Flashes of the Obvious

Your Valentine

2012-02-10T13:04:00.000-05:00

This coming week people throughout our nation will celebrate Valentine's day by sending cards, giving gifts of candy and flowers, and indulging in romantic dinners and other events. In our modern celebration we forget that February 14 is the feast day of a saint, St. Valentine.

St. Valentine? Who was he anyway? How did his name get attached to our celebration?

Little definite is known about St. Valentine. Historians are hard pressed to agree who he was or even in which century he lived. According to one Church legend, Valentine, or Valentinus, was Roman priest during the reign of the emperor Claudius Gothicus. He was arrested and imprisoned for marrying Christian couples at a time when aiding Christians was considered a crime. Claudius took a liking to this prisoner – until he tried to convert the Emperor – whereupon he was swiftly condemned to death. After beatings with clubs and stoning failed to kill him, Valentine was beheaded outside the Flaminian Gate and buried beside the Flaminian Way. According to one legend, before his head was cut off, he healed the sight and hearing of his jailer's daughter. According to another, before being executed, he wrote notes of love and encouragement urging his congregation and friends to stand firm in the face of persecution and signing them "from your Valentine".

From those notes comes our custom of sending Valentines Cards on February 14, the traditional feast day of the saint. Such is the stuff of legend.

Today, more than a celebration of sacrificial love and affection exhibited by the saint, Valentine's Day has become a celebration of romance and a product of intense advertising by the greeting card, chocolate, and florist industries. The price of roses is escalating. Bottles of champagne are flying off the shelves. Ads for "romantic getaways" at some resort or another fill the mailbox. Sentimental cards decorated in shades of red and pink are being mailed, and large red heart-shaped boxes of chocolates have assumed a prominent place in the local markets.

Today, cards ask the recipient to "Be my Valentine" rather than offering to be theirs, the flowers, candy and romantic getaways seeking to secure rather than to express one's affection for and encouragement of another.

This year, I plan to return Valentine's day to the spirit of St. Valentine. This year, I plan to offer messages and acts of love and encouragement to those who are close to me. This year, I plan be rather than to send a Valentine.

Will you join me?

Will you be an encouraging spirit for someone?

Who will that someone be?

Life in the Ordinary

2012-02-03T10:53:00.000-05:00

"All that is gold does not glitter"

--J. R. R. Tolkien

As a parent, one learns that when a son or daughter says "It would be neat to do something" or "We really should try this or do that," it always pays to ask the question "Why?" Sometimes, it pays more to ask "Why on earth?" And the answer is usually the same. Trying or doing something or this or that would be different. It would be interesting. It would be exciting. And, when dealing with teen-agers, sometimes it might get someone killed. But sometimes it really would be a neat thing to do and you do it.

We humans crave experiences that are new and different, interesting and exciting. We seek them out. We rejoice in doing them. We feel deprived when for one reason or another we can do them no more. And there are some we would trade for nothing else in the world. And yet,when practiced repeatedly any experience too easily becomes routine. Even the joy of piloting an aircraft turns into "hours of boredom punctuated by moments of sheer terror." And no sane aviator ever chooses to experience that terror.

We are creatures of paradox. We crave the new, the different, and the exciting and yet find ourselves constrained to live the every-day, the commonplace, and the ordinary. We live our days in a dynamic tension between the two, doing the ordinary but ever hoping for something new.

It can make us miserable.

Or, it can be a source of comfort and peace.

I have learned to find joy in the ordinary and peace in the predictable rhythms of every day life. To me, the ordinary is wonderfully new and different. No two days or seasons or experiences or circumstances are ever alike

I take great pleasure in watching the sun come up every morning. No two sunrises are alike. The colors, while similar, are never arranged quite the same. And I rejoice in each sunrise as it is.

I take pleasure in the routine activities of my existence, in going through the familiar motions, in applying my knowledge, skills, and abilities to accomplish familiar tasks. Yet the circumstances and the precise application of knowledge, skills, and abilities can vary widely. And I treasure that too.

All that is gold does not glitter. All that is new and different and exciting does not announce itself with fanfare and trumpets. Sometimes, the gold is hidden beneath the dirt and must be mined or washed out. Sometimes, the new, exciting, and different is buried in the ordinary and must be found to be appreciated. There is infinite variation and novelty in the ordinary. The one who seeks will find it.

What will you do this week to appreciate your life in the ordinary?

What new thing will you find there?

When in Danger, Worry, Doubt...

2012-01-27T11:00:00.000-05:00

"When in danger, worry, doubt,

Run in circles, scream and shout!"

As a nation, we are addicted to disaster. More than knowledge of the latest stupid celebrity tricks, we crave stories of bad things happening across the street and around the world. A time honored principle of journalism is "If it bleeds, it leads."

Not only do we crave stories of bad things, we crave stories of the threat of bad things.

We crave stores of danger. The headlines proclaim "Bus-sized asteroid narrowly misses Earth!" and we feel endangered. "Experts predict major earthquake will rock the mid-west in the next 25 years" (Oh no! We're all going to die! Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!)

We crave stories that cause worry. Hearing that the "Fed Chairman predicts unemployment to remain above 8% through 2013" worries us. Will we remain employed? "Medical costs outpace insurance reimbursement". Will we be able to get the care we need when we need it? "Global economy shows signs of collapse." "Galloping hyperinflation on the way" and my personal favorite "Americans worried. No Longer Optimistic for the Future." How will we continue to exist? Abandon hope, all ye who are stuck living here!

We crave stories that cause us to doubt. Some candidate "dabbled in witchcraft". Another "once subscribed to a publication that could be described as racist." A prominent person "was seen with a woman who was not his wife." Is there no one with integrity and a pure record? There isn't, but that doesn't stop us from expecting one.

Stories of danger, worry, and doubt appeal to us on an emotional level. And, if we react on an emotional level and succumb to the strong feelings they give rise to, we will panic and, in all likelihood, end up either running in circles, screaming and shouting or cowering inside a darkened room. And we will make a terrible mess of things.

So, what's the alternative, other than burying our heads in the sand? How do we overcome the urge to panic in the face danger, worry, and doubt? How do we replace raw emotion with a considered response?

First, we need to identify the dangers and things that cause us worry or doubt and answer some questions.

Is that which I fear a real threat to me? The Japanese Tsunami and subsequent radiation leak is real, but no immediate threat to me. I need not worry and can go about my business.

How likely is that which I fear? In the event of a nuclear attack on our nation's capital, I can quite literally become toast. However, I judge such an attack unlikely and can continue to live where I am and go about my business without worry.

Is there any way to prevent that which I fear? What prudent measures can I take to prevent it? I can't prevent weather related disasters, but I can do a lot to prevent a house fire.

If that which I fear comes to pass, what is the worst thing that can happen? How do I plan to deal with it? What do I do first? And what do I do next, and so forth?

In other words, "When in danger, worry, doubt, Have a plan and pull it out!"

What do you fear and worry about?

What is your plan to deal with it?

Living the Dream

2012-01-20T09:07:00.000-05:00

Recently, I find myself confronted with a wealth of blog posts, articles, news and public opinion stories bemoaning the demise of the middle class and the American Dream.

I disagree.

The increase in "woe is us" rhetoric may be due to the fact that the nation is facing an election year in a down economy. Politicians and their allies in the media excel at painting a gloomy picture that only they can change if only we would elect them.

What rubbish.

As hard as politicians and the media seek to limit our understanding and convince us otherwise, both the middle class and the American Dream remain alive. Middle class is more than income and assets, and the American Dream more than a house with a white picket fence. More than anything, middle class is values and beliefs, the chief of which are independence, self reliance, and the right of the individual to achieve and to fail. These values are a legacy from our pioneer forefathers who lived them and, as a result, built a nation.

The American Dream is to achieve; to have, hold, and enjoy the rewards of that achievement. If one is to succeed, one must also be allowed to fail. Inherent to any achievement is the potential to fail and a responsibility to bear the cost of failure and to start over.

To fall out of the middle class is not to fail at meeting some arbitrarily set standard of income but to abandon one's independence, self reliance, and hope. To give up independence is to become dependent. To give up self reliance is to rely on others. And to give up hope to accept hopelessness.

To fall out of the middle class is to trade liberty for slavery. And I will be no man's slave.

Do you want to be independent?

Will you rely on yourself for your hope and your future?

Will you to work to achieve that future and that hope?

Will you bear the costs of any failure, pick up the pieces, and try again?

If so, then welcome to the middle class!

Now, go live your dream.

Borrowing Joy

2012-01-13T08:00:00.000-05:00

Did you ever notice that it's a lot harder to imagine wild success than to fear dismal failure?

Did you ever realize that most of our "what ifs" concern how we will react to things that go wrong rather than how we'll deal with things that go right?

Have you ever met someone who, like Eeyore in Winnie the Pooh, always sees a dark cloud behind every silver lining; who, when greeted with "Good morning!" responds with "If it doesn't rain"?

I've met people like Eeyore, people who, however hopeful the circumstances or positive the occasion, can always name at least one possible chain of events that's sure to spoil everything. Rather than enjoying the moment, these people get a perverse enjoyment from hanging on to negative possibilities with all of the tenacity of a dog gnawing a well-loved bone. In so doing, they usually make themselves and those around them miserable.

My mother called such thoughts and attitudes "borrowing trouble." When she heard one of her children indulging in them, her response was "Don't borrow trouble. You already have more than enough without it."

A wise woman, my mother. Rather than borrowing trouble, mother encouraged us to borrow joy!

Borrow joy? Is it even possible?

I know that it is.

I have met more than a few people who embody the concept. These people sparkle in their approach to life and reaction to the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. When greeted with "Good morning", they are as apt as not to reply "And getting better all the time!" or "And one helluva fine morning it is!" After greeting them, you realize that it really is one helluva fine morning and getting better all the time.

The strange thing is that, far from having experienced an easier life or better circumstances than the Eeyore's, these individuals have most often experienced much the same and even worse. Yet even in the most adverse circumstances, rather than "borrowing trouble" they are able, from some internal reservoir, to borrow hope and joy!

It is written that you get what you borrow. Borrow trouble, and you get it. Borrow hope and you get it. Borrow joy and you get that too. It's entirely up to you.

What will you borrow in 2012?

Is what you're borrowing something you really want to have?

The choice is yours.

Solving World Hunger

2012-01-06T07:29:00.000-05:00

The period between Thanksgiving and New Year is filled with good will and charity to all. During this time of the year, people step out of their way to make life easier for those less fortunate. National charities mount successful funding appeals. Businesses donate food and clothing. Thousands and millions of volunteers buy gifts and pack and deliver food baskets to feed the hungry. And then, with the coming of the new year, the wave of good-will breaks. Charity stops and cold and hunger continue unabated until the next Thanksgiving.

This should not be.

Hunger, specifically world hunger, is generally recognized as the perennially unsolvable problem and solving world hunger has come to represent any attempt to do the impossible. Seemingly insurmountable difficulties are acknowledged with statements like "We can't solve world hunger" or dismissed with the statement "We're not trying to solve world hunger."

I disagree. We can solve world hunger. We solve world hunger the same way we would eat an elephant -- one bite at a time, or one meal at a time for one person or one family at a time.

Organizations -- local food banks, the national and international feeding organizations are in place to do this. All that is left is to regularly support them.

Here's one way to do it:

Count the loose change in your pocket or purse. Change is usually not counted. Change is considered extra.

Use the change or an equivalent amount to buy food on your next trip to the grocery store. Fifty cents is a can of green beans or a pack of ramen noodles. A dollar may be a can of tuna fish, a pound of pasta, or a bottle of of sauce. Two or three dollars may provide a basic meal.

Donate the food that your pocket change has purchased to your local food bank and you have started to solve world hunger. Do it regularly -- each time you shop for food. Make a difference.

This year, I plan to solve world hunger -- one can, one purchase, one meal at a time -- by buying a single additional item each time I visit the grocery and donating that item to my local food bank.

Will you join me?

Hope for the Future

2011-12-30T09:00:00.000-05:00

On the 6th of December in 1971, I kissed my 8 1/2 month pregnant wife and boarded a flight to begin the journey that would take me to war in Vietnam. My son was born three weeks after my departure on the second day of the new year. I learned of his arrival on January 5 when the Company XO greeted me with the words "Hello, Pappy! It's a boy!"

I have seldom felt prouder or more elated. I bought a round at the officer's club and another at our Company Bar. Later that night, I wrote letters to my wife and son expressing joy and hope for his future.

That son turns forty this week. So far, it's been a great ride.

Over the past forty years, I taught or watched my son learn to crawl, to walk, and to talk. I've watched him play soccer, sing in a show choir, and perform in plays. I watched him fall in love, get married and greet four children of his own. I saw him ordained as a minister and proudly perform the wedding ceremony that united his younger sister with her intended.

I did not always approve of everything my son did or how he did it, and probably never will. He is not me and we think and do things differently. But over the past forty years, I've learned that I don't have to approve of all of someone's actions to love them. And even some of his misadventures turned out kind of neat.

I learned that being a parent doesn't cease when a child grows and assumes his or her rightful position as an independent, responsible and productive member of adult society. Roles and responsibilities may change, but parenthood continues. Nothing has or could ever stop me from being my son's father, or him from being my son. And for this, I am grateful.

Forty years ago, I was blessed with the arrival of a son, and in him, joy and hope for the future. Since then, I have felt that same joy and hope as I greeted another son, two daughters, and eight grand children.

What has similarly filled you with hope and joy?

What can you do and what are you doing to realize that hope?

Fast Forward Through the Year

2011-12-27T09:00:00.000-05:00

(A guest post by Karol J. Lodge)

Life is being fast-forwarded.

It’s not just Christmas but the entire year. Try buying a roof rake or snow shovel to replace a broken one in February. End of season clearance is over and everything is gone or stored for next year.

You can buy a lawn mower, rake or garden hose in February, but there are no winter coats. Do you need a bathing suit before March? We have plenty!

Time has changed for this generation. Looking forward to anything loses impact when, by the time it gets here, you have been marketed into looking forward to whatever is next.

June brings the “back to school” sales with warm coats and boots. September looks past Halloween to Christmas, school supplies having been picked over long before.

Songs that were popular when we were young are now popular in advertising, maybe so we baby boomers won’t object so much to life running full force to keep up with all the great technology.

I object to “Surfing USA”in January and “So This Is Christmas” in July but then I guess I am just not keeping up.

So, how do you deal with life on fast forward?

How do you keep the seasons in their proper places?

A Holiday Tradition

2011-12-23T10:23:00.000-05:00

Call me sentimental but I love Christmas -- the lights, the decorations, the carols, and the general feeling of celebration. Most of all, I love reading or hearing the Christmas story, not in modern English, or in a paraphrase, but in the language of King James in which I first heard it as a child.

When I was a child and young teen, the annual reading of the Christmas story was something of a family tradition. My mother would open her Bible and begin reading with the words "Now it came to pass in those days, there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus" and continuing through a journey to Bethlehem where we learn that "the days were accomplished" that Mary, "being great with child" "should be delivered". "And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes and laid him in a manger, for there was no room for them in the inn."

The picture is both wonderful and poignant -- the young couple, unable to find a room, the days being accomplished, and the birth of a son who, regardless of circumstance, was properly cared for, wrapped up and laid in the only suitable bed available.

Next we see a band of shepherds "abiding in the fields, keeping watch over their flocks by night" on a night that promised to be the same as any other. We read that an angel of the Lord appeared and they were "sore afraid". But the angel said "Fear not, for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the City of David, as savior who is Christ, the Lord." And suddenly, there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God and saying "Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will to men."

A child? A savior? Peace? On earth? Good will to men? What is this? The shepherds were curious and "went with haste and found Mary and Joseph and the babe lying in a manger."

That is the story.

Reading or hearing it on Christmas Eve is a family tradition.

What are your family's holiday traditions?

How will you claim the promise of peace on earth and good will to men?

On Being Irked

2011-12-19T11:05:00.000-05:00

I am irked. I am officially irked. And, even more irksome, I am irked by something I possibly could have prevented.

Allow me explain.

I have a morning routine by which I assure that all of the essential activities get performed -- medication (check), blood glucose test (check), ID badge around neck (check), correct items in briefcase and pockets (check), coffee brewed and in travel mug (check), car keys in hand (check) -- before I go out the door and flying down the highway.

Clipping my cell phone to my belt is one of my morning routine activities performed each and every workday. I was therefore surprised last Monday to find when I reached for it, that my cell phone was not in its customary place on my belt. After thinking "Bummer, dude!" and "I must have been knocked out of sequence" I thought "No problem. I'll pick it up when I get home." I then promptly forgot the whole thing until Tuesday morning when I reached for my cell and noticed once again that it was not there. I relived the same conversation with myself, except this time when I got home I didn't forget to look.

I looked and my wife looked. Then we both looked together and voila! No cell phone -- not where it was thought to be, not in any pants or jacket pocket, not among the cushions of my easy chair or slipped into the mechanism of the recliner, not on either computer table, not in the pile of half-read books that lives by my easy chair. My six-year-old but still-very-serviceable cell phone was gone, taking with it my frequently called numbers and the pictures I had yet to post to Facebook.

The last time I remember seeing it was when I turned it on after church on Sunday. After that, I'm just not sure. Maybe the clip slipped from my belt when I removed my coat at the mall on Sunday afternoon. Maybe it never got securely clipped to the belt after I turned it on and fell off at some unknown location. Either way, it was gone and gone is gone.

The bottom line is that Tuesday evening, my wife and I spent some real quality time with the nice young man at the Verizon store comisserating, getting the old phone deactivated -- I don't want anyone using my minutes but me -- and acquiring a new one, a basic dumb phone with no more features than the one it replaces. All that remains is to manually add my contacts and frequently called numbers.

The problem is solved.

I am still irked, but have managed to conquer the irksome experience without lasting damage to either my personality or my disposition.

So, how do you handle life's irksome experiences?

Or do you let life's irksome experiences handle you?

Have a great day and don't let the irksome things get to you!

Holiday Madness

2011-12-16T08:45:00.001-05:00

This past week, for the first time in several years, I visited the mall at Tyson’s Corner Center. I had a special gift to buy that was only available in a store at that particular mall. The time was available to go get it and I went.

I was extremely disheartened by the experience.

The drive was pleasant enough. Traffic, although jammed bumper-to-bumper from the mall entrance to the parking area, was generally light. Parking near the entrance doors was packed, but I got a good space near the exit ramp and enjoyed the walk. Once inside, I checked the directory, found the store I wanted near the farthest point from where I was, and started walking.

Let me state for the record that Tyson’s Corner Center is not small. Known in commercials as “where the stores are”, it is anchored by Bloomingdales, Macy’s, Nordstom, Lord and Taylor, and Nieman Marcus and supported by over 300 other specialty stores, shops, and dining establishments. The atmosphere is busy, bright, and ostentatious, filled with lots of shops catering to an upscale clientele. More than other place I’ve known, "where the stores are" at Tyson’s Corner Center is both a shrine to the American gods of excess consumerism and the quest for ever more ever better stuff, and a monument to the purchasing capacity of those who have a lot more money (or a higher credit limit) than they have good sense. After all, do not we Americans believe that enough is good, more is better and too much is just about right?

Inside the mall, one’s eyes are assaulted by too many bright lights reflected from too many mirrors and too many highly polished windows. The ears are assaulted by too much music blaring from too many speakers. Each establishment seems to have its own particular brand of muzak and to be in audio competition with every establishment near it. And finally, the mind is assaulted by so many images of so many piles of so much merchandise that it is rendered incapable of appreciation, much less a decision on what to buy. Rather, the temptation is to flit from one desirable offering or bright shiny object to the next. To the uninitiated, it is mildly frightening.

Most shoppers are “looking”, “window shopping”, or “hanging out” rather than buying. Most are totally oblivious of anyone save themselves. And that’s sad.

I have never been one for whom shopping is considered a sport or a fun way to fritter away a slow afternoon. My preferred mode of operation is to know what I want and where to get it and to go there, get it, and get out. I don’t go to the mall to “hang out” or “look around”. I go to accomplish a mission. When buying gifts, I may make an exception to the “looking around” part, but still attempt to know the kind of thing I’m looking for and where such things may be found before setting out and to focus my search on those places.

I find myself longing for the kinder and gentler times of my childhood, when gifts were bought at local stores where you knew an were known by the proprietor and gifts were treasured because of the value of one’s relationship with the giver rather than their monetary or passing fad value.

Long story short, I found the store, made my purchase and was back home in time to watch the end of a football game I had abandoned early in the second quarter. I will not be going back any time soon.

So, where do you plan to shop, and what do you plan to buy this season?

And is your gift about the gift itself, or the relationship between the you and the receiver?

The Goose is Getting Fat

2011-12-09T09:56:00.001-05:00

"Christmas is coming.

The goose is getting fat.

Please to put a penny

In the old man's hat!"

I have a confession to make. Most of the year, I'm a logical engineering type, a cross between Dilbert, of cartoon fame, and Star Trek's Mr. Spock. But every December first, the clock turns back and I become a kid again, eagerly counting off the days and making all of the traditional preparations for Christmas.

The outside lights go up shortly after Thanksgiving, a job traditionally reserved for our second son and best accomplished after dark on the coldest night of the season to date.

At about the same time, the advent wreath and manger scene come out to assume their rightful places for the season.

The tree is put up and decorated a bit later. We will not have a full-size tree this year, but a smaller one that will live on a table. We are still negotiating whether to put it in the living room or downstairs with the TV. Either place, we will have way too many decorations to use them all.

During all of our preparations we will play Christmas CDs by artists ranging from Luciano Pavarotti to Mannheim Steamroller, and it will be good.

However, at our house, it's just not Christmas until we've heard the John Denver and Muppets Christmas Album (http://amzn.to/tf1QU9) at least once and preferably many times more. It may be hokey and it may be corny, but for my family it's an unbreakable tradition. Nothing does more to put me in the spirit of the season than to hear Mr. Denver join the muppets in "The Twelve Days of Christmas." Nothing brings home the spirit of the season more than hearing Miss Piggy lead the muppet family in a round of "Christmas is Coming".

"Christmas is coming.

The goose is getting fat.

Please to put a penny in the old man's hat."

Christmas is not about the lights, or the tree, or the decorations, nor even about the gifts one anticipates receiving, but about the acts of kindness and mercy, charity and good-will one can do for those who can never reciprocate.

These acts need not be large. As the song goes on to say

"If you haven't got a penny, a ha'penny will do."

We are not asked to give what we have not, but what we have and

"If you haven't got a ha'penny then God bless you!"

Every little bit helps. And you will be blessed.

What acts of kindness, mercy, charity, and good-will will you perform this season?

Why not make it a tradition to continue them throughout the New Year?

"and God bless you!"

Happy Birthday!

2011-12-02T16:59:00.001-05:00

Today, we celebrate my wife's seventeenth birthday. Lest any of you get the wrong impression, let me state unequivocally that I have but one wife and her natal day is much more than 17 years in the past.

Today, we celebrate the seventeenth anniversary of my wife's second birthday -- the day on which she had radical breast cancer surgery and became, in the language of those who have been treated for cancer, "a survivor." Like all birthdays, today marks a milestone.

After treatment, remaining cancer free for five years signifies a cure. During those five years, my wife had blood work and visited the oncologist every quarter and then every six months. For the next five years, she visited the oncologist once a year. On the visit corresponding to ten years cancer free, her oncologist released her with the words "I never want to see you again." She replied "You're a nice guy, but I never want to see you again either". That was seven years ago. Today, follow-up consists of an annual mammogram and regularly scheduled periodic physical.

Surviving cancer or any serious threat changes one's outlook. For the survivor and those close to her there is no such thing as "just another day". Rather, each day is recognized as the extraordinary gift and occasion for gratitude that it is, each breath and each moment as an occasion for joy. The sun shines brighter; the rain falls more gently; birds sing more sweetly; kittens, and puppies and squirrels are cuter and more wonderful; and time spent with family and friends becomes more precious as do the people themselves.

It is written somewhere that "You have never lived until you have almost died. To those who have fought for it, life has a flavor the protected will never know." A survivor knows that the statement is true.

Both my wife and I are truly grateful for the last seventeen years, in celebration of which we plan to drink wine and eat ice cream. And for all of the days remaining to us, we will celebrate the blessing that is each day.

Is your day a gift or a burden to you?

What do you plan to do about it?

Black Friday

2011-11-24T12:54:00.001-05:00

In the retail world, the Friday following Thanksgiving has become known as Black Friday. On Black Friday, retailers across the nation move from "in the red" to "in the black" as the American public begin the annual buying and spending frenzy that precedes Christmas and culminates only after the final Year End Clearance.

More than anything else, Black Friday has come to symbolize excess -- excess consumerism, excess spending, and excess debt as people with more money than good sense rush to obtain the latest and greatest electronic gizmo or toy that they can't really afford. As it has come to symbolize excess, Black Friday has come also to symbolize extremes -- extreme merchandising, extreme retail hours, and extreme crowds of shoppers competing for one or two extreme bargains. People are regularly injured, crushed, and trampled in the press and crush of bargain-crazed shoppers. And the season of peace on earth among men of good will and of good will itself gets trampled beneath the feet of "Gotta have it, gotta have it, gotta have it NOW!"

I refuse to participate in Black Friday. I willingly forgo the supposed joy of competing for bargains with an army of rude and impatient people. Instead, I plan to spend the day at home where the only competition will be with family over who can make the best turkey sandwich and my worst excess will involve the consumption of at least one such culinary masterpiece.

I refuse to participate in the frenzy of excessive spending that is now part of the season. Instead, I will do what I can to stimulate the only economy that counts -- my family economy -- by paying cash and remaining debt free. I do not want to spend my next six months paying for my own excesses and lapses in judgement.

For me, shopping is less a sport than it is a necessary evil. Nevertheless I will shop. However, rather than a frenzied search for the latest and greatest bargain from China, I will conduct a careful and diligent search for the perfect gift for everyone on my list. I am confident that these items are out there waiting for me. I accept the challenge of finding them. Many of them, like the items pictured above, will be locally produced, and will benefit some worthy cause. I wish to send as few as possible of my hard earned Washingtons, Hamiltons, and Benjamins overseas.

And finally, I will seek to bear in mind that Christmas is not about shopping, or getting presents, or even the lights and the tree and the food but about celebrating the birth of He who is the prince of peace and acting out the vision of peace on earth and good will to men.

How will you spend your Black Friday?

How will you act out the vision of peace and good will this year?

Thanksgiving Proclamation

2011-11-24T11:42:00.001-05:00

"It is the duty of all Nations to acknowledge the providence of Almighty God, to obey His will, to be grateful for His benefits, and humbly to implore His protection and favors."

--George Washington, Thanksgiving Proclamation, 1789

The older I get, the more firmly I become convinced that happiness is more often the result of friendship than of circumstances. And, dear reader, I am profoundly grateful to count you among my friends.

I would amend 1789 proclamation of George Washington to read "It is the duty of all people to acknowledge the providence of Almighty God, to obey His will, to be grateful for His benefits, and humbly to implore His protection and favors."

May your day be filled with a sense of enjoyment and gratitude.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Good Food, Good Friends, Good Times

2011-11-18T11:15:00.001-05:00

The day before Thanksgiving is the heaviest travel day of the year, bearing out surveys showing our peculiar American holiday of stopping to give thanks is also our most popular. On Thanksgiving, the wheels of commerce grind to a halt, traffic ceases, and the world stops and takes a deep breath before sitting down to a table laden with turkey, stuffing, mashed and sweet potatoes, gravy, cranberry sauce, corn pudding, peas and, if you're from my family, sauerkraut with neck meat and giblets and with all sorts of other delicacies.

This year, three of our children, with spouses, and all eight grand kids, will join us for the feast, hearkening back to similar feasts at my Grandfather's house. Then, Grandmother, Grand Pop, Aunt Pat and Uncle Ed, Aunt Elsie and Uncle Bun, and my parents and sisters all enjoyed the feast around a table large enough to have room for everybody. This year, the old table, even with all six leaves, will probably not be large enough to seat us all and instead of sitting around the table, we will end up sitting around. Around the table or where ever, it will be good.

Somewhere between the last course and the food and football induced coma that precedes pumpkin pie and coffee, I will slip away and compile a list of things for which I am thankful, carefully writing it out in longhand. On my list, I will attempt to recognize and consciously give thanks for each of the blessings I have enjoyed over the last year.

I will give thanks for life, and the spirit to enjoy it; for paid work and for labors of love that I am able to do. I will give thanks for my wife, soul mate, and life companion. Who would have thought such a thing was possible? I will give thanks for each of my children, all different and all wonderful, and for their spouses. And I will give special thanks for my grand kids one by one, each one unique, each one a blessing. I will give thanks for friends, new, old, and re-discovered, carefully listing each by name. Finally, I will give thanks for food, clothing, shelter and for the comforts, luxuries, and experiences that I have been privileged to enjoy or, if not to enjoy, at least to learn from.

My list will be woefully inadequate. Remembering everything is impossible. But, when I pull my list out over the next year and read it, it will be enough to remind me how lucky I really am, and how greatly I am blessed.

Good food, good friends, good times -- Thanksgiving is all that. But more than that, Thanksgiving is a time to reflect.

So, what will you put at the top of your list this year?

On the Eleventh Hour, On the Eleventh Day

2011-11-10T18:39:00.001-05:00

On the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month the guns stopped.

For four years, the armies of the great nations of the world had savaged each other from Europe to Africa to the Middle East in a war of such a scale and of such brutality that it became known as the Great War and the war to end all wars. But on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month of the year 1918, the combatants agreed to an armistice, and the guns stopped.

Some units stopped firing and ceased operations well before the eleven AM deadline. Others, not content to let the enemy have the last word, fired at maximum rate until the deadline. But at the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month the guns stopped and silence fell across the trench lines and no-man's-land from Switzerland to the North Sea. It would take another year to conclude peace, but for all intents and purposes, the Great War, a war involving over 70 million personnel and leaving over nine million dead, was over.

It's been 93 years since the day the guns stopped and the generation that fought the war to end all wars has passed from among us. Even now, as the memory of those men and that war and those times grows dim we remember that no less than five subsequent wars have proven that there is no war to end all wars and no end to the savagery that can be practiced between men and nations.

In 1954, in recognition of the service of those who served and fought after the Great War, Congress amended the law to change the name of the 11 November holiday from Armistice Day -- the day the guns stopped -- to Veterans' Day, in honor of those who have served.

This Veterans' Day, I will remember those who served and sacrificed in the Great War and all wars subsequent to it. And I shall reflect on the words of the poem, written in 1915 by Canadian surgeon, Lt. Col. John McRae.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
      Between the crosses, row on row,
   That mark our place; and in the sky
   The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
   Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
         In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
   The torch; be yours to hold it high.
   If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

How will you hold the torch high?
How will you keep faith with those who suffered and sacrificed for you?
How will you remember the day the guns stopped?

To Everything, a Season

2011-11-05T17:02:00.000-04:00

A few short weeks ago, when I stepped into a local store to pick up some treats for Halloween I was surprised at the difficulty I had finding them. This year, the black and orange Halloween candy and treats were almost hidden behind shelf upon shelf of red and green goodies laid out for Christmas nearly two months in the future. Today, Columbus Day, with it's sales seems to usher in a period of intense consumer marketing and spending that lasts until the end of the final year-end clearance sometime in the month of January.

It was not always so. When I was growing up before the age of national mass marketing, back in the stone ages of the 1950's, each holiday was separate and distinct to itself. As a schoolboy, I enjoyed the unique character and emphasis of each.

On Columbus Day, we celebrated the Discovery of America by Christopher Columbus. We celebrated because America was a great place to live. We celebrated Columbus because we would not have such a great place to live if Queen Isabella had not hocked her jewels to finance Columbus an had he not taken the voyage. There were a few sales, but nothing like the marketing extravaganzas of today.

Three weeks after Columbus Day, we celebrated Halloween. Kids in town went trick or treating. Kids around the farming community went to the annual Halloween party at the church hall.

Halloween was followed by what was then called "Armistice Day", a day of solemn remembrance of those who had given their lives in what was then called "the Great War." In school, we read and memorized lines of the poem "In Flanders Fields". I recall them to this day. "In Flanders fields, the poppies blow, Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our graves, while in the sky, The lark, still bravely singing fly, Scarce heard amid the guns below." Do schoolboys and girls still learn of the sacrifice of so many? I know not. If not, our nation is the poorer for it.

Then came Thanksgiving, and we learned about the Pilgrims and Indians celebrating the first Thanksgiving in New England. No one knew or cared that the first Thanksgiving had already been celebrated in the colony of Virginia three years before. According to popular knowledge, the first Thanksgiving was in Plymouth, Massachusetts and that's what we commemorated. The knowledge became part of our cultural heritage.

Christmas was purposely kept separate from Thanksgiving. Even the Sears Christmas Book, filled with pictures and descriptions of the toys my sisters and I used to drool over, never arrived in the mail until the week after Thanksgiving. Each holiday deserved and had its own special place.

In a way, I miss that slower, more deliberate time when the distance between Columbus Day and Halloween stretched out almost forever, and the four weeks from Thanksgiving to Christmas was an eternity. In our rush to get from one day to the other with such haste, we are in danger of forgetting the very important reason why each occasion is and should remain a separate holiday in its own right.

So, what will you be celebrating this season? Will you celebrate Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year's Day as the separate occasions that they are or will you rather celebrate the emerging holiday of Columweenvetgivmasyear?

Your answer is important.

Backwards in Time

2011-10-28T11:33:00.001-04:00

"There once was a lady named Bright

Who traveled much faster than light.

She left home one day

In a relative way

And returned the previous night!"

In recent news, we read that a team of Physicists in Geneva have measured neutrinos traveling faster than the speed of light which, according to Einstein's 1905 special theory of relativity, is something that is just not supposed to happen.

If I recall the mathematics correctly, when something moves faster than the speed of light in free space, time must run backward, as alluded to in the poem above, in order for the equations to balance. Given the mathematics of faster-than-light-speed travel, science fiction writers and dreamers such as I find ourselves musing over the the question "If I could go back in time and change something, would I, and what would I change?

One friend stated that he would go back to the very beginning and prevent Adam and Eve from eating the apple. My response was that Adam would probably have invited him home to dinner where he'd eat what was put before him and even compliment Eve on the apple pie!

Others more qualified that I have dealt with the results of a Southern victory in the Late Unpleasantness, chronicling the subsequent breakup of this great nation into the United States, the Confederate States, the independent Republics of Texas and California, and the Greater Navajo Nation. These speculations lead me to conclude that God causes history to flow in the right direction even if man fails to recognize it at the time. Therefore, I must limit discussion to what I have lived, what has brought me to where I am, and decisions I have made.

My bottom line is that I'm not sure I'm wise enough to want to change anything.

Suppose I had not met and married the girl of my dreams, but someone else that I knew? Suppose we had not ever had that first date in 1962? Suppose we had not had the second? Life would be different. I would not have four great children and eight (so far) absolutely exceptional grand children?

Suppose I had said "No" when asked if I could fly with Ziggy on 30 June 1972? I would not have gotten shot, at least not that day. However at least one other person has told me that some one with less experience (I had a bit over 300 hours in the front seat, and most of them with Ziggy) might not have able to help bring that shot up bird home and land it safely. And Ziggy and Sue would not have three daughters.

Suppose I had not come to rest in Sterling 29 years ago? What then?

Suppose I had not attended the job fair that resulted in my current job?

Suppose I had not learned my work ethic on the farm?

What then?

I would be different and the world would be different. How different and whether better or not I cannot know. In the words of Sinatra, "Regrets, I've had a few, but then again, too few to mention." Given the opportunity, I would probably change little except to love more, to forgive more, and to enjoy this life that I have ever more fully every day.

Given the opportunity to change the past, would you?

The past is prologue for the future. Why not focus ahead and change the future?

What Success Looks Like

2011-10-21T13:31:00.000-04:00

As an engineer, I am more than used to being asked or asking during a project definition meeting "What does success look like?" The point of this question is always the same: to visualize the desired result or end state. Only recently did I realize that the question, "What does success look like?" can be used to define where we've been, show where we are, and point to where we're going in life as well as work.

When I was nineteen, success looked like a new 1965 Impala, 300 horse with 4 speed, posi-traction, heavy-duty suspension and push-button AM radio, maroon in color. I dreamed of that car for months before it became mine, but I achieved that vision and have pictures to prove it.

When I was twenty-one, success looked like the girl of my dreams, dressed in white, coming down the aisle to meet me and join her hand and life to mine. We have pictures to prove that too!

At twenty-two, success was a certificate from the DC apprenticeship council proclaiming me a Journeyman Scientific Instrument Maker, and also a letter of acceptance to Middle Tennessee State University.

Three years later, success was a sheepskin documenting a degree in physics and gold bars and crossed cannon marking me as a 2d Lieutenant of Field Artillery. Eighteen months after that, success was a pair of Army Aviator Wings.

In Vietnam, success was marked by colorful ribbons, impressive scars, and a flight home in the cabin rather than the cargo bay of the freedom bird. Although I didn't realize it at the time, that particular success was also marked by friendships that continue to this day, and I have reunion photos to prove it.

Success at Walter Reed was a current flight physical and orders to flying duty when I checked out nearly nine months after I arrived.

Since then, there have been many other pictures of success -- pictures of people, places, and events, pictures of family times and children growing into adults. One of the latest -- one of my favorites -- is posted above. It shows me, my wife, and our four children, all of whom have grown to become (reasonably) responsible and productive adult members of society.

On the right, the photo depicts my older son, a writer and minister of the Gospel who just performed the wedding ceremony for his sister and her groom. I stand next to him, justifiably proud. One day, he will be privileged to stand in my place.

Our youngest is the bride in the picture. She is a social worker who works with the homeless, attempting to impart life-skills that will permit them to have and hold onto the home they so desperately need.

My wife, beaming with happiness, is next. We've been on this journey together for a long time and much of the success is hers. It has not always been easy, but we did things together and, from the look of the picture, managed to do a lot of things right.

Our older daughter, the matron of honor, is next. She is a teacher of special needs children and the mother of two grandsons, known affectionately as "Thing 1" and "Thing 2".

Finally, you see my younger son, straight and tall, a Naval Officer and career Navy, himself the father of two. He too will someday stand proudly in my place.

The point of all this is not to brag about my family or myself (well, that too!) but to demonstrate that success has features that can be seen. Before achievement, success is a vision and a promise. But when achieved, success can be proven with hard evidence.

So, what does success look like to you? And, how will you prove it?

The Manly Color of Pink

2011-10-16T16:18:00.000-04:00

I never considered pink to be a particularly manly color. In fact, I thought rather the opposite. Then, I went to Vietnam, and was assigned to fly with the 361st Aerial Weapons Company -- the world famous Pink Panthers, the best helicopter company in country and legends in our own minds.

We flew the AH-1G Cobra gunship, escorting lightly armed UH-1 troop carriers into and out of landing zones "way out west". During the Easter Offensive of 1972, we were a big part of the Battle of Kontum. (http://thebattleofkontum.com). When you saw TV news reels of Cobras over Kontum, it was probably us. When President Nixon announced on national TV that "Kontum still stands" it was due to in great measure to the efforts of the Pink Panthers.

To a man, we Panthers embraced the color of pink. The exterior of the orderly room was painted pink as was flight operations. And, although the helicopters remained OD Green, the very top of each vertical fin was painted pink. We even dropped a pink sink onto enemy positions on Chu Pao Mountain so we could truthfully say that we threw everything at them, including the kitchen sink!

Being a Pink Panther was and remains a badge of honor for those of us who flew with them. At our reunions, these forty years later, we are quick to proclaim "There were three kinds of helicopter pilots in Vietnam: those who were Panthers, those who were gun covered by the Panthers, and those who wish to God they were one of the other two." At our reunions we take pride in wearing out pink shirts and hats and as you can guess, the manly color of pink figures prominently in the decor of our reunion hospitality suite, the "Stickitt Inn".

But I have a second and more important reason to embrace the color of pink. October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month, and Paula, my wife of over 45 years, is a 17 year breast cancer survivor.

No one wants to learn that they or someone they love has cancer. Neither did we. But we did all the research we could, talked to everyone we could find who had information, and made what was, for us, the best decision for treatment and reconstruction. In our decision process, my wife was mentored by our friend Maggi, herself a survivor. In turn, Paula was able mentor Patti and Marge and Brenda and others when they were diagnosed. Maggi and Patti have since left us. Paula, Marge, and Brenda continue to live each day as the gift which it is. And I embrace the manly color of pink in support of finding a cure for breast cancer.

I am aware that the sentiment is meaningless unless action is taken. I therefore plan to visit http://ww5.komen.org/ and press the button that says "Take Action" and follow directions from there.

Will you join me?

Life Is Too Short for Matching Socks

2011-09-03T13:41:00.003-04:00

My friend Maggi, when confronted with a mound of trivia that got in the way of things both important and urgent, was heard to say “Life is too short for matching socks."

I am not in the habit of going sockless and I am certainly not in the habit of wearing mismatched hosiery. But, when faced with a mound of freshly laundered socks that need to be matched and put away, and I know that the washing machine or the dryer or the laundry basket has eaten at least one, I tend to agree with Maggi -- life is too short for matching socks and much too short to spend endlessly caught up in the fat of very thin things.

Mismatched socks are a small thing, easily solved with a tiny bit of effort. There are a lot of much larger things that life is too short for.

Life is too short for "should have", "could have", and "would have". Life must be lived in the present. The experiences of the past not only cannot be changed, but are common to all possible futures.

Yesterday’s gone. Life is too short to hold on to regrets about what you should have, could have, or would have done. No amount brooding over could have, should have, or would have done can change it.

Life is too short for bitterness and resentment. Bitterness poisons the personality. Resentment poisons the soul. As difficult as it may be, let go of it. Life is too short to hold onto the cold prickliness of bitterness and resentment. To hold on is a decision you get to make every day of your life. So is to let go. Decide to let go, and get on with living.

Life is too short to carry a grudge. Grudges are very heavy. Grudges weigh you down. And grudges abrade you like an ill-fitted back pack that leaves you irritated beneath where you carry it. Trust life to take care of getting things even. Learn and go forward. Put down your grudge and move smartly into life.

Life may be too short for matching socks. Life is definitely too short for a lot of other things. Let’s get rid of those other things, the should haves, could haves and would haves; the bitterness; the resentments; the ill-feelings and grudges. Those things hold us in the past. Instead, let's leave what is past in the past and, having learned from it, let us step boldly into the future.

Life is too short not to.

My Choice -- My Way

2011-08-23T11:12:00.000-04:00

This morning I proudly exercised my one office under the Constitutions of the United States and the Commonwealth of Virginia by voting to select a candidate to represent me in the Virginia House of Delegates. The general election is not until November, but I like to exercise my rights as often and as early as possible.

Don't expect me to tell you who I voted for. It is, after all, a secret ballot. Neither will I specifically identify who I voted against. A secret is a secret, and who I voted for or against is not the subject of this post. This post is about how I arrived at my decision.

Since this was a party primary, the two candidates are very similar in their views and stands on "the issues". With the exception of their chosen professions and work experience, there's probably not a dime's worth of difference between them. So, to differentiate themselves from their opponent, each has seemingly delighted in digging up the dirt and publishing accusations which again were strikingly similar. So I know going in that whoever gets my vote will be someone else's idea of a crook, and I'm stuck determining which of two alleged crooks I want representing me in Richmond.

And then, I determined the ultimate differentiator.

When they passed the act implementing a National Do Not Call List, Congress conveniently exempted political organizations from having to observe its provisions. As a result, every election season, I find myself spammed with calls and robo-calls from candidates and their political organizations. The calls with a person on the other end are easy to take care of. I politely inform the caller that I don't wish to be bothered at dinner time or in the evening and that any further calls will result in me supporting their opponent. So far, it's worked every time.

Robo-calls are a bit different. Since there is no person to which I can respond, I protest with the only weapon available to me. I vote for the candidate who has done the least to disturb the peace of my existence with calls and robo-calls. And this time, as in every election, there was one clear winner.

I mean, given similar positions and experience and putting aside the fact that each considers the other to be a crook, what's left?

Simple Abundance

2011-08-20T10:31:00.000-04:00

There are two ways of looking at life.

One friend of mine, when asked how things are going, will almost certainly reply "I tell you, things are rough. They're just rough." I find this reply a bit odd since he is prosperous, gainfully employed, and pulling down a six figure income. For this friend, things are not rough, and yet he lives as if they are.

Other friends who live in circumstances where things are rough live as though they are not.

One friend, who has much, lives in constant scarcity and the other, who has little, lives in abundance. The difference is their attitude.

Scarcity says "There is only so much. I must hold on to what I have and use it sparingly lest I run out"
Abundance says "There is enough and to share. I will use it with joy and share it with gladness."

Scarcity says "When it's gone, it's gone and will never be replaced."
Abundance says "I got it or earned it once. I can do it again."

Scarcity says "I will keep it safe in my closet."
Abundance says "I will use it. I will enjoy it. I will share it so that others may enjoy it too."

Scarcity says "It is valuable because I can get something for it."
Abundance says "It is valuable because I use it."

Scarcity says "I will keep it because I might need it someday."
Abundance says "I'm not using it. You are welcome to it."

People tend to associate with others of like attitude.

If I would prefer to be around those who reflect an attitude of abundance, maybe I need to start by adjusting my attitude.

Conceived in Liberty

2011-07-02T09:42:00.000-04:00

In November 1863, President Abraham Lincoln began his remarks at Gettysburg with the statement "Four score and seven years ago, our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal." On that day, President Lincoln continued "We are now engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation or any nation so conceived and so dedicated can long endure."

The four score and seven years have extended themselves into two hundred thirty five and, while no longer engaged in a civil war, the test continues. Can this nation, conceived and dedicated as it was continue in liberty and justice or must it decline?

One wonders.

Liberty is not bondage. Neither is it anarchy. Liberty is freedom with restraint and that restraint must be the minimum necessary to preserve order and encourage felicity. Such was the liberty in which we were conceived, a liberty in law.

Neither is equality reckoned in terms of outcome or resources. We are each subject to unique conditions. We are each blessed with unique resources. In that we each bring nothing into this world and it is certain we shall carry nothing out of it, we are equal. In between, our equality is reckoned in terms of standing under the law and the opportunity to pursue our own happiness by making as much as possible of what we have as seems good to us.

At our founding, Thomas Jefferson wrote, "We hold these truths to be self evident: that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their creator with certain inalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness."

Inalienable rights cannot be taken away. Our rights are inalienable, but not inevitable. Men have struggled and died to secure them for us, and they are only maintained by continued struggle.

Whether our nation will long endure is always contested. We were conceived in liberty; will we keep it?

The question is ours and ours alone to answer.

Eulogy for a Pet

2011-06-14T18:59:00.000-04:00

The last thing on this earth that I wanted was a cat, so when my wife told me, that one of the families in her pre school class was giving away kittens, I put my foot down -- firmly.

When she told the kids that we were getting a kitten, I put my foot down again, even more firmly. And finally, when defeat was all but inevitable, I grudgingly accepted that they could have a kitten if they took care of it.

Thus it was that several weeks later I came home to find a small brown ticked feline, the runt, and at the same time, the pick of the litter had established residence in my domain.

She had enormous ears, so large she reminded us of a rabbit. And she swivelled them to follow every sound. With those ears, the only name that fit was Radar and so she became Radar Snyder, our owner, and the ruler of all she surveyed.

That was eighteen years ago.

Early in those eighteen years, Radar discovered that her favorite lap for sitting after dinner and for napping on Sunday afternoons was mine. She also made certain that I never overslept in the morning by poking her cold wet nose and whiskers under my ear two minutes before the alarm went off.

She sat on the arm of my chair when I read, on the monitor of my wife's computer when she was on line, and was the warm spot at the foot of the bed on many cold nights.

An indoor cat, she sometime escaped to go on adventures and was always either caught or cornered and herded back inside. Several times, she escaped into the rain and was caught meowing plaintively at the window, as if to beg "Puh-leeze, open the door! It's wet out here!" and rewarded by being wrapped in a warm towel and dried once readmitted to house.

In short, Radar became a member of the family and a fixture at family events. Some mornings she was a pounce at my feet, all teeth and toenails. She was also the obstacle underfoot as I made my coffee, and the sometimes disdainful presence in the middle of the room, back turned as she actively ignored me and everyone else.

Radar left us this week. After eighteen years, it was inevitable. But saying goodbye is not easy and there is a Radar-cat-shaped void at our house.

Farewell, Radar. There was never one like you before, and after you, none shall follow.

Of Remembrance and Gratitude

2011-05-25T15:32:00.000-04:00

When I was a Boy Scout, it fell to my troop during the last week of May each year to visit the local cemeteries and decorate the graves of Veterans with flags, each flag placed a boot length to the right of the headstone. Thus we honored those in our community that had served their country during the Spanish American War, two World Wars, and Korea. It was a small act, but an important one.

One of the stones where I placed a flag bore the legend F/O in front of the name. The F/O stood for "Far Off". The body was not there but interred on some Pacific Island or buried at sea; but the memorial was part of the family plot. In my mind, it was especially important to place the flag by that one marker, to say "Even though you are not here, you are not forgotten. Your memory is honored."

This week, similar similar small acts are being carried out at Arlington and other military and civilian cemeteries across the land as soldiers, boy scouts and other service organizations take the time to mark and thereby honor the memories of those who served.

And to say "Thank you."

"Thank you for your Service. Thank you for the freedom in which we live. Thank you for this nation that you helped preserve."

"You are not forgotten."

"Thank you."

I am a Pack Rat

2011-04-26T19:11:00.000-04:00

I have a confession to make: I am a pack rat.

I was born with a strong desire to acquire and, having acquired, to hold on to forever.

I grew up nurtured in the way of "Use it up. Wear it out. Make it do, or do without." Such a philosophy served my parents and grand parents well during the depths of the Great Depression, when items were used, repaired, and reused until they could be used no longer.

It was a philosophy well-suited to the farm, where income depended on the sale of the crops, and the price recieved was never certain. It is also a philosophy well suited to the uncertain economic times of today.

All is well as long as the items retained continue to be used and useful. However, when things are retained past usefulness and use the result the resulting clutter can become overwhelming. I am a packrat and I know whereof I speak.

The question is what do I throw away, what do I sell, and what do I keep?

If it's broken, and will never be fixed, it's gone -- trash.

It I haven't used it in one? three? five? ten? years, it probably needs to be gone, either given away (the church rummage sale is coming!), sold, or trashed.

It is consumeable, I need to consume and enjoy it, else, why have it?

And, if I have more than one, I probably should keep the one that works best and let the rest go.

After all, a pack rat like me needs room for all of the good and useful stuff that's just waiting to be dragged home!

A Path to Happiness

2011-04-02T10:46:00.000-04:00

Were I to desribe my home to you, I would use the words "comfortably cluttered".

I am a bibliophile. My house is filled with books. I am also enough of a child that my house is filled with toys. And I'm enough of a tinkerer that my house is filled with things to build and things I've laid aside to fix.

I am now at an age when I realize that I will never have time to read all of the books I would like to read, nor play with all of the toys I would like to play with, nor to build all of the projects I'd like to build, nor even to fix all of the things that need fixing.

I also realize that having a book does me no good unless I have the time to read it. I will probably never have the time to read them all, but reading and studying a select few will bring great enjoyment.

Ditto toys. What use is a toy if one has not the time to play with it?

Ditto projects. Had they been that important, they'd have been completed long ago.

I am finding that most of the things that make me truly happy are relatively simple and inexpensive.

I don't need to have a lot to live the good life. I need merely to appreciate and enjoy what I have; appreciating and enjoying what I have is one path to happiness.

The Smells Have Changed!

2011-03-19T17:25:00.000-04:00

In the last of the Mowgli stories, author Rudyard Kipling wrote of the coming of spring in the Seoni Hills of India as "the day the smells change". My mother used to refer to it as the day the mockingbird changes his song.

Perhaps you have experienced it yourself. You go to bed in late winter and magically awaken to the smells and sounds new growth and early spring.

This week, the smells changed in northern Virginia. Over the course of 24 hours, the mood and the season has shifted from winter to spring.

Yesterday, few of the trees showed any trace of blossom. Today, the maples all have buds. The spring blooming magnolias have gone from barren to full bloom overnight. And the forsythias, few of which showed trace of life a day ago are now clouds of bright yellow. It shouldn't surprise me -- spring happens every year -- and yet it always does.

Spring has come!

The earth is alive!

The smells have changed!

Enjoy it!

How I Remember Things

2011-02-13T20:38:00.000-05:00

I have been blessed, I am told, with a good memory. Friends often ask me how I remember distant events, off-the wall facts, and bad jokes. I generally reply by asking them how they don't. In truth, I don't know exactly how I remember things but I have developed some habits that help me. I learned to memorize stuff. I found out at an early age that when all else fails, rote memorization almost always works. Here's how I do it: I read a sentence or recite a fact. I read it aloud. I close my eyes and speak what I just read. Then, I go to the next sentence and repeat the process. Then I go back to the first sentence and recite them both together and proceed like this until the entire paragraph, poem, chapter, or verse is locked in memory. I may even write it out, in longhand, from memory. That's how I learned the Gettysburg Address many years ago. The next day, I come back, read, recite and maybe write it down again until it is locked in. It may sound boring, but the key is repetition, repetition, and repetition. If the item to be remembered has a rhythm or a tune, so much the better. Poetry sticks much faster than prose. I also write things down. The act of writing makes things stick more quickly and firmly in my mind. I date all of my notes. I may not remember exactly what was said or done, but I will remember when I said or did it. I review my notes regularly and often. The act of reading them further sets them in my mind. If I want to keep something in the front of my mind, I write it on a card or piece of paper and put it in my tickler file to be read once a day for a week, then once a week for a month or so until it becomes part of me. Then, I refer to it once a month for as long as it is important. I read through my notes and suspense items early in the morning when my mind is fresh. Then, I go about the business of the day. And I remember.

Land of Giants

2011-01-21T19:31:00.001-05:00

I was raised by giants in a land largely untouched by time.

Except, they weren't giants in the normal sense of the word, but men and women of normal stature. There was little to differentiate them from others of that time and place.

The men were mostly farmers or tradesmen, and often craftsmen of great skill. Most had served their country during the second World War and then come home to marry, to make their living, and to raise their families. Few, if any, had ever seen the inside of a college or university.

The women were almost all wives and the mothers of my friends, yet they were home makers of great skill and prowess.

For someone outside of the community, these giants probably appeared altogether too average. But they were nonetheless giants, at least in terms of their influence on the boy that I was and on those with whom I grew up.

My Dad, who was one of their number, was quick to point to them as examples.

One of the highest compliments Dad could pay was "He'd give you the shirt off his back if you needed it." But it went beyond mere generosity to encompass the kind of charity in which neighbour helps neighbour simply because he is a neighbour and help is needed. And neighbour accepts the help of neighbour knowing that they will one day be moved to return the same kind. It was all a normal part of life.

Most deals were sealed with a handshake among friends. Even at the bank, where signatures were required by law, it was the handshake and not the signature that sealed the transaction. Ditto the auto dealer, the implement dealer, and the farmers' co-op.

Signatures were for transactions between strangers. Neighbours trusted neighbours, and woe be unto the neighbour who proved unworthy of that trust.

Almost everybody in the community knew everybody else. And, to a small boy, it seemed that everybody greeted everybody else when they met, even lifting two fingers from the steering wheel to greet one another when they met on the road.

I went back to the community a while back, and there have been changes. Most of the farms have been supplanted by residences. Instead of dairy barns and corn fields, there are houses and not a few McMansions. Yet, even with the changes to the geography the attitudes that permeated my upbringing remain.

Neighbours still look out for neighbours. Neighbours still trust neighbours. And neighbours still greet neighbours when they meet. In these things, it remains a land untouched by time. I pray that it ever remains so.

One of the advantages of having been raised by giants is that one takes on their characteristics. Perhaps, one day I will be a giant too.

What Do You Get?

2010-12-31T22:21:00.001-05:00

In the mid 1950's, singer Tennessee Ernie Ford had a hit with the song "Sixteen Tons". The chorus went, in part, "You load sixteen tons, and what do you get? Another day older and deeper in debt." On this last night of 2010, I find myself asking a similar question. "It's the end of the year, and what do you get?" Certainly, another year older, but no longer in debt for the first time in over 40 years! Our goal is to remain that way. What else did we get? A good feeling, the feeling of independence, and the freedom to pursue new adventures in 2011. What else did we get? We got two weeks in Alaska. We got memories of brown bears and wolves, moose and caribou in Denali National Park, of Mt. McKinley exposing its summit through the clouds, of massive ice bergs calving off Hubbard Glacier, and of eagles fishing the Mendenhall River near Juneau. In 2010 we mourned and celebrated the lives of friends and family members who departed this world for the next. They shall not grow older as we grow older. There were none like them before and surely none shall follow in their stead. They are sorely missed. But now, it's 2011 and what do we get? We get the promise of a new year! Where we have met our current goals, we get a "keep up the good work!" Where we have fallen short, we get a "do over." Where we want to re-invent or re-image parts of ourselves we get the opportunity to do so, or to try and try again. And this opportunity is renewed every day. In 2011, I resolve to make the most of every second of every minute of every day -- to be all that I can be, and to live every instant to the absolute fullest. I resolve to pursue every opportunity placed before me. And I resolve to enjoy myself in the process. May you also be blessed with limitless opportunities to be everything of which you are capable.

Multi-tasking -- Who? Me?

2010-12-21T19:32:00.000-05:00

I have a confession to make. In accordance with the advice of some of the most well-respected authorities on effectiveness and efficiency, I don't multi-task. Neither do I single task particularly well. Rather, I tend to ping from task to task like riccochet rabbit, hitting a lick here and a lick there as first one thing and then another captures or forces its way into the center of my attention. Somehow, in the chaos of bouncing from task to task like a ping-pong ball in a clothes dryer, work gets done. Somehow, in the midst of the interuptions, thoughts get put on paper. Somehow, the analysis get completed and the report gets produced. Somehow. At the end of the day, I feel like I've spent much of my time spinning my wheels, and I am exhausted. I am capable of single tasking. If a task is compelling enough, I have been known to pursue it to the exclusion of all else. But such compelling tasks are few and far between, and all tasks, compelling or not, require dedicated time and effort to bring to completion. Keeping current project and action lists and attempting to order my efforts by those lists helps, but not always. Closing my door helps, but again not always. Attempting to keep my desk clear of all except that on which I'm working also helps and I'm getting better at it. Really. I'm working on improving my focus, but focus is fragile. I can disconnect from the internet, but can't ignore the person who knocks on the door to ask "Did you get my email?" and then proceeds to spend the next fifteen minutes explaining something for which no immediate action is needed. By the time the subject is sufficiently dealt with, time has passed, focus is gone, and starting over is the only option. Is there any solution short of mayhem? Maybe I could seal my door with crime-scene tape. Maybe the answer is to pack up my laptop and files, occupy a table in a corner of the cafeteria or an unoccupied office, and bang out whatever is needed. If anyone asks, I'm not available. I'm hiding out, single tasking, being productive.

Not a Minimalist

2010-12-11T08:16:00.000-05:00

I am not a minimalist. Those who have visited my comfortably cluttered household will agree that I am not a minimalist. I read and enjoy minimalist blogs like Zen Habits, Becoming Minimalist, and even mnmlist.com to name a few. I read of challenges to live for 30 days with only 30 items of clothing, or to pare ones possessions to less that 100 items, or to live in a tiny house or apartment of less than 200 square feet. I have even taken steps to allow me to work from wherever I am to the point that I am writing this post on a netbook from my easy chair with a cup of coffee at my elbow. The point is that few if any of these challenges fits my life style, wants and desires. I desire not necessarily minimalism, but abundance, and not complexity but simplicity. And I desire not the simplicity of earlier times -- I don't want to return to the days of chopping wood, drawing water, and using an outhouse -- but the convenience of today, with central heat, modern plumbing, and inside facilities. Unlike Thoreau, I don't really want to spend two years in the woods contemplating the simple life. I want to live it today in suberbia! I want to live it among things that I enjoy. And, since I can only really enjoy things I use, I want to either divest myself of all of the things I no longer use or bring them out and use them. If I don't use it, I can't enjoy it and if I can't enjoy it, I might as well not have it. Life is too short not to use your best.

Simplify

2010-11-26T11:38:00.000-05:00

In his book, "My Life in the Woods" or "Walden", New England transcendentalist and philosopher Henry David Thoreau penned the words "Life is frittered away by detail. Simplify. Simplify." Simplify: Have less stuff, but have better stuff. Have stuff that you really use and enjoy. Simplify: Do less things, but do better things. Simplify: Buy less, but enjoy more. Eat less but taste more. Pack it up and put it away. If you need it, go get it, use it, and assign it to its place. If you haven't needed it for six months or a year, get rid of it. Stuff accretes like barnacles on the bottom of a ship. Let life show you what you really need and let go of the rest. Simplify.

Thanksgiving -- It's a Tradition

2010-11-25T08:17:00.000-05:00

Thanksgiving is perhaps the most American and most traditional of all holidays celebrated in the United States. Older than the nation itself, the roots of this tradition run deep. On the fourth of December in 1619, Captain John Woodlief led thirty-eight newly arrived colonists to a grassy knoll along the James River and instructed them to drop to their knees and pray in thanksgiving for their safe journey to the new world. That day, the men of Berkely Parrish proclaimed that "We ordain that the day of our ship's arrival at the place of plantation in the land of Virginia shall be yearly kept as a day of thanksgiving to Almighty God. Two years later, in 1621, another group of English Colonists celebrated their bounteous harvest with a feast of Thanksgiving in Plymouth, Massachusetts. It is from this celebration that we get elements of the tradional menu of turkey, cranberry sauce, corn pudding, and pumpkin pie. Family has always been part of the tradition, and somewhere along the line football got added to become an essential part of the feast, as did shopping the day afterward. My personal Thanksgiving tradion is to write a list of things large and small for which I am truely grateful. The big things are easy: life, the love of my family, interests and ideas, continued employment, friends and shared experiences. This year, I am very thankful for two weeks in Alaska with my wife and her sister and brother-in-law. As a result of those two weeks, I find myself newly thankful for bears, both black and grizzly, and for wolves, carribou and moose. I refer to my list throughout the year whenever I need an attitude adjustment. For me, that's the important part of thanksgiving: the conscious act of remembering, recording, and giving thanks. I am, among all people, most richly blessed, And most profoundly grateful.

My Father's World

2010-11-20T10:04:00.000-05:00

Had he lived, we would be celebrating my dad's 100th birthday this month. The world in which he drew his first breath was different than the world in which we live today. As was customary for the time, Dad was born at home in the small village of Browningsville, Maryland. Like his father before him, Dad grew up in the house in which his grandfather had also raised his children. In that house, which still stands today, water was pumped by hand from a well twenty or so feet from the kitchen door and carried to the house in a bucket. Hot water, for washing or doing dishes, was heated on a wood stove which also served for cooking, baking, and heat in the winter. As a boy, Dad's job was to keep both the water bucket and the wood box full. I would later perform the same functions for my grand parents who lived there for most of the 67 years of their marriage. In the winter, the downstairs was heated with wood and the upstairs with whatever heat escaped to it through the ceiling. On cold nights, sleepers would rest under two or three thick quilts while frost formed on the inside of the windows. The fire would die overnight, ensuring that one woke up to a cold house. Dad received his elementary education in a two-room schoolhouse build on land donated by his grandfather. For high school, he walked the three miles to and from Damascus. And, while not exactly up hill both ways, there is one significant summit at the midpoint. Dad became a farmer, a grower of tobacco, which was the money crop, and also enough wheat and corn to get the animals -- the horses and a flock of chickens -- through the winter. In the beginning, he worked the land using horses. He also planted enough potatoes for the winter and a sizable garden. Dad's first tractor, a 1940 John Deere model B, was useful for plowing, cultivating, and pulling stumps and other heavy objects but wouldn't go slow enough to pull the tobacco planter, so the horses, two big white Clydesdales named Harry and Jimmy, stayed around until 1949 when dad bought a John Deere model M. During his lifetime, Dad lived through two world wars, survived the great depression, witnessed the advent of the automobile, the telephone (and its evolution from hand-cranked monster to direct distance dialing), household electricity, indoor plumbing, radio, and television. He watched the airplane develop from an interesting toy to a means of transportation that eventually outpaced and ultimately doomed the passenger railroad. At age 61, he actually allowed himself to fly on one. And when the Concorde flew into Dulles International Airport for the first time, Dad was in his back yard in Frederick, MD. to watch it make its final turn inbound over the Frederick Airport. He told his young niece who was with him "You are seeing history," and she was. Dad saw the economy and his community change from agricultural to suburban and his land increase in value until it was no longer economically viable to farm it. Today, most of that land and area are grown over with ticky-tacky houses. The way of life Dad knew and lived has all but disappeared from the area in which he lived, all in less than 100 years. Growing up when I did and where I did put me squarely on the cusp of a lot of the changes I mentioned here. Although I was too young to work them, I remember the horses, and I really did learn to drive on a John Deere tractor! I remember how to split wood and keep the wood box full, and how to carry out the ashes. And I remember the warmth and comfort of sleeping under a pile of quilts with only my nose sticking out while frost forms on the inside of the windows. But I also remember the inconvenience of having to go outside to use the bathroom, and of heating water in which to bathe on a wood stove, and splitting and carrying wood, and stoking the fire for heat and a hundred other things that were normal parts of life at the time. There is a certain nostalgia involved. If I had to, I could live that way again, but I'm not sure that I would want to. Maybe, I'm getting soft. Or maybe, I am as much a man of my times as my Dad was of his. As my children observe my 100th birthday, I wonder what changes they will remark that I lived through. I look forward to being there to listen.

Veterans' Day

2010-11-11T10:27:00.000-05:00

A haiku: We stood together For Liberty and Freedom, Sacrificing all.

Once, There Was a War

2010-11-06T22:08:00.000-04:00

Once, there was a war, a great war, a war to end all wars. For five years, the combatants savaged one another from one end of the European continent to the other. New weapons were developed, new means of increasing the horror. When it ended, it was not by victory or defeat, but by a negotiated armistice that took effect on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month. Peace negotiations dragged on for another year and the terms finally imposed virtually insured that the peace would not endure. And the peace did not endure.

Again, there was a war, and it was a war of such global extent as to be termed a world war. New weapons and tactics provided new means of inflicting punishment. Ironically, this war was ended by the use of a weapon of such unspeakable horror that it has not been used since. In this war, there was no doubt who won and who lost, of who were the victors and who were the vanquished. Afterward, the victors assisted the vanquished to reconstruct so that these former enemies are now among our staunchest allies.

But again, within five years, there was a war. Not a declared war but a police action in the land of the frozen Choisan. Men endured almost unendurable conditions. Men suffered. Men died. And the war was ended by a negotiated armistice. War continues to threaten while peace negotiations continue to this day almost sixty years later.

Once again, there was a war, and this one was my war. Maybe it wasn't much of a war, but the mud, the blood, the pain, and the sacrifice were as real as in any other. The troops in the field did their jobs but the politicians back home lacked the backbone to win. We were winning when they negotiated away what we and our allies had won and sent us home from where we watched our legislators abrogate treaty obligations to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory.

There have been two wars since then. The first was conventional. Ended by negotiation short of absolute victory, the terms of peace virtually ensured that the another war would be necessary, as it was. So, once again, we are at war, and this time it is not a war among nation states, but against shadowy organizations loyal not to any nation but to a religious ideology. Conventional strategies and tactics are of only marginal value in a fight where the primary weapon is the improvised explosive device and the primary objective is to sow destruction and reap terror among non combatants.

In this war, there can be no negotiated peace. How does one negotiate with an implacable enemy whose only desire is to see us dead? In this war, victory will come to the one who is best able to endure, and endure we must, lest we cease to be a nation. Have we the backbone to do what needs to be done and to keep doing it for however long it takes?

To Original Happiness

2010-10-23T20:44:00.000-04:00

A good friend recently sent me an article documenting the continued gratefulness of the citizens of the city of Plzen in Czech republic to the American soldiers who liberated them at the close of World War II. It's an annual celebration and the article closes with an invitation to visit Plzen in May. I'd love to visit Plzen in May or any other time of the year. Plzen -- English spelling Pilsen -- is where they invented the beer called Pilsner, and where they continue to brew it today. In German, the word Ur means original, as in "original recipe". The word "Quel" means source, as in source of a river. Urquel therefore means "Original Source". So Pilsner Urquel is the original recipe Pilsner from the original source, the Pilsner Urquel Brauerei in Pilsen. I am a long-time fan of Pilsner Urquel. In Germany, I sought out establishments with signs advertising "Pilsner Urquel vom Fass", that is "from the barrel" or on tap. That sign has been the source of very many very pleasant evenings. Germany boasts many excellent beers, and among them many Pilsners or Pils. More than a few called Ur or original Pils. Some, like Kirner Pils and Alpirsbacher Klosterbrau, are excellent, but there is only one Pilsner Urquel, and it's the best. If you find yourself in Pilsen in May or any other time of the year, please consume at least one Pilsner Urquel in my honor. Or, if you can't make to Pilsen, feel free to consume one purchased locally. Benjamin Franklin once said that "Beer is God's way of saying He loves us, and wants us to be happy." Ben was right. Pilsner Urquel proves it.

Requiem

2010-10-17T19:31:00.000-04:00

Every high school class has one -- the girl who is near or at the centre of everything. Known by all, if she is not in charge then she gets everything organised for the one who is. If she's not the organiser, then she's the tireless worker who makes the event or whatever happen. She has very definite ideas about what needs to be done, how it needs to be done, when it needs to be done and, if all else fails, the gumption to do it herself and to joke and cackle and make it fun. In our class, that person was Anna. No matter the activity, whether a dance, a choral performance, an operetta, or a student council election, she was part of it, usually infecting and involving a lot of others with her enthusiasm. We met during our first week of kindergarten in 1950 and remained classmates until graduation in 1963. After graduation, we saw each other only infrequently but somehow maintained the bond of shared experiences. At our most recent class reunion, all of us spent a great deal of time recounting and chortling over incidents and events long past, yet still as fresh as yesterday in our minds. Anna chortled the loudest. Anna left us last Monday. She was visiting one of her daughters, and on Sunday evening complained of a cold. On Monday morning, she failed to awaken. She leaves behind her loving husband of 44 years, four daughters, numerous grandchildren, many friends, and at least one BFF. Her death leaves a large hole in the lives of those of us privileged to be her classmates and friends. Go in peace, Anna. You left us too soon. There was never anyone like you before, and after you there shall come no other. You are missed.

Lazy Days

2010-10-11T19:47:00.000-04:00

Leaves are beginning to fall in Northern Virginia. The trees have yet to turn, but some leaves, not knowing any better, have begun to fall and cover the back yard. It is the turning of the seasons. Some trees have the first blush of colour, some have started to go yellow, and others remain summer green. But the leaves have begun to fall. Today, Columbus Day, we celebrated European discovery of Western Hemisphere by working in the yard. My wife raked up the first leaves of autumn and I mowed our scant fifth of an acre for what I hope will be the last time this season. Each time I mow, I am freshly amazed at the number of mini-climates of which I am steward. Today, the weather was too perfect not to be outdoors. In this weather, autumn often seems better than spring, more settled, more laid back and relaxed. Days like today, joy is found in the simple and ordinary things of life -- a sunny day, an autumn breeze, and the smell of fresh cut grass. Sometimes, life just can't be more perfect.

Never Again

2010-09-17T19:47:00.001-04:00

Several readers have been kind enough to take exception to my last post in which I expressed rage at being attacked on 9/11, rage at the perpetrators of those attacks, rage at those who persist in saying "Peace, peace!" when there is no peace, and rage at those who lack both the passion to recognise that a great wrong has been done and the resolve to see it righted.

My rage is born of passion and I am passionate about only a few things.

I am passionate in my love of this, my country, which I have served, for which I have killed, and for which I've bled and nearly been killed myself. I carry in my body scars that are the results of that passion. I always will. Whatever else, I am a soldier and will always remain so. A great evil has been and is being done to my country.

Should I not be angry? Should I not as a soldier and a citizen be resolved that this evil shall not triumph?

I am passionate in my devotion to my family, for whom I would give my life and possessions, and for whose welfare I labor daily.

Should I not be angry at any and all who seek to enslave them? Should I not be resolved to oppose all who seek such slavery with my every waking breath?

And I am passionate in my desire that evil shall not triumph. In my church, when we recite the creed that states, in part "We are called to be the church ... to seek justice and resist evil," I passionately believe in the meaning every one of those words.

Should I not be angry when I experience a great evil? Should I not be resolved that it never be allowed again?

My good friend Lash pointed out in an email earlier this week, that, in the end, my rage is less about anger and more about resolve. In his words "It would have been easy to roll over and accept our earlier great Satan's: the NAZI's, or military rule by the Japanese, or domination by the Soviet Union's Communism; but we did not take the easy way out. We didn't just give in or give up in order to avoid war and deaths. We were even willing to use our ultimate weapon to end WW-II!! Then we helped those enemies recover. Those enemies are now some of our closest allies... Also, "ISLAM" needs to be 'Judged' by free people everywhere! If 'they' (the majority of Muslims) can't see the difference between murder, freedom, individual rights, respect for other religious beliefs, then they need to be judged and dealt with harshly; just like the other Great Satan's."

We must maintain our resolve, if not our anger, and never forget and NEVER LET IT HAPPEN AGAIN"

That Day

2010-09-09T20:49:00.000-04:00

“Dies illa, Dies irae, Calamitatis et miseriae” (That day, day of wrath, calamity and suffering...) Gabriel Faure, Requiem.

This morning, I raised the American flag over my small suburban lot and said a prayer of remembrance. It is 9/11. It is time to remember, and in my memory, September 11, 2001 remains as vivid as yesterday.

On that day, I was at work in the Pentagon. At 9:38 am, I was less than 200 feet from where the right engine of American Airlines Flight 77 tore through C ring before coming to rest against the wall across A-E drive. I smelled the smoke. I saw the fire. I stepped over debris as I exited the building. Outside, I watched as the victims were cared for.

When I learned that what I had experienced was the result of a deliberate act, I was enraged. I remain so. I am enraged that my country was attacked in the name of 'a religion of peace'. Neither terror nor mass murder can ever be part of any rational definition of peace, nor can they ever.

I am enraged.

I am enraged that it took less than six weeks for our elected representatives to start speaking of compromise and negotiation rather than retaliation against those whose sole objective is to obliterate us as a nation. We negotiate. We compromise. We appease. We accommodate. They want to kill us.

I am enraged!

I am enraged that no one in the Islamic world has come forward to condemn these acts of murder for what they are. It's been nine years.

I am enraged!

I am enraged that so many of our priests, ministers, and bishops have joined our pettifogging Congress in blaming us, the victims, for this unprovoked attack. Pale comfort, that.

I am enraged!

I am enraged that even today, we are letting ourselves to be bullied into building a shrine to the religion whose teachings led to the despicable acts of 9/11 at the site of one of those attacks.

I am enraged!

And I am enraged that we cringe so much in fear of the Islamic world that we refuse to advance our rights as a free people living in a free nation. Giving in to bullying is the moral equivalent of “paying protection” in Chicago and only benefits the bullies.

I am enraged.

Everything I ever needed to know about Islam, I learned on 9/11 in the Pentagon. Nothing since then has changed my mind.

And I am enraged!

The Gospel of Labor

2010-09-05T17:28:00.000-04:00

This year, I attained the age at which most American citizens choose to retire from full-time employment go on to whatever comes next. As one who chooses to remain part of the workforce for the foreseeable future, I find myself increasingly called on to answer the question "Why?" and the honest answer is I don't really know. Maybe I continue to work because it's a habit and I'm simply too old to know better or to change. I've been called to work since I was grown enough to make a difference on Dad's farm, where I learned a lot of truth at the end of a long handled hoe. I've worked in a machine shop, and learned the value of always striving to be a master of the craft. I've been a full-time student, earning grades rather than money. I've been a soldier and known the freedom of eagle flying armed helicopters in harm's way. Most recently and currently, I am employed as a systems engineer (and refugee from a Dilbert Look-alike Contest) figuring out how to make diverse hardware and software platforms play together in perfect harmony to do useful things. I know of no life without useful work. Maybe I continue to work because I like what I'm doing. All of my jobs have been interesting. All have spoken to some aspect of my psyche. And all have been emotionally if not monetarily satisfying. I like getting paid to do interesting things. Or maybe I continue to work because work is what I was made to do. The way I read the creation story, God placed the man he had created in the garden, to dress and to keep it. And when the man and his wife were driven from the garden the curse was not on the man but on the ground, that it not yield its fruit without increased labor. And so, I continue to work and to eat my bread by the sweat of my brow. And, as I age, I find it all good. In the words of an anonymous poet, "This is the gospel of labor, Peal forth, ye bells of the kirk, For the Lord of Love Came down from above To live with men who work. And this is the seed that He planted, Here, in this thorn-curs'd soil: Heaven is blessed With eternal rest, But the blessing of life is toil." Have a great labor day!

Content Free Warning

2010-08-29T20:20:00.000-04:00

Somewhere over mid-America, I opened a pack of airline peanuts packaged by King Nut Companies of Solon, Ohio, an excellent product and one I recommend. After consuming my peanuts, I was surprised to read that the contents were "Produced in a facility that processes peanuts and other nuts".

I realise that the notice is probably a legal requirement meant as a warning to those with nut allergies, but really, is there any other way?

Did this warning, so carefully worded and prominently placed on the wrapper, really transmit any new information?

The package was labelled "Peanuts". Is it really to possible to obtain a package of salted peanuts that are not produced in a facility that processes peanuts? Or is the American public so dense as to not realise that peanuts are and indeed must be processed in a facility "that processes peanuts"?

Is the company so frightened of potential litigation that they feel obligated to post a a content-free warning on their product? Did some judge actually decide that peanuts were such a danger to the public that all foods processed in facilities that process peanuts and other nuts, including peanuts, must be so labelled?

Why not rather assume that when we open a package of peanuts or other nuts it comes from a facility in which such things are processed and leave it at that. Please, save us from any more content free warnings, and leave us free to enjoy our peanuts as we see fit.

Nostalgia

2010-07-21T13:28:00.001-04:00

At lunchtime today, I walked out into one of those midsummer days such as I remember when I was a boy. The air is soft and humid with just enough breeze to keep it comfortable. Trees and grass are lush shades of green. The sun is bright and the sky a brilliant blue. In the west, cottony clouds are building with the promise of an evening thundershower. The light, the colors, the smells, and the touch of the breeze on my skin take me back, to make me think, to make me remember not only days but also events of long ago .

Has it really been more than half a century since I first experienced the summer in images so real that even today they rush to my memory with all of the freshness and power of current impressions?

“Yes,” my soul tells me. “It has.”

Has it really been over 45 years since I first saw a girl in a green dress and fell tail over teacups in love? Has it really been that long since our first date and all of our subsequent dates, since movies and prom nights and football games and Sunday afternoons when our chief joy was being with each other?

“Yes,” my soul tells me. “It has.”

And has it really been 43 years since that same girl, dressed in white this time, walked down the aisle and joined her hand and life to mine? We were two kids with huge dreams and absolutely no idea what they were getting into, and none of that really mattered. For better or worse, we were together.

And has it really been nearly forty years since our eldest made his appearance, and thirty since our youngest? And have we really lived at our current address for over 25 years? It’s just not possible.

And are there now kids that call me “Grand Dad”?

“Yes,” my soul tells me. “It is so.”

Good times, fun times, challenging times, and even trying times, all long past, but at the same time still fresh and new, continuing in memory.

Someone once wrote that we are all products of our pasts and I am no exception. My past was very good but I am constrained to live in the present.

Here, at the juncture of past and future, it is my job to wrest from each moment all that life has to offer, knowing that what I experience today is the source of a rich and wonderful future. At lunchtime today, I walked out into one of those midsummer days such as I remember when I was a boy. The air is soft and humid with just enough breeze to keep it comfortable. Trees and grass are lush shades of green. The sun is bright and the sky a brilliant blue. In the west, cottony clouds are building with the promise of an evening thundershower. The light, the colors, the smells, and the touch of the breeze on my skin take me back, to make me think, to make me remember not only days but also events of long ago . Has it really been more than half a century since I first experienced the summer in images so real that even today they rush to my memory with all of the freshness and power of current impressions? “Yes,” my soul tells me. “It has.” Has it really been over 45 years since I first saw a girl in a green dress and fell tail over teacups in love? Has it really been that long since our first date and all of our subsequent dates, since movies and prom nights and football games and Sunday afternoons when our chief joy was being with each other? “Yes,” my soul tells me. “It has.” And has it really been 43 years since that same girl, dressed in white this time, walked down the aisle and joined her hand and life to mine? We were two kids with huge dreams and absolutely no idea what they were getting into, and none of that really mattered. For better or worse, we were together. And has it really been nearly forty years since our eldest made his appearance, and thirty since our youngest? And have we really lived at our current address for over 25 years? It’s just not possible. And are there now kids that call me “Grand Dad”? “Yes,” my soul tells me. “It is so.” Good times, fun times, challenging times, and even trying times, all long past, but at the same time still fresh and new, continuing in memory. Someone once wrote that we are all products of our pasts and I am no exception. My past was very good but I am constrained to live in the present. Here, at the juncture of past and future, it is my job to wrest from each moment all that life has to offer, knowing that what I experience today is the source of a rich and wonderful future. t lunchtime today, I walked out into one of those midsummer days such as I remember when I was a boy. The air is soft and humid with just enough breeze to keep it comfortable. Trees and grass are lush shades of green. The sun is bright and the sky a brilliant blue with cottony clouds building in the west and promising an evening thundershower. The light, the colors, the smells, and the touch of the breeze on my skin take me back, make me think, carry me to days and events long ago. Has it really been more than half a century since I first experienced the summer in images so real that even today they rush to my memory with all of the freshness and power of current experiences? “Yes,” my soul tells me. “It has.” Has it really been over 45 years since I first saw a girl in a green dress and fell tail over teacups in love? Has it really been that long since our first date and all of our subsequent dates, since movies and prom nights and football games and long summer Sunday afternoons when our chief joy was being with each other? “Yes,” my soul tells me. “It has.” And has it really been 43 years since that same girl, dressed in white this time, walked down the aisle and joined her hand and life to mine? We were two kids with huge dreams and absolutely no idea what we were getting into, and none of that really mattered -- for better or for worse we were and remain together. And has it really been nearly forty years since our oldest made his appearance, and thirty since our youngest? And have we really lived for over 25 years at our current address? That's just not possible! Neither could it be possible that there are now kids that call me “Grand Dad.” But “Yes,” my soul tells me. “It is not only possible; it is so.” Good times, fun times, challenging times, and even trying times, all long past all remain alive and fresh and new in my memory. Someone once wrote that we are all products of our pasts, and I am no exception. But no matter how vividly preserved is my past, I am constrained to live in the present. And here, in the present, at the juncture of past and future it is my job every day to wrest every ounce of flavor from all that now has to offer. For it is the moments of the now that will make up the fond memories of the future.

In the Company of Heroes

2010-07-10T10:39:00.000-04:00

I recently returned from a week in the company of heroes; of men who answered the call of their country and went to war in Vietnam behind the controls of a helicopter. War correspondent Joe Galloway called us "God's own lunatics", and, whatever we flew, "God's own lunatics" is a label in which we continue to take considerable pride. Those who flew the Light Observation Helicopter (LOH or "Loach") had the mission of flying low and slow to observe the enemy and mark targets. The rest of us joked that our target would be marked by a burning loach. We didn't need to be convinced that deliberately trying to draw fire was insane. We knew it . Those who flew the UH-1 Huey, or Slick were workhorses. Slicks hauled the infantry into and out of the fight, often landing under fire to deliver reinforcements, food, water, and ammunition; to carry the wounded to aid; and to bring the dead home. When they were called, they came. Where LOH pilots were high spirited and exuberant, Slick drivers were more subdued and business like. The heavy lifters who flew Chinooks and Sky Cranes didn't get enough respect. They just showed up and did their job of moving heavy objects, relocating artillery and resupplying firebases day in and day out every day, faithfully maintaining their part of the supply chain. LOH drivers had callsigns like "Scalp Hunter"; slick drivers had call signs like "Robin Hood", "Crusader", and "Gladiator". Heavy Lifters carried call signs like "Playtex", "Pachyderm", and "Big Windy". Then, there are the gunship pilots. Gunship pilots had call signs like "Bucaneer", "Joker", "Cougar", and "Panther". Gunship pilots directly engaged the enemy and, whether they flew Bravo models, Charlie models or the AH-1G Cobra, always knew themselves to be members of the elite. Gunships covered and protected loaches, performed airmobile escort, and provided fire support; those who flew them knew they were special. As my friend Mike takes pride in saying "Three kinds of people flew helicopters in Vietnam -- those who were Panthers, those who were covered by the Panthers, and those who wish to God they were one of the other two!" Every year, when I attend the Vietnam Helicopter Pilots' reunion, I leave with a deep sense of appreciation and honor to be numbered as a member of this company of heroes. Someone once asked if I was a real hero. "No", I replied. "But I've drunk beer with a lot of people who are." Most of my Vietnam Helicopter Pilot friends would say the same.

I Have Seen the Morning

2010-06-28T21:08:00.000-04:00

"I have seen the morning burning golden on the mountain in the sky, Achin' with the feeling of the freedom of an eagle when she flies... These lines, penned by American troubadour Kris Kristofferson, have the power to draw me back to late 1971 and early 1972 when I was an Army Aviator privileged to see the morning burning golden on the mountain and to experience the freedom of the eagle. I have seen the morning burning golden on the mountain, and the name of the mountain was Chu Pao, but we all called it the rock pile. It guards the west side of the pass between Pleiku and Kontum. When I first saw it in late December of 1971, it was thrusting its heavily wooded shoulders through a blanket of early morning fog into the morning sun. When I last saw it a scant six months later, it was battered and nearly devoid of vegetation -- the result of heavy bombardment and fighting. I have seen the morning burning golden on the mountain, and the name of the mountain was Leghorn. Leghorn stands atop sheer cliffs in southern Laos and is accessible only by helicopter. Visible at any altitude above 500 feet from just about anywhere around Dak To and Ben Het, it was a handy navigation aid. If you could see Leghorn, you might not know exactly where you were, but you weren't lost. The slanting rays of the morning sun would cause the sheer cliffs to gleam like gold in the morning. Sometimes, someone would mention it as we passed by on our way to doing the business of war. I have seen the morning burning golden on the mountain, and the name of the mountain is lost to me. It stands on either side of the road through the Mang Yang pass. At the summit there is a meadow marked by regularly spaced round depressions, remnants of an earlier war. It is a graveyard where the Viet Minh buried the dead of French Group Mobile 100 reportedly standing up, facing Paris. I have seen the morning burning golden on the mountain in the sky, and the mountain was more of a ridge than a mountain. We called it Rocket Ridge since it was the launch site for rockets aimed at Tan Canh, Dak To, and Kontum. Anchored on the south by a mountain we called Big Momma and the north by Firebase 5, it stretches over 20 miles from just west of Kontum to slightly south east of Ben Het. Besides Firebase 5, Rocket Ridge was the site of a number of Firebases, including Charlie, Delta, and Yankee. Firebase Charlie was occupied by a Vietnamese Airborne Battalion and subjected to heavy attacks. Of the nearly 342 men that went onto Charlie, less than 40 survived to walk off. From the cockpit of my helicopter, I have seen the morning burning golden on the mountain in the sky; I have ached with the feeling of the freedom of an eagle. I would have it no other way, and I would gladly do it again.

Description of a Hero

2010-05-28T16:35:00.000-04:00

He's old or he's young; he's tall or he's short. He's thin, or fat, white, brown, yellow, or black. As often as not, "he" is really "she" and the distinction is obscured by the conventions of our language. But something sets him apart. He wore a uniform, or he did not. He accomplished much, or he accomplished nothing. His efforts were successful, or they were futile. But he always dared greatly. He may have been given medals which he displays proudly, or keeps hidden in a box in a drawer. He may have received nothing but aches, pains, and scars for his efforts. His name and history may be known to many, or known to few, or remembered by none, but the benefits of his service are enjoyed by all. We call him a hero. He admits only to doing what needed doing at the time, and to not quitting. When he departs this world for the next, his life may be recounted or it may not, but the world will have been made better by his efforts. And he could wish for no more. In Arlington, there rests in honoured glory, an American Soldier known only to God, a hero representing the hundreds of thousands of others we have to thank for our liberty and independence. They are heroes. Honour their memories.

Enjoy the Journey

2010-05-11T08:24:00.001-04:00

The author of one of the blogs I read has stated "Life is not a destination. It's a journey. Enjoy the journey." Yesterday was a journey in more ways than one. I departed on travel to a conference. Since conference activities were scheduled to start at one, I booked a non-stop that would get me to the hotel shortly after noon. No problem. My wife dropped me at the airport in plenty of time. I breezed through security, bought a breakfast burrito and a cup of Starbucks on my way to the gate and sat down to await the boarding call. I should have guessed that something was awry when my coffee cup leaped from my hand to the floor, spilling about half of its contents and bespattering my white shirt. "No problem", I thought, rejoicing that it had missed my coat and trousers. "I can change my shirt before the meeting." The next indication that something might be amiss was when they called "the persons assigned seat numbers such and such" to remain at the podium during boarding. You guessed it --my number was among those announced. Still, no problem. Then, at the podium, we were informed that weather conditions required the pilot to carry more fuel than normal so that, if needs be, he could fly to and land at an alternate destination. You guessed it again -- I was among the lucky few selected to be involuntarily bumped and was left standing at the counter with seven of my soon to be best buddies as our luckier compatriots boarded the plane. Potential large problem. The gate agents tried frantically to sort things out. I felt sorry for them. I felt equally sorry for the customer service representatives assigned the task of getting us alternate flights to deliver us where we needed to go. At least three of us ended up on another carrier with a connection through Dallas Fort Worth. Kudos to the customer service people! The connection would be a bit close, but not frantic. I'd miss most of the first day sessions, but at least get there in time to pick up my registration materials. After a brisk walk and a train ride to another terminal, I found myself seated in the aft bulkhead window seat of my new flight. I was squished in with little leg room, no way to recline, a great view of the right engine and two people to climb over if I needed to avail myself of the facilities. Still, I had a seat and was on my way. Then, the alternate flight departed a half hour late due to a maintenance delay and what should have been an easy connection became a mad dash, again via train, from the arrival gate on one side to a departure gate on the exact opposite side of the terminal complex. I arrived at the gate, walked up to the podium, presented my boarding pass and was seated immediately -- in first class! Hey, those customer service people are all right! Suddenly, I had leg room, hip room and beverages served in real glass tumblers! It was only forty-five minutes, but it was wonderful! Five minutes after I was seated, the doors closed and we were wheels up to San Antonio. The rental car was ready. The directions to the hotel were clear enough that I only had to stop one time to ask for directions. I missed the afternoon session, but I arrived in plenty of time to change my shirt and pick up my conference materials. I even treated myself to a much deserved Starbucks. Modern business travel is definitely not about the destination, but the journey. It's more fun and a lot less frustrating if you relax and enjoy the journey.

The First Rite of Spring

2010-04-23T18:13:00.000-04:00

Winter is officially over. It may not yet be warm enough to say that spring is here, but winter is officially over. We will certainly have some more raw days and cool nights before it gets warm for good. We could even still experience a frost. But six weeks after the ground hog saw his shadow, winter is officially over. My lawn told me that winter is done. It told me by growing green and tall enough that decency forced me to drag out the mower and cut it. It told me by teeming with new life, grass and clover and violets and even the lowly dandelions. Even the bare spots -- of which there are more than a few -- are bringing forth an abundance of moss and wild onions. In the first rite of spring, my mower responded to the second pull of the starting rope with a pop and a cloud of blue smoke before settling into a satisfying purr. After a winter in the shed, it seemed almost eager to get back to work. I acknowledge that winter is over to the point that I am surveying the yard for the best place to grow some tomatoes. The winter storms took out several trees allowing me more choices than last year. Winter is over. The old brown grass is fast being replaced by a new coat of green. In the sunlight all things seem new. Winter can fool a person; on occasion, it can even fool the ground hog. But it can't fool your grass.

The Second Cup

2010-04-11T11:22:00.000-04:00

Let there be no doubt. I like my coffee. I like my coffee so much that I measure my workday in units called "Starbucks". A one Starbucks day is nothing worth writing about. A two Starbucks day is normal, and a three Starbucks day is a super active "my pants are on fire and the devil is after me" kind of experience. Luckily, I have only experienced a couple of "three Starbuck's" days, and only one "Four Starbucks day" in my lifetime. The fourth Starbuck's was a "Venti Double Red Eye" from which it took several days to recover. The first cup of coffee in the morning is always "wake me up and shoot me flying out the door" urgent. The first cup starts the day, gets the body moving, starts the blood pumping and clears away the cobwebs. On workdays, the first cup is all I have time for before hitting the road and getting down to the business of life and work. On weekends, however, there is time to relax and enjoy a second cup. My second cup of weekend coffee is my favourite of the week. For some unknown reason, the second cup of weekend coffee tastes better than any other. As I drink it, I find myself living in the moment, savouring the aroma and contemplating the subtle nuances of bean, roast, and taste, enjoying the blend of bitter, sweet, acid, and a hundred and one other things only hinted at that combine to make each pot and each cup unique. At such times, the world narrows down to three things: me, the morning, and the coffee. At such times, life is very good. The first cup of coffee is all about waking up and getting down to business. But on weekends at least, the second cup is all about luxury and leisure. Others may urge that we "wake up and smell the coffee." I urge you instead to take your time, linger, and enjoy all that coffee and life have to offer. Life: it's all about the coffee.

Spring Fancies

2010-04-08T12:37:00.000-04:00

Alfred Lord Tennyson wrote that "In the spring, a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love", and perhaps it does. However, it's been my experience that a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love just about every season of the year and that in the spring a young man's fancy turns to a lot of things other than love. In the spring a young man's fancy seriously turns to thoughts of baseball! From the day that pitchers and catchers report for spring training in late February there is a feeling of expectation. Maybe this will be the year the home team brings home the pennant. After long years of home baseball deprivation since the Senators moved to Texas, I find myself once again feeling the thrill of reading the training reports and grapefruit league results in mild to wild expectations. Alas, after two games my beloved Nationals are zero and two for the season. In the spring a young man's fancy seriously turns to thoughts of vacation! Lazy days on sandy beaches, watching the waves with a book in one hand and a tall cool drink in the other. Or maybe, lounging on the deck of a cruise ship scanning the distant horizon for whales. Maybe this will be the year that my wife and I will get to enjoy the wildlife of Denali National Park in Alaska. From experience, I recognize that planning and anticipation are almost half of the fun. And, for me at least, in the spring a young man's fancy seriously turns to thoughts of gardening as surely as my wife's fancy turns to thoughts of spring cleaning and organizing our mountain of stuff. Maybe, with the snow-damaged trees removed, there will be enough light to grow some really good tomatoes. As John Denver says in the song "What would life be without home grown tomatoes?" He also sings quite correctly that "I forget all about the sweatin' and diggin' each time I go out and pick me a biggun!" And he's right! And not only home grown tomatoes, but maybe we'll also be inundated with zucchini and swiss chard and green beans. In the words of the same song. "There's just two things that money can't buy. And that's good lovin' and home grown tomatoes!" So maybe Tennyson was right. In the spring a young man's fancy does lightly turn to thoughts of love and more seriously to thoughts of baseball, vacation, and home grown tomatoes.

My Father's Wisdom

2010-04-06T13:56:00.000-04:00

Other than his wallet, my dad always carried two items in a trouser pocket. One was a very stubby pencil, hand sharpened almost down to the eraser. Too short and blunt to be a stabbing hazard, the pencil rode in his the right side trouser pocket along with both the pen knife he used to sharpen it and a clean handkerchief. The other item, always carried in a hip pocket, was a piece of paper, most often the remains of a used envelope, neatly folded and tucked inside of his wallet. Wherever he was, Dad used these two items to record and conduct the business of farming. I've watched him spread the paper on a dusty tractor tire to record the number of a needed part. I've seen him spread it out on a wagon bed or the hood of the pickup to calculate how much additional fertilizer or how many plants were needed to prepare or plant out a field. And I've seen him support the paper against a wall or even on his knee to write down some item for future action. Once the needed information was recorded, the pencil went back into the correct pocket and the paper was again folded carefully and returned to the wallet from whence it came. Dad pretty much ran his farm by writing things down. In the evening, he would look over what he had written during the day as he considered and recorded what he needed to do or think about tomorrow, the next day, the next week, or the next time he went to town. From my Dad, I learned the wisdom of always carrying something to write with and something to write on. In fact, woe be unto me if Dad ever asked me to write something down and I was found to be without the necessary equipment. As a result, writing things down became and remains a fairly consistent habit. As my circumstances changed, I graduated from writing things on the backs of used envelopes with stubby pencils to writing in bound notebooks with some pretty fancy pens, but the principles remain as my father taught me. "Write it down. Get it on paper. Deal with it later". Amazingly, the act of writing helps me remember what I've written. And, although I review and deal with my notes after I have written them, I'm don't really write them to remember later so much as to remember now! Long before David Allen documented and popularized how to get things done, my Dad was using his stubby pencil and neatly folded used envelope to apply the Getting Things Done principles. A wise man, my Dad. Makes me proud to be a chip off the old block.

Masters of the Craft

2010-03-26T19:44:00.000-04:00

My second paying job out of high school was as an apprentice scientific instrument maker in the machine shop at the National Bureau of Standards. I was the first candidate accepted into their apprenticeship program. Once accepted, I spent the next four years learning the art and craft of using hand and machine tools to make useful items out of metal. When I graduated four years later as a journeyman, I knew how to grind my own tools and mount them correctly in the machines. I knew how to operate the machines themselves, some of which had seemed as complex as a multi-engine aircraft when I first saw them. By the end of my time, I was able to build complex assemblies from scratch. Moreover, at the end of the day I was able to point to or hold something in my hand and say with a degree of pride "There it is. I made it. And it's right." I owe my trade to a succession of senior mechanics who were entrusted with the responsibility of passing their skills to me. These men would show me how something was done, and stand by to see that I did it right. They showed me how to check my own work and then followed through by checking it exactly as they had taught me. And they exercised extreme patience when my fumble-fingered first attempts produced not the desired item but a useless piece of scrap. As I worked under the guidance of my instructors, I learned that each of them had at least one person whom they considered to be a better craftsman and to whom they would go for guidance when faced with a difficult set up or fabrication challenge. My instructors were quick to point these men out and to introduce me to them; they wanted to be sure I learned how to do things right, and they wanted me to learn from the best. My instructors were equally quick to point out those from whom I should not learn, lest I pick up bad habits. Through their actions, those who gave me my trade made me want to be like them, a master of the craft. Mostly by example, my instructors taught me the truth of words first spoken by Aristotle: "We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence then is not an act, but a habit." My apprenticeship not only gave me a trade; it taught me to practice excellence, to make it a habit, and in all things to become a master of the craft. And that has made all of the difference in the world.

The Light at the End of the Tunnel

2010-01-30T11:52:00.000-05:00

The last time my wife and I visited Alaska, we were privileged to ride the White Pass and Yukon Line from Skagway, Alaska to the top of White Pass in British Columbia. The scenery was magnificent; the rail road, built in 1898, a marvel of engineering. During our excursion, we passed through two tunnels inside of which the rail cars are immersed in obsidian darkness. I, for one, was glad to emerge once again into the light. The image of light at the end of the tunnel is a popular one. People experiencing or emerging from hard times speak of seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. Others speak of hope that the light at the end of the tunnel is not an oncoming train. Still others opine that "due to the current crisis, the light at the end of the tunnel has been turned off," and "things always look the darkest right before the light goes completely out." The vision of light at the end of the tunnel says that darkness and gloom are temporary, that we can hope one day to emerge into glorious light. I've spent time in the tunnel. All of us have. I've stumbled forward and cringed as each hint of light proved to be an oncoming train of some sort. And I've survived. And then, one day, as I saw a light and stepped to the side to avoid the oncoming train, I discovered that was no wall. I looked up and saw sky, and twinkling stars and realised I was no longer in the tunnel. When and where I had emerged were lost to me. I was out of the tunnel, and free to go left and right at will. It was night and still dark around me, but there was light ahead. The light wasn't at the end of the tunnel -- I'd left the tunnel long ago -- but ahead, on the horizon, the dawn of a new and promising day.

Looking Forward, Looking Back

2009-12-30T09:57:00.000-05:00

With the coming new year, I find myself joining a lot of other people looking forward by looking back. Doing so, I find the year two-thousand and nine to have been a year of mixed results. I accomplished much; achieved some of my dreams. -- like starting this blog -- but have much left that I want to accomplish. I got rid of some of my mountain of stuff, but the mountain appears to remain undiminished. The cycle of assessing, evaluating, and purging stuff will continue. I attended funerals and grieved with family and friends. I celebrated weddings and new beginnings. I celebrated survival with those I flew with in Vietnam and remembered those no longer with us. I met new friends and renewed acquaintances with some I had not seen for nearly half a century. I am extraordinarily blessed to remain surrounded by wonderful people. And I laughed, and cried, and lived and loved life as it came. Looking forward I could wish for no better. My priorities for 2010 will remain pretty much what they were in 2009 (except that I do plan to experience and explore the interior of Alaska!) and my continuing goals will not change. In 2010, I plan to meet life head on and to savour every moment given me to its absolute fullest. I can do no more.

Pearl Harbor Remembered

2009-12-07T22:18:00.000-05:00

7 December 2009: It amazes me that some sixty-eight years after the fact, the nation remembers Pearl Harbor and continues to view images of the attack with horror and outrage. Yet a mere nine years after the attacks of 9/11, images of airplanes striking the twin towers, of the towers burning and collapsing are deemed "too disturbing" to show on the six o'clock news.

In the years following 1941, images of the devastation wrought by the attack at Pearl Harbor galvanized the nation to act with resolve in the years to follow. During the dark days immediately following, and throughout the long slog from island to island in the Pacific, the battle cry was "Remember Pearl Harbor." And even today, on the anniversary of the event, the nation pauses to remember. In the weeks following 9/11, images of the devastation wrought by the attacks galvanized the nation to unity and action. Unlike the situation in 1941, such unity was short lived as our elected officials acted like the petty politicians that they are rather than the statesmen that the nation needed. National unity was squandered in the name of momentary political advantage. And the images that could have united us disappeared from view. The news media labelled them "too disturbing." Where is the horror? Where is the outrage? Where is the resolve to see justice for the wrong done on 9/11? Sixty-eight years after Pearl Harbor, the images of December 7, 1941 still unite us. And eight years after 9/11, in the absence of appropriate images and resolve, we find ourselves back to business as usual as if 9/11 had not happened. Where is the horror? Where is the outrage? Where is the resolve? On the brink of losing all sense of national resolve and our will to survive, we are on the brink of losing our culture and our freedom. Where is the outrage? Where is the resolve? Have we become a nation of wimps?

Plant a Garden!

2009-10-12T10:21:00.000-04:00

In an interview, pro-blogger Merlin Mann (http://www.43folders.com/) asked the following question of fellow blogger Leo Bobauta (http://zenbabits.net): "If you had 60% of the time and resources you needed to do anything you want, what would you do?" I don't remember the answer, but the question has gnawed at me for months. What would I do if I had 60% of the time and resources I needed to do anything I wanted? In my engineer's mind, the question quickly became "How can I achieve acceptable results at something I want to do with 60% of the time and resources that I need?" The answer is "Do something that will successfully scale back to 60%" and "Do something that is less dependent on external resources." And then I remembered growing up on the farm. My Dad never had the resources he needed. Yet every year, he plowed, planted, and cultivated, and every year we harvested. Every year, Dad did all that he could with the resources he had. And it was always enough. If I had 60% of the time and resources I needed, I'd plant a garden. (My wife would sew a quilt!) Instead of 100 square feet, I would prepare, plant, cultivate, and harvest a garden of sixty square feet. By scaling back, I would need to expend only sixty per cent of the time required to prepare the soil and cultivate the plants. I would only use 60% of the seeds, 60% of the fertiliser, and 60% of the water to make my garden grow. And I would still reap a harvest! If conditions are favourable that harvest may even produce better than 60% of what would have been produced with full resources. Perhaps, my garden would even produce the seeds for a somewhat larger plot next year! Half-way toward forming my answer to this question, I realised that we never have all of the resources we think we need. We could always use more. At the same time, I realised that people have been doing awesome things for years and years with very limited or no resources. My Dad raised four children on a subsistence level farm. We all grew up to be reasonably responsible and productive adult members of society. From the day my children entered this world, I never felt that I had the time and resources I needed. No parent ever does. Nonetheless, my children also became reasonably responsible and productive adults. Pareto's law of work says that you generally need only 20 per cent of the resources to get 80 per cent of the results. Life isn't about what you can't do with what you don't have; life is about doing great and wonderful things with what you do! Do something great and wonderful. Plant a garden. Make a quilt. Raise a family. You may not even need sixty-percent.

Remember; Be Angry

2009-09-11T08:03:00.000-04:00

I choose to remember 9/11. Eight years ago this morning, on September 11, 2001, I was in the Pentagon. I was at Staff Call in an office on C Ring between Corridors 5 and 6. Shortly after sitting down, we were jarred as American Airlines Flight 77 slammed into the building. My friend who was with me swears that he heard jet engines accelerating before impact. Those I was with and I evacuated safely through the smoke, dust, and debris outside of our office door. I remember that several hundred feet from where I sat, Brigadier General Maude was in his E Ring office. He was being briefed by three Booze-Allen contractors. His office was very near the point of impact. All four occupants perished. I remember that two secretaries were taking a smoke break in the area between B and C ring. One had just flicked her Bic to light up when the right engine came crashing through C ring. Her first thought was that she had caused an explosion. Both she and her companion evacuated safely with a true story to tell the grandchildren. Remember. When the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941, President Roosevelt proclaimed it to be a day that would forever live in infamy. We were outraged as a nation, and, for the next four years, our battle cry in the Pacific was "Remember Pearl Harbor!" Black and white images of wreckage burning, and the tower of the Battleship Arizona silhouetted against a cloud of black smoke fueled our outrage and strengthened our national resolve to achieve victory. September 11, 2001 is no less than December 7, 1941 a day that will live forever in infamy. Yet one year afterward, images of the twin towers burning were deemed "too disturbing" to be shown on the evening news. Now, eight years later, our national resolve to triumph can barely be detected. Have we forgotten the images of our fellow citizens casting themselves from the towers rather than burn up inside? Have we forgotten our obligation to those who perished? Remember. Remember that these attacks were evil and be angry. Remember that on September 11, 2001 our nation was attacked without cause. Be angry that , unlike Pearl Harbor, these attacks were mostly directed not against our military but against innocent and unsuspecting civilians. Remember that on September 11, 2001 we were peaceful and secure. Be angry at those who took our peace and security from us. Be very angry at those who forced us now to live in perpetual distrust and wariness. Remember that the attacks of September 11, 2001 were evil acts perpetrated by evil men with evil intent. Be angry at the perpetrators and those who support them. Be resolved to defeat them and everything they stand for. Remember that we owe a solemn obligation to those who perished. Be angry at those who would reduce what should be a day of solemn remembrance and renewed resolution into a day of service similar to Earth Day or Arbor Day. Be angry and resolve to oppose those who continue to plan acts of evil against our nation and our freedom. Resolve to oppose them until your last breath. All that is necessary for evil to triumph is for good people to do nothing. Remember 9/11. Be angry and maintain your anger. Resolve with me that evil will never be allowed to triumph.

Labor Day: It's About Work

2009-09-05T21:51:00.000-04:00

My Dad always took a somewhat dim view of Labor Day. Falling at the peak of the tobacco harvest, Labor Day happens during the season of maximum effort in the fields and tobacco barns. Housing tobacco is not a task that can be easily accomplished by one person. Dad's view of Labor Day was made no brighter by the fact that on the day after all of his teen aged helpers would disappear into the bowels of the education system and become unavailable except for the hours between school and dark. Most of Dad's helpers, my friends, were also unavailable on Labor Day as they did things with their families who were not tobacco growers. I wanted to be like my friends. Dad's answer to my requests for Labor Day off was always the same. "Labor Day means it's a day extra hard labor." And, although we usually quit early so I could be ready for school the next morning, we spent most of the day working hard. Over the years, I have come to realize that Dad was right even if I'm still not sure that the best way to celebrate Labor day is by working. Labor Day should celebrate work. Labor -- work -- is required for human survival. And, whether we choose to admit it or not, labor -- work -- is also required for human fulfilment. If God created Man and placed him in the garden "to dress it and to keep it," then we are made to work. Scripture tells us that work did not become a burden until man sinned and, in punishment, God cursed the ground so that it would produce its fruit only as a result hard work. "By the sweat of your brow you shall eat your bread," He said. So this Labor Day, I choose to celebrate work -- the work I do and all of the honourable and productive work that other people do. Work: it's part of a full life. "This is the Gospel of labor. Peal forth, ye bells of the Kirk! For the Lord of Love Came down from above To live with men who work. And this is the seed that He planted, Here in this thorn-curs'd soil. Heaven is blessed with eternal rest; The blessing of life is toil." Have a great Labor Day. Celebrate work!

Working on the Lay-Away Plan

2009-08-29T18:23:00.000-04:00

I have proudly achieved an age at which many of my contemporaries are either considering retirement or have already retired. Invariably, at any gathering of those in my peer group -- high school class, Army buddies -- I am asked "So, when do you plan to retire?" or "When did you retire?" People appear shocked to learn that I remain employed full time, and even more shocked to learn that I actually enjoy my work! You see, I am working on the lay-away plan -- I plan to work until they lay me away. Maybe, it's the vision of the wolf at the door. Maybe, enforced idleness for more than a day or two at a time doesn't fit me. Maybe, I'm just too old to know better. Or maybe (and I suspect this is the real reason) I have yet to decide what I really want to be when I grow up. Whatever the reason, God has given me the grace to do what I like, and to like what I am doing. During the past half century, I've been a farm hand, a machinist, a student, a soldier, a pilot, a parent and an engineer. I've grown things and made things and blown things up. I've designed new things and fitted things together to work in new ways. It's all been good, and I remain convinced that somewhere there is a really neat job that requires exactly my blend of knowledge, skill, ability, and personality. Finding that position gives life a lot of flavour. I may not always be doing what I do now, but I will always be doing something. Given my interests and past experiences, it will be a great adventure. Let the adventure continue!

First Things First

2009-08-09T21:05:00.000-04:00

Growing up on a farm, I am acquainted with the laws of the farm. The first law states that there is a proper season for every activity whether it be planting, cultivating, harvesting or bringing to market; the second states that whatever you plant is exactly what you're going to harvest. I also became acquainted with the law of priority. Securing the necessities of life -- food, clothing, shelter and the means of earning them is the top priority. Comforts are the second priority. Once the necessities are secure, we can devote resources to obtaining some comforts in the form of better food, nicer clothing, more comfortable housing and maybe some entertainment. Luxuries come dead last, only after needs are met, and basic comforts provided. First, the necessities. Then the comforts. Finally the luxuries. These priorities have served me very well in providing for my family. For me, they are as invariant as seed time and harvest. Or are they? Lately, I see growing numbers of people securing comforts and luxuries before they have the necessities. And a great many of them seem to be making it work. Need shelter? Some agency will subsidise it for you. Need clothing? You will not be allowed to go naked. Someone will provide it. Need food? Food stamps! Run out of stamps? Creative dumpster diving or an emergency delivery by the local food bank. Apparently, one can eat quite well and even thrive on the dole. Priorities are for other people. Forget about the necessities and go for the large screen high definition TV! After all, life is all about the toys and priorities only apply to those who either voluntarily or involuntarily provide the resources to subsidise the lives of those whose first priority is to play. I'm disgusted. We're sowing irresponsibility. What do we hope to reap?

Just Do It!

2009-08-01T19:45:00.000-04:00

I'm a Newton's second law kind of guy. I tend to remain at rest unless acted on by an unbalanced external force. No amount of training in Getting Things Done or other time and task management techniques will get me out of my chair until I am acted on by some force or impulse. This afternoon was a case in point. I needed to mow the lawn. I intended to mow the lawn. Mowing the lawn was on my weekend projects list. My next actions -- Get out of chair; Put on shoes -- were duly identified and recorded. Yet I spent over four hours planted in front of my computer making excuses and manfully resisting all urges to get up and simply mow the lawn. It looked like it might rain and I probably wouldn't have time to finish. It was hot. I needed to wait until it was cooler. And so forth. And so forth. It's not like mowing my lawn is a really big and onerous job requiring lots of time and physical stamina. It's not. My house sits on a 1/5 acre lot along with six trees and three flower beds. Mowing the lawn is generally a 40 to 50 minute job. Neither is my lawn thick and lush enough to require great physical effort to push the mower through a dense carpet of grass. In fact, were it not for broad-leaf weeds, I'd have no lawn at all. Indeed, some portions only need mowing to chop off seed pods that the weeds insist on growing taller than the surrounding area. And some portions didn't need mowing at all. Rather, it was a matter of Newtons' second law. My resting body wanted nothing more than to remain at rest. However, there is a limit to the amount of indolence that a person can endure and late this afternoon I reached that limit. It was either get up and move or perpetually assume the shape of the chair. So, I got up and moved, and it felt good. I put my shoes on, and that felt better. I opened the front door and the air was soft and sweet, and that was the best of all. Then, since I hate exercise without a purpose, and having a neat lawn is at least a purpose of sorts, I opened up the shed, got out the lawn mower, gassed it up, and pulled the rope. I was answered by a pop that grew into a satisfying purr, and before I realized what was happening, I was happily pushing the mower up and down the front and then the side and back yards, humming as I went. In 35 minutes, the lawn was mowed. As I knew in the back of my mind while I was putting it off, I did a great job and thoroughly enjoyed doing it. Sometimes the only way to overcome Newton's second law is to just do it. You'll be glad you did.

Truth at the End of a Long Handled Hoe

2009-07-14T20:53:00.000-04:00

It's summer and school has been out for nearly a month. Our friends who have children and teens are looking hard for solutions to the seemingly constant complaint of "I'm bored." When our children were that age, I came to dread those two words as much as any others. "I'm bored." I had the good fortune to grow up on a farm -- I was never allowed to be bored. When I was young, summers were for playing outdoors and, when I got bored with that, there was always the garden. In the garden, there were always weeds. And weeds always needed to be pulled. It wasn't until years later that I realised that the places I was assigned to pull weeds from when I was a child were places where there was no danger that my childish enthusiasm for uprooting stuff would damage any of the plants we were trying to nurture! When I got older, I was given the responsibility -- today I consider it an honour -- of working with my Dad and Grand Dad to produce the crops that would sustain us through the coming winter and until next year's crop went to market. However, at the age of eleven, working in the fields and tobacco barns was exactly what I didn't want to do with my summer. I recall protesting long and bitterly before grudgingly proceeding do what needed to be done. As a result, I learned a lot of truth at the end of a long handled hoe. I learned that being dusty won't kill you. Being hot won't kill you. Being bored won't kill you. The work had to be done whether I wanted to do it or not and the work I did had to be done right. I also learned that if I didn't do it right the first time, doing it over a second time was no easier than the first, and having to do it a over a third time was damn sure no easier than doing it the second. I think three times is my record for having to redo the same row, and I remember the day I set it. That day, I hoed one particular row of worm seed three times before my work would meet my father's minimum acceptable standard. It was almost sunset when I had finished my third trip down the row and Dad told me "You could have been home an hour ago if you'd done it right the first time." The lesson stuck. I learned that complaints fall on deaf ears when your Daddy and your Grand Daddy are in the same field as you doing exactly the same thing you are. I learned that there was a right way and a wrong way even to hoe weeds. And that the right way actually requires less effort and gives better results than any other. Weeds between the rows were removed by cultivating with the tractor. Then, we hoed to remove the weeds from between the plants. When hoeing, the objective was not to chop the weeds from between the plants. Chopping took a lot of energy. Instead, the method is to either pull dirt over the weeds if they were small, or to disconnect them from their roots by sliding the blade of the hoe beneath them if they were not. Doing it the right way, if conditions were right, I would get into a rhythm -- kerchunk, kerchunk, kerchunk down one row and kerchunk, kerchunk, kerchunk up the next. Hour after hour, day after day until the harvest. And I learned that when I was in rhythm, moving easily up and down the rows dispatching weeds from between the plants, only the smallest part of my mind needed to be engaged with the task at hand and the rest was free to travel as my imagination directed. During those summers, moving up and down the rows, I authored short stories and novels and directed award-winning screen shows in the free part of my mind. I was present at the great events of history. I had conversations with great men. I performed incredible deeds of heroism. I envisioned my future and established in my imagination the dreams I would one day live. Since that time, I have had the good fortune to live a great many of those dreams. I've even been allowed do some of the deeds of daring that I first envisioned while attached to the end of that hoe during those long past summers. I was hot, bored, dusty, and not always willing but, during those summers in those fields at the end of that hoe, God gave me the grace to recognise truth.

Proclaim Liberty Througout the Land!

2009-07-02T17:06:00.000-04:00

This year, I have the pleasure of celebrating Independence day in Philadelphia where, two hundred thirty-three years ago this weekend, fifty-six of the leading citizens of the thirteen english colonies pledged their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honor to the idea of political independence from the mother country. Today, my wife and I walked to Independence Hall where those men met. We saw the Liberty Bell which symbolizes our ideals as a nation. The inscription on the bell enjoins us to "Proclaim Liberty throughout the land, and to all the people thereof." Proclaim Liberty! Proclaim the ideal that each person is free to choose and reap the rewards or suffer the consequences of his own actions. Proclaim Liberty! Proclaim the ideal that each person must stand or fall based upon his own industry or merit. Proclaim Liberty! Proclaim the ideal that government is the servant rather than the master of those governed. Prisoners are confined; slaves are subject to a master's wishes. Yet the same word is used to describe both the prisoner and the slave when they are both no longer confined, or in bondage; they are at liberty! As a nation, we pride ourselves on being neither prisoners nor slaves but at liberty. On this Independence day, join with me and my family and proclaim liberty throughout the land, and to all the people thereof. Proclaim Liberty!

Proclamation

2009-06-26T14:40:00.001-04:00

Followers and Friends:

Whereas, the we have officially entered the lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer, and

whereas, the weather is delightfully warm and balmy, and

whereas, everybody is feeling a bit more laid back than normal,

I hereby proclaim TODAY, June 26 in the year of Our Lord 2009 and every Friday through Labor Day of this year to be Hawaiian Shirt Day.

In celebration thereof, every follower and friend of this blog is to wear a Hawaiian Shirt on this and every subsequent Hawaiian Shirt Day in the year 2009.

Aloha and Mahalo!

The Secret to Surviving

2009-06-07T21:49:00.000-04:00

In his classic song, "The Gambler", American troubadour Kenny Rogers asserts that "... the secret to survivin' is knowin' what to throw away and knowin' what to keep." In contrast, I am not a gambler; very little of my stuff is essential to survival. I need a strategy for making the throw away/keep decision. And I have one. If I don't use an item regularly or do not anticipate using it again, I will dispose of it. I plan to start with stuff I haven't used for the last ten or twenty years and with stuff I know I'll never use again. After having disposed of that stuff or restored it to a place of regular use, I plan to work my forward little by little to the present. My intent is to reach the point where I will have tossed, donated, sold, or otherwise disposed of everything I haven't used for the past year. Face it, if I haven't needed or used something for a year, then I probably don't need to keep it around. If I need it again, I should be able to buy, borrow, or rent one and hopefully give it back when I'm finished using it. The only problem will be stuff with historic or sentimental value -- wall maps from the Browningsville School, tobacco spears from Dad's farm, Grand Dad's plumb bob &c. With any luck, I'll be able to donate some of it to the Montgomery County, MD. historic society. Failing that, I'll probably inflict it on my kids. I've already started. I gave my machinist's tool chest and tools to my nephew who is a machinist. He will use them. It felt good.

It's Only Stuff

2009-06-04T19:39:00.000-04:00

My parents were part of the generation that survived both the Great Depression and World War II. As one of the last tobacco farmers in a rapidly urbanizing Montgomery County, Md. my Dad never really lost the depression mind set. In our family, hard work and frugality were necessary if we were to eat. Our habit of making much out of little was summed up in a little verse that my mother taught me as a child, saying: "Use it up. Wear it out. Make it do, Or do without!" My wife also came of age in circumstances that required work and the ability to make do with what one had. The net result is that we tend to hang onto stuff long after it has ceased to be useful just in case we might some day need it. I have lugged my machinist's tools to eighteen addresses in the last thirty-nine years just in case I ever need to go back to work in a machine shop to feed my family. They are good and useful stuff. I fondly hold onto books and magazines I have read and might want to read again and to books and magazines I have never read but that sound as if I may one day want to read them. Good and enlightening or entertaining stuff. Old radio equipment has followed me home from places as far distant as North Carolina because it's "good stuff" and might be fun to play with. When my grandparents died, the farming tools and my grandfather's mill-wright tools made the trek to my parent's place. When my parents died, a lot of these same tools took residence with me, not because I needed them or that they had sentimental value, but because I knew how to use them. I feel like I have half of the farm in my basement, but it's still good and potentially useful stuff. I have acquired stuff on impulse because I thought it might be neat to have. A lot of it has stayed with me. I have also held onto stuff because it was not good enough to donate or sell, but way too good to throw away. I am up to my knees in stuff! Sure, I use and enjoy some of it it, but I look at a lot of it and wonder why it's still there. And I look at too much of it and wonder what I was thinking when I dragged it home. I have finally come to the conclusion that will never make me happy and that stuff that is neither used nor enjoyed is clutter. It's time to start the process of de-cluttering, of getting rid of stuff I neither need, nor use, nor take pleasure in -- item by item and piece by piece. After all, it's not anything of real value. It's only stuff.

I am a Soldier

2009-05-24T21:52:00.001-04:00

I am a soldier.

Long ago, I raised my right hand and swore to protect and defend the constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic, to bear true faith and allegiance to the same, and to obey the orders of the President of the United States and the officers appointed over me.

Nothing has released me from my oath even though it's over a quarter century since I last wore a uniform. Nothing ever will. For better or for worse, I am a soldier.

Long ago, I fought the battles of this nation in a war that had even then been declared lost, and a terrible waste. I went where my country sent me. There, to the best of my ability, I strove for victory in places called Tan Canh, Firebase Charlie, Ben Het, Kontum, and Polei Kleng.

I am a soldier.

I have risked everything for my friends and for people I never knew and probably never will. They would all have done the same for me. Most would do the same again today. We are, and remain, a band of brothers.

I am a soldier.

With my brothers, I share a heritage that begins in the earliest mists of the human experience and will continue until the last trumpet sounds, a heritage of personal sacrifice and desperate deeds done by desperate men in the face of great adversity.

At the dedication of the military cemetery at Gettysburg, President Abraham Lincoln stated "The world will little note nor long remember what we say here. But it can never forget what they did here." And, like the soldiers of the 1860s, we dared and accomplished much.

I came home on a stretcher to a country indifferent to my sacrifice and that of my brothers. By the grace of God, I recovered. Tim died at a place called Ben Het thirty days after he arrived in country. Fred died in the Kontum Pass and now sleeps in Arlington. Dusty sleeps in the land he died fighting for, the site of his resting place undiscovered until recently. Bill spent nine months in captivity. Flame took a .50 through the chest and went on to serve until retirement.

Ultimately, we all took off our uniforms and assumed our places in civilian society, but we remain different.

We are soldiers.

Remember us.

The Power of One

2009-05-06T21:49:00.000-04:00

In my quest for the best system for Getting Things Done and simplifying my life and work, I have been slammed by a Homer Simpson moment. Of just about anything I might use, I only need ONE! I only need ONE -- I only need ONE inbox; I only need ONE calendar; I only need ONE actions list; I only need ONE projects list; I only need ONE note pad; and I only need ONE system for organizing my "stuff". All else is clutter and confusion. I will make it a habit to identify and get rid of anything excess. I have been so into investigating and finding the right ONE and the best ONE, that I've been flitting between two, three, or MORE things at a time. What a pain. So, I am now establishing ONE of each of those things on paper and down selecting to ONE of each on line. I am also establishing a rule to only use ONE thing at a time. If a new ONE thing beckons, I will cease using the OLD ONE as I evaluate the NEW ONE. I will evaluate and learn to use each new ONE for at least 30 days before deciding whether to keep it (and make it THE ONE) or discard it (and go back to the OLD ONE), or to create a NEW hybrid using the best of the OLD ONE and the NEW ONE. Whatever I'm using, I will only need to remember to update ONE thing at any ONE time. I've already decided that my ONE paper calendar and daily record of events is the ONE contained in my small Day Timer. I still need to select ONE electronic calendar -- either OUTLOOK used where I work, or GCal, available from anywhere on the web. I'm not a fan of electronic to-do lists, so my ONE Actions List is a card in my Hipster, as is my ONE Projects List. This may change, but so far, it's not broken, so why fix it? So, no more Master/Slave lists. No more 8 1/2 x 11 inch lists and no more half-size yellow pad lists. Only ONE. I will make an exception to the ONE notepad rule. Although I will continue take most of my notes on index cards (Hipster), I will probably keep one or two white or yellow pads for doodling, noodling, and capturing stuff at hand on my desk. The ONE system for organizing my stuff is currently the GTD recommended single alphabetical file, although I may establish a time-based Noguchi system for current actions. Again, any exception to the rule of ONE is not to be taken lightly. So, there you have it. ONE thing to rule them all, ONE thing to find them. ONE thing to bring them all, And in the daylight bind them In the mind of the user, where wisdom lies! With sincere apologies to J. R. R. Tolkien.

I Refuse!

2009-04-27T20:12:00.000-04:00

I refuse to be average, to be part of the crowd. I choose to be uniquely myself, a one-of-a-kind creation, the only "me" this world will ever experience. I refuse to let others limit my interests. I choose to read and investigate and learn things for no other reason than that they interest me. I believe there is no such thing as useless knowledge, and if I find even one other person on this planet who shares an interest, it's beautiful. I refuse to accept everything I am told at face value. I choose to investigate for myself and discover what is true. I refuse to give up what is old and works for what is new and unproven. I choose to wait and see if the new really is better or makes things easier. I refuse keep up with the Joneses. I choose to do unique things that will make the Joneses want to keep up with me. And if they don't, that's OK too. I refuse to resent the success of others. I choose to celebrate their accomplishments and will delight in buying them a beer in celebration. I refuse to be bitter about the past. I choose rather to learn from my experiences and eagerly press on to the future. I refuse to do what is expected. I choose to do what is right. I refuse to retire because I have attained some standard age. I choose to work on the lay-away plan. I plan to work until they lay me away or as long as it remains fun. Life is too short for jumping through hoops or checking off boxes and I refuse to do so. Life is meant to be experienced. I choose to experience life with all of the gusto, enthusiasm, and enjoyment I can muster.

39 and Holding No More

2009-04-13T19:25:00.000-04:00

During my weekend errands, I found myself behind a car with the tag "39 HLDNG" or "thirty-nine and holding." My first reaction was to congratulate myself for decoding the message. My second, as one who recently celebrated the 25th anniversary of his 39th birthday, was to wonder, "Were it possible to hold at a particular age, which one would I choose?" Seventeen was a very good year. I met the love of my life that fall, but I would not want to hold at seventeen. Twenty-one was a very good year. I married the girl of my dreams that fall -- the same girl I met at seventeen -- and we began our life together, but I would not want to hold at twenty-one. Twenty-six and twenty-seven get mixed reviews. At twenty-six, I graduated from college, went into the Army, learned to fly, and went to war. At twenty-seven, I did deeds of daring during a major battle, got shot up, and began nine months of recovery. I also greeted my first son. The times were exciting. I made some life-long friends. My life would be incomplete without my son. Nevertheless, I would not like to hold at twenty-six or twenty-seven. I have no particular memory of being 39. I'm sure it was a good year, but I do not wish to hold onto it. Were I to hold at 39, I would miss too much. I would miss my children growing up. I would miss a great many soccer games, baseball games, school dramas and talent shows. I would miss being part of their school, church, and social activities. I would miss their graduations from High School and college. I would miss their weddings and the births of my grand children. I would miss going to Alaska. I would miss many of the greatest experiences of my life. Thirty-nine and holding? Not me! Last year I learned the joy of being 63. This year, I'm doing a good job learning to be 64. After all, I only get one chance to be every age. And, whatever age I am, my plan is to live it well.

Homer Simpson Moments

2009-03-21T12:25:00.000-04:00

Did you ever have one of those Homer Simpson moments? You're doing something when suddenly the sun emerges from behind a cloud, the scales fall from your eyes, the synapses in your brain fire just right and you suddenly recognize the truth, beauty, and wisdom of something simple that has been hiding in plain sight, usually with a force that makes you want to slap your fore head and say "Doh!!" That's a Homer Simpson moment. I call such moments "flashes of the obvious". Such moments were rare when I was younger and knew everything. Now, as I get older, I find them happening with increasing frequency. Either I am realizing how little I know, or have learned the wisdom to appreciate more. I am also discovering that obvious or not, a lot of people have yet to discover these simple truths. This blog is dedicated to those who, like me, find life to be an incredible voyage of discovery and who delight when blessed with occasional flashes of the obvious. May you be the beneficiary of many, many Homer Simpson moments!