PoF -- Wordled

This is a Wordle of a recent posting on PoF. Fun, huh?

From My Office

Yesterday, the view from my office was most impressive.

From the Backyard

October, and the hibiscus is in bloom!

Reunion

For the third consecutive year, Peggy and I traveled to meet family and friends at Peggy's dad's annual shipmates' reunion. Two years ago, we visited Portland, Maine, with the Leedstown crew. Last year, we visited Savannah, Georgia, with the combined crews of the Leedstown and Marblehead. This year, because of shrinking numbers of remaining shipmates, the reunion included crews from multiple ships that were part of the US Navy Asiatic Fleet -- WWII. The ships that I recall being represented included the USS Leedstown, Paul Jones, Langley, Marblehead, and Parrot. Nineteen sailors, who served during multiple Pacific island invasions, were in attendance. Another 70+ family members attended the event, as well. The weekend long reunion was held in Fairfax, Virginia, and included day-trips to Washington for sightseeing, museum visiting, a memorial service for a departed crewmember, and a banquet, complete with speeches, fine food, and a little dancing. Video highlights of the reunion include:

• The National Mall and various memorials


• The Udvar-Hazy Air and Space Museum


• A few interviews during the banquet.

Not to be outdone by the Navy, Peggy and I celebrated a more private reunion with Frank and Gloria Womble -- Frank from our Army days and his wife, who I met on their wedding day. Having not seen each other in nearly 17 years, we hit it off, as though only a few days had passed. Our Christmas card exchanges, a few phone calls, and a joint writing project had kept us in touch. Old stories were told and re-told and freshened with forgotten details. The afternoon-into-the-late-evening visit with Frank and Gloria was a highlight of our trip to the DC area.


So, pop some corn and enjoy the movies.

What Do We Do Now?

That is an interesting question, WDWDN?

It all began one summer, many years ago. I learned to sail. My first boat was a mono-hulled Sunfish, made of Styrofoam. It was about 8 feet long and had maybe 25 square feet of sail. Sailing was slow, painfully so, but I learned the basics. I quickly graduated to a better boat, a Hobie 14 Turbo -- a Turbo, because it had both main and jib sails. It was a catamaran and was fast. I learned much about sailing and tried many of the area lakes around Columbus, Georgia.

With experience, my confidence grew to the point that I could manage the Hobie with passengers in the Gulf of Mexico. On one trip to Panama City, Florida, I took both boats. The steady 20 to 25 mile-per-hour breezes overwhelmed the little Sunfish. The wind blew out the sail and broke the mast. Friends helped me with a decent burial right in the dunes, so the little boat could enjoy the white as sugar beach, the warm gulf waters, and the glorious sunsets.

Photo - Frank Womble

Summer and fall that year ended too quickly. I winterized the Hobie with a cover, took the sails inside our home, and parked the boat on its trailer in the backyard. The winters in Georgia can be cold and wet, mostly wet. I longed for warm days and more sailing. On a Saturday in February, the forecast was wonderful -- high near 80 with light winds. I called a friend and asked him to go sailing. He jumped at the chance and in 30 minutes or so, I had the boat hitched to my pick-up and was ready to go. I picked up Frank, and we headed to West Point Lake near Columbus. We should have heeded the local radio DJ, as he read the updated weather report. Wind warnings for area lakes, WDWDN? We go sailing.

There are essential elements to sailing -- water, wind, a boat, and, in the early morning, coffee. On the way to West Point, we pulled into a local McDonald's, entered the drive-though lane, and proceeded to the remote menu and microphone. The driveway was a curved affair, and I had to pull pretty close to the microphone, so the clerk on the inside could hear my order for two coffees to go. As I pulled away from the clown-headed ordering station, the inside pontoon of my trailered boat smacked Ronald in the side of the head, knocking him sideways into the dirt. A worried voice, over a crackling speaker, asked, if everything was OK. I shouted back, WDWDN -- drink coffee!" With coffee paid for and a little first aid for the speaker-in-a-clown-head-on-a-pedestal, we were on our way.

We arrived at the boat ramp. I backed the trailer almost to the water, and we jumped out to erect the mast and hoist the sails. In the stiff breeze, the main sail was a bit stubborn and took a while to get corralled in the slot on the mast. The auto-furling jib was much easier. We finished the rigging. I grabbed a six-pack cooler, which was loaded with brewskies and a pan of home made brownies, and I lashed the cooler to the base of the mast. We donned our life jackets and launched the boat. As the boat touched the water, it lurched, itching to get underway. I pulled the truck up to the parking lot and returned to find Frank dodging white-capped waves that were splashing up the boat ramp. By this time, the air temperature was over 70 but the water temperature was in the low 50's. I took a few steps into the water to gain control of the bucking boat. Instantly, I felt the chill and quickly jumped on the trampoline style deck. With a push and sucking sound from the mud, Frank joined me on the boat. With a little maneuvering we cleared the boat ramp and headed for bigger water. In a matter of a few minutes, I had both sails fully deployed and trimmed for speed. To borrow a phrase from Hawaiian sailors, "we were sailing like stink!"

Well, all that hard work on shore and excitement of the first sail in several months created a powerful thirst. Frank reached for the cooler at the base of the mast. The center of gravity of the finely trimmed boat suddenly shifted forward. The leeward hull nosed into the water and, before I could react, dived like a submarine at sea. I felt myself being launched into the air; I saw the mast pitch-pole toward the diving hull; I think I heard klaxons sound. The next thing I saw was the surface of the lake -- above me. I was swimming upward but was making no progress. The main sheet had tied itself in a clove hitch around my ankle and was holding me under. A thought passed through my mind -- don't panic, DO SOMETHING. I calmly leaned toward my fastened leg, found the knot, and loosened it enough to make my escape. The buoyancy of my life jacket popped me to the surface to meet a concerned buddy. Frank choked out the infamous WDWDN?

Getting wet is part of Hobie sailing, and wet we were. We had to get the boat righted, and we had to get out of the cold water. We tried every which way to get the boat back on its feet, but each time the strong wind would flatten the trampoline back to the water. As fate would have it, a fisherman in a flat-bottomed johnboat motored toward us. I waved him down and asked a for little help. Swearing and cursing, he grudgingly tossed me a line that I threw over the far hull, pulled under the tramp, and tied to the near pontoon. The effect was that a pull away from my boat should cause it to flip right side up. Sure enough, the line tightened, the boat went upright, and instantly the Hobie sprang to life. For some reason the lines had remained fixed in their sailing trim. The sails filled with air, and the Hobie did what it did best. It sailed away, pulling the fisherman and his boat behind it -- more cussing and swearing. I heard the angry fisherman say things I had never heard before. In between novel words, I heard him yell, "cut the line, cut the line!" If I had only been on my boat, I would have been happy to oblige. Frank and I took off swimming. I reached for the line and pulled myself hand-over-hand to my boat. I somehow reached the main sheet, and snapped it out of its lock block. The sail went slack and the Hobie came to a stop. I pulled the fisherman's line loose and let it go. The now screaming engine of the johnboat took over and off the fisherman went, still cussing, swearing, and gesturing.

Shivering with cold, Frank and I climbed back onto the Hobie tramp and sailed our way to a nearby shoreline. A dense pine forest lined the shore, and we huddled next to the trunk of a large tree and took stock of the situation. We were alive. The boat was unharmed. The brownies drowned. The beer was still in the cooler at the base of the mast. WDWDN? We drank a beer to calm our nerves. We high-fived our survival. We gradually warmed ourselves and planned our next leg of the excursion. We were on the opposite side of the lake from where we had put in, and the only way back was to sail back.

The wind was getting stronger. Strange horizontal, rolling clouds were forming off in the distance. A true squall line was closing in on us. I lowered the main sail and reefed it to the boom. Frank nodded his concurrence. We quickly turned the boat back toward lake center and took off sailing. The wind was so strong that with just a jib, we flew a hull. We made it back to the far shore in record time, where we were offered hot chocolate and towels. A fellow Hobie-catter had witnessed the entire episode from the comfort of his lake house. His hospitality saved the day. We were able to get back to the boat ramp without further incident.

WDWDN? According to Frank, we continue to tell this tale from the seats of our wheelchairs on the front porch of our assisted living homes to everyone we see -- no matter how many times they have heard it. Hopefully, that is a long way off and many more adventures from now.

Aidan Takes a Bear for a Ride

Over the weekend, Aidan, with hands full, took his bear to the kitchen. We laughed, giggled, and barked and laughed some more. See for yourselves:

Shetland Mule, err, err Pony Ride

This is circa 1963. Can you name the girls?

A Hunting Did We Go

My dog, Zander, and I went hunting recently. We were in the deep wood and approached the gnarly thicket, Facebook. Yep, there we were picking our way through the largest social network on the web. I sent the dog in to flush out the truth and discover for myself, what the buzz was all about. It went like this:

I helped Zander create an online account. I did much of the typing for him, since he mispells sew minny wurds. In the new Facebook account, we posted a profile picture, jotted down some pertinent facts about Zander -- his city, his place of origin, and his role as Second Banana in the Backyard. Then, we posted a cuddly picture or two and posted a status and a couple of comments on Zander's Wall.

Once we had a basic face-space set up, we went looking for friends. Zander sniffed around a little with the search field, and we found Sean. Zander clicked the mouse and invited Sean to be our friend. It wasn't long, before Sean accepted the invitation and became Zander's friend. Zander posted a comment on Sean's Wall, and the favor was returned. The dog was on a roll!

To our surprise, the very next day a friend of Sean's saw Zander's post on Sean's Wall and immediately guessed that I was helping Zander with his postings. I was "outed", but I pretended not to notice. With a muzzle nudge, Zander once again clicked the mouse and made Sean's friend his own. Sure enough, the invitation was accepted, and Zander now had two new cyber-friends. Woof!

Since Friends can see each other's face-spaces, Zander and I took a peek. We found interesting stuff, some address and telephone entries, names of several children and family members, and a collection of other potential cyber-friends and their private data. The urge to make everyone a friend was almost overwhelming. It was then that Zander and I realized that this newly discovered thicket could become an addictive playground. All the interesting people posting stuff about their daily routines made for some unexpected discoveries. Zander was directed to the DogBook pages. He was drooling over the furry cuties and nearly ruined a decent keyboard with all the slobber.

I felt I needed to call a halt to the experiment. The hairs on the back of my neck caused a tingle and a near feeling of voyeurism. I mean, here I was lurking in the wings, reading over Zander's shoulder, and viewing the personal and sometimes private information that was being displayed for essentially anyone on the web. I announced to Zander's new Facebook friends that I would be deactivating his account. I think folks were surprised and disappointed by this decision. I shared some of my concerns with Sean in an email and promised to share more, here:

The use of FaceBook has many elements that are psychologically addictive. After a little research, I discovered that CNN has looked into the matter as a potential health concern. Read their article at CNN Health.

Next, I found that Canada declared that FaceBook had many privacy concerns, including the fact that information on even deactivated accounts remains in FaceBook databases forever. Read that article at MSNBC.

I learned that relationship-advertisements have mistakenly used Facebook profile photos in their ad campaigns. How would you like to see your spouse's photo in a singles' club advertisement? Marriages could be ruined by such careless and inappropriate use of photos. Read how it played out at MSNBC

I then considered the question of why FaceBook was on the net. With over 200 million active members, the answer was that FaceBook is filling a need for people to interact and socialize with one another -- a noble cause for sure. Getting past the philanthropy, I realized that FaceBook is not in the business of offering free services. No, they are in the business of making money. They sell advertising targeted to the FaceBook participants, based on usage habits, on postings, and on profile information. They partner with other web service companies that may make use of names, email addresses, cell phone numbers, and other near sensitive private information. In other words, FaceBook is in the lucrative business of data mining, data rich with customer details. Who in the mass marketing world would not love to have a readily available database of customer habits, wants, and desires?

My conclusion, FaceBook may seem innocent enough, but there are dangers out there for folks that share too much private information. With social engineering techniques, your ID can be stolen, your family can be stalked, and in the worst of cases you could fall into harm's way. My advice is to be careful; be vigilant; and beware that cyberspace is not a pleasant small town, rather it is a human filled society that attracts the good, the bad, and in some cases the very ugly.

So, Zander's account has been deactivated. I did the research on how to quit FaceBook. The article I found almost reads like a 12-step program for the addicted. See for yourselves at Associated Content.

I am not condemning social network web services, rather have fun, be smart, and by all means, please review your privacy settings, so your very private data is not just given away. Finally, be safe anywhere you travel in the thickets of the world-wide-web.

More on this topic can be found on the Internet.



Peace

Spandex

"When you are a man, sometimes you wear stretchy pants, in your room, for fun." -- Nacho Libre

Having logged over 10,000 miles on my road bike and a couple of thousand on a mountain bike, I have been known to don stretchy pants in public. I choose to wear brightly colored cycling clothes -- for safety in visibility and for comfort while riding, and I have a rule, the socks, shorts, and jersey must coordinate; otherwise, why ride?

On one occasion, Peggy and I were headed to an early morning ride in Bastrop, Texas, a small town about 45 miles southeast of Austin. We were joining friends for a 50-mile jaunt through the hilly, pine forest and the flats along a meandering river in Bastrop County. At about 15 minutes into the drive, we reached Elgin, Texas, and stopped at the McDonald's for cups of coffee. The place was a-buzz with locals having their breakfast. I decided to wait in the truck, while Peggy got the coffee. On second thought, Peggy asked me to go inside with her, since she did not want to be the only one in the restaurant in cycling clothes. I relented and went inside to stand in a long line to place our order. Peggy immediately went to the ladies' room, leaving me alone, in rural Texas, in cycling clothes.

As I stood there in my Credit Suisse riding kit -- red and white jersey, red spandex shorts, and matching socks -- I felt a stare caressing my outfit. A moment later I heard a feminine giggle, followed by a second female voice, saying, "everything is so tight!"

My ego was about to burst. I was proud of my conditioning. I had rock hard thighs and buns of steel. The many miles on road and trail had been good for me. Just for fun, I did what had to be done. I flexed my cheeks, not once but twice. I relished the anticipated "oooh". I was making spandex look good.

Before another comment could be made, I whirled on the heels of my silver cycling shoes to meet my admirers face-to-face. To my surprise, two couples in their seventies were seated at a table, having breakfast. The women folk were the ones enjoying the view, while their husbands pretended not to notice. I was already committed, so I strode toward them and said, "I heard your comments and thought you might like to know why everything is so tight." The women pretended to care about my cycling patter, and I could not help but notice that they were still enjoying the view.

The first to speak after my opening remarks was one of the men. He was chewing on a toothpick that he had pulled from the front of his bib overalls. In the slow, honest drawl, made famous by Texans, he said, "You ain't from around here, are ya?"

Fleeting Moments of Clarity

Haiku is a very short poetic verse, consisting of three lines of 5, 7, and 5 syllables each. The strictest forms of the Japanese art have special words, evoking the season.

I discovered the style several years ago and rediscovered these personal insights in a binder full of day-planner pages. In retrospect, it would take many paragraphs of prose to compete with the impact of some of these verses.

---

stop, muse, count blessings
stay as long as you need, rest
you are welcome here

---

cold hospital room
patient labors, time has come
tears of joy, son born

---

running, running past
children on their way to school
running to keep warm

---

dusty Formica
greasy spoons, all-night waitress
sick and tired of work

---

on the open road
the highway littered like leaves
speedtraps everywhere

---

the season is done
children playing in the surf
water chills my flesh

---

winter, char-cold grill
skillet sizzle, sear my meat
diner-smell, let’s eat

---

top down, ice forming
convertible sure is fun
cannot find my gloves

---

Pancakes

Early one morning in the dim light of a pine forest, I felt a presence. No, make that several. I peered up through the mesh openings of my two-person dome tent. The wide-open eyes of four or five cub scouts met my gaze.

"We're hungry, and you are supposed to make breakfast. Sean says you can flip pancakes higher than anyone can in the whole world! We don't believe him, but he says it is true," said the scouts.

I nudged Sean. My sleepy, eight-year old son was not an early riser, but it seemed the rest of the Cub Scout den was. When I crawled out of the tent, I noticed that none of the other adults were out and about, so I sent the boys to get everyone up. They scampered away.

Sean confirmed that he had told his friends that I was "numero uno", when it came to pancakes. I had been elevated to hero status. I did not want to disappoint my son and the other scouts. What was I to do?

By the time I made it to the fire ring, the scouts that woke me up had finished waking up the rest of the camp. The energized boys needed focus to contain their exuberance. I sent them looking for sticks and fallen limbs, after all we did need a campfire for cooking. Meanwhile, I lit a bed of charcoal, filled a coffeepot with water, and settled in to make breakfast. Juice, bacon, and pancakes were on the menu.

The boys returned sooner than I thought they would. Each had a handful of sticks, and a couple of boys were dragging a log that was way too big for the fire ring. To gain a little more time, I requested that the smaller twigs and sticks be neatly arranged for future use. For the big log, I asked them to arrange it across from the fire ring. In about fifteen minutes, we had a fairly neat pile of sticks, and the boys had a log to sit on to watch, while I made breakfast. The charcoal turned white, the coffee started perking, bacon was sizzling in an iron skillet, and I was still pondering what to do about my son's fantastical story of my pancake-flipping prowess.

While I finished the bacon, I had the boys wash up and make the pancake batter. One of the other adults helped with that mess. I pulled my trusty cast iron griddle out of the dry box and began seasoning it with some of the bacon grease. We were, after all, out of sight of the dietician moms. When the boys finished the batter, I asked them to grab their plates and to take a seat on the log. As is typical, the first pancake on the griddle stuck, and I had to trash it. Immediately, a chorus of "told you so" rang through the forest. Well, I applied another swipe of bacon grease and started two rows of four pancakes. The edges bubbled and turned crispy. I flipped each pancake over to reveal perfect golden brown disks. Another minute and the pancakes were ready for serving.

The moment of truth had arrived. I asked one of the boys to get ready. I inserted my turner under one of the cakes, and with a full arm motion and a flick of the wrist I tossed a pancake high into the air. That pancake flipped over and over and on its way up brushed a limb about ten feet off the ground. At its apex it was suspended in time for a nanosecond or two. The downward arch of the pancake's trajectory carried the pancake across the few feet between fire ring and log bench. With a satisfying but muffled splat, the high-flying pancake landed perfectly flat in the center of the boy's plate. Not wanting to tempt fate, I quickly served up the remaining pancakes to the astonished campers.

In a voice as clear and pure as a bell Sean simply said, "I told you so."

Fun in the Sun -- Part 2

Due to popular demand, I decided to "continue" the story, a story of stealthy revenge.

To avoid the problem of the blog posting the conclusion in front of the original text, I added the conclusion in the comments section of the original article. Savvy readers will know where to find it. The rest of you will just have to wonder.

So, here's a shotglass of Kool-Aid to you.

Fun in the Sun at NTC, Fort Irwin, CA

The dirt and grime of nine days on the floor of the great Mojave Desert was taking its toll. With water rationing in effect, I had not come close to a shower, since we left the pine studded forests of Georgia. Dust was everywhere, in everything, on everything. Cascading sweat circles stained my shirt from armpit to waist. The dust was so permeating that I could no longer distinguish the black of my boots from the camouflage pattern of my trousers. My short-cropped hair was the color of desert dried and parched lakebeds. Had it not been for the Rommel-style goggles, I would have been blind from the wind driven dust. The crow’s feet around my eyes were darkly stained by trails of tears, seeping though the dust from behind the protective goggles.

Even with the constant dust and heat, I found the desert an awesome place. I witnessed two-foot long lizards running on their hind legs; scorpions - black as coal – at least six inches in length; tarantulas larger than the spread of a man’s hand. At night I saw packs of coyotes scurrying for cover and always on the lookout for a scrap of a meal dropped by a careless soldier; the sunsets had more color than one can imagine; and stars – I have never seen so many stars in my life. The Milky Way would swoop from the horizon and on past the midnight zenith. The environment was unmatched in its diversity.

Having attended a commanders briefing and having finished a reconnaissance of potential tactical positions for my firing battery, my jeep driver and I headed back to the battery’s current location. The battery was some twenty miles away. The drive was dark – no headlights allowed - and many hours had passed, since our last meal from a plastic bag of assorted dried fruits and chopped, pressed, formed, and packaged meat. We were looking forward to the promise of a new selection of plastic meals and fresh water. Earlier in the day I had confirmed that a much needed 500 gallons of the good stuff had been delivered.

When we arrived at the firing battery encampment, I sent my driver to chow and made my way to the fire direction center to check in with my lieutenants, get unit status, and pass along the instructions for the next day’s live fire activities. To my surprise, Lieutenants Nick and Joe had prepared a shower for me. Hanging from a crossbeam between two command tracks, suspended over a wooden pallet, was an Australian shower – a four-gallon, canvas bag with a showerhead attached to the bottom of the bag. The way it works, you fill the bag with water, turn the valve on the shower head to get a dribble of water, close the valve, lather up, and then open the valve to rinse. It is amazing how little water is used, if the procedure is done correctly. To say the least, I was overwhelmed and grateful for the chance to rid myself of a multiple layers of dust and sweat and a closely following odor of stale billy goat.

When the briefings were complete, I pulled a clean uniform out of my rucksack and shook off the collected dust. I grabbed a towel and a bar of soap and headed to the makeshift shower. I stripped down to dog tags, stepped up on the pallet, and turned the valve to start the trickle of water. Dark rivulets of dirt ran down my face and body. I turned off the water and began a lathering scrub. I detected a slightly sweet taste and thought the soap I was using had had a run in with the toothpaste in my bag. With little concern I continued the shower and started the rinse cycle. It was at this point that I heard a muffled giggle from the far side of one of the command tracks. As I rinsed, the laughter increased, and the rinse water grew sweeter and sweeter. By this time there must have been two lieutenants and a gunnery sergeant rolling in the dirt between the creosote bushes. Grape Kool-Aid had been mixed into my shower water. I should have known that the prepared shower was too good to be true. I finished the shower never saying a word.

In a sleeping bag for the rest of the short night, I dreamt sweet, sweet, grape scented dreams, dreams of payback on a day, when my unsuspecting officers would least expect it. I bided my time, planning the revenge that would be a dish served cold by a cold, cold-hearted battery commander.

Pass in Review Part 4

The Pass-in-Review article has been published as a "Selected Feature" in the February 2009 edition of Army Magazine. Click the image, below, to read the online article.



Jim, Frank: I really enjoyed the collaboration on this project.

Rock Support!


Note: The original story, as featured on this blog, is located here.

A Day in History: 1/20/2009

It was a historic day. I left Austin, wheels up at 0935, headed to the San Francisco Bay area.

All was going well. At 30 minutes into a routine flight, a cabin pressure change caused an ink pen, which I was using, to rupture. I was focused on my reading material and did not immediately notice the ink that was staining my hands. My seatmate noticed first and nudged me to take action. A handy snack wrapper came to the rescue. I wrapped the pen in cellophane, gingerly removed my seatbelt and headed to the back-of-the-plane lavatory.

An alert flight attendant noticed my predicament and handed me a couple of alcohol moistened, finger wipes. The alcohol worked. The droplets of ink spread all over, creating a smurfish appearance on both hands. I asked for more wipes and the second pair worked their magic. I follow-upped with hot soapy water and voila’ my hands were clean and unstained. I was amazed to notice that not a single dot of ink was on my clothes. The day was saved.

The rest of the flight was uneventful. I landed in Las Vegas to change planes and continued on to San Jose. At the baggage claim area, I learned that my luggage had taken a detour. I am not sure where my luggage went, but its passport now has several more stamps than mine. Again, this was a historic moment. In all my many years of travel, I had never been disappointed at baggage claim. Some 8 to 9 hours later, the airline delivered my suitcase to my hotel. I reconnected with the wayward bag at 0500, today.

Oh, and let us not forget, our 44th President was sworn in. It was a historic day.

It's a Dog's Life

See squirrel climb. Climb, climb, climb...
See Zander jump. Jump, jump, jump!