplomatic "pouch" to Chirac in France. Just so he can see what his "friends" do.
I'm still lacking any sort of understanding of these suicide bombers, though. Perhaps that's a good sign. First of all, would you blow your happy rump up for someone who is most likely on life support, if not already dead? If Saddam (or Madass, as I prefer - Thank you Bob Hope) is still alive, why isn't he showing up? Why isn't he out there taunting us? Isn't this the "Mother of all battles" he really promised? Why is it that his second-string is showing up to face reporters, and he's on carefully managed video tapes which could be months old? Hell, for all we know, Saddam's escaped north through Iran (in disguise), into Russia, out through some small airport to the Phillipines, and he's sitting on the beach with a beardless Bin Laden and Mullah Gomer (remember him?), drinking mai tais with little umbrellas and laughing at the beach girls.
Okay. So Saddam's dead, and we have idiots who are willing to pop their carcasses from semi-solid to mostly not there. What do we do? I, for one, would require that anyone surrendering to my unit stop at least thirty feet from an armored vehicle, and strip - buck-bare-assed-naked, and leave their clothes behind. Step around the back of my armored vehicle, and you'll get two outfits, and a backpack with food and water. And a tabloid newspaper that shows Saddam doing something funky to a camel. Hey, we have freedom of the press.
I'd get Levis and Wranglers and Lee and other brands that are closely tied to America to ship several million pairs of jeans, shirts, and shoes, and socks and underwear. You come through the line naked, and we give you all new clothes. No, we can't trust you, but we'll give you two outfits for the embarrassment of having to strip.
If you choose not to strip, we choose to not accept your surrender. Sorry. Them's the berries. Your leader is, er, was a madman, and now there are a number of lunatics looking to go up in a poof of smoke. I wonder if there's a sort of accounting in heaven - "well, you took good care of yourself, here's a good body with which to enjoy heaven. You, you tried, but the flesh failed you. We grade by the spirit here, so you get a good one too. You, over there, Mr. Suicide Bomber fella, here's your pair of shoes and hat. Nothing in between. That's all you get."
And once the whole thing's over with, the Iraqi leadership, those who are captured, and on life support, and in severe pain, will spend time in court. And if you think war is painful, wait until we introduce you to Lawyers. We'll let you listen to "Rhymin' Johnny Cochrane" and a whole bunch of our best defense attorneys as they try to get you out of the noose and into a cell for life.
Dollars to donuts your countrymen, who will sit on that Jury, will vote to hang your scraggly, pimply, camel-split rump from the nearest ... well, it's a desert, mostly, so you'll probably just get dragged by a camel until dead. Works for me.
Were I an Iraqi citizen in Baghdad tonight, I'd be looking to head north as far as I could go. The town will, most likely, become a blast zone soon.
I think it's important to note that George Bush isn't a patient man - to put it mildly. He's not going to stand for a long war, because, frankly, this isn't anywhere near as important as what happens later this year and next - namely, re-election. George isn't going to wait around if this war starts to get long and drawn out. He'll pull out a Davy Crockett or two, and make glass in the desert, to show you we're serious. Then he'll start throwing down the really heavy stuff. "MOAB"s every couple hundred yards, just to make sure any biologic/chemical agent is burned up by the blast.
Won't that be fun?
I'd be looking to get as far away from that action as I could. Self-preservation. It's a wonderful thing. Apparently not needed in Iraqi military leadership career, however.
Then there's the whole issue of POWs. This might sound callous, and I don't want it to, but perhaps something good could come of this. Iraqi torture chambers might just let the rest of the world know "so, this is what happens in Iraq." Probably not, though. There will be several million who will state "Well, if we weren't there - " and they're absolutely right.
If we weren't there, they'd only be torturing and killing Iraqi citizens. Which is a hell of a lot easier for peace protesters to stomach than them killing someone who flew all that way to try to get them out of such a mess.
But that's the way the cookie crumbles. Peace is sometimes defined as "that period between wars" - notably not "that period between unjustified homicides". Should the peace protesters feel that the status quo should be maintained as "no Americans dying for Iraqis" then that's fine, let them have their racist ways. Should they define peace as "where no invasion force exists" that's fine - let Iraq hold fair, free elections - without torture chambers, without blood on ballots, and with an open campaign.
If, on the other hand, they just want the troops home, I'm right there with them. Let's let them finish the job we've sent them for, and then let them come home. Because if we pull out now, there are a small number of casualties which will be utterly, totally meaningless. Because we know that if Saddam isn't taken care of now, we'll be in worse shape in a few years.
So, I suppose, the peace protesters will continue to vent their anger at this war. I'm angry too. But we're there now, and the only thing we'll solve by stopping now and coming home is to waste lives and time.
And we'll be able to add the victims from the next horrific terrorist attack to the casualty list. Thanks for that.
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Sunday, March 30, 2003 |
Update At 1700
| KIA | MIA | POW | |
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Thomas Mullin Adams Jamaal R. Addison Stephen John Allbutt Luke Allsopp Jay Aubin Ryan Beaupre Michael E. Bitz Brian Rory Buesing John Cecil Therrel S. Childers David Jeffrey Clarke Simon Cullingworth Llywelyn Karl Evans David K. Fribley Jose A. Garibay Jorge A. Gonzalez Philip D Green Jose Gutierrez Stuart Guy Sholto Hedenskog Les Hehir Nicholas M. Hodson Evan T. James Howard Johnson II Michael Vann Johnson Jr. |
Phillip A. Jordan Brian Kennedy Antony King Bradley S. Korthaus Marc A. Lawrence Kevin Barry Main Kevin G. Nave Eric J. Orlowski Frederick E. Pokorney Jr. Steven Mark Roberts Randal Kent Rosacker Gregory P. Sanders Christopher Scott Seifert Ian Seymour Thomas J. Slocum Barry 'Baz' Stephen Gregory Stone Mark Stratford Brandon S. Tobler Jason Ward Kendall Damon Waters-Bey Philip West David Rhys Williams James Williams Andrew S. Wilson |
Thomas A. Blair Tamario D. Burkett Kemaphoom A. Chanawongse Donald J. Cline Jr. Robert J. Dowdy Ruben Estrella-Soto Jonathan L. Gifford Nolen R. Hutchings James M. Kiehl Jessica Lynch Johnny Villareal Mata Patrick R. Nixon Lori Piestewa Brandon Sloan Donald Walters Michael J. Williams |
Edgar Hernandez Joseph Hudson Shoshana Johnson Patrick Miller James Riley David S. Williams Roland D. Young |
Sunday. A day of rest. You'll note the names above. Those are the names - not rank, nor home town, nor loved one, nor force, unit, or country - but simply the names of our fallen, missing, or captured in this war, so far, that we know about. Some have not yet been identified or notified, and the deaths are still occurring. But these 73 names represent at least 73 families who are mourning, or worse, in fear of what might be found next.
So while you enjoy your Sunday, relatively free from the fear that the government could come at any moment and execute you, or strap you to a metal bedframe and question you with a car battery close by, take a moment and remember these fine people, please? Regardless of what you think of this war, these people have made the ultimate sacrifice. Let's not forget it, or them.
And if you are the praying type, pray hard that our troops will be victorious, and home soon. Pray hard that when they find the responsible types who take our soldiers captive, executing some, torturing others, and then not permitting the minimal comfort of a Red Cross visit, that the Iraqis responsible meet their fate quickly and properly - a bullet in the back while trying to escape seems appropriate to me.
Sure, we could put them on trial. I'm all in favor of it, actually. Let's just not waste our time - let's hold the trial after we're done taking care of the trash. Said trash also including Iraqi commanders who would do such things, of course.
'Nuff said.
Odd Day
We actually got up and going reasonably quickly this morning, and in our trip out and about, we acquired a number of feline-specific items. A cat bed, a fleece throw, and an ultra-cheap assemble-it-yourself kitty condo (under $20, as I recall). Said condo came with two tubes to connect the lower "house" with the upper platforms.
Hmm, I says to myself I says, I've still got a healthy bag of catnip in the pantry, I wonder if I add catnip to this, will it be more attractive to the cats?
But of course.
I put perhaps two ounces of the stuff in the tubes while assembling it, and when I took it into the laundry room, both cats showed some interest. Gilligan was immediately intrigued, while Tish was more fearful - new stuff upsets him. But he was quite happy with the fleece throw, and is sleeping on it now.
In other news, we were looking for prices on a "dutch" door - a split door, basically. I also need it solid-core. Of course, the local lumberyard doesn't carry such an animal, and their order books do not show it. We'll see what they can find tomorrow, but I'm starting to think about a waferboard-and-plywood sandwich - 1/2" waferboard (some people call it "Oriented Strand Board" - think particle board, basically), 3/8" waferboard, with 1/4" oak-veneer plywood on either side. Cut the waferboard smaller, build a frame of planed 2x2 lumber (that fits below the oak plywood), and I could make my own "dutch" door. Probably cheaper than the alternative.
The oddball moment of the day, however, had to be when I was sitting at the computer, and the phone rang. I looked at the Caller ID, and it was my wife's cell phone. Said cell phone was, last I knew, in her pocket. She was, last I knew, upstairs.
"Hello?"
"Do you wanna bring the toilet paper we bought yesterday up here?"
"uh, sure."
Were there awards given out for imaginative cell phone use, she'd get one. For the record - Rhiannon was playing at a friend's house, Jack was asleep, so none of the usual messaging systems (send a kid, hollering, etc) were functional or allowed.
No doubt, this will get me in trouble with my beloved, but that's the price I'm willing to pay to amuse you on a Sunday/Monday. Especially one that's leading into that short-weekend-week.
That's right folks - turn the clocks AHEAD an hour next weekend - lose an hour of sleep, how nice. It'll be darker in the mornings, and lighter after dinner. Should make some kids who like to bike ride after supper happy...
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