Mama said there would be days like this...

Sometimes though the universe does give warnings.

Anyone not lucky enough to be born with a silver foot or spoon in their mouths quickly comes to learn that some days simply suck. That the nagging feeling people sometimes have certain mornings that they should stay in bed as they throw back the covers and moved to take on the day IS a message from the universe because while most may not start a war for idiotic reasons and lies or meltdown a nuclear reactor none the less nothing they do that day will turn out right. Frankly I have more than my share of those feelings suggesting that God does care for children, fools, and the United States of America as the saying I’ve heard many times goes. I’ll leave the guessing to what category of the three I fit in to y’all. For those needing help, and with the high school graduation rate in some areas of the country like they are I’ll give a vague hint, let’s just say I’m not a child or a nation-state. Sometimes though those feelings just don’t sink through to the CPU in my brain and I can be found almost making an art out of screwing something up. I’ve even at times contemplated applying for a grant from the National Endowment for the Arts because some of the things I do surly could be considered.

My most famous screw up goes all the way back to a summer job I had with the South Carolina Highway Department while still a junior in high school. The crew I was part of for the past few hot summer mornings had been pouring cement for a new section of flooring for the massive expansion for the work shop. I don’t remember all the procedures for smoothing out the drying cement we did but it was extensive and time consuming. One part of it though I will remember to my dying day, in fact every time I see one of the fulltime highway department employees back in Georgetown they have taken on the duty of telling the story as loudly as they can to as many people around that will listen.

We had already spent several days on smoothing out the new cement floor when the full timers brought some seriously weird looking device to the worksite. As best as I can describe imagine a large floor fan without its front cover sitting on the cement with a lawnmower engine sitting on top of the back of the fan. Throw in a lawnmower handle sticking out from the engine to guide and control the contraption. The large blades on the thing, resting directly on the cement, were supposed to smooth out the cement a lot quicker than what we had been using the previous day. Me being young and eager to return to jobs located far closer to the beach for reasons I’m sure all can figure out I wanted to get the job finished. The crew I worked with not being anywhere near my age and married was content to lazily sip coffee and eat their breakfast sandwiches. While those guys were very good to me that summer and I thought a lot of them I can describe them pretty well by saying they could have fit right in as extras in the old Hee Haw cast without changing clothes. I pestered them enough to get them to explain the new machine called a cement planer that I hoped would have me cruising down to the beach later that day. They in turn, once I was instructed, sat back and strangely began snickering. The planer started right up and I grabbed the throttle to engage the blades. When the blades started turning I didn’t have the planer balanced correctly and instead of spinning in one spot and moving only where I wanted it with my hands on the handle I starting to be spun very quickly in one spot. Now throw in some sort of throttle lock that my inexperienced hands couldn't figure out so just letting go and having it stop wasn’t an option. So for some time period that to me could have been a couple of hours but was really only a few seconds I felt like some kid on a marry-go-round doing warp speed. One of the guys at some point came up behind me and fingered the throttle some way to get it to disengage. As soon as that was done my savior, and the rest of the South Carolina Hee Haw cast, just about all fell to the ground laughing. The rest of that day my co-workers relived and reenacted my first and last experience with the cement planer to the entire crew that worked at the Georgetown county highway department section. Even the section manger, a close friend to my Uncle George, came out the next day bringing me a cup of coffee to laugh about the event, plus, to send me with the crew doing work at Pawleys Island. So it is with humble respect knowing that some days just suck that I offer:

Drivers Flood Station for 35 Cent Gas

(04-11) 19:29 PDT Wilmington, N.C. (AP) --

Traffic was backed up and police were called to control the crowd after a Wilmington gas station accidentally set the pump price at 35 cents a gallon.

The Wilmington Star-News reported Friday that hundreds of drivers flooded a BP station for the cheap gas after the price dropped around 9 a.m. Thursday.

Station employee Shane Weller said the price for premium gasoline was supposed to be $3.35 a gallon. He complained that customers paid the cheaper price all day without saying a word.

It was all the extra traffic that led station employees to the mistake around 6 p.m. They found it after calling their district manager, looking for permission to changing the price as a way of stemming the flow of customers.

I've watched the people who work at convenience stores and it is a thankless low paying job in which most customers view the workers less important than they do the slushy machine. I'm sure that some convenience store company has to be researching robotic technology so the human factor could be eliminated all together. So Shane has my respect and sympathy but when you have days like that at least karma has a way of balancing it out for him and the customers.

Campground observations

Pondering how we try and escape from our daily lives but only end up bringing the issues with us. Yes, that is me on the beach wishing some lady in a bikini would walk by.

I also apologize for my numerous errors in grammar that were in this post before I noticed and corrected them. I really have to stop trying to write while under the influence.

When people speak of camping generally images of the wilderness and being away from civilization come to mind. But I have to credit the amazing American inventiveness in taking the suburban experience and shaping it for camping. Joe Cool and the lovely Mrs. Cool picked Miss Wiggles and me up Thursday afternoon for the much awaited adult version of spring break that would take us away from the usual grind of daily life. Dragonwife and my son Darth Spoilboy had caught a plane earlier that day to visit some of her people still living in the greater Virginia, DC, and Maryland area leaving me free of spousal oversight for the weekend. So, while we all were missing Spoilboy, Wiggles and I boarded the Cool’s party express van and made our way down to the coast. The idea was to make it to the camp ground before night fall, get the tent up, then kick back with an extended taste testing of Buffett’s Landshark Lager as Miss Wiggles roasted some marshmallows . Being dedicated parrotheads, Joe Cool and I had recognized some weeks ago that we both had fallen off on our duty in supplying Jimmy with our share of money so he could continue to fly his planes, visit exotic tropical places, and avoid all concert locations easily accessible for us to get to without having to take several days off. Yeah, this has been sort of bugging us for the last several years. He came to Columbia a few years ago but the tickets sold out in fifteen minutes due to the small venue and the prices people wanted for second sales would have required another mortgage on the house, selling a major organ, or going into the high priced gigolo business that neither Joe Cool or I are ready to afflict on the fairer sex, yet. Other larger venues like Raleigh, Atlanta, or Orlando are just too damn far away with tickets still expensive as hell. It just isn’t possible to leave a Buffett concert feeling a really nice buzz or with any money, stagger back to the car, pass out, then wake up early the next morning and drive to work from those locations. Throw in a concert hook up with some beautiful lady parrothead and no matter how impressed the cop might be with your story he, or she, isn’t going to cut you any slack for doing one hundred miles an hour on the interstate. But never the less after making it to the camp ground then putting up the tent and getting the fire going Joe, Mrs. Cool, and I began testing his new offering to the unwashed masses. But as we sampled the fine easy going beer and Wiggle ignited a few marshmallows we began noticing those around us at other very nearby campsites.

Americans created the concept of the suburbs several decades ago to remove themselves from the crowded rat race confines of city living. While Mr. and Mrs. Middleclass wanted to leave the crime and pollution of the city behind them they decided to take the conveniences such as stores and all those nifty appliances that kept life civilized above the rural riff raff that still grew and hunted their own food to a certain extent and lived without automatic washing machines, dryers, and dishwashers. Heaven forbid Mrs. Middleclass would ever have to use a wash board, hang clothes out to dry, or wash loads of dishes after each meal. But even with the exodus out of the city it was soon apparent that what they wanted to leave behind had hidden in the various aspects of suburban life they created still leaving many with a desire to escape to a simpler time. Again civilize suburbanites have sought out to escape the clutter of modern life to the camp grounds but find themselves still creating microcosms of the very thing they left behind.

Most should have some knowledge of non-wilderness camping. Just imagine a rather large plot of land segmented off to lots with water and power outlets at each location. Now, understand I’m talking about camping, not some new suburb waiting for another set of McMansions to be built. But admittedly the only difference is the size of the lots and the location close to something like the beach or a lake. Subdivisions prefer locations like farm land or a nice piece of woodland area that use to have real forest animals living there.

The Cool’s party van pulled up to our civilized camp site late in the afternoon Thursday part of a new set of people yearning to get closer to nature without having to do without the coffeemaker or microwave. Our general area of the camp ground had been fairly cleared out leaving us for at that moment without any neighbors to the left or right of us. Across for us though was a tiny hard-shell camper that for years generally defied my understanding because of how small it was until I happen to see one at a gas station one time. The tiny campers of these types turned out to be nothing but a sleeper camper containing a queen size cushion. Any items of moderate size stored in the camper had to be removed and placed somewhere else before there could be enough room to sleeping for just two people. The one across from us sat alone looking for the most part abandoned except for a power cord running to the small AC unit sitting atop it. It didn’t take long to get the five-person tent we brought along up and a fire going with hot dogs roasting as the first of our neighbors showed up pulling a large pop-up camper. The driver of the van pulling the pop-up expertly maneuvered it to the perfect spot to take advantage of every square centimeter of space he had available. Compared to us who had to lift and turn the tent a few times to get it where we wanted it. Of course, the Cools and I had started taste testing that incredible Landshark lager with our funnier moments a few minutes before as we tried to make sense of the color coding on the supports for the tent which for some reason wouldn’t allow a green pole to fit in a red hole.

Once the pop-up camper was in position we were honestly awed by the ballet the mother and five children performed as they off loaded themselves, and the stuff inside the van, and on top quickly and quietly. The driver of the van, obliviously the dad, went and retrieved some sort of corded control pad from the side of the camper and we then watched as the camper leveled itself, raised the center portion, then deployed not two lateral segments but three. My grandparents in their older but not sedentary days had owned a pop-up camper. Theirs was a bear to level on any ground that sloped one way or the other and the center portion had to be hand cranked up and down. The lateral segments, which held the cushions for sleeping, were pulled out and secured with pins. Long story short their pop-up was nothing but a tent on wheels. The one next to us unfolded and expanded to the point I half expected it to sprout legs, arms, a head, then walk down toward the beach like some Transformer. Once the pop-up next to us reached its final shape though the mom and five kids began setting up various folding tables, pulled out a portable grill and small microwave, and from our vantage point looking into their camper we could see the mom beginning to cook from the kitchen inside. A cold chill ran down my spine as I noticed the oldest daughter working from a Martha Stewart cook book as she cut and prepared various ingredients bringing them to her mother inside. You will have to excuse me for my reaction but I have developed some sort of belief that Martha may be the Antichrist and I have no argument with the mom and dad wanting their family to have a good meal but I found the elaborate nature of their cooking a little extreme given the location they were in. Plus, they popped the circuit breaker for their campsite twice trying to use the microwave which sent the mom into a hissy fit.

Next to appear in our area was one of those huge recreational vehicles that could double for a dry land version of Noah’s ark. The driver, like the guy with the pop-up, deftly backed it into his slot with an ease that hid the fact of how hard it actually is taking into account other campers, trees, and the electrical and water hooks ups on the camp site that always are positioned in the most awkward places. These modern campers turned out to be a retired couple and instead of having an ark full of animals limited themselves to a small dog whose parentage had to be a very American melting pot of different breeds. Joe Cool and I helped them move the camp site picnic table closer to the main door of their camper as the awning silently moved into position as Retired Dude hooked up the water and power. For our troubles he brought us inside his camper to offer us a reward of freshly made margaritas even then swirling inside a decorative and more than likely expensive pitcher with parrots flying around the outside. The matching crystal glasses were very much like a set that Dragonwife owned at one time the difference being that Dragonwife’s had long since been broken and thrown away. A small tour of his large camper Retired Dude gave had both Joe and I frankly amazed. In the back was a queen sized bed with at huge LCD screen mounted on the wall. It had a full but small bathroom that reminded both Joe and I that any late night urges to go would require us to walk the distance to the public restrooms. And with me taking care of Wiggles I could expect at least two trips that night. Midway through the camper was an easy chair with its own smaller television a couch and love seat that we were told could all be folded out to supply ample sleeping space for a large family. The kitchen had I believe a full sized stove and refrigerator along with a decent sized table for serving. The paneling, appliances, and the entertainment systems in Retired Dude’s moveable abode was in many ways nicer than my house. My thoughts on such a huge camper ranged from me asking them if my group could sleep over to the strange fact that growing up I had lived in smaller trailers right after my mom and dad divorced and before I moved in with my grandparents. Retired Dude’s wife rejoined us and whispered something to him bringing an end to the tour. Several minutes later though we saw Retired Dude on top of his camper trying to positioning the satellite dish to the certain location in the sky looking for the world like the unlucky soul who years ago had to play with the old rabbit ears antenna on the television set trying to get better reception as other instructed him or her to move in various awkward and uncomfortable positions. At one point his wife, yelling from an open window in the rear of the camper, said that he wouldn’t come down until she could see her show on the Game Show Channel. Joe Cool, Mrs. Cool, and I for a whole host of reasons saluted him as he worked to bring the glories of satellite television to the great outdoors.

Timed passed and early evening brought the owners of the very small hard shell camper across from us back to their camp site. Still visible across the back window of their small car as it drove up was the words “Just Married” in white. Literally jumping out from the car was a young couple who rushed to the small door on their camper and crawled inside but not before exchanging tonsils and feeling each other up oblivious to all around them. After they entered the small camper it bounced around in a jerking fashion but soon that was replaced with a soft steady rhythm. For reasons less of decorum than sheer envy it was then that I took Wiggles for a little walk toward the playground. Along the way we were met by a skateboard gang taking advantage of a couple of hills, campers rushing to the public showers trying not to drop the shampoo or their underwear, people carrying trash to the dumpsters, watched others just trying to store all they brought for the night and still have room to sleep, and listened to the odd collection of humanity as it went about its other usual business. My family had done this type of camping for years when I was much younger and we were guilty then and now of bringing stuff like an electric griddle and a hair dryer but it seemed that a quantum leap had been made since then in how people seem to be bringing everything from home. I described this type of camping once to an old Alabama country boy who was one of my best friends while in the army, Brian Speakman (for once I will use a real name). He laughed it off saying that in no way was camping. Of course Brian and his dad did the real wilderness camping taking everything like food, water, and going as far from civilization as they could for days on end. Even though I enjoyed our recent camping trip I have to agree with my long lost friend. Most everyone that weekend seemed so caught up in keeping the trappings of normal life that nature, and the reason I thought people ventured out away and camped, was lost in the hustle of cooking and making sure the satellite dish was locked on to the right position. It wasn’t until late in the night after people were asleep that as I lay in my sleeping bag I could feel the soft sea breeze blow through the tent and hear the surf off in the distance. Only to be replaced soon after with the soft squeak of the newlyweds across from us start to bounce their little camper again. I think I’ll have to stay with motels rooms from now on. If I have to deal with humanity on such close quarters at least I shouldn’t have to walk two hundred yards to a bathroom.

Okay, the weekend was great but Monday sucked.

Hello everyone, funny thing happened while I was playing with Miss Wiggles where she takes gymnastics. See there was this rope mounted to the ceiling for climbing and me being a excellent dad I had to show my daughter how I did it when I was a rough, tough, and much younger soldier. Yours truly scampered quite well up the twenty some-odd foot rope but when I came down on the cushions that protect the youngings from hurting themselves I looked down and saw my my right foot at a ninety-degree angle compared to my left. Within thirty minutes my ankle had swelled to the size of a nice watermelon and right now looks all purple and reddish. Now the pain is managed and bearable but with the house in chaos and the computer in a spot that does not lend well to extended writing I'm going to be away for a few more days. The little blue pills I'm taking for the pain make my head a little more than the usual weird so that is another reason why I will be away. I started typing this a good while ago and had to have Spoilboy take over. Everyone hang tight and I'll be back sometime Saturday.

Doing the Sunday night hokey pokey

Strangeness and overwhelming confusion seem to permeate my life and honestly at times I just find its just best for me to sit back and go with the flow. Adding to the confusion is how some around me, while driving themselves crazy trying to keep up, seem to get upset with me for not doing the same myself. Now I bounce from one bizarre and confusing situation to another concerning my wife and kids hoping someone will fill me in with the details at some point.

My son finally got a cell phone this weekend but much to my surprise after months of whining he gazed upon the thing he most wanted in the world and said he couldn't show his face while using it because it was a pre-paid cell phone. None the less when asked if it would be best for us just to return it he quickly grabbed it and ran upstairs. A few hours later he was begging for more time since he had already used what time we bought texting.

After being told by Dragonwife that it was going to be a low budget weekend with no eating out or mad rushes to the grocery store for chips, beer, ice cream, and a can of whip cream (wait that was just me fantasizing) after Miss Wiggles throw a fit saying she has no clothes that look nice she and Dragonwife ran off to the nearest upper end department store and come back with multiple bags fill with bright fancy new clothes.

I in turn now sit upstairs drinking some fine ice tea wondering when I can just get out of this town just for a weekend. Luckily one is coming real soon. I still can't get over the nagging feeling with a world going crazy on almost every level maybe the hokey pokey is really what its all about.

A Parrothead Review: Sins of the Assassin.

A novel by Robert Ferrigno, and a hell of a ride on the dystopia express.

You should always be careful when you step through the looking glass and enter the surreal and while novels provide a relatively safe way to do so even then the results can be unsettling. Not too long ago I stepped through upon opening a book entitled “Prayers for the Assassin”. In this book we learn in the prologue the United States experienced a post Iraq mega-malaise, a major economic downturn equal to or worse than the Great Depression, and as the fabric of a tired disillusioned society frays a major conversion of the “blue states” populations to Islam who were tired of the empty shell of the Christian faith. The killing stroke for the country came in the form of two terrorist nuclear bombs, supposedly planted by the Israelis, that destroyed New York and Washington DC plunging the country into a second civil war as the Islamic north and west try to conquer the south that turned back to its Christian roots and wanted no part of the new Islamic States of America forming the independent nation of the Bible Belt. The main body of the story takes place decades later as the heroes Rakkim and Sarah, both citizens of the Islamic republic, race to expose that it was not the Israelis that nuked us but a fanatic billionaire Muslim called the “Old One” who wishes to establish a global Caliphate. As they dodge an even more fanatic assassin sent by the Old One to kill them they struggle to collect the final pieces of evidence of the attacks they journey through a polluted and the very alien land of The Islamic States of America.

The second novel of the announced trilogy, “Sins of the Assassin” has been released and this time we take a trip into the Bible Belt states, and just so you understand right off it ain’t no wonderland. After the Second American Civil War that killed up to 36 million Americans the Islamic States ended up in control with the blue states of the north east, the Midwest, and the Pacific states, along with most of the Rocky mountain states. An independent Nevada where the civil war was barely a minor bump in the gambling profits, and Mormon Utah which controls parts of several other states it borders both wiggled out from the Islamic government. The Bible Belt in turn got the states of the old Confederacy, most of Missouri, Kentucky, and West Virginia. For the Bible Belt, South Florida broke away and is independent. At the start of the second book a couple of years have passed from the first and we quickly learn that both of the major American nations are having territory claimed by its major and more advanced nations to the north and south. The Mexican Empire has already taken a small chunk of the southwest from both countries and wants more. South Florida, suffering from flooding from global warming, wants territory all the way into Georgia, and even Canada wants a nice chunk of the northern Midwest states. But even with all this going on the various factions in both the Islamic republic and the Bible Belt fear each other more. So much that when Islamic republic intelligence catches wind of a Bible Belt warlord, Colonel Zachary Smitts, is searching for a doomsday weapon developed and hidden by the old United States it has to send someone either to steal it or destroy before the Bible Belt can use it on them. Sending Rakkim and a super-geek kid Leo into the Bible Belt we are soon exposed to the nasty underbelly of how this part of the old United States has fallen. David Koresh’s former compound in Waco is a major tourist attraction which every Sunday the ATF attack is recreated on a full scale replica. And yes, Koresh and his followers are the tragic good guys fighting off the nasty federal government agents. While racism is dead in the Bible Belt, indentured servitude is a commonly used method to collect debts or “teach someone a trade”. Coming full circle, Bible Belt Americans are the mid-21^st century’s dirt cheap labor providing cheap commercial products for Russia, China, Brazil, Canada, and a whole range of 1^st world countries for which neither the Islamic republic or the Bible Belt can be called members. And of the two major American nations while the Bible Belt keeps most of the form of government of the old United States its central government is weak with local warlords holding most of the power.

As Rakkim and Leo enter the Bible Belt through what remains of Texas not part of the Mexican Empire and work eastward toward the Colonel we get a good look at rural poverty, corruption, and abject decay of what was once the most advanced country on the planet. Rakkim and Leo briefed that the warlord colonel is a dangerous man out to destroy the Islamic republic find him to be a thoughtful caring man after working their way into his camp. Yes, he is a Christian and patriot to the Bible Belt but he is in no way a threat to their country. Given that the elected Bible Belt leadership is extra eager to sale both the people and their natural resources off at rock bottom bargain prices as a warlord he honestly is an improvement. The worst things that can be said about him is that once the super secret weapon, hidden in an abandon coal mine, is found he plans on selling it to the Chinese who are the leading world power with the Russians nipping at their heels. Rakkim makes some seriously disturbing discoveries as his plan to steal the hidden weapon works his way to a conclusion, namely what the weapon actually is and in its current shape. Saying anymore would be giving far too much away in an otherwise enjoyable futuristic thriller. The biggest drawbacks I will discuss involve Rakkim’s discovery of a secret cabal of people from both the Islamic republic, namely Rakkim’s wife who is major player in their government, and the Bible Belt who are at least exploring ways to begin to work toward reunification of the two countries. The author has created, in my opinion, an unbridgeable scenario between the two and given how the Islamic republic and the Bible Belt populace view each other a reunification strains the book’s credibility. Also an issue is the comic book villain of the Old One who has a strong hand in what goes on in the second book. The Old One is somehow a combination of Lex Luthor, the emperor from Star Wars, and a hundred-plus year old Donald Trump with his hands in everything around the world. But ignoring him and just exploring the American dystopia while cheering on the conflicted but heroic Rakkim still makes this an excellent read.

Our country faces severe challenges across a whole range of issues as we enter the 21^st century. For me part of the attraction of this trilogy is safely reading about this surreal world in the comfort of an easy chair as I sip a cold ice tea. While this review and these books should in no way be thought of a prediction of future events it would be unwise to discount them as a cheap thriller. The problems that plunged the fictional United States of these books into a spiritual and societal depression, economic collapse, then civil war are real even if we never see terrorist nuclear weapons explode in this country. Far too many people from all factions (left, right, liberal, conservative, fruitcake, or wacko) view but a single facet of the world and are hell-bent ever to see it through someone else’s eyes. The United States has enjoyed the pinnacle of world power these last couple of decades but has lost the vision of what put it in this spot. Americans have generally become conceited and lazy thinking the world owes us something simply because we view ourselves as the rulers of the world. God, karma, or simple history usually has a place for those who view themselves that way and to put it kindly it is the pages of a dusty unread forgotten history book. When you’re on top of the world and abuse your status there is only one way to go and its down.

Pawleys magic

No one will ever say that I do things the easy way. But it took me moving to the middle of the continent to realize things about the place I came from. I had lived almost all my life on the coast of South Carolina with all the ocean, sand, and sea breezes anyone could ever want and it was not until I was stationed at Fort Carson, Colorado did I learn to love the ocean more than I could ever imagine. While I was born on an army base in Arizona my dad was stationed at I spent most of my childhood living just a few short miles from Pawleys Island. A place that I still consider very magical and special to me. The best way I can describe the Pawleys Island of my youth was that the place had an out of the way coastal village feel. Even though now urban growth has taken a great deal of the quiet coastal village feel and replaced it with urban yuppie coastal chic I still love going back to it.

Georgetown, the town I lived in and about 15 miles south of Pawleys, in the 60's and 70's was a small, quiet, southern town. You would be hard pressed to find the "higher forms" of culture that other people in bigger cities appreciate about their hometowns. But we did have the beach and you could find many of us heading for the ocean anytime we got the chance. While classical music was in short supply we did have beach music. And while fine restaurants, at that time, were few we did have fresh oysters, shrimp, grits, and some of the best home cooked fried flounder you could ever find.

As the years for me went by I had come to overlook the very magic of the place. So one day in 1986 I left my home and flew far away to Colorado to serve my country. At that point in my life I wanted to see a different part of the country, and to get away from my family. Like many of my age I had come to view their affection as more an interference in my life and I wanted to strike out on my own. I arrived in Colorado in the summer and quickly fell in love with the place. The mountains were awe inspiring and I enjoyed hiking threw the trails in the warm months. But in October the snows began and at first I enjoyed the snow, I had only seen snow about five times my entire life before living in Colorado. When it did snow in South Carolina the snow had the good manners to have melted away within a couple of days after throwing the entire state into a panic. In Colorado it snowed and snowed and when you think it wouldn't, it snowed some more. So this Lowcountry boy began to dread the winters and, no I never learned to ski. By the time snow skiing season had begun I had decided that the best place for me was in my room under four blankets doing research on human hibernation. Except for my duties I was pretty much holed up until spring. Thank God even though there might be five feet of snow of the ground and more still coming the boys and girls at the various pizza joints always got the pizza to me at least warm.

I was on my second year in Colorado when I returned home on leave and realized how badly I missed the ocean. I came home in late September and the cold winds had already started blowing at Fort Carson promising an early winter but the weather at Pawleys Island was still fully entrenched in summer. This was 1988 and most of the tourists had gone home and the locals were busy with their lives. Kids were in school and the great majority of adults were at their day jobs and this was before hurricane Hugo trashed the place when you could still see the "arrogantly shabby" bumper stickers on the cars of people who lived at Pawleys.

I wasn't suppose to have leave that summer. My unit's leadership wanted enough people on hand for any last minute demands for extra bodies any other units in the division might need for their summer field training. The eternal curse of those in air defense units is to be farmed out to other units when they need someone to pull their shit details like good old KP, guard duty, or my favorite driving some gung-ho officer around who at 1:30am wants to go find his buddy in another unit to trade MRE's. This is after you have just gotten in your army fart sack (sleeping bag) after pulling four hours of guard duty. So I was very surprised one fine morning to have my First Sergeant at morning formation call out several names, mine being one of them, wanting us to report to his office. Usually such a call does not mean good news but once the others and I were assembled in his office we were quickly told that we had been approved for leave anytime between now and the middle of October. While this was good news I had no high expectation that I would be able to get a plane ticket back home for the seven days of leave that had popped up for us. But none the less I called and got a great airfare for a flight just three days later. Here is where I should have called and told my family that I was coming home. But some idea popped into my head to fly in and surprise them with a call from me at the Charleston airport.

I flew into Charleston late one morning and hustled over to the military lounge to call my family and eat all the taxpayer provided free food and drink all the free sodas I could while I waited for them to automatically drop whatever they were doing and joyfully drive the sixty miles south to pick up their grandson, nephew, or cousin. After several hours of calling and getting absolutely no one I started to get worried. I had even begun to entertain the thought of renting a car when I finally reached Uncle Paul at his house. I quickly learned that my grandparents, Uncle George, and his wife were on vacation at Cherokee, North Carolina and would not be back for at least the entire week I would be on leave. Uncle Paul, Lady Einstein, and their son Neo were themselves but a few hours away from driving down to Miami to board a Carnival Cruise ship and seven days in the Caribbean. I had somehow picked the very moment that month when the entire family was just not busy but away for the entire time I was scheduled to be home. Uncle Paul explained that since I had called several months before saying that it didn't look like I would make it home everyone had made other plans. Renting a car was looking like my only option to make it home, which would blow my budget for just about the entire trip. Uncle Paul told me to hang on and call him back in one hour. When I did he he told me that my honorary uncle Surferdude was on the way to pick me up and would take me back to Charleston the next week. Uncle Paul told me to hang out at his house and that the place was mine along with his car. True to his word SurferDude showed up a little over an hour later and dropped me off at Uncle Paul's beach house. My luck continued to hold out as bad when SurferDude told me he had to go back home and get ready for work the next day.

So after SurferDude left I walked a lonely beach with a salty breeze blowing around my head and warm ocean water around my feet. I could hear the seagulls circling around knowing that they were looking for their food. That day the ocean water was so clear and clean it almost looked like water from the Caribbean. I could see many small bait fish swimming around in the shallow areas. More than likely that was what had the gulls in such an uproar. I walked over to the creek side and smelled the marsh at low tide. Some have compared that smell to something bad but to me it's a smell that signifies life. It was there that I meet a beautiful young lady, who for the sake of clarity I will call Sharon, who had also come home from living elsewhere. She was taking a semester break from attending college in Tennessee. Being about the same age and for the most part alone Sharon and I hit it off rather quickly and began to hang out together. A couple of days went by as we walked the beach, saw some movies, and played in the water. After she realized I probably wasn't a complete nut we had dinner at her house and watched the stars come out that night. We talked about our love of Pawleys Island and wondered why we had left such a place. It turned out that she also felt that her family was interfering to much in her life and that moving away would give her some independence. As the night went on a summer rain shower moved in and we went to her room and listened to a Van Morrison album call "Moondance" as the rain fell outside. That morning we walked the beach and watched the sunrise. We spent a couple more days with each other before we both returned to our separate lives. As fate would have it we wrote each other for a few months and slowly drifted away. She had returned to school and I had my duties as a soldier.

It was just a few months later that I was pulling guard duty at place called Pinon Canyon in southeastern Colorado. It was on the plains in a bad snow storm and I was in a foxhole, very cold watching the blowing snow. I was enthralled by the patterns the snowflakes made as they came down but at the same time I knew this place was alien to me. That I did not belong there and that I should return home as soon as possible. Which was of course problematic, I had almost two more years on my enlistment and Uncle Sam was not about to release me. So I did what I had to do and finished my enlistment. I left Colorado in 1990 and returned home to the place I should have never left. I spent the following two years attending college myself and working to shape my adult life. Which looking back to that period now, maybe I should have done a few more things differently. But a real comfort to me has been just strolling down that sandy little island letting the water wash over my feet. It has always has brought be back to some sort of peace and let my mind settle whatever problem I may have had.

Yes, I think of that lovely lady often. After stumbling over "Moondance" at a used CD store years later I bought it and to this day it brings back Sharon and our time together like it was yesterday. I never saw her again, I figure she is happily married having yuppies and raising puppies, as Jimmy Buffett would say. I wonder if she ever thinks of me?

It's 3:00am and Hillary is in the White House answering the phone.

Didn't mean to scare the little fella. Personally, I'm waiting for someone to explain to me how the self appointed empress of all that is holier-than-thou eight years as First Lady makes her her ready to be commander-in-chief. Now as far as knowing which fork to use at a state dinner or having the ability to kiss hundreds of babies on the campaign trail well I'll give her that.