All posts by pajarice

My Military Daze

My Longest Day in Vietnam

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No, I am not a hero and this isn’t about a firefight.  I am not trying to compare my experiences with those who lived and fought in the bush.  I was just a major assigned to the 1st Cavalry (Airmobile) Division as the Deputy Staff Judge Advocate.  It was 1970, so I remember parts of this adventure better than others.

A few days before, the executive officer of the 8th Engineer Battalion came into my “office” (my office had air conditioning – flaps down or rolled up) to explain that he was investigating an alleged rape that took place in Pleiku.  Our headquarters was in Phouc Vihn, about 30 miles north of Saigon.  Pleiku was approximately 300 miles to the north.  This young major advised that he would take care of the transportation, but he needed me along to advise him.

I agreed to go with him and a few days later, at 0-dark-30, we were in a chopper flying down to Saigon.  There, we loaded onto an Air Force C-130.  This old prop job must have flown a milk run to Pleiku everyday.  It was loaded with Vietnamese and their animals.  You sat in a canvas-strap sling trying not to draw attention, while the NCO load master screamed and yelled at everyone.  It’s hard to feel important when your butt is almost on the floor and you are staring at your knees.  I had no idea how long the flight took.  All I remember is noise and vibration.  We filed off the plane right behind a mamasan and her chickens.

We were picked up at the airport and taken to the CID (Criminal Investigation Detachment) Office.  The rape took place in a truck park.  In order to supply Pleiku, supply trucks were constantly traveling back and forth from Quy Nhon to Pleiku.  The drivers would overnight at the truck park.

We were able to interview the driver who brought the girl to the truck park.  She had planned to spend the night at the truck park and had been duly paid.  It turns out our suspect was in a nearby truck and he was lonely.  He remembered what he learned in kindergarten about sharing and went over to the other truck to find out if that driver had gone to kindergarten.  The driver with the girl was not interested in sharing.  So our suspect pointed his loaded weapon at the non-sharing driver and changed his mind.  “Oh yes, kindergarten.  Now I remember.”

Miss Su, the young Vietnamese girl, went with our suspect and was paid for her visit.  Since she was paid twice, I thought about making reference to double dipping, but I won’t.  Later, she returned to driver number one.  I was having trouble putting a rape case together.  It gets sticky when they accept payment.  But, if the fact checked out, I thought we had a pretty serious aggravated assault. Even though the Army was living with their weapons in Vietnam, we frowned on soldiers pointing loaded weapons at other soldiers in a threatening manner.

Now, we had to find the girl.  I don’t remember anybody mentioning it, but I guess the CID Office was at Camp Holloway.  Now we needed to go into Pleiku.  We were in luck.  Pleiku had been off-limits for years, but we arrived the day the off-limits was lifted.  I suspect we could have gone anyway as we were on official business, but it wouldn’t have been as entertaining.  As we drove in, young girls were trying to stop us on the street.  GIs were waiving around cartons of cigarettes.  I think I was observing the barter system in full operation.

Well, we found Miss Su and she verified what we had previously heard.  No rape, but a pretty serious assault with a deadly weapon.  On the way out of town, I began wondering what “Hey GI, I love you too much” really meant.

I don’t remember meals, but I think we got some lunch before we had to race out to the airfield to catch our cattle car back to Saigon.  More mamasans, more chickens and a louder load meister.  Hello knees.

We arrived at Tan Son Nhut Airport at dusk.  I think my engineer major, whose name stole away from me 40 years ago, felt his providing of transportation was completed.  But somehow, we needed to get out of Saigon.  We walked over to Hotel 3.  This was the tower for all the helicopter traffic.  I had used it a couple of times before with good success.  The tower was 50 to 60 feet above you and you, periodically, looked up to make sure it was still there.  Every so often a loud speaker announced that a bird was leaving for somewhere (eg. Tay Nihn or Bearcat) and could take so many passengers.  People would shuffle off.  It was getting darker and there were fewer announcements.

We wanted to go to Phouc Vihn, but would have taken Bien Hoa because our rear headquarters was there.  No announcement and we were the only two left.  It had been a long day and there didn’t seem to be any end in sight.  Suddenly, they announced that a bird was leaving for Long Binh.  I figured we could find a phone there and get someone from Bien Hoa to come get us.  We were desperate.

I have no idea where the pilot dropped us off.  It looked like a helicopter landing strip that was 300 yards wide and at least two miles long.  There were wooden one-story buildings lined up on one side of the strip, but no lights were on in any of the buildings.  Well, Long Binh had sounded good earlier.

There was a helicopter about a half mile down the strip and it looked like it was refueling.  We started walking toward it.  It would be nice to ask somebody where we were.  So much for the lieutenant with the map and a compass.  How about two majors wandering around in the dark on a helicopter landing strip.

When we got about 200 yards from the Huey, we saw the most beautiful sight.  There was a large yellow horse blanket on the nose of that bird!  We started running towards the Cav patch.  The crew was getting ready to take off, but saw these two crazy majors running towards them waiving their arms.  It was too good to be true.  They were on their way home and, now, so were we.  The pilot had a long white silk scarf wrapped around his neck.  Definitely Cav.  He kept smiling at us and we kept smiling at them.  It was like a long lost reunion.

I slept in my own bed that night.  I was really hungry the next morning.  Lunch had been my last meal.  But thinking about that Cav patch on the front of that Huey kept me smiling over and over.

Golf Daze

A Bad Golf Day

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The only thing worse than losing a golf ball is sometimes finding it.  The other day, after looking for my ball for over four minutes, I found it.  I could identify it as mine.  I just couldn’t retrieve it.  No, it wasn’t in water.  It was a cruel thicket.  Thorns and poison ivy.  I declared the ball not only unplayable, but unrecoverable.  It still lays there as a monument to bad luck.

I am one of those unusual golfers who acknowledges that what went wrong was probably my fault.  Whenever the ball is in a bad spot, I just say to myself, “hell, you hit it there.”  I am convinced most golfers are trained never to acknowledge a mistake.  “I never should have swung with that butterfly sitting on my ball.”  “Did you hear that noise at the top of my backswing?”  Or, on the green: “Did you see that ball jump?  “It must have hit something.”  “Something bit me.”  You have to give them “A” for inventiveness.  When I got home from my bad round, I found a good size rock wedged between the spikes on my right heel.  It probably affected my balance.

Is this a head game or what?  Tiger at Firestone is a classic.  Woods had won on Firestone seven times.  The course was made for Tiger’s game.  So what does he do this year?  He shot four rounds over par with a 78 on Sunday.  It’s time to borrow Tin Cup’s psychologist.  On second thought, never mind.

I had a good round going a while back.  Everything was in sync.  Good contact, good direction, and chips rolling close to the hole.  Then, I missed an 18-inch putt.  It must have hit something, because the ball darted off to the left.  Well, regardless of fault, that was the end of my good game.  Bad contact, bad direction and chips just dribbling onto the green.

All the books say, forget about the bad shot.  Move forward.  Concentrate on the next hole.  Blah, blah, blah.  I decided what I had done wrong (it was me) and what I needed to do on the next short putt.  Unfortunately, my next short putt was for a double bogey.

I’m 130 yards from the green and there is a sand bunker right in front of the green.  I hit a crisp iron and the ball lands on the fringe between the bunker and the green.  It trickles forward and rolls down toward the pin.  What a great shot!  But the same crisp shot could have landed six inches shorter in the same fringe and rolled back into the bunker, finally settling in a foot print where some jerk had failed to rake the bunker.  I guess that’s a bad shot.  And that six inches may be the difference between feeling good or bad about yourself.  I think the really good players have figured this out.  I’m still working at it.

After I got home, I found out that Mike Thomas, editor of www.DCguide.com is picking up my blogs and publishing them on their web site.  That made me feel good and anyway, I think I know what I did wrong on that 18-inch putt.

Short Shorts

The Gillette Fusion Proglide Power

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In my blog entitled “Me and My Old Man” (under “Random Thoughts”), I told you how my Dad and I loved the Gillette razors.  We would test every new razor and proclaim it a success.  When Dad passed on, I had to do the testing and proclaiming all by my self.

In the earlier blog, I mused about having “Fusion Power” tattooed on my knuckles.  It’s a good thing I didn’t because, as expected, Gillette has come out with a new model.  I ran right out and bought it – the Gillette Fusion Proglide Power.  Both the razor and the case are a rich royal blue.  The five blades are thinner, sharper and supposedly give a smoother shave.  It seemed smoother to me, but I’m so prejudice, I don’t think I can be trusted.

The biggest difference is when you push the power button, starting the blades to vibrate, a light comes on.  This light doesn’t illuminate your face, it illuminates the palm of your hand.  That probably makes it easier to turn the razor off in a dark room.  All you have to do is push on the lighted button.  Also, if you forget to turn the razor off before going to bed, it allows you to observe the razor as it vibrates across you floor towards your bed.  I think I see a horror movie plot here with at least two sequels!

I am now testing my Mach 3 Turbo and my Fusion Power against the lovely blue, lighted Proglide.  So far, the Proglide is the only one that can climb up a bedspread.  I wonder if I can get the stupid Federal Government to give me a grant for my testing.

The Judge Says

The Judge Says – Crooked Carnival Games


June 27, 1980

When I was a kid back in East St. Louis, Illinois, I used to love to go to the carnival.  I used to stand by the hour and watch people try to knock over a bowling pin with a baseball hanging from a cord.  When the patron was only practicing, he could knock over the pin every time (you had to swing out the ball and knock the pin over on the back swing).  But as soon as the money was on the table, the ball couldn’t find the pin.  I knew it was crooked, but I couldn’t figure it out.

Well, last month, Bob Stephan, the Attorney General of Kansas, invited me out to the Kansas Bureau of Investigation in Topeka, and the KBI presented a program on how carnival games work.  I was right, most of the games are crooked.  Even the little innocent-looking mouse is a crook.  He always runs into a colored hole that no one has bet on.  The operator has ammonia on his finger and touches the hole he wants the mouse to go into.  The mouse is attracted to the ammonia and goes to that hole.  I also found out that there is a spot where the bowling pin can be placed so that the ball cannot hit it.  The pin is placed a little off the spot for practice shots.

Carnivals get by on the basis that there is always a sucker ready to part with his money.  I saw a spinning wheel  in Topeka that always won when it was spun to the left and never won when it was spun to the right.  All the numbers games with conversion charts are made so that you will never win.   If the operator shows you how easy it is to win, you can bet he didn’t add the numbers up right.  He will do it so quickly that you won’t be able to keep up with him.  But when the money is on the table – forget it – the addition will be impeccable and you lose.

The coin toss works on the percentage.  If you pitch enough coins, you may win a prize.  The $2.00 stuffed animal ends up costing you $5.00.  Such a deal.  The coin toss is rigged by hanging the prizes low over the dishes so the coins can’t be arched.  Further, the dishes are waxed and tilted at a slight angle.   My advice is to let your kids ride the merry-go-round and buy them some cotton candy.

RAJA

RAJA in Indy

  
The Retired Army Judge Advocates met this month in Indianapolis.  Would you believe we had 108 people at the meeting?  Not bad for such a select group.  Each member was an Army lawyer who served at least 20 years and then retired.  So, did we have 108 retired Army Jags?  Of course not.  The wives, widows and close friends make up a large portion of the group.  That is probably why it is successful.

Steve and Pauline Lancaster hosted the group and it couldn’t have gone more smoothly.  Next year, we return to Charlottesville, Virginia, the home of the Army lawyer, and the following year, it’s Big D.  The main portion of our business meeting (which never lasts over 10 minutes) is to announce future RAJA sites.  You talk about an organization with clearly defined goals.

Usually The Judge Advocate General and the Commandant of the JAG School (it now has a new name, but who cares) come to our meeting and update us on the Corps and the School.  This year, both of them had daughters graduating from high school that weekend and could not attend.  So, Major General Butch Tate, The Deputy Judge Advocate General and former Commandant came and gave both presentations.  He was outstanding.  He is also one of the funniest guys I’ve heard speak in quite a while. 

Of course, Zane Finkelstein continued to interrupt Butch with questions and comments, some more relevant that others.  Butch shot him down time after time.  But Zane obliviously continued.  I like to hear my voice too.  But I try to be my own counsel at times like that.  On my note pad, I wrote over and over, “KYMS.”  That stands for “keep your mouth shut.”  Even then I have trouble being quiet.

In Butch’s slide presentation, he showed a picture of his wife with their new dog.  He explained that the dog was the reason Lynn had not joined him at RAJA.  It seems they adopted a 12 year old rescue dog and Lynn did not want to put the elderly pet in the kennel.  As Butch was closing his two hour presentation, Joe Ross raised his hand.  Butch, in his humorous way said, “Joe, I’m right in the middle of my closing which I expect will become emotional.  Is your question really necessary?”  Joe responded, “I was just wondering if Lynn could come next year and you could stay with the dog.”

Butch mentioned that the Army JAG Corps had 1700 applications this year for 200 selections.  Good numbers even when discounted for the bad economy.  As soon as he mentioned accessions, I flashed back to the accessions board I sat on with General “Big Daddy” Williams.  It was back in about 1977 and we were reviewing  the applications of law students who wanted to become Army Jags.  I remember one file I reviewed that included an invitation to attend an event at the local yacht club.  I thought the invitation had been inadvertently placed in the file.  But on the next page was a picture of our applicant and his girl friend standing in front of the yacht club!  Big smiles.  We concluded that he must have gotten his applications mixed up and we received the one meant for Navy Jag.

One of the files I looked at was just tops.  He was an Army ROTC scholarship student who had been deferred through law school.  His law school grades at Berkeley were excellent.  The only problem with the file was he had his picture taken in a tye-dye tee shirt.  Big Daddy, who had already reviewed the file, on a scale of 5 to 1, had given him a zero.  I looked at the file again and the only thing wrong was the tee shirt.  I finally said to Big Daddy, ‘You know Sir, since he goes to Berkeley, he may be a conformist and just dressed in the uniform of the day.”  General Williams looked at me and paused.  Then he said, “Jack, this young man is trying to tell you something and you are not listening.”  So he joined our yacht club invitee in the trash pile.

Oh, prior to going to RAJA, I called my credit card provider to let them know where I would be, so they wouldn’t pull the plug on me.  And, my credit card worked the entire trip.  Isn’t life grand?

We had a great time at RAJA, but by writing about it, I have raised a troubling question.  Does anyone really believe that being invited to a yacht club function makes them a better applicant for the JAG Corps?

The Judge Says

The Judge Says

One of the reasons I started writing this blog was so I would have a repository for things I had already written.  That’s why you can find Christmas poems going back to the 80’s.  I also wrote a column in the Fort Riley POST when I was the Staff Judge Advocate for the 1st Infantry Division and Fort Riley.  I wrote a column every week and it was great fun.  I tried to plug in a little legal education (at a very mundane level), pride in the Division and Post and a little humor.  I called the column, “The Judge Says.”

After I had been doing this for a little over a year, General Hugh Overholt, The Judge Advocate General of the Army, showed up for our annual inspection and presented me with the Forces Command “4th Estate Award” for writing the best column in an Army paper.  I’m may be overstating the significance of the award.  So sue me.

So I am going to feed in Judge Says columns under the category, “The Judge Says.”  I also wrote comumns in Germany when I was the V Corps SJA.  I entitled the Column, “From the Corps.”  It was originally entitled it “From the Corps Rear.”  The SJA office was located at the rear of the Corps, but I was convinced that I should drop rear out of the title.  I guess there were no prizes for originality of thought.  I may stick the “From the Corps” articles under “The Judge Says” or come up with a new category.  I don’t want to make such a weighty decision at this time.  Here it is.  Enjoy.

*** Tuesday, we had the ground breaking for the new NCO Club.  And while I wasn’t there, I’ll bet I can tell you what happened.  I’ll bet General Partain and probably CSM Dyess each with a shovel, dug into the virgin soil where the new NCO Club will soon stand.  How do I know this?  ‘Cause that’s how it is supposed to be done.

The reason I am mentioning this is because, in 1973 (or 4, things are beginning to get fuzzy), I observed the craziest ground breaking ceremony ever.  It was the new JAG School in Charlottesville, VA.  The Commandant couldn’t get The Judge Advocate General down from DC at the time construction was ready to start, so he decided to wait till a later date when a lot of big wigs could be present.  Well, by the time of the ground breaking, the foundation had been dug and the basement concrete had been poured.  You ain’t heard nothing yet.

On the day of the ceremony it was raining.  We were all loaded on buses (mandatory formation), but we were heading in the wrong direction.  It seems that because of the muddy conditions, the ceremony was to be held inside at a different location.  As I took my seat at the Red Cross Training Center, I noticed up on the stage, a sand box full of dirt.  Now, I’m flexible (there’s a fine line between being flexible and wishy-washy) and I think I could have gone along with the late ceremony inside the wrong location as long as the dirt had come from the construction site (Heaven knows they had lots of dirt laying around).  But when I found out the dirt had been purchased from a local nursery, I slid down in my seat hoping no one would see me.  On three occasions, I denied being present and, even later, claimed ignorance of the whole affair.  I was convinced the building had been conceived out of wedlock. But, even with this dubious beginning, the JAG School has turned out to be a fantastic building.  Each one of my lawyers has studied military law at the school.

The bit about the JAG School doesn’t have a lot to do with the point I want to make.  That is that Fort Riley and the Big Red One are pointed in the right direction – a new NCO Club that will bring back some of the traditions of the Army.  Soldiers at Fort Riley are doing a lot of things right and we need to build on that pride.  We are the best.

That brings me to another pet peeve – dissatisfiers (that’s a 75 cent word that means those things that hack you off).  If we sat down and thought about the things that we are unhappy about, we could make a long list, and the more we wrote the more unhappy we would become. And there are turkeys around that do just that.

Don’t get caught up in the game of negative thinking.  I knew a captain and his wife who were unhappy at Fort Carson, Hawaii and every other post they were assigned.  And they loved to talk about how miserable they were.  The Fort Riley community has a tremendous amount of energy and good things are happening.  Get involved and contribute.
 

Random Thoughts

I Don’t Own a Credit Card, It Owns Me!


I am having trouble keeping up with this computer driven world.  Credit cards have been around long enough that I couldn’t conceive how they could become a problem.  Not for old conservative Ish.  By using a credit card, I don’t have to carry around a lot of cash.  Then, pay them off each month and I’m golden.  NOT. 

I started hearing late last year that some of the players on my high school baseball team wanted to hold a reunion.  We are talking about the 1950’s.  And, it happened.  On Saturday, April 24, 2010, East Side High baseball players from 1954, 55, 56 and 57 met at the Collinsville Recreation Center to regale each other with long dormant memories.  I counted about 18 players.  No, we didn’t chose up sides.  Nobody even brought a ball or a glove.  But a scrapbook or two jogged a few memories.  After 55 years, the stories definitely get better.  The reunion was low key, but great. 

We stayed in O’Fallon, Illinois with Carole’s mom.  On Friday, I ducked out the back of the apartment complex to visit Schnucks Market.  I bought a gallon of milk and four “D” batteries.  I paid with my Visa card.  All went smoothly.  Why wouldn’t it?  The next day I slipped over to Schnucks for a bucket of chicken and my Visa card was denied!  I ran it through four times before the clerk explained that the machine recognized the card, but it was being denied.  That is so embarrassing.  You feel like everyone in the store has stopped what they are doing and are staring at you.  I whipped out a wad of twenties, displaying as much cash as I could and paid for the chicken. 

As soon as the chicken was sequestered, I called Visa.  Eventually, after convincing them that I was the card holder, they advised me that their records indicated fraud or a stolen card.  I assured them I had the card.  We went over our purchases for the last three days.  They were mundane charges that  one makes when traveling from Virginia to Illinois.  What is suspicious about eating at Cracker Barrel? 

The Visa representative had no authority to reactivate my card.  I’m 650 miles from home and some computer, which is unhappy with my travels, has shut down my card.  I was transferred to Visa Security.  After again identifying myself to their satisfaction and going over my recent transactions, they agreed to reactivate my card.  I was further told that I needed to contact the Pentagon Federal Credit Union (my Visa carrier) and let them know I was traveling.  And, in the future, contact them before I leave the state.  Otherwise, the sophisticated computer system  will track me down and shut me down. 

I called PFCU.  The woman wanted my PIN number.  I do have a PIN number.  It is in a ledger back in Springfield, Virginia.  She advised me that there was another way to identify me.  It consisted of a series of computer generated questions that only I (the true card holder) would be able to answer.  I answered two of the first three correctly.  Not good enough.  The computer generated questions had a better memory that I had.  I didn’t do as well on the next three questions.  I only got one right.  Finally after answering the first two questions correctly, she asked me to identify the state in which Sandy Rice was living.  I passed.  This permitted me to tell them that I was traveling and would be for a couple more days.  I presume this information was fed into the security computer so it wouldn’t get excited when I charged a motel bill in Beckley, West Virginia.  

So our next trip is at the end of the month.  I will have to call PFCU and tell them where we are going to be and on what days.  What I want to know is who is working for whom?  This crosses my mind every time a check out clerk is explaining to me what I need to do to process my credit card through the machine.  Didn’t they used to do that for us? 

On my next trip, I am now fearful I will have car trouble and be late getting to the Kentucky State line.          


Random Thoughts

My Crepe Myrtle Tree

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In the Army, you never stay anywhere very long.  You receive orders, perhaps move to a post and are assigned to quarters.  And, that is your “temporary home.”  Sorry Carrie.  You might plant flowers.  But as for trees or shrubs, what’s there is what you get.

Our first permanent assignment (which means more than six months) was Fort Hood, Texas.  After waiting almost a year, we were assigned to quarters on Newton Court, right across from the Officers Club.  After spending three years in law school in a cramped apartment, this house seemed enormous.  The dining room was large enough to play ping pong.  We didn’t have any dining room furniture, so we bought a ping pong table.

The yard had lots of vegetation.  The back border of our yard consisted of pomegranate bushes – ten to twelve.  The fruit was so bitter that you couldn’t eat it.  But, at the left front corner of the house was a kumquat tree.   The fruit from that tree tasted like nectar for the gods.  I would lose myself under that tree, picking, peeling and devouring the precious fruit.  The next and last year in those quarters resulted in no fruit.  A late frost wiped out the buds.  I have bought kumquats, but they never tasted as sweet as the ones hanging from that tree.

In 1990, I retired from the Army and we bought a not-so-temporary home.  We have lived in it for the last twenty years.  At the corner where the driveway meets the sidewalk to our front door, we have a crepe myrtle tree.  The first thing we noticed was that the pinkish red blooms were enormous.  Some were almost as large as a soccer ball.  We looked around the neighborhood and found that there were bigger crepe myrtles.  There were also more robust crepe myrtles, but none had blooms as large as ours.  We hoped this would not lead to bloom envy.

Our pride was dashed with the first good thunderstorm.  Many of the branches were broken and most of the rest of the tree was practically on the ground.  As soon as it stopped raining, I rushed out and cut off the broken branches and shook the other blooms to remove the weight of the water.  I ended up with petals all over me.  Next, I tied up the remaining branches like they were public enemy # 1.   This kept the tree upright, but with the next storm, many of the branches snapped.

The tree became an obsession of ours.  Rope, rope and more rope.  Carole observed that Fort Myer had a large number of crepe myrtles and each winter they would cut them off at about two feet.  So we did that for a few years.  Each year the tree grew about the same height, with the same enormous blooms and the same wet weather results.  I bought more rope.

One year, we had an extremely severe winter and lost some shrubs.  I thought the crepe myrtle was toast.  Crepe myrtles get started late in the spring.  I didn’t realize that and since everything else was green, I figured our crepe myrtle had croaked.  I cut it all the way to the ground.  I am telling you it did not look alive.

By June, it was shooting out of the ground like a weed.  It wasn’t quite as tall as previous years, but it still had its beautiful over sized blooms.  I had to use a lighter weight rope that year.

About three years ago, Carole came up with an article in Southern Living entitled, “Stop! Don’t Chop!”  It gave a blow by blow accounting of how to cut and shape your crepe myrtle.  The article gave credit to a brochure from the Spartanburg Men’s Garden Club.  You probably were wondering what the Spartanburg men were doing when it wasn’t NASCAR season.  Well, they are trimming their crepe myrtles.

Anyway,  I’m into my third season of following their advice.  But I still had to deal with these gynormous blooms.  As things will happen, all the stars lined up a year ago.  Just as the blooms were at their peak (and before a storm),  we were having stone edging  placed around the house.  Tom Hardy, our landscaper, looked at the crepe myrtle and said, “You know, you need to remove some of those blooms off of the branches or you will have trouble when it rains.”   Duh!

He pointed at a branch with three large blooms and said I should cut off one or two.  There it was, the answer I had never considered.  It never crossed my feeble mind to whack off some of the blooms.  It was truly hard to do, at first.  But, it worked.  I may have had one branch snap last year, but that is real progress.

I actually put on my calendar for the first of February to trim the crepe myrtle.  Well, it is still waiting to be trimmed.  I couldn’t get to it in February because of the damn snow.  There is still time.

 

Random Thoughts

The Mail Pile


We arrived home on February 5th from our two week Panama Canal cruise.  We ducked in right before the second monstrous snow storm wiped out Washington, D.C.  It wasn’t easy, but we made it home, picked up our dog and were protected against whatever Mother Nature wanted to throw at us.

We sat at the kitchen table and stared at two weeks of mail.  It was well over a foot high.  Then it struck me.  It might be interesting to see what kind of mail one received over a two- week hiatus.  I knew it wasn’t going to be exciting, but it might be interesting.

Carole starts by sorting the mail.  She takes out the bills and her stuff (coupons and magazines) and I get the rest.  Weight wise, I get 90% of the mail.  Quality wise – 3%.

I noted that on February 1st, we received our Christmas card from Carrie (the Weird) Baker.  This was really early for her.  I hoped everything was OK.  Usually the card arrives so late, you are not sure whether it’s late or early.  We won’t be able to complain to Carrie about our snow, because she lives in Rapid City, South Dakota.

At Fort Riley, I was a member (and for what seemed forever, the miserable Secretary) of the Ancient and Honorable Order of Lion Tamers (AHOLT).  This gaggle had no social redeeming value.  But each year, we took a picture of ourselves and the miserable Secretary mailed it out to all previous members as our Christmas card.  We made great effort to mail it out before St. Patrick’s Day.

I was convinced that I would have more credit card solicitations than anything else.  I was wrong.  I only had two.  I guess they have given up on me.  The big winner was charitable solicitations.  If I ever gave a buck to a charitable organization, it never forgot me.  In fact, the Alzheimer’s Association sends me something every month.  I guess they figure if I’m concerned about Alzheimer’s, maybe I won’t remember that I have already given.

Right behind charitable solicitations are political solicitations.  In weak moments, I have contributed to both political parties  Consequently, I have made both of their mailing lists.  Do you know what?  I think the same people write the material for both parties.  “The other party (be it Dems or Reps) is part of an evil plot to destroy our country.”  The only way I can save the Free World is to send money.  It is really tough carrying this awesome responsibility.

Then there’s the mail where they want to sell you stuff.  A store closing sale.  Cars at bargain prices.  Membership at the Smithsonian.  Insurance solicitations.  Oh yes, let’s not forget lawn care.  I haven’t seen my lawn in three months.

I received two letters from brokers who want to take Carole and me to dinner.  Isn’t that nice?  We don’t even know them and they want to take us to dinner.  Maybe they are lonely.  I’m torn, but not that torn.

Golf Magazine wants me to renew my subscription.  What they don’t realize is that each year I go to the D.C. Golf Expo out by Dulles Airport and, as part of the entrance fee (which is quite low), I get a year’s free subscription to Golf Magazine.  There is a slight glitch this year.  It was to be held on the 5th, 6th and 7th of February when nobody could get out of their driveway.  The Golf Expo was snowed out.  But if it ain’t free, I don’t want it.

As I am wrapping up this list, I want to mention that I received three golf brochures from Myrtle Beach.  I am convinced that there are only two types of people at Myrtle Beach, golfers and those who mail out golf brochures.  I wonder if they could include a free subscription to Golf Magazine.

Now the US Postal Service is talking about not delivering on Saturday because they lost billions last year.  That would mean that I would have to wait the entire weekend to get my Alzheimer’s’ solicitation.  By Monday, I may not remember whether I have already donated.

Random Thoughts

And Then It Snowed, and Snowed and Snowed


If you would have asked me last fall about winters in Washington, DC, I would have told you that they really aren’t bad.  My theory, while not scientific (or even accurate) is that the Blue Ridge Mountains seem to break up whatever is coming at us.  Heavy snows seem to go to our North.  Then, I would mention that I bought a snow blower about five years ago and never used it the first three years.  This year, all hell broke loose.

Carole and I are planners.  So we started planning our Christmas party in February 2009.  For any number of years, we had a party every year.  Then, about ten years back, we went to every other year.  In February 2009, we hadn’t had a party in five years and to my surprise, Carole wanted to have another party.  We sat down and made a list of what needed to be done each month.    For example, outdoor lights needed to go up in October.  All indoor decorations had to be completed by November so that Carole could start cooking in December.  Cooking is a major project.  I actually had the tree up and decorated before Thanksgiving.

The party is always the Saturday before Christmas.  So, December 19th was the day.  We invited over 100 people.  We are like the airlines, we overbook.  But through the years, we have acquired so many dear friends that it is hard to know where to stop.  There’s military friends and Carole’s crew of volunteers from the Fort Myer Thrift Shop.  There’s the neighbors and the Arent Foxers.  And, of course, my golf buddies.  We figured somewhere between 60 and 70 would come.  To our surprise, about 85 RSVP’d that they were coming.  I began moving furniture around so that there would be room for three more bodies here and four over there.  On Thursday night, I grilled five marinated flank steaks.  That morning, we picked up a 12 pound Honey Baked ham.

On Friday night, the snow started falling and by noon on Saturday, we had about 14 inches.  The entire area was paralyzed.  For your information, DC can’t handle two inches of snow.  Schools are shut down when there is a hint of snow in the forecast.  I told Carole that at least the storm didn’t leave us in doubt.  Our daughter, Missy, flew in on Friday for the party and Christmas.  That gave us something to be thankful for.  So, did we have a party?  You bet.  We had those invited neighbors who could walk come over.  There were about 15 of us and we had plenty to eat and drink and eat and drink.

We didn’t have room in the refrigerator for all the left overs.  But, with the cold weather, we filled up the garage.  Did I mention the 22 pound turkey we were thawing out for Christmas eve?  Even though we had food everywhere, Carole decided to fix the bird for us and Missy’s family (Terry and the two kids, Tyler and Kristin, came in on Tuesday).  It was probably the right decision because what were the two of us going to do with a 22 pound bird?  Also, Carole likes left over turkey.

Well, the marinated flank steaks were to die for and we ate them every other day (the other days we had ham).  Christmas is especially good with family around.

Late in January, we flew to San Diego for a two week cruise through the Panama Canal.  I will tell you about the cruise another day.  We were to arrive at Fort Lauderdale on Friday, February 5th.  Our return flights took us through Charlotte and into Dulles International arriving at 9:00 PM.

During the cruise, the CNN picked up by the ship was the international version.  This was really great if you wanted to know the weather in Helsinki or who won the latest cricket match.  So it wasn’t until we arrived at Fort Lauderdale and CNN transitioned to the US version that we found out that DC was getting ready for another snow of the decade.  How depressing.  Neither of us even wanted to eat breakfast.  While we were unaware, our flight had been canceled the night before.  United notified us on our home phone.

Well, we scooted out to the airport and checked out our options.  Our first good omen came when we noticed that our overweight bags couldn’t be weighed because the scale at our counter was broken.  There were two earlier flights to DC.  There was one leaving very shortly to Charlotte and then to Dulles arriving at 3:00 PM.  The other was a direct flight  to Reagan that would get us in at 2:00 PM   Our car was at a Fairfield Inn out by Dulles, but we weren’t willing to roll the dice in Charlotte.  We opted for the direct flight to Reagan and were actually on the ground at 2:00 PM.  Home at 2:30 and had picked up our dog, Nikki, from the kennel by 4:30.  Then, we hunkered down for 20 more inches.

We didn’t see a snow plow until late Monday afternoon.  But, with two good size snow blowers and a lot of good neighbor spirit, we cleared driveways and the street on Sunday.  Then, on Monday, my neighbor, Jim Vancini and I drove out to Dulles and dug out my other car.  That’s right, no garage.  Jim found some jumper cables and we were in business.  The battery in my new Infiniti could not believe I had left it out in the snow for two and a half weeks.  I guess they don’t go camping over in Japan.  I was thinking, if I had purchased a Lexus, it might have taken off by itself. 

So, we got the cars tucked away and here comes the three-pete blizzard of this winter.  Tuesday and Wednesday, we had white-out conditions with snow and wind whipping around at 35 mph.  So, so much for the Blue Ridge Mountain theory.  The weatherman was explaining some sort of circular motion up in the air between land and sea that was causing us to be wiped out.  I have decided that global warming is a bunch of crap.  Hey, Al Gore, go home and turn out some lights and leave the rest of us alone.