Content Free Warning

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

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, in the present, at the juncture of past and future, it is my job every day to wrest from each moment every ounce of flavor that life has to offer. For it is the moments of the now that will make up all of the fond memories of the future.

In the Company of Heroes

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

"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

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

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

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.