Carry on

 My head is weary.

 “My dreams are going through their death flurries. I thought they were all safely buried, but sometimes they stir in their grave, making my heartstrings twinge. I mean no particular dream, you understand, but the whole radiant flock of them together—with their rainbow wings, iridescent, bright, soaring, glorious, sublime. They are dying before the steel javelins and arrows of a world of Time and Money.”
― Barbara Newhall Follett 


“She was hurt to find life made up of so many little things. At first she believed most faithfully that they had a deeper meaning and a coherent larger purpose; but after a while she saw to her dismay that the deeper and larger things were merely shadows cast by the small. So she buried the whole great treasure of winged dreams and iridescent shades under an oak-tree in the farthest corner of her heart, and planted a bush of wild roses over it. A small grave of dreams. Secretly and silently she buried them, a little ashamed, as a burglar might be who had long pursued some gleaming ruby necklace, and, having by infinite stealth and risk obtained it, found that it was red glass.”
― Barbara Newhall Follett

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nine seconds

I saw some sweaty, breathing-hard guy fumbling with his phone's calculator and I asked him what he was trying to do and he said he had done 50 reps in seven-and-a-half minutes and he wanted to figure out how long each rep took and I said nine seconds.  He sort of glanced at me and kept messing with his calculator. A couple of people came up and they all began trying to figure out how to get the answer.  One said divide 50 by 7.5 and another said no divide 7.5 by 50 and I said again it's nine seconds.  No one paid any attention.  I walked away, leaving them there baffled and confused, frustrated and arguing.  I thought about turning around and shouting at them so the whole place could hear it's NINE SECONDS! But I didn't. 

This country is doomed.

********

My mother's Japanese friend has become increasingly annoying to me. She was visiting us over the Fourth of July holiday.  She'd just come from San Francisco, where she had renewed her passport -- her Japanese passport. She's been in this country almost half a century but has never applied for citizenship and has no interest in doing so.  She's an ex-patriot, not an immigrant.  In fact, while she and I and my mother were chatting about something she burst out, "I would never have come to this country except for economics!" Then she looked...not quite appalled...but as if she said something she shouldn't have, like she had let out a truth that she shouldn't have revealed to us.   

In the past, she has always praised America, but recently that has changed.  I've written about how she has changed before, but now it is worse. She also boldly asserted to us, her friends and hosts in whose home she was staying, white folks both, that white people have small heads (and small brains).  Wha...? Okay, pie face. Squintie. Pig nose. If that's the way you want to dance, let's rock and roll. 

My mother said that it was because she considered us her close friends that she talked that way to us.  She forgot we were white, Americans. We were no longer the other.  But once she said some of the things she said, she realized.

Okay.

Oh, another thing she did that pissed me off: While she was here I let her use one of our cars.  We had some big rain storms, gully washers and frog chokers, as my dad would have called them.  And there was one crossroads that got totally flooded, as it usually does.  I mean like under feet of water.  I had driven that way and had to turn back before I got to it because the highway department had put up signs saying it was flooded.  I mentioned it to my mother and her Japanese friend, saying I had to make a three-point turn in the middle of the road to go back and hoped another car wouldn't come barreling over the hill while I was doing it.  I didn't want to get T-boned.

Well, the very next day, Ms Japan drove that road, ignored the warning signs, didn't stop at the flooded intersection and drove right into it.  She got amazingly far into the water before the car stalled and she was marooned, water inside the car rising to the top of the dash. She's lucky she didn't drown. She couldn't call for help because her phone was ruined. The only thing that saved her was that there were two guys stopped on the other side of the intersection. One tied his truck's winch cable (this is Montana, every pick-up has a winch) around his waist and waded and swam out to her car, fighting the current, broke the window (the door was held shut by water pressure) and hauled her sorry hind-end out.  Then the other guy winched them back to shore.

They called me (everybody knows everybody around here and everybody's business, including who's visiting whom) and I drove out the long way around in the pouring rain to avoid the flooded intersection and got her. It was not fun driving with my arm in a cast (reasons for this previously stated) and heavily pregnant.  I handled getting the car towed, dealing with the insurance company, the highway patrol and all the rest of it.  

The guys, those small-headed white men, those casual heroes, what happened to them? When they saw I had everything under control, they waved and went on their way.  I told them to stop by the ranch and clean up and get some dry clothes at the bunkhouse and have something to eat at the cookhouse. Tell them I sent you. Come hunting season, I will let them hunt elk on the ranch.  And if they ever need a job, I'll find something for them.  That's the way we do it out here.

Of course, the car was totaled. I expected our Japanese friend to pay for it. But she didn't.  She didn't even apologize. I wanted to ask her why she went that way when I had told her the road was closed.  And didn't she see the signs warning the intersection was flooded? Why, oh, why didn't she stop when she saw the water? Why did she drive into it? But I said nothing. She was clearly very upset, still scared from what had happened hours after she was home and safe. I had to keep in mind that she had been through a shocking, frightening ordeal. And it didn't matter why what happened, happened. It only mattered that it happened and that I had to deal with the aftermath.

 But I did not need all that stress piled on top of everything else I'm dealing with.  The buck stops with me now.  For everything.  I am it.  There is no one else.  So I was in a mood and I had to get out of it and act calmly and rationally to resolve the situation. 

Looking at something like $50,000 to replace the car, plus all the hassle I had to deal with, I asked my mother why her friend didn't at least offer to pay and she told me that the old girl was having financial difficulties.  I was surprised because I thought she had millions, having been a very successful business woman. But my mother said she had lost a lot of money gambling and was cash strapped.  I couldn't believe it.  How could anyone be so stupid as to lose a fortune gambling? You hear about such things, but to.... I couldn't get my head around it. You mean she's broke, I asked my mother and she frowned and nodded.

********

I remembered a dream I had where I was flying a night mission over Afghanistan and had just strafed some bad guys as per request and I continued orbiting on station scanning with the FLIR camera. I watched their bodies gradually fade into the background as the heat left them.  It was as if I were watching their souls leave. 

I wondered if, when their mothers were pregnant with them, when they were nursing them, playing with them as toddlers, that they imagined that this was what was waiting for their little boys out there in the future. I wondered what was waiting for me out there in the future. 

On my run in, I had seen flashes bigger than those made by a ZPU, so probably a ZU-23. I remembered my father, who first began flying combat mission in 1972 during Linebacker II, then in the Tanker War, the Gulf War and finally OIF, telling me the way to stay alive in a high-threat-environment ground attack was "once and away." Hit and git. Don't stick around.  Don't make a second pass. And here I was sticking around, waiting to see if our guys on the ground wanted a second pass. If they did, due to terrain and other factors the bad guys would know I would be coming back the same way as the first pass and would be ready.  They wouldn't aim at me, just throw up a wall of fire I'd have to fly through. I wondered if I was hit whether I should eject or would it be better to ride it in and call it a day, call it a life. It didn't bear thinking about what the Taliban would do to me should I fall into their hands.

I recalled hearing about F4D pilot Major Bob Lodge who, in 1972 over North Viet Nam was shot down in a dogfight with MiG-19s. He told his WSO to eject but he wasn't going to. He knew when they were captured that they would be tortured and he was afraid he wouldn't be able to take it and would break. So he decided to ride it in. And he did. 

His WSO, Capt. Roger Locher, ejected, evaded capture and was rescued 23 days later west of Hanoi in what was among the most harrowing rescue missions of the war. Sheer, amazing luck was with that guy. I decided I wouldn't have that kind of luck and if I were shot down I would ride it in like Maj. Lodge.

Then I realized it wasn't a dream but a memory. 

 

 Direct link to the song:

Fighter Pilot Song

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

Dreams

“I think we dream so we don’t have to be apart for so long. If we’re in each other’s dreams, we can be together all the time.”
― A.A. Milne
 

“When you compare the sorrows of real life to the happiness of your dreams, you will never want to live again, only to dream forever.”
― Alexandre Dumas

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bright Star

My father once said that when I was a wee one I reminded him of the little girl in this radio play.  Well, maybe not quite -- I still can't figure out that ESP smudge thing. 

"Star Bright" is a short story written by Mark Clifton first published in the July, 1952, issue of Galaxy magazine. It tells the story of a very intelligent little girl who divides humanity into brights, 'tweens and stupids. She causes adults in her orbit, including her father, a great deal of trouble.  

The story was turned into a radio play by George Lefferts, an NBC Radio staff writer. It was first broadcast on April 10, 1956, as an episode of the series X Minus One. The role of the little girl Star is portrayed by Sara Fussell, a veteran voice actress who specialized in child roles. She was 39 when she brought to life three-year-old Star. Her father was voiced by Lawson Zerbe, a core staple of the New York-based radio actors talent pool. He was 40 at the time. It's a charming story. Why not give it a listen? 

 Star Bright on X Minus One  is the link (opens in a new tab) if the  above doesn't work for you.

  If you want to read the original story, it is here.

  

 

 

 

 

 

Eighties

 

Somebody said the Eighties were the best era for music. Of course, he was referring to pop music.  Nobody considers any other type anymore. And, of course, he was of the generation that came of age during the 1980s so, you know.... 

But anyway, he reminded me of this guy I used know, same age Millennial as me, who was crazy about Eighties music and introduced it to me, explaining why it was good in a very technical, musically knowledgeable way, and we often had long discussions delving into just what about the era encouraged its creation. He was a session musician and  had a couple of Roland Juno synthesizers, a DX-7 and a Minimoog so we could rip ditties out like we were Ah-Ha, Wham! or Joe Jackson. But the synths were not the real reason so many Eighties songs were exceptional.  There was just something else in the air, so to speak, that made the music sparkle. Kind of like, I guess, how everything came together for the Brits in the mid-to-late 1960s, or for the surfer dudes and car guys of southern California in the early-to-mid 1960s. 

 

  

*****

Oh, you've noticed that I use a lot of ellipses, have you? I guess that could be because my thoughts kind of peter out and my mind wanders off.  But it's really because I know you know what I am going to say from that point anyway, so I don't bother to waste your time by actually saying it. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When I Am in the Kitchen ...

 

... I think about the past. I empty the ice-cube trays
crack crack cracking like bones, and I think
of decades of ice cubes and of John Cheever,
of Anne Sexton making cocktails, of decades
of cocktail parties, and it feels suddenly far
too lonely at my counter. Although I have on hooks
nearby the embroidered apron of my friend’s
grandmother and one my mother made for me
for Christmas 30 years ago with gingham I had
coveted through my childhood. In my kitchen
I wield my great aunt’s sturdy black-handled
soup ladle and spatula, and when I pull out
the drawer, like one in a morgue, I visit 
the silverware of my husband’s grandparents.
We never met, but I place this in my mouth
every day and keep it polished out of duty.
In the cabinets I find my godmother’s 
teapot, my mother’s Cambridge glass goblets,
my mother-in-law’s Franciscan plates, and here
is the cutting board my late husband parqueted
and two potholders I wove in grade school.
Oh the past is too much with me in the kitchen,
where I open the vintage metal recipe box,
robin’s egg blue in its interior, to uncover
the card for Waffles, writ in my father’s hand
reaching out from the grave to guide me
from the beginning, “sift and mix dry ingredients”
with his note that this makes “3 waffles in our
large pan” and around that “our” an unbearable
round stain—of egg yolk or melted butter?—
that once defined a world.

~ Jeanne Marie Beaumont 

Argentina. Gerry. And Pärt.

 

Bang!

Somebody pointed out to me that I said that I had suffered more injuries since being on the ranch than I had in Afghanistan but wasn't I blown up twice by IEDs, one of which was a good old EFP? Well, yeah, but I was inside vehicles both times, once in an up-armored patrol Humvee and once in an M-ATV, and it was no big deal -- for me: In the EFP incident the Humvee driver was killed and the guy sitting next to me ended up losing a lung, but all I suffered was being knocked unconscious and suffering PCS and for some years PPCS.  BFD. Yeah, yeah, I lied about the PPCS to get into OCS as an SNA.  Huh? What's that? Well, yeah.  But what are they gonna do, haul me back into the Navy so they can kick me out? 

Look, the thing is, getting blown up by IEDs was pretty routine. They trained Navy IAs at Fort Jackson how to deal with it, ride that Humvee on a giant gymbal, the good old Humvee Egress Assistance Trainer. Rollover! If you were in a vehicle, once you knew how to handle it, it was mostly just a nuisance. If you were not in a vehicle.... 

I have all my appendages, two arms, two legs, all my fingers and toes, all my reproductive organs and secondary sexual characteristics. I'm not in a wheel chair or bedridden. I'm not blind or deaf. I still have my jaw, my face was not burned off, I don't use a colostomy bag, no parts of my brain are missing.... I am not dead. You get the picture?  I am just fine.  I would be ashamed to whine.

Look, if you have PPCS, I sympathize and am not belittling your situation, especially if you have it bad.  But I'm just saying that nothing that happened to me personally was a big deal.  Certainly not compared to what happened to so many others.

Okay, I'll shut up now.  I don't know why I've written so much about all this stuff lately.  It was all a long time ago and....

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Preserving us

Behold your warrior queen!
Ceremonial duties only.

I was reading about the Georgia Guidestones and then L. Ron Hubbard's secret bunker archives, built to survive nuclear Armageddon and world catastrophe, one in Humboldt County, California on 3,600 acres of coastal land, another deep in the recesses of southern California's San Bernadino Mountains, and another in Trementina, New Mexico...and I though, hey, I should do that. No, really.  Build, I don't know,  combination bunker/monastery/monument thingies to preserve the fruits of Western civilization before, as seems likely, it is all overwhelmed by...by...well, you know, everything. 

I would build one on our ranch in Montana and another on our estancia in Patagonia.  But if I did it, you know what else I would do? I wouldn't tell anyone about it.  Not a peep.  Guys I hired to build it I would tell it was something else. I'd make up a cover story of some sort, like it was a movie set or whatever.  If I needed to tell them anything at all.  But, based on my experience with work crews, I probably wouldn't need to.  All they care about is getting paid.  And if I drop by while they are taking a break and hand out ice-cold Gatorades and snacks and when the job is done give each an unexpected bonus in cash, they will think I'm a swell dame (well, I am!) and say nice things about me. And nothing else.

What monuments would I create and what would I put in the bunkers? You mean besides giant Ramesses II Abu Simbel-style likenesses of myself guarding the gates,  the Mt. Rushmore-style colossal granite monuments of me copulating with a winged god, thus birthing humanity, overlooking the Valleys of the Vaults, and huge Lamassu Guardian-style statues of me in ceremonial armor brandishing shield and sword flanking the massive doors to the bunkers? Those are a given, of course -- the Trumpian ego shall not be restrained! But what would the bunkers preserve? ... Hmm.... Well, I suppose after making all those monuments I'd be broke, so I'd just leave a note inside the bunkers saying "Contents TK."

 Okay, seriously...gosh, now that I think about it, I'm probably not qualified to decide. I guess I could throw in a bunch of obvious stuff like the Great Books, the old Encyclopedia Britannica, Webster's Third, the full OED, the works of Shakespeare and so on.  Not sure what the "and so on" would comprise.  What would you put in there?

Anyway, after I got everything in that I wanted, I'd evacuate all the air and fill the storage bunker with nitrogen.  I got that idea from Hubbard's hoard.  Nitrogen is not reactive. 

Again, seriously, other than that, I wouldn't do what Hubbard did, which was fill his vaults with a lot of stupid Scientology crap and personal aggrandizing biographical stuff.  I would really try to preserve the wisdom of the West -- history, philosophy, science, medicine, political theory, poetry, literature, painting, sculpture, architecture, photography, movies, documentaries, mathematics.... 

I could really do this.  Start small, get something done, then expand over time as funds become available. Assuming they do.

Hmm.  I should put some kind of radioactive (or whatever) signalling device in the vaults so that if humanity becomes extinct and in the far distant future space-farers from another star system discover Earth and explore it, they will pick up the signal, realize it was created by a vanished civilization, track it down and discover the world that was.

Say, isn't that the plot of some science fiction story, probably by Arthur C. Clarke or one of those guys from the golden age? Kinda seems familiar. Maybe I read a story like that when I was a kid. Man, I read everything as a kidster -- I the Jury, The Circus of Dr. Lao, Quiet Days in Clichy, Riders of the Purple Sage, Light in the Forest, Mutiny on the Bounty, The Bell Jar, Typee, Childhood's End....whatever was on the bookshelf.

I do vaguely recall reading a science fiction story about alien visitors to Earth after humanity had become extinct. They find only one relic, the last trace of all mankind. They take it home and their scientists spend decades figuring out what it is and how to display it. When they do, they are both baffled by and awestruck at the amazing race it depicts. Turns out the relic was a film reel, the film on it being a Mickey Mouse cartoon.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Another good-bye

 Good-bye, H, good-bye.  Seventeen years passed so quickly, didn't they?  But I still remember the first days, as well as these last. And every day in between. 

My heart breaks.

And when life's sweet fable ends,
Soul and body part like friends;
No quarrels, murmurs, no delay;
A kiss, a sigh, and so away.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A visit

 For the six-month anniversary of his passing, I visited his grave. It was hard for me to do because, as I've mentioned, seeing his grave would be the final acknowledgement that he is gone.  As long as I didn't see it, I could pretend to myself he was just away for a while, deployed somewhere or off on a business trip and he'd be back by and by, just as always. 

Of course, I was at the funeral, but I was in such an emotional state that I could pretend I hallucinated that, or I'd just push it out of my mind, as I do so many things I don't want to think about.

Anyway, I went, forced myself.  I dearly did not want to.  But I felt an obligation. I could not abandon him, leave him neglected, but I did not want to feel all the rush of crushing emotions fresh again. 

But I went.  

I am turned to stone.

And I felt nothing. Nothing.  I looked down at the grave.  It was just a grave. He was not there.  I can't explain what I felt.  I am just remembering what I remember of how I felt, not experiencing what I felt at that moment.  But it was the least expected thing. Nothing.  Just nothing.  I studied the ground around the grave and the grave itself.  I noted bits of earth, twigs, grass stems that were exactly as they had been on that cold, windy, bleak January day. I hadn't realized that I had noticed them at the time, but standing there in the heat of July, the sun beating down, I saw them as I saw them then. Burned into my brain.  The trivial.  The inconsequential.  But my Jeff, my dearest one.... No.  Nothing.  Nothing.  He was not there. I was alone.

I'd brought a lock of my hair and I tucked it down beside the headstone. Then I left. But then I thought, no, what I felt can't have been right, can't have happened.  I must have missed something.  I returned to the grave.  Stood there.  Nothing. It was as if the grave were empty.  But more like it wasn't even really a grave, just a plot of grass among a lot of other plots of grass in a curious field full of curious stone markers. I felt as if I stood there long enough I would become a stone marker, too.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Time passes

 My brother, who lives in Alaska, sent me this claw from an Alaskan brown bear.  He shot it with the Ruger .375 Alaskan that I gave him for his birthday when I flew up to visit him. I should have put something alongside it to show the size but it's about five inches. Definitely do some damage. Those bears will kill and eat people.

I don't know what I am going to do with this thing.  My uncle suggested I put it in a shadow box and hang it in my boys' room, so I may do that. They think it's cool.

Funny thing about men and animal body parts as trophies.  When I shot a mountain lion that was attacking my dog a few years ago my dad, who went and checked the carcass, wanted to cut off an ear and give to me as a souvenir. Fortunately, my mother put the kibosh on that.

And that reminds me that I have suffered more and more-serious injuries since I  have been back on the ranch than I ever did in the service, including in Afghanistan. I've been hospitalized twice since I've been back, suffered broken ribs twice, a lung puncture, broken leg, broken arm, broken wrist, all sorts of soft tissue damage, innumerable bruises, gashes and cuts. This can be a tough life, believe you me.

And now that I think about it, despite the drumbeat of news stories about sexual harassment in the armed forces, the most brutal sexual attacks I've suffered were all carried out by civilians...of the, um,,,,dusky...persuasion. I avoided a third of the same thanks to my trusty S&W snubbie, my pal, my buddy.  

********

I got my trip to Argentina out of the way, finally getting all the holes in the cheese lined up so I could get it done. I couldn't take my uncle or cousin, as I'd planned, because I filled the plane up with men I needed, including a guy who is going to handle building a landing strip on the estancia.  He's the same guy who expanded and improved our ranch strip. I was lucky he was willing to take on the task. He charges a pretty penny but I know I can trust him to do a good job.

Our Chinese buyer, whom I've written about before, visited the estancia and has us on the approved import list or whatever it is, so we have a solid customer, which makes the operation profitable from the get-go. To me, this illustrates the value of relationships.  We knew each other.  We had chatted and eaten and worked together.  He knew how we ran things in the states and had seen that in Argentina, too. So it was easy for us to work together with this new operation. Had he never heard of us, I doubt that would have been the case.

Once I completed my business there, I rushed back home. I only stayed one full day there.  I had meetings set up beforehand, got through those, checked out everything, got a good night's sleep, drove back to the airport where I'd left my plane and took off before dawn, earlier than I had planned, but I had a weather window I couldn't miss.

Besides having a lot to do, managing the ranch and our other interests, I didn't want to leave my kids, especially my two-year-old, alone, er, I mean without me, any longer than necessary. Thank the Lord my mini me is old enough and responsible enough that I can rely on her.  My mother is much improved but she still has some mobility problems. I do think the fact that I have to rely on her for so much has actually improved her mental health.  Busy hands are happy hands.

******** 

I'm due next month and will shortly head out for Destination City and our house near the hospital.  My mother will come with me.  My mini-me wants to as well, and I'd like her, too.  But she may be more valuable looking after the toddler.  My aunt will come up to stay with the boys, but the little one is going to need a familiar face with him.

I'm glad we have a Tesla at the house with it's self-driving capability.  When it's time, my mother can just have it take us to the hospital and let it go park itself while she helps me.  Bless you Elon Musk! 

******** 

This month marks the half-year of my widowhood. The anniversary day was hard on me. It's good that the time has passed, that those worst days are over, but also it's shocking to me how quickly it has passed. It's been a very difficult time for me. That's all I'm going to say about it. I just wanted to note this down for myself.

******** 

I have recovered from my most recent broken rib and lung puncture. I had pain for weeks, had to sleep in a chair, then in bed on my back, no rolling over onto my side, too much pain.  But then, one night, suddenly, I could. No pain. It just  happened like that.  Not gradually.

Bu while it was healing, I was walking outside, trying to exercise and get my lung back to full functioning and I tripped over a root and fell hard on rocky ground, breaking my wrist and arm. Son of a.... But fortunately, the left ones. I flew myself to the hospital, more worried about what harm I might have done to my baby than my own injuries and they were like, oh, it's you again.  What did you do to yourself this time?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Authority

These guys did not resent a woman hanging with them.

 Women serving in the armed forces is an old, old story now, but whenever I am dumb enough to think I will find something worth reading on the social internet I find women saying they oppose women in the military.

Well, okay, fine, don't join.  But no, that's not enough.  They want to forbid other women from serving. They want to tell other women what they can and cannot do. Be the boss of them.  And they don't want women doing things they believe they could not do.

Actually, they probably could.  They could be a PS-1 (Personnel Specialist First Class) screwing up people's careers in Norfolk as easily as they could  be a human resources staffer doing the same thing with Acme Industries in Phoenix.  I mean, come on, it's just a job. 

Civilians seem to have the belief that every person in the military is a Navy SEAL or is Sylvester Stallone blasting away with a belt-fed machine gun in each hand. Nope.

Delta Force G Squadron women operators in
Afghanistan dressed in traditional female garb.

Of course, there are combat specialties and, yes, men fill the majority of those just as they fill the majority of every other position. But there are exceptions, plenty of them. Some of them you never hear about. Some you are not supposed to hear about.

There were plenty of American women in Afghanistan.  At Camps Leatherneck and Dwyer, there were at any given time probably several hundred.  And they didn’t all stay inside the wire.  Female Engagement Teams went on patrol with Marines as did assorted IAs with specialized skills.  There were also female operatives with the SEALs and even with Delta Force.  

As for my own experience with Marines, I visited Torbert when it was just a Patrol Base with one infantry squad — three fire teams — 16 guys all alone against the world (later it was expanded to a Combat Outpost with two rifle platoons when I visited it later on).  The guys certainly did not resent me. I still hear from some of them. Friends for life.

One objection I read from a woman is that females should not serve because men would refuse to obey them. First off, doesn't this person know that women have been serving for decades, issuing orders that were obeyed.  I know of no incident where a male disobeyed an order given by a woman because it was given by a woman.  If he did, he would find himself in a world of hurt.

When I was a naval aviator aboard an aircraft carrier, I was also the assistant maintenance officer.  I gave men orders all the time.  It was routine.  The obeying of those orders was also routine. And sometimes men gave me orders and sometimes women did. And I obeyed them. Without resentment. Of course. If my superior tells me to flemish a line, I flemish it. What's the sex of the person issuing the order got to do with anything?  Until recently, a woman, Captain (now Rear Admiral) Amy Bauernschmidt, commanded the aircraft carrier Abraham Lincoln. I think she gave an order now and again.  None were disobeyed because she was a woman.  She graduated from the Naval Academy in 1994. Thirty-two years ago! Why is anybody still howling about women serving in the military today? They've been serving well, with distinction, for decades, generations.  What the hell is wrong with you people? Are you all resentful, clueless, neurotic losers? Apparently so. 

Nuts.

This is from 1944 for crying out loud.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Test your American ancestry

 I found this quiz on-line.  My answers in italic. Yours?

An identity-classification system relevant to Whites in the USA, aiming not for 1492 but for more like 1892 (ca. 1870s to ca. 1920s):

Questions:

— (1.) Ethno-Identity: In the 1880s, what were your ancestors’ (1a.) ethnic identities, and (1b.) religious affiliations or identities (for 1b., maternal lines more important)? 

1a. American. 1b. Brethren, No-Hellers, Quaker, Methodist, Presbyterian, Evangelical Lutheran. (Why is the maternal line more important? What does it matter?)

— (2.) Languages: In 1910, what language(s) were spoken by your ancestors who were nearest to being young-adults at the time (1910)? (2a.) What language did they speak at home? (2b.) What languages could they understand?

2. English. 2a. English. 2b. Aside from English? I don't know. What they studied in school I guess, probably Latin and French, maybe classical Greek.

— (3.) Cultural-political: In the 1880s to 1910s, what were the (3a.) political- or ideological-identities of your ancestors, wherever they were in the world? (3b.) In the USA, what political party did your ancestors tend to support before the 1960s?

3a. Um...Americanism? Pro silver? Pro gold? William Vaughn Moody anti-imperialists? Teddy Roosevelt imperialists? Prior to the Civil War, I know that at least some were Abolitionists. After it, some were Mugwumps who supported Grover Cleveland. 3b. Some were Taft Republicans and some were FDR Democrats. Some didn't care one way or the other.

— (4.) Economic/Class: What were your ancestors’ (4a.) economic areas of activity, and (4b.) economic classes, in: 1875? 1900? 1925? 1950?

4a. Ranching, farming, mining, soldiering, this and that, I guess. I don't know. 4b. Does America really have economic classes? Isn't that trying to impose British social structure on us? Anyway, some were doing pretty good and others were barely making it in each of those periods. But I'd say, by and large, ever upward.

— (5.) Geography / Length of U.S. nativity: Where were your ancestors, geographically, in the early 1880s?

America, beginning in the early 17th century, scattered hither and yon. 

— (6.) Recent-formative: Where were your ancestors who were then-closest to being young-adults living in: 1925? 1950? 1975? 2000? 2025?

America, scattered hither and yon. Some were in California, some in Montana, some in Wyoming, some in Colorado, some in Texas, some in Pennsylvania, some in West Virginia, some in Maryland, some in New Hampshire, some in New York, some in.... 

 No gol-durned furriners amonst 'em.

_________

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bah, nuts and phooey!

 Feminists claim we are living in an oppressive patriarchy but I know that's not true because I have lived and worked in countries that actually have such a thing. It's horrible and under no circumstances would I dare go out in public in other than the most modest attire.  I recall in Afghanistan a female naval officer, an IA assigned to Camp Shaheen, Mazar-e-Sharif, newly arrived, went for a run wearing a tee shirt and jogging shorts along with two companions.  She was shot and killed by an Afghan army soldier, one of our dear allies.  Dressed that way she was was an offense to Allah or something. That is your patriarchy. 

And, you know what, feministas? American men are like LTjg Francis Toner, God bless him, who won the Silver Star posthumously. Look him up! No woman could ask for a better man, a man, dammit.

To the left is his Silver Star citation.  It is inaccurate in that it states the killer was an insurgent. He was not.  He was an Afghan National Army soldier who shot LTjg Florence Choe in the back after she and her Navy companions had passed by him. No wonder we called that God-damned place Asscrackistan. Those....

 Let it go, Wanda, let it go. 

No.

We have done with Hope and Honor, we are lost to Love and Truth,
We are dropping down the ladder rung by rung,
And the measure of our torment is the measure of our youth.
God help us, for we knew the worst too young!
~ Kipling 

By the way, it is common for medal citations to garble the actual events or, as in Toner's case, "massage" them for political purposes.  A few posts ago I reproduced Lt. George Schuncke's Navy Cross citation. It reads, in part, "Lieutenant Schuncke valiantly launched an attack against two Japanese armored cars firing on a U.S. Navy seaplane. Despite the terrific and concentrated anti-aircraft fire he flew in low to attack, holding persistently to the heavily armored targets...." The statement is true with the clarification that he was firing on tanks, not armored cars.  But it doesn't really explain why his command put him in for the Navy Cross.  The actual situation was that a TBM, a plane with a three-man crew, had been hit and ditched close in shore and the PBY, God bless it's crew of nine, went in to try to rescue them. It came under fire from the Jap tanks and LT Schuncke, flying an FM-2 fighter plane, went after the tanks to draw their fire to him.  He knew that his machine guns could do no serious damage to tanks but he did it anyway and it worked. The tanks shifted their fire to him, the PBY was able to rescue the downed airmen and get away. But Schunke was killed, something he had considered, no doubt, accepted, and did what needed to be done, an act those who knew him believed worthy of honoring with the Navy Cross.

Now in LTjg Toner's case, the Silver Star citation is fudged, attributing his death to an "insurgent" rather than to our most worthy and glorious ally so as to avoid telling the public that we were fighting a pointless war with no good guys on either side and nothing to achieve, no victory for truth, justice and the American way to be had. It was all a damned....  Okay, Wanda, calm down, easy there, steady, whoa now...that's a girl.... 

 Ah, phooey.  I should write about sex or politics or some stupid crap like that.

*********

A while ago some dumb broads called me hyper-masculine and I was all like as if I'm sure. But now I've been referred to as "ultra-masculine." Okay, fine.  Whatever. If you say so.  But do please allow me to say in my defense that the other day I went for a walk and passing by two robust young ranch hands said hello and they nodded greetings.  After I had walked on, I heard one say to the other, "I would fuck her shadow on a gravel driveway," and the other guy said, "I would do that in the rain." They  were college guys working weekends, maybe 19 or 20, healthy, fit and, um, gorgeous. Very, very yummy. They didn't think I was ultra-masculine. No siree bob. Maybe I'll contrive to walk by them again, maybe even Mae West them. Heh. Gotta try to kick start this widow's fire thing somehow.

Okay, I won't do that. When it comes down to it, I don't want to. It's kind of fun to think about, though. Fun....

**********

 I discovered I could orgasm just by using my imagination -- no touching! -- when I was a teen. I can't remember what triggered it, so to speak, but it was about the time I discovered boys, as in boys! And they discovered me -- not just boys but males of all ages. They all began directing their male gaze upon me.  Heady stuff, almost overwhelmingly so for my undeveloped brain and naive personality. 

Anyway, some high school dreamboat I had a crush on would be talking to me, maybe while I was leaning up against my hall locker, he looming over me with his arm resting against the locker door and I would be gazing into his eyes, not really listening to what he was saying but enraptured by the sound of his voice, and suddenly everything would go out of focus and I would feel dizzy and then Boom! Orgasm. 

It must have shown in my face or something because the guy would ask if I was okay and I'd drift back to reality and say yes, sorry, and he'd walk away and his pal would ask what happened and he'd say he thought I was trying to hold in a fart.

********** 

All this chatter is a way to distract and amuse myself, so that I don't start thinking too much and sink into melancholia, then depression. It's been a tough year. And it ain't getting any better.

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photos then and then

 I found another photo from my Afghanistan days that probably needs to be run through ChatGPT to clean it up (left).  I'm posting it just to show you that even one of those early days cheap digital cameras could screw up photos. And to share them we usually had them printed out, which didn't help matters.

So, okay, here's what ChatGPT did with it (right). If you look closely at those trucks on the right they look kinda weird, don't they? But you can see the Danger Ranger on the left pretty clearly.

Why did I take this dumb photo? I don't know, man.  Something must have been going on over there.  But I don't remember what anymore.

This photo (right) is also messed up. Why I took it I have no memory. Again, something must have been going on that caught my attention.

Here's another photo (left) that came out better, but why I took it I have no idea. Maybe I was just trying out the camera to see how it worked. Ya know?  Notice those HESCO barriers have done their job. Probably shrapnel from a mortar attack. Anyway, it looks like marines and Brits, probably from 40 Commando, planning some fuckery.  

Here's yet another photo (right) I have no idea why I took.  It's the interior of a C2A, used for COD -- Carrier Onboard Delivery. I think they've all been replaced by V-22s now. 

I've lost so many photos over the years.  They've been on laptops that failed or have gotten lost in all the moves I've made. Ditto cameras and thumb drives.  Maybe the old film cameras were better. I can find photos from a hundred years ago that relatives took, but I wonder if a hundred years from now any of these digital photos will have survived. A natural disaster or war could bring down the internet, or wipe out all electronic storage, formats could change so that even DVDs could no longer be read.  I remember the trouble I had helping my newsman relative transfer his old articles from 5¼ - inch floppy disks written in Xywrite to thumb drives in Open Apache Writer. In a century....

Now here's a photo (left) one of my relatives took when he was in the army back in the 1930s.  Clear as a bell, just in black and white.  It's survived in perfect condition for some 90 years, perfectly viewable without any need for hardware or software.

And you know what I notice about it? Two things: rifles in the barracks unlocked and unguarded, with no worry that someone would steal them or grab one and start shooting up the place.  A memory of a now-lost high trust society.

The other thing is that the rack appears not to be made up. Oh, boy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

He loved his country as no other

 Re-post from Jan. 14, 2022.

A story from the days of the America that used to be and that still lives in the hearts of her native children.  Who punishes treason now?  Is there even such a word, such a concept anymore?  Is the very concept of a country, a nation, a motherland, obsolete? Should it be?

"Remember that behind officers and government, and people even, there is the Country Herself, your Country, and that you belong to her as you belong to your own mother."

 I suppose that very few casual readers of the "New York Herald" of August 13th observed, in an obscure corner, among the "Deaths," the announcement,

"NOLAN. DIED, on board U.S. Corvette Levant, Lat. 2° 11' S., Long. 131° W., on the 11th of May: Philip Nolan."

I happened to observe it, because I was stranded at the old Mission-House in Mackinac, waiting for a Lake-Superior steamer which did not choose to come, and I was devouring, to the very stubble, all the current literature I could get hold of, even down to the deaths and marriages in the "Herald." My memory for names and people is good, and the reader will see, as he goes on, that I had reason enough to remember Philip Nolan. There are hundreds of readers who would have paused at that announcement, if the officer of the Levant who reported it had chosen to make it thus:—"Died, May 11th, THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY."

 Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne’er within him burn’d,
As home his footsteps he hath turn’d,
From wandering on a foreign strand!
~ Sir Walter Scott

 Radio play:

The Man Without A Country 

 

The original story in the December, 1863, edition of The Atlantic: 

The Man Without a Country

 

 

Devolution

I ain't stoopud.  It's them other guys!

Reading on-line stuff -- which I used to not do and now really need to stop: it depresses me -- I got to wondering if a lot of those posting their laments would have, in the past, died in infancy or childhood.  All the improvements in sanitation and nutrition, as well as medical care, especially antibiotics and vaccinations, have allowed people to survive to reproductive age who would have perished early in past generations.  

We forget how common it was for babies to die even as recently as a century ago.  In the 19th century, a common practice was to photograph your deceased infant in its coffin, as, I guess, a last memory.  You can find the photos on-line.  

One of my great aunts was one of 10 brothers and sisters.  Four died in the influenza epidemic of 1918-19.  Two died of scarlet fever.  One got what was  called brain fever and lived but was "slow" after that, as she said, and had to leave school. He never learned to read or write and lived his whole life on their ranch, a sort of gentle giant who was most at home with animals. He had no children.

Of the three remaining who reached adulthood sound in mind and body, one, who worked on the railroad, was killed in a railroading accident, had three children.The other died of cancer, had one child.  Only my great aunt survived into old age, dying in her nineties. She had three children. All seven children of these three survivors  grew into adulthood and had children themselves.

From what I've read, that sort of family history -- many children, few reaching adulthood --  was more the norm than not.  You could get a minor cut and die from the infection. Women commonly died shortly after giving birth of what was called childbed fever. Giving birth itself often proved fatal. Babies died of whooping cough, measles, mumps, flu.... Tuberculosis was a common killer. In earlier times there were such scourges as smallpox and cholera. 

Then there were accidents.  Children worked on the farm or ranch from an early age, then once the industrial age began in factories. Jack be nimble, Jack be quick -- or die.

Those with weak immune systems, genetic defects, a propensity for cancer, heart disease or other maladies, the clumsy and inept, the uncoordinated, the dull-witted, fell victim to disease and accidents more often than the coordinated and clever, the sensible and strong. Those with disagreeable personalities, an inability to get along and cooperate with others or other social defects were ostracized, killed or driven off. Only the fittest survived it all.  Darwinism in action. 

What I'm getting at is that we are in an era now in which several generations have lived to reproduce who never would have in bygone days.  So not only has the gross rising IQ measure of the Flynn Effect reversed, but we have legions of the inept, incapable, mentally weak and neurotic. When such people reproduce, even though they are terrible parents, cruel, neglectful, incompetent, indifferent, their children survive, carrying on their...deficient...characteristics.

And.... Sigh. 

I was going to write a lot more about this, what I'm thinking, but what's the use? I know I sound like an arrogant snob, writing this stuff, but, honest to God, I think it's true. Devolution in action. It's real.  I know you will mention that movie Idiocracy. I haven't seen it but I have seen clips from it, and the scene with the smart couple deciding to delay having children for rational reasons seems spot on.  The only objection I would have to the movie, from what I have seen of it, is that it scrupulously avoids race.  I need not say more.  

But the solution, if it really is one, is too terrible to contemplate. Mass abortions, euthanasia, or, at least, neutering and spaying on a colossal scale.  It will never happen. If you say war is the solution, I say absolutely not. War takes away lives indiscriminately.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I agree with this

 

What y'all is?

NeoValues Test

 

 

 

 

 

 

Out of the Past

From my early days I was always interested in digital art. The first images I saw fascinated me. They were unlike any other art I was familiar with and I had to learn how to create them.  Smilies also fascinated me and, likewise, I had to learn how to make my own. Then came digital animation and that topped my list of cool things to learn to do.  So I jumped into Blender (a software program) and mocap (motion capture). I got pretty good at making meshes and have made steady income from selling them for many years now. I specialize in, not realism, as I at first did, but in realistic animation.  That gives me a chance to be expressive without the confines of what actually is. I do use myself as the model, or one of my friends. Even the hairstyles I use in my animations are based on my own. Zoë Mozert, the woman who invented the pin-up -- and the term "pin-up" -- used herself as her model, so I'm in good company. 

Of course, with the coming of AI and LLM all those skills are obsolete.  It's progress, I guess, opening up the most sophisticated creative processes to everyone. And AI will take those creative processes in directions I doubt we can imagine.  These are just the early days.  

But us old timers will remember the thrill of creation as it was in the golden days of yesteryear. This, using myself as the model, is from my high school days when digital art was, I suppose, no longer new, but it being available to anybody with a PC was. It got over 250,000 views when I uploaded it to an old blog I had, which was pretty good in those days.

 

 

 

 

Dancing the days away

I went into town, invited to a dinner and dance affair, lots of chatting and slow dancing before chow. I was the only solo dame at the shindig and I danced with every one of the husbands there, some of them two and three times.  The boys exhausted me.  I thought it was merely a matter of courtesy that they offered to trip the light fantastic with me, or I did until I noticed the looks, or should I say glares, that their wives were giving me.

It took me a while to notice that while the husbands spent a goodly amount of time shoulder-tapping each other to get their turns with me, a lot of the wives were never asked to dance even once, even by their husbands. That was not my fault. I was invited to a dance party and I danced.  I was amused by it because it was the wives who had invited me. They planned to solicit me to become a financial supporter.  I knew that was their plan and I probably would have but they became so resentful over nothing they forgot their goal. Ladies, emotions and business don't mix, especially nasty emotions. Keep your eye on the prize. Will I become a financial supporter? Haha. Ha. Ha. Will I recount this episode? Well, I is, ain't I?

 

Incidentally, or maybe not, the venue was an opportunity to notice how many women let themselves go once they've been married a while.  Don't do that.  It's an insult to yourself, and, even more, it's an insult to your husband.  You should always make sure he considers you his prize and never has cause to look at another woman and think he made a mistake with you. 

They reminded me of some woman I read on the internet who was advocating what she called "duty sex" with husbands.  Don't even pretend you're interested, just let the sad sack climb on you and do his thing for three minutes. That's what she did with her husband, whom, apparently, she had not a spark of interest in. I wondered why she married him. Just to get a room mate to share expenses with? Was that why he wanted to marry her?

I really and truly do not understand that. I just don't. I've written before about how I felt about my dear husband. And that included sex.  I wanted him and I wanted him to want me. All the time, anywhere, however he wanted it. His desire for me was an enormous turn on for me. We were on an endless honeymoon. You think that's an exaggeration. It's not. It was the way it was. As I've mentioned before, he photographed me, carved and sculpted me and every session involved me teasing him to turn him on, and every session I got turned on just by the act of getting him aroused, and every session ended in him well and truly nailing me to both his and my great satisfaction.  I was crazy about the big lunkhead. The years we were together never diminished my affection and desire for him.  I think English has a four-letter word for that emotion.  One's not supposed to mention it, though, so I won't.

******

I've been dancing a lot with my second cousin.  He belongs to a ball-room dance club at the academy and has gotten very good and wants to stay in practice. We dance mambo, Cuban salsa, bachata and freestyle club as well as the more traditional styles, including the tango.  Sometimes my uncle drops by and I dance with him.  He is, as I've mentioned before, an excellent dancer. We work up quite a sweat. Sometimes I wish I had somebody to dance with who wasn't a relative, but then I think it's best I don't. 

My cousin has suggested we go somewhere with a live band like we did a while back, so we might do that. I'm going to have to fly down to Argentina pretty soon, and I've invited them both to come along. It will be fun to tango in its home country.

Yeah, I bought the estancia.  It's a sheep operation with a good return.  I'm going to have a landing strip built so I can fly directly to it, gravel, 100x5,000 ft. is what I'm looking at, a hanger, fuel facility (eventually), PAPI, REIL, MIRL with PCL and an AWOS among other goodies. That may sound like overkill, but the weather there is a bitch and the terrain will get your attention. 

By the way, I love, love, love my KA260. I don't want to fly anything else. I do still enjoy the Baron, but...you know....

Oh, another by the way: In the actual world -- not the stupid on-line "world," men are supportive and encouraging and even pleased to see me engaged in the endeavors that I am, while -- not all, but a significant number of -- women react with coolness, nay iciness, when they discover what I do. That used to puzzle me, but I've come to expect it. I think the main cause is that I represent a challenge to and a reproval of them for slouching through life or something.  But that's not true.  I have no opinion on their lives, their achievements, lack of them or anything else.  We each live our own lives as fortune steers us. My own life has certainly not been smooth sailing along my desired path. It's gone this way and that, uphill and downhill until, for the nonce, here I am.

Some things I am and some things I can do, but others I am not and yet others I could not do even when I tried.   

Okay, I do have at least one strong opinion about others:  Anybody who puts Ph.D after their name is an ass.  I have a Ph.D in a hard science, one that was hard-earned. Both my Ph.D mentor and thesis advisor were on the short list for the Nobel Prize. My research focused on traumatic brain injury, the signature injury of the GWOT, and I helped discover the cause of battlefield PTSD.  And Uncle Sam paid for everything. No student debt. But I would under no circumstances consider putting Ph.D after my name.  In my field, everyone had a Ph.D.  It wasn't even table stakes. It was one white chip. You would be laughed at if you pranced around telling everyone you were a Ph.D. It was assumed if you were doing that research you had a doctorate.  Nobody would be impressed by it.  It would just be something to list in your resume. People would be more interested in who your mentor was.  That was important.

 So why ain't I doing Ph.D stuff now? Well, that's the way the cookie crumbles. I've written about it before so I shan't go over it again. But maybe why I'm not is why I don't judge the life paths and achievements or lack of them of others. Fate, luck, circumstance, decisions made by others outside your control, bad decisions you've made yourself...and on and on.  Life can be like walking a tightrope while playing dodgeball. You're lucky to keep your balance as long as you do, and nobody ever makes it to the other side.