On The Lonely Road

 One of the things I told my daughter when she began attending Clemson University was that daddy would fly up there whenever she wanted to come home for the weekend. That she didn't need any real reason for wanting to come home. I would go get her and take her back up when she was ready. I truly meant it and when my daughter and her friend with a car who she usually rides with back down to Columbia, had conflicting schedules last weekend, I had to put my promise into action. 

So last Friday I returned home from work just long enough to pick up my wife and then we hauled tail to the Upstate region of South Carolina. I was pretty tired from the stuff that occurred at work that day but the drive was easy and we made it to Clemson with no issues.

I'm still don't know the details of the traffic patterns going to Clemson but I've heard nightmarish horror stories about how badly those roads can become overwhelmed. Yes, that mostly occurs during football season, and during non-pandemic years, but given my luck I figure I'm bound to get tied up on those roads sooner or later. That being said, my daughter was waiting for us as we pulled into her dorm parking lot and we immediately hit the road for home.

The drive back to Columbia wasn't as easy. Fatigue was really setting in and neither my wife nor my daughter wanted to drive. My daughter does have her driver's license but is unsure of herself driving on the interstate while my wife was nursing allergies. Something that also made her unwilling to listen to either Jimmy Buffett, my old but true musical friend for long drives, or the various horror podcasts I have come to enjoy. As far as my wife was concerned, Lovecraftian audio melodrama just wasn't going to work for her.

Being the “captain” of the road ship, I could have pulled rank but I didn't feel the need to poke a semi-sleeping bear dealing with excessive sinus pressure. Whatever the case, we got home safely and ordered pizza after my daughter dumped what turned out to be all her dirty laundry next the washer and dryer. Yeah, my daughter primarily wanted to come home because of her dirty clothes. Yes, they have plenty of washer and dryers at Clemson but she doesn't like to use those machines. My daughter claims they do not get her clothe clean.

Sunday afternoon came all too soon and it was just me taking my daughter back up to Clemson. Given that I'm usually in bed around 7:00pm on Sundays, I carried my daughter's stuff up to her dorm room, gave her a hug and hit the road for home.

One of the National Guard units I served is in the neighboring town of Easley so I have a certain route that I'm use to taking on the drives going into the Upstate region and back home. The addition of the segment going to Clemson being the one I'm uncertain about. Truthfully, going to Clemson by way of Easley it's not the most logical route, but after driving it for years I know it by heart.

Last Sunday I decided to take a different road, Interstate-185, going back down to Columbia, in fact it's one of the only two toll roads I know about in South Carolina. The benefit of taking I-185 was that it bypassed all of Greenville, South Carolina, which cut off a nice chunk of mileage.

After a few miles on I-185, I was struck at how empty both sets of lanes were. Simply put, that Sunday afternoon I didn't see another car my entire time on I-185. My usual Greenville/Easley route the traffic could always be called moderate at least, with some days being worse.

I-185 though was deserted that afternoon and when you throw in the lack of development on the land it runs through you could almost say I was a little lonely. Then came the first of the two toll booths I had to pass through.

As toll plazas good the good state of South Carolina didn't think out of the box. On my side of I-185 was three different toll booths. One was automated where you either flash a prepaid pass at a sensor or throw two bucks worth of quarters into a big funnel mounted on the side of a rectangular box. The other two were the type where some poor soul sits inside and takes the driver's money and makes change.

Except last Sunday only one of the manned booths was open on the south bound lanes. The other was blocked off and dark inside. A quick glance over at the north bound lane showed a similar situation.

I naturally pulled up to the open booth and handed the attendant a ten dollar bill. The guy was an older gentleman who moved slowly, almost like he was new to the job and still wasn't sure how it went.

“How you doing young fella?” The attendant asked in a pleasant almost jovial voice.

First of all, I'm 56 and someone calling me “young” either has vision issues or is trying to shit me. But instead the impression I got was that the attendant wanted someone to talk to, even for a short time. I had noticed pulling up to the toll plaza that there was only one car in the parking lot next the small building where the attendants almost certainly used for breaks. Again, my first impression was that this poor guy was manning the south bound lanes all by his lonesome.

“Not to badly,” I answered as I watched him organize the smaller bills in his hand. “How's things on your end, sir?”

“Quiet,” he replied. “You're the first person I've seen since the start of my shift.”

I actually shivered a little at the idea of being stuck out in the middle of nowhere, essentially alone. But to make matters worse, that cold Sunday afternoon, the sky was dark and gray with clouds suggesting rain or even snow was possible. My overactive imagination being its usual a-hole self, I thought about one of the horror podcasts I had recently listened. The story had a deserted highway with a single individual driving alone in his car in similar weather conditions.

“Yeah, had to take my daughter back up to Clemson.” I said still watching him play with the money.

“They grow up in a flash,” he replied while finally handing me my change. “Mine are long married and have their own teenagers in high school,” he added leading me to believe I might actually look “young” to him.

As the attendant talked about his grand kids, I felt a strange need to ask him why he took the toll booth job. Was it strictly monetary, or did did he just want something to do? It was almost a certainty the guy was retired from his primary career. But to end up alone in a shelter in the middle of the road not much bigger than an old fashioned but now extinct telephone booth couldn't have been an improvement.

I don't exactly remember what the guy said about his grand kids, but it was usual lightweight stuff all people say about their offspring.

“Well, sir, take it easy,” I said laying my change in the seat next me.

“You too young man,” he replied with a big smile as I drove away.

Got to admit, I felt better after that short but friendly exchange. I think the toll attendant felt the same.

During that short conversation no other car passed me heading south and I saw no car heading north. About seven miles down I-185, I hit the second toll with that attendant not needing anything in the way of conversation. I paid my money and sped off without saying two words to the guy.

Working Around Hurry Up and Wait

 

Anyone associated with the United States Armed Forces should be intimately familiar with the concept of “Hurry up and Wait.” For those who don't have a clue, that phrase is used to signify a screwed up situation in which a person or group is forced to quickly complete a task, or reach a destination by a certain time, only for nothing to happen at that scheduled moment. In the military this usually occurs when other required tasks have not been completed.

Although in my experience it was dumbass officers and their inability to plan or outright fear of making a decision that triggered most Hurry up and Wait scenarios. Either way, back in 1999 I was forced into a Hurry up and Wait/no-win situation between my wife and the South Carolina National Guard that I so successfully navigated by changing the rules Captain James T. Kirk would have approved.

It started on Saturday morning on a typical drill weekend with my squad and I performing our usual duties. That involved our preventive maintenance checks on both our communication equipment and the military vehicles and took most of the morning. Nothing exciting and my squad went about the duties efficiently but still having a good time catching up with each other.

After chow, the rest of that day was spent on various soldier's training classes with neither the officers nor senior NCOs saying anything about important tasks that were supposed to be accomplished. And when we had the final formation later that afternoon, everyone in the unit went home thinking the Sunday drill would be a breeze.

The next morning though something had radically changed. The First Sergeant's demeanor at roll call that morning was icy at best and when the company CO (Commanding Officer) appeared, the entire unit knew something bad was up.

The company CO was at best a mediocre officer with little imagination and less personality who rarely left his office during drill weekends. Past experience had shown when he did walk out on the armory drill hall floor among the troops, something quite bad was about to happen.

The CO told everyone that the battalion commander, his boss, wasn't happy with our performance and that no one would be going home that day until he had a happy smile on his face. That to make the battalion commander happy would require a visual inventory of all our equipment. Something that probably should have started bright and early the previous morning to have a chance of being accomplished in a reasonable time.

Once the CO said his piece the First Sergeant took over and instructed the cooks to begin planning an evening meal, which meant we'd still be at the armory well past eighteen hundred hours. (6:00pm)

Here's where this situation was really going to screw me over. My son, who was four years-old at the time, was supposed to have his first soccer game around 2:30pm that day. Throwing more troubling gasoline on the fire, my wife and I were supposed to supply the after game snacks for the entire team. These snacks, consisting of twenty juice boxes and twenty packs of cookies, were being stored inside my car which was in the armory parking lot.

My wife's attitude about the National Guard was in no way going to get her invited to the wives' support group. Simply put the Guard had a really bad habit of fraking up any family plans. If something important or fun was going to happen in our area that month, you can bet a large sum of money that it would occur the same weekend as drill.

Naturally, after formation everyone was assholes and elbows to try and get everything done so we wouldn't have to stay so late. Remember National Guard troops are “citizen soldiers” who have civilian jobs and didn't want to be dead tired the next morning at the start of a normal work week. Even worse, some people work nightshift and would be going to work around eleven o'clock that night.

Contrary to what can only be called propaganda put out by the National Guard, most civilian employers hate having workers who also play weekend warrior. Having an employee in the Guard screws up work schedules and has a habit of pissing off coworkers who end up covering for the individual who is playing Guard soldier. Patriotism in America may be a mile wide but its depth can often be measured in inches.

My main issue was my son's soccer game. Missing that game was going to get me in big trouble with my wife and the rest of the team because of the snacks. But all during that morning I had absolutely no idea how I could break away in time or even get the snacks to my wife since she wouldn't be allowed on armory property.

Despite what the CO said about needing to make his boss happy, the rest of the morning turned into a Hurry up and Wait nightmare. All the unit officers got rounded up for an important meeting which somehow brought a stop to all activity. None of the NCOs wanted to proceed without assurances that their decisions were the right ones.

By chow that early afternoon I was getting pissed. I would have accepted the circumstances and continued to play the good soldier had the inventory continued like it was supposed. But when you had about one-hundred seventy or so troops just sitting around doing nothing it was time for me to think out of the box.

That outside the box thinking took the form of an old fashioned telephone booth inside the armory drill hall. Remember this was 1999 when cell phones hadn't yet become totally widespread. Yes, the phone booth was a relic even back then, but a nicely convenient one.

The drill hall floor was a buzz of activity, so no one really paid attention to me as I stepped inside and closed the door. Plus this phone booth was on the far end of where the company offices were located, so there was little chance anyone high up in the leadership would see me and later figure out my plan.

My plan revolved around calling one of my brothers and having him phone my unit and say he was involved in a car accident in Columbia and would need a ride back up to Easley, South Carolina where he lived. Which is more or less a two-hour drive from my location.

Thankfully my brother answered the phone and over the course of fifteen minutes we quickly ironed out the various details required to make my scheme work. Yes, it is better to tell the truth but in this instance the means did justify the end.

After hanging up I did my best to sneak away from the phone booth hoping no one would remember seeing me there. All that remained from then on was hoping my brother, who was nursing a nice beer buzz would remember to call my unit and give me a solid excuse to get the frak out of Dodge.

A nervous thirty-five minutes later the loudspeakers mounted on the drill hall floor and outside in the motor pool call for Sergeant Johnson to report to the office. I tried to play extra casual with everyone as I reported but no one will ever say I could be an actor.

Some seriously young Second Lieutenant I had never seen before handed me a note saying my brother was stranded up around north Columbia after being in a car accident. That he was okay but needed a way back home since his car was banged up pretty bad.

Success!!!!

The Lieutenant was going to cut me loose right then but the First Sergeant, a grizzled veteran who knew all the bullshit tricks stopped me as I was walking out. I handed him the note and repeated what the Second Lieutenant told me but I knew he wouldn't buy the story. The First Sergeant, took a deep breath then looked at me with an expression that confirmed what I feared. He clearly knew the whole story was a heaping pile of bullshit.

But instead of chewing on my ass and kicking me out of the office he said go get your brother and we'll see you next month. I have no idea why he went along with my scheme. I wasn't on his shit list but then again I wasn't in the group of soldiers he tended to favor. Whatever the case, the time was coming up on two o'clock and if I hurried across town I would make the start of my son's game.

I arrived at the game five minutes before it started and only earned a stern look from my wife. My son's team had their asses stomped but me being in my army BDU's serving juice boxes and cookies was a hit with the kids.

The following month, I learned that the rest of the unit wasn't dismissed until nine o'clock that night. No one ever made a comment about me skipping out the previous month but I sure as hell did my best to stay under the First Sergeant's radar from that moment on.

Yeah, I have no regrets and put into a similar situation I'd do it again.

Words and Actions

About a year before I retired from the National Guard my First Sergeant grabbed four other guys and myself early one Saturday morning and sent us to the Columbia fair grounds during the South Carolina State Fair to hand out recruiting fliers. It was easy, sham duty that usually went to the young, gung-ho, hotshots who lived and breathed weekend warrior action. I don't remember the other guys, but the only reason the First Sergeant threw me in the bunch was because I was in his line of sight at the right time.

So like good soldiers, we loaded up in our cars, drove downtown, and joined the mass of civilians already doing the rides, eating carnival food, looking at all the craft exhibits, along with general people watching. Since I was quickly approaching retirement and suffering from extreme burnout, handing out the propaganda pamphlets wasn't high on my Saturday priorities. At that time the National Guard was neck deep in deployments to both Afghanistan and Iraq with the recruiting fliers we were handing out still extolling the virtues of one weekend a month, two-weeks in the summer duty. Something no one with any sense would believe since Guard units were already doing year-long overseas deployments only to spend six or seven months home before getting orders to head back out.

As you may be able to imagine most of my time that day was spent eating fried Snickers bars, funnel cake, and other high calorie foods. All the sugary things that help make the Southern states national leaders in death from heart disease and diabetes. Understand, I still handed out the fliers but whenever a gullible civilian I was talking with showed signs of taking the glossy, focus group tested bait; I turned them over to one of the young, motivated hot shots.

Given that none of the fair goers we talked with wanted to seriously pursue the National Guard, I came away surprised at how South Carolinians could be both so hyper-patriotic but instinctively adverse to actually making a commitment to joining. To this day, I debate whether or not that made them smart and me stupid for entering military service. Or that their keen patriotism was just a shallow facade to hide outright cowardice and sloth.

Yes, my cynicism is getting obnoxious even to myself but it's well founded.

You might be surprised to know, even as I walked around carrying a bad attitude I did nothing to embarrass the National Guard, my uniform, or myself. You also need to understand that an attitude correction would hit me that day after I literally turned a corner in one of the fairgrounds buildings showing off various fine crafts.

If I remember correctly that particular building was where they had the displays showing off woodworking projects with the winning items in large glass cases in the center of the largest room. My recruiting group made our way through the various rooms both admiring the woodworking projects and handing out fliers to anyone who took notice of us.

Without really paying attention we entered the last room of the building before the maze-like layout of the displays deposited us back outside. Two boys, around seven or eight years-old, were in our path intently looking at one of the woodworking projects in a large glass case. I don't know if its was our reflections on the glass that caught their attention or maybe the sounds of our voices but my group and I really startled those kids.

They both turned around suddenly with looks of astonishment on their faces and said the word, “Soldiers” with a tone of clear reverence. Being soldiers, at least of the weekend warrior type, we naturally chatted with the kids for a few minutes before heading back outside.

It was a simple and brief encounter but one that reminded me that someone is always watching our actions and listening to our words. Like I wrote earlier, I did nothing that day to shame my uniform but my attitude was especially bad for a whole host of reasons, many justified given the situation at that time. I can't imagine the impression those kids would have come away with had I exposed them to my slow simmering bad attitude.

Fast forward to our current, much worse situation in my opinion, and I find myself seething at the actions of certain individuals in out national leadership and the media sycophants who carry their banner of fear and prejudice. The Orange Buffoon occupying the White House has made a habit of identifying the COVID-19 virus as the “China Virus” in a passive-aggressive manner that does nothing but stoke hate towards anyone of Asian decent.

Now OB, in his fourth-grade way of explaining it, says he uses the China Virus term since it originates from that country. This ignores a century or so of derogatory and outright racist terminology aimed at describing Asians, no matter where they were born or what citizenship they hold. More to the point, OB does this to prop up a bogeyman/scapegoat to cover for his criminal incompetence in the handling of the pandemic.

Enough about OB's usual behaviors that does nothing but lowers the standing of the United States and many Americans to the level of street thugs and illiterate, white trailer trash. What really pissed me off was how nervous my daughter was last week upon returning home from a lone trip to the grocery store.

My daughter is Asian, born in China, and went to the nearby grocery store to buy a few food items for herself. The same trip she she was made possibly hundreds of times since getting her driver's license. The difference this time was the fact that she had numerous people stare at her in a manner they had never done before. My daughter swears no one said anything to her in the grocery store but the stares she was receiving were highly unsettling. Upon hearing this, I instantly said that she wouldn't make another trip to the grocery store alone while the local natives, all middle class white folk, were being stirred up by pandemic hysteria.

Yeah, I blame the Orange Buffoon since he is damn near worshiped in the area and state I live. People I know hang on his every word and believe he literally can do no wrong. All his numerous faults are overlooked and ignored and if anything goes wrong during his management of the country they fallback on the scapegoats he serves up during his dictator-like speeches. So when OB pokes at long held racists tropes his collection of toadies quickly fall into line.

I didn't like George W. Bush as president and still believe many of his actions were at a minimum misguided. But not once during his years in office did I think he ever poked at this countries old prejudices against any ethnic groups. The Orange Buffoon on the other hand stirs up old prejudices and fears at every opportunity. It's like watching a slow motion hate crime on a national scale.

The prompting of these ethnic fears is how atrocities happen in other countries. My skin crawls at the idea that I live around and work with people who are so easily swayed by the Buffoon's words and behaviors because this time, it's on a very personal level.

Celebrity Equinox Cruise: December 14-21 PART FIVE

For me the best part of the trip was visiting the Mayan ruins at Tulum, a recognized World Heritage site facing the Caribbean Sea. The trouble was that getting to Tulum was a bit of an adventure since the Celebrity Equinox docked on the the island of Cozumel.

The seas were already rough as we pulled up to the docks on Cozumel with the ship you see already tied up. There was a second cruise ship in the immediate area that for some reason that had anchored nearby instead of docking. Scuttlebutt among the experienced travelers was that both of these ships were based in Europe and that do regular transatlantic runs. That's what you get when you live in countries were bosses and management don't think of worker vacations as infringements on their rights to squeeze every damn cent of profit out of their employees.  

To get to the ruins we had to board a ferry to the mainland, which involved us doing the kindergarten-like walk from the Equinox to the smaller vessel. The Mein Schiff 1 you see in the picture was a beautiful ship and I would have loved to see the insides if it was possible. Ignore the drop dead gorgeous blonde in the picture. Yeah, the guy in the orange shirt knew I was checking out the blonde crew member of the Mein Schiff 1. On a side note, there are a whole series of cruise ships carrying the Mein Schiff name, you would think a premiere cruise line could cough up some euros for better, more original names.  

This is the ferry that took us to the Mexican mainland and brought us back. I give the locals that crewed it the highest marks in professionalism and seamanship. The only problem I had was with the weather conditions that made the trip to the mainland difficult and damn near intolerable returning. I didn't get seasick going out but the rough seas coming back to Cozumel had me dry heaving into a plastic bag. In fact, coming back to Cozumel the crew had to stop the boat twice to check its condition after something outside came loose. By that time, I was French kissing the barf bag and going through my first flop sweat in years. It got so bad my wife was worried my heart might go bonkers. It didn't and fifteen minutes after we finally got back to the docks I was back to my usual abnormal.     

Not exactly sure why I took this picture or included it in this post.

This was the stairway leading up to the entrance to the ruins. Had a fine collection of people from North America and Europe. All during the time I heard French, German, Spanish, and what I think was Dutch I wanted to scream out that I was an American that hated trump. I resisted, mainly because my wife would have probably slapped me across the back of the head.

The entrance to the ruined city. Tulum was one of the last cities built and inhabited by the Mayans. It reached it peak between the 13th and 15th centuries and managed to survive for around 70 years after the Spanish began their occupation of what would become Mexico. 

As you might be able to guess, the diseases brought by Spanish colonization resulted in significant moralities among the native population. This disrupted Tulum's society eventually causing the city to be abandoned.  

I first found out about Tulum years ago from watching a documentary on the Mayans. Further research on my part turned up beautiful, sunny, and clear pictures highlighting the green of the vegetation, the light blue of the sky, and the dark blue of the ocean, along with white fluffy clouds. On the day of our visit it was cloudy and rainy throwing off my ability to take a decent picture.  

THis was our tour guide who said his name was Jesus. He was extremely knowledge on the Mayan civilization and took excellent care of his spoiled norteamericano guests. That being said, I got a heavy vibe that he didn't like me. Part of that may have come from the army surplus booney hat I was wearing as well as my camouflage backpack. It wouldn't be the first time that the stink of the "Ugly American" caused me an issue with citizens from other nations. I'm tall, Caucasian, and pretty much a poster child for white American privilege even though I try not to be a dick.     

Too many similar pictures, yeah I know. Was trying to get one to be decent given the conditions and my lack of talent.

I believe I snapped about ten of these while playing with the preset filters on my camera.

One of the current locals at Tulum. He seemed wholly unimpressed with everyone. 

Not sure, since I never could get the tour guide's attention to ask a question, but I guess this was a well.

Probably the best picture out of the bunch. You can actually see some blue sky.

Really wasn't up to spending hours researching the use of the different buildings. Time at the ruins was incredibly limited since the ship had to leave later that afternoon.

By this point the tour guide had broken us into two groups, one that went straight back to the shops and the other which stayed to take more pictures. I stayed to take more pictures and didn't get a chance to prowl all the neat souvenirs.

I did get to the cliff face to snap a bunch of pictures there. No, I didn't get the sunny skies or crystal clear waters like I have seen in magazines. But at least I can say I have seen one of the most remarkable sites on Earth. 

And in the space of a few minutes the clouds came back in and made taking pictures difficult.

Clouds rolled out again but by this time I was down to about 10 minutes before I had to race back to the bus.

The path leading out of the city.

Our next stop was a beach resort that was supposed to be a place to relax and swim. Except the weather had turned bad again with it raining steadily. We got our meal, great local seafood, but no one wanted to go swimming in the rain.

Not sure if this is a real fishing boat or a decoration.

I didn't go swimming but I did take a long walk on the beach. My wife stayed under the shelter drinking coffee.

After the nightmare return trip to Cozumel, the Equinox soon departed for Grand Cayman. As we were heading out I caught sight of one of the Disney ships heading into Cozumel. By this time of the cruise I was perfectly happy with Celebrity Cruise Lines and didn't miss Mickey at all.

Resisting Oblivion

The only human desire that rivals the ancient wish for eternal life is to be remembered. In fact since researchers had shown other animals can cooperate in groups, use tools, and even have a type of culture, the desire to be remembered by those that come after us might be something that defines what it is to be human. I say “might be” because given what we have already learned from highly social animals like chimps and some cetaceans, it wouldn't surprise me that they too have some innate wish to be remembered by their descendants. How we would find evidence of that, I have absolutely no idea.

Some of the most poignant and hopeful pictures I have seen involve hand paintings on the walls of caves that can be dated to have being made tens of thousands of years ago. What goes beyond mind blowing is that such behavior was once thought limited to just our paleolithic Homo sapien kinfolk. An extremely recent discover in Spain has found cave artwork and a hand print produced by Neanderthals that dates back to sixty-four thousand years ago. The earliest evidence of Homo sapiens living in Europe doesn't appear until twenty-thousand years later.

Interpretations vary, but to me cave hand paintings are at least a partial declaration that “I existed.” That in a time long before writing, hand paintings on the walls of caves transcended the limitations inherent to intelligent creatures who know they will eventual die and be forgotten. Of course as humans progressed we created written languages that were often carved into the sides monuments to declare our triumphs and achievements so that the memories of great exploits would live on, hopefully forever. Years ago while reading about the ancient Egyptian pharaohs, I found it somewhat humorous to learn that the hieroglyphic these ancient kings had carved on the side of their vanity-driven monuments never really mentioned any defeats they suffered in their lives or military campaigns. One Egyptologist on a television documentary half-jokingly suggested that any failures or defeats were carefully spun by the pharaohs' scribes to seem positive by the clever use of careful wording.

As the centuries passed humans made sure anything they created had their name attached to it. Whether it be books, paintings, or any number of other creations or discoveries. It's just human nature for a person to want everyone to know that their hard work or inspiration produced something that will live on after they are gone.

This gets to the reason I am writing this self-reflective crap. A few months ago I got into a conversation with someone about our respective hobbies. Normally, I absolutely do not reveal my blogging to anyone, my politics alone makes me an outsider here in South Carolina but when your hobby can be considered rather abstract and even slightly cerebral, well that just makes you a total weirdo in the eyes of these sophisticated and nuanced folks. But since the individual I was talking with seemed a little obsessive over his model train collection, a fine hobby no doubt, I thought what the Hell.

The question this person finally asked what was the point to all my efforts? I had already told him that it has been years since I made a serious effort to have anything professionally published. He knew enough about blogging to understand that the vast majority of these websites go completely unnoticed by the wider world. My usual, and largely true answer is that I use blogging as a way to blow off steam and frustration. But there is a deeper answer that you can probably guess.

At some point I intend begin recording all my rants and various attempts at fiction onto some sort of permanent storage. The idea being that when I finally head off into oblivion my kids and their kids will have a record of my thoughts. While in no way comparable to the massive ancient Egyptian monuments left by the pharaohs, there is more than a little bit of vanity associated with my intentions. Then again, I like the idea of imagining what one of my descendants one-hundred years or more from now would make of my ravings. This is assuming humans do not bring about a planetary environmental collapse in the next several decades, civilization destroying pandemic, or just go out with a good old fashioned nuclear war.

This train of thought naturally leads me to speculate on the ultimate way to be remembered. As our technology has advanced the ways to recording our existence has become more numerous and sophisticated. Making a video recording of ourselves is so easy these days we're on the other end of Clarke's Law that says, “Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.” Just image Joe and Jane Smith from the early twentieth century seeing a commonplace video recording of a kid's birthday party. They may not run away in fear from the magic picture box, but they would have absolutely no idea what to make of it.

While the technology is still decades, if not centuries away, I can see people making recordings of their consciousness that would be fully interactive with anyone accessing them. This brings to mind the question would such consciousness snapshots be sentient beings deserving of human rights and protections? Or would our descendants consider them nothing but more sophisticated versions of home movies no one wants to see?

Delving into the dusty and ramshackle regions of my mind.

For some unfathomable reason Mother Theresa over at “The Rain in Spain…” tagged my dull and boring self for the meme asking I spout off seven remarkable things (outright lies) about this poor Southern redneck. This week at work was frustrating and crazy, which delayed my participation. For that, I apologize to Mother T.  I do enjoy these little trips into the dusty regions of my ramshackle mind, I hope I do not scare anyone away, still working in a rush so forgive the typos.  

1.)This is going to amuse a lot of people and have some question my manhood but I actually like the music of ABBA. I never owned any of their CD’s but since I was a kid when one of their songs played on the radio, I would soon be grooving to their music. Now when I was in high school I kept my appreciation of Sweden’s super group a highly classified secret.  So yeah, as my contemporaries were zoning out to KISS, Twisted Sister, and Black Sabbath I was geeking out to a group that back then was at a minimum snickered at or outright ridiculed.

A few months ago, my wife bought a used DVD copy of the movie “Momma Mia”, which is based around many ABBA songs. When I hear her upstairs watching it most of the time I will eventually drift up to the family room myself.  One thing about the movie that just does not ever seem right is hearing Pierce Brosnan sing.

2.) It is a subject I have never touched on, but I met my wife at a Jimmy Buffett concert in Charlotte, North Carolina.  It was the summer of 1992 and I had just graduated with a nice and shiny two-year Associate degree from one of South Carolina’s finer community colleges. My job search had started a few months before and after sending out scores of resumes, I was hitting a humongous goose egg. It was several months after the conclusion of Operation Desert Storm and America was welcoming home thousands of troops with the military gearing up for a massive draw down in strength.

Curious enough, I had left the active army back in 1990 at the conclusion of my four-year enlistment when word started to come down from officials about a reduction in force back then. I figured I would beat the rush by leaving the service, get into college,  and be sitting pretty as a civilian long before the majority of troops were sent home. Little did I know that barely a month after I rejoined the civilian ranks Saddam would do something very stupid and invade little Kuwait.     

My major was electronics and by the time I had my degree I found myself competing for entry-level technician jobs with former Navy personnel with over twenty-years of experience.  Let us just say by that time it was a buyer’s market with forty-something ex-Navy Chief Petty Officers almost coming to blows with each other over a minimum wage technician jobs at Chucky Cheese pizza places fixing old fashion video games.    

My brother Steve took pity on my sorry, unemployed soul and coughed up the bucks for both of us to go see Jimmy’s concert. By chance, I ended up sitting beside the future Dragonwife, who was newly divorced and accompanied by some blind date bozo her best friend had arranged.Thirty minutes into the concert her blind date understood which way the wind was blowing and went home early.

Because of my attending a Jimmy Buffett concert my son, Darth Spoilboy would eventually be born along with my daughter Miss Wiggles being adopted from China. Moreover, my wife and I have been married now for what seems like a couple of millenniums.

3.) One of my most pleasant memories from childhood involves a camping trip to a small barrier island, which was actually nothing more than a glorified sandbar when I was about five years-old.  My hometown, Georgetown, South Carolina sits on the edge of a coastal estuary called Winyah Bay that is used even now for fishing and simple recreation.  While growing up my family would often make fishing trips into the bay and since Georgetown was a port city big freighters were often seen heading towards the docks or back out to sea.  Those freighters fascinated me since I had some idea they were part of a much larger world that I could not comprehend.  Many times as we fished on the bay I would watch those big ships heading back toward the ocean waving at the guys leaning against the railings and marvel at the places they were going to see.

It was early in the spring of 1969 and my dad loaded up his boat with the old tent, an old cooler, and other supplies and along with his best friend and his son we were a few hours later in Winyah Bay heading out the same direction as those freighters. We set up camp on a small barrier island way above the high tide line next a medium sized tree that had somehow taken root. The island was about a mile long but was no wider than fifty yards.  The one memory of the place that is still clear after all these years is pristine beach facing the ocean with huge shells littered all around and how almost Caribbean-clear the water looked.

We fished on the open ocean, a new thing for me, all day after getting the camp setup. Later I caught a small hammerhead shark and who I battled, at least in my mind, like Santiago from “The Old Man and The Sea.” My dad took a picture of me holding up the two-foot creature still attached to the line even though my arms felt like warm taffy. We cut the shark loose then and put him back in the water. He swam around the boat for several minutes, slapped it with his tail a couple of times and then disappeared.

After putting ashore at the camp, we had a manly dinner of canned spam on bread washing it down with Pepsi. As the sun went down my dad and his best friend went night fishing leaving Jack and me at the campsite. After stern instruction about what not to do, we watched them fade off into the night. Jack and I had a ball pretty much doing what we wanted but for me the best thing was watching a freighter heading out to sea.

4.) Watching my teenage son is a riot, free of most of the bad family drama I went through the kid is crazy smart and popular in his group of friends. Now if I don’t have a heart attack worrying when he gets his driver’s license I figure I will be ahead of the game.

5.) My daughter is eight years-old as of this post and if I worry about anything, it is she. Since I was in the military, I have some insight into the workings of the male brain. Hell, not too long ago I was one of those hormone-driven punks and if I ever get into serious trouble if will be because one of those creatures hurt my daughter. But, do not even begin to think I consider my daughter some delicate, hot house flower. She is an utter firecracker and in a few ways the boys do not understand what she can do to them.

6.) I am finding middle-age pretty much sucks, but since fighting it is stupid and the alternative is death which is a serious mega-bummer I can deal with the increased fire threat on my birthday cakes each year. Now if there was a couple of things I could change I would wish for better eyesight and my damn hair back. I suffer from a medical condition with my eyes preventing all forms of corrective surgery, as of right now and the foreseeable future, so barring a miracle I’m screwed on that end. However, I am seriously thinking about joining the hair club for men.

7.) My final aspect I will reveal for this meme is an oldie but a goody, I unreservedly from the deepest bowels of my soul hate suburbia.

Under the Night Sky

The stars have always been a source of fascination for me since I was old enough to hold a pair of binoculars up to the night sky in my grandfather's backyard. During those times lights from homes had yet to overwhelm the stars and planets and I spent hours staring at the craters of the moon, the tiny disc of Jupiter circled by its largest moons, and even the faint wisps of the rings around Saturn. These were real places to me long before the Pioneer and Voyager probes sailed by sending their pictures back to Earth.

As much as I enjoyed it I never delved deeply into actual astronomy. One Christmas I did receive a telescope as a present but its lenses were weak compared to the old binoculars my grandfather owned and the tripod mount could never be tighten enough to allow a steady view. Many times I would have it pointed at an object only to see it slowly drift downward before I could look through the eyepiece. Another reason I lost interest was that in my hometown I was the only person who showed any curiosity in the subject. You spend enough time outside at night in any suburban setting and eventually some busybody will become convinced you are trying to peep into windows. So as I grew older I moved on to other things less likely to have the sheriff called out on me.

That was the case until one night out in the Mojave Desert at Fort Irwin, California. Fort Irwin is the National Training Center which during my time in the active army in the late 1980's taught soldiers what to expect if the Soviet Union ever crossed the Fulda Gap and started World War Three. During my visits brigade sized units faced off against a similar sized opposition force trained in Soviet tactics and who used aircraft and vehicles that were altered to look like their Soviet counterparts. It was extremely fast paced during the daily battles, for those lucky enough to be assigned to a maneuver unit, and very fun to a much younger and gung-ho version of myself. But like anything to do with the military one hour of sheer terror, or fun in this case, is nothing compared to the other twenty-three of utter boredom waiting for something to happen. It was in the God awful, dark hours of the very early morning while in the desert that I noticed the stars again.

We were a few hours away from the armored vehicles in the lead maneuver unit moving into position for the battle that morning and I was lying on top of an old M-113 armored personnel carrier trying to catch a few more minutes of sleep. During that time strict light discipline was being enforced as part of the training to prevent anyone from giving away our position. The other guys in and on the track vehicle with me were trying to sleep themselves and despite the events about to happen a deep silence hung over everything. Looking up at the night sky unable to sleep it was then that I noticed the stars blazing above me like I had never seen them before.

Back home on the best nights the Milky Way was a faint haze stretching across the sky but at Fort Irwin it flowed like an intense river of light above me and I would be a liar if I did not say I was in awe of what I saw. The Orion constellation, the only one I really knew how to find, stood out bright and clean and it was only then that I could see how the ancients had come to describe that grouping of stars like they did.

With the naked eye alone everything above stood out in its full glory as it must have from the earliest days of humans walking the earth. But given my location and what I was doing I had another instrument that would add another astounding level to what I was seeing. The vehicle I was on had a pair of night vision goggles on board and with a little effort I was able to get my hands on them without disturbing anyone.

After I got the device turned on and looking skyward what had been awesome with the naked eye became unspeakably beautiful as the instrument gathered the weakest light from deep space and amplified it many times. A multitude of stars that were too dim to be seen with the naked eye shined with a radiant beauty that again left me bewildered and nearly drunk. During those quiet moments as everyone around me made themselves ready for the training that would teach them how to kill as efficiently as possible I was struck with the futility of the whole endeavor. Looking up and seeing all those stars and the galaxy itself staring back down on us it occurred to me in an almost a painful way how damn small and unimportant we were in the true scheme of things. The idea that anything we could conceive would be significant enough to kill each other over was ludicrous when something far greater than us screamed each night to be notice. Like all moments of epiphany and revelation the more mundane affairs of humans soon demanded attention and it wasn't long before I was speeding across the desert with my fellow soldiers.

Tonight as I arrived at work the hospital was its usual center of human foolishness. Standing at the top of the parking garage I looked out below as people screamed, yelled, and cursed each other over any number of things. From my perch I could see a couple clutching each other walking toward the emergency room with fear emanating from them like sound waves. Two nearby men walked away from the entrance with one holding a heavily bandaged arm with a spot of blood visible on the bandages even from my location. Beside the people machinery hummed in the distance, lights from a hundred empty windows burned, and a steady flow of cars entered and left the parking lot it was then that I looked above me and saw only a few stars and planets visible and able to overcome all the man-made light that was trying to snuff them out.

The lives of people of course come before the hopeless mental meanderings of a country boy perplexed by the strange and self serving behavior of the naked primates that run things here on Earth but as I looked above me tonight I was struck at how our egoistical and mindless pursuits ignore the greater grandeur of existence. It's a shame really and I truly believe it leads to a banal and empty life which we try to fill with material things. Long story short, I miss the stars and planets I saw that night in the desert and hope one day to see them like that again.

The Best Show in Florida

For years Sunday nights were special for my siblings and me because The Wonderful World of Disney television show with its fascinating and funny stories from the life of animals out in the wilderness to cartoons showing the misadventures of Mickey, Donald, and Goofy. Up until the early 1970’s the show was my family’s only connection to the world and characters Walt created.

Some nights the show would highlight the Disneyland theme park out in California enchanting my younger cousins, siblings, and myself with images of the fantastic rides and amazing sights for anyone lucky enough to live near it or able to afford the trip to such a fantastic place. As much as my kinfolk and myself may have desired to see the home of Mickey and Donald at that moment in time such a long journey out west might as well as been on the other side of the planet for us given money and time demands that our parents faced.

The opening of Disney World outside Orlando, Florida in 1971 changed all that. I do not believe news filtered down to children then as fast as it seems to do now but when the announcement of Disney World’s construction reached us I do vaguely remember something akin to a small riot erupting with only my grandmother threatening to make us pray all afternoon bringing back some order. Other small kiddy riots and celebrations occurred in the neighborhood and school among our friends with the spreading realization that Disney World’s location would allow us a chance to experience what we all saw on television. After that, it just became a waiting game for everyone to see when the parents would finally breakdown and take us.

The summer of 1972 was the magic moment for my siblings and me with our mom and dad loading up the Chevrolet and beginning the drive south to the Sunshine state. Now as much as the marriage between our mom and dad was an utter disaster on par with major earthquakes and killer tsunamis I have to give them credit for even attempting such a trip. Having them sitting so close together confined in a hot car for hours with four small children in the back was just asking for trouble.

Being the oldest kid, I remember some of the drive but unlike today travelling along I-95 with its countless opportunities for bathroom breaks and convenient place to eat, I recall very long stretches of nothing but billboards and trees lining the roadside. Only when we crossed over into Florida do I remember seeing the ramshackle souvenir and fruit stands that sold dead baby alligators dipped in lacquer frozen in menacing positions and countless bags of Florida oranges stacked far higher than I was tall at that age. Arriving in Orlando back then was a very different world as compared to the huge city that exists today. There was an absence of other flashy tourist traps and while I could be wrong, to me the town retained a hint of the rural atmosphere that existed before Walt discovered the place.

Driving into the parking lot of the motel my dad picked for our stay in the Orlando area was a huge disappointment. The first thing I noticed was the lack of a pool that every motel in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina just thirty miles up north from my hometown had in abundance. The place looked rundown and a little scary for some reason but that may have been because it somehow reminded me of the Bates motel which I knew about from seeing the movie Psycho at the hometown drive-in with my uncle and his date.

My parents, who never missed a chance to argue, really went at it in that parking lot with my mom wanting us to find another place so we could have a pool. My dad’s position was that the trip was already way to expensive and that the whole purpose was for us kids to see Disney, not swim in a pool which we could do a lot cheaper back home. What decided the matter was the radio, which almost at that moment began reporting a hurricane moving toward the Atlantic coast of Florida. Some serious dark and intimidating clouds even then were floating by with the wind picking up speed seemingly by the minute.

It was not long before that motel was providing refuge from howling winds and blowing rain but neither my siblings nor I were worried about that. We had heard our parents discussing the possibility the hurricane could derail the entire trip, forcing us back home without actually making it inside Disney World. For me the stage was set for a long night’s vigil to wait out the storm willingly saying prayers to the point my grandmother would have been proud.

Cooped up in the room for so long I clearly remember the fake wood paneling on the walls that for some reason was popular back then. The two creaky queen sized beds with frayed blue blankets that had my mother and baby sister in one and my dad and youngest brother, Peter, in the other. Middle brother Bobby and I were sharing a lumping rollaway bed that the old lady who ran the motel, along with her husband, brought us after we checked in. In the corner of the room was a huge wood paneled console television with a fuzzy color picture that not only had the standard three national networks broadcast through local affiliates but some sort of strange, to me, independent station that aired movies and ancient shows that my parents remembered from their teenage years.

As the night progressed old movies and archaic reruns came and went on that independent station broken only by and occasional tired and worried weather guy in a rumpled suit giving an update on the storm.

Sometime that morning the wind and rain that at times shook the entire motel stopped so suddenly that its absence was actually scary in itself. It had been a good while since the rumpled weatherman had interrupted whatever show was on to update where the hurricane was heading leaving the big question of whether we would reach Disney World still in some doubt. With the wind and rain apparently over, I opened the room door to peer outside seeing only the parking lot with minor debris lying around and the motel owners gathering it up. Feeling the need to satisfy my concerns over how the hurricane might have ruined our trip, I decided to ask the old man and his wife what, if anything, they knew.

The old couple had taken seats underneath the awning directly over the entrance to the motel office and for the most part just seemed to be enjoying the return of calm weather and the lingering breeze. Both saw me approaching them but neither seemed overly concerned about a young boy they did not know leaving his parents behind in a motel room early in the morning after a hurricane. I actually remember taking this as a good omen figuring if they were going to hassle me they would have said something earlier.

“What can I do for you this fine morning young man?” The old man said looking at me with a friendly twinkle in his eye. The old lady looked towards me and just smiled then turned away returned to her thought.

The man’s accent was the first thing I noticed the second was how genuinely friendly he seemed. Grownups forget that many kids have a natural ability to know when their presence is only tolerated and my instinct was telling me this man truly being sociable.

“Sir, I was wondering is the hurricane coming back, my parents have said that if the storm stays we will have to go back home without seeing Disney World.” I said hoping the answer I would get would be the good one.

The old man laughed and slapped his knee just like I had seen in several Western movies. “Don’t worry little one, the storm is moving up the coast and will be memory before long.”

That of course was just the answer I wanted leaving a big smile on my face. I began to turn away and head back to my room but the old man stopped me.

“Please, sit down and talk with me for awhile. We can enjoy the nice breeze, which will be gone soon, and we all will be sweating like pigs again. What type of soda do you like?” He asked and after telling him grape the old man yelled out to his wife to get me a bottle of what I wanted.

With a bottle of grape soda in my hands we began a conversation that had him asking as many question about me as I asked of him. He asked me about my school, my favorite subjects, what foods I liked, what I thought of my younger siblings, what I wanted to see at Disney World, and many other things. From the questions I asked him I learned he was German, that he and his wife had come to this country a few years after World War Two. Since my knowledge of the war at that age came primarily from “Hogan’s Heroes” reruns I think he forgave me for asking him if he fought for the bad guys, which I believe he did. I have no idea for certain if he did fight for the wrong side and if he did what he may have done, seen, or knew about during those bloody years, all I do know he was a kind man to me and was clearly enjoying my visit.

Our conversation eventually drifted to the Apollo program and it was then I learn he had seen most of the rocket launches at Cape Canaveral since they began using that site. He had even seen the Apollo 11 launch that had taken the astronauts to the surface of the moon. We talked about what we would like to see next happen in space and my hopes of what would be common up there when I grew up.

Just when things were starting to wind down there was a rather large splash across the road from his motel and it was then that I noticed the full moon reflecting off the water of large pond.

“Young man, you came all this way to see strange creatures and a fake castle, you need to see the best part of Florida before it is paved over and forgotten.” The old man rushed inside the office and grabbed a huge flashlight but before coming back out turned off all the outside lights. With only the glow from the moon we both walked across the road that the entire time we talked was completely devoid of any passing cars. As I was taught, I looked both ways before crossing and noticed how isolated his motel was, the only lights I could see were to a small gas station a few miles down the road.

“I know it is hard for active young boys like you but be silent and watch the water and the sides of the pond.” He said to me as we stood on the far side of the road.

The first thing I noticed was the gently swaying trees on the edge of the water. Their long dangling limbs seemed to be dancing in the breeze painting ripples on the water where they touched the pond. In the water gentle swirls showed where bass played and occasionally jumped looking to catch a flying insect themselves returning after the passing of the storm. After turning on the old man’s huge flashlight sinister pairs of eyes were spotted in the water cruising along like submarines stalking unknowing merchant ships. And like castaway survivors on small deserted islands bands of turtles clung to limbs of fallen trees sticking out of the water.

Using the beam of light to probe the shore of the pond brought the snorting sounds of wild pigs roaming around. At one point the light reflected off the eyes of some species of wildcat lounging on the limb of a tree, an angry snarl resulted in me disturbing it and it jumped from the tree and disappear back into the darkness. It was only when several pairs of those sinister eyes cruising the waters began coming our way did the old man pull me back across the road and turn his business lights back on.

“Well young man, remember this night for me and what I showed you when you are all grown up and have children of your own.” He said shaking my hand as if I was a real adult and with that he sent me back to my room where I found everyone still sleeping.

We did indeed make it to Disney World and even with my parents complaining my siblings and I had a great time. Many years have passed since that old gentleman showed me the true wonder of Florida and each time I find myself in that area I think of him and that pond. I have no idea where his motel was located and figure since it was only twenty minutes from the entrance to Disney World some giant resort or outlet mall now occupies that location. Such is the price of what we call progress but the show on that pond with a full moon hanging in the sky will stay with me until the day I die.