Bubba’s Solution to Syria and the Arab Spring

Bubba thought he had the answer. After all, he had had plenty of time to think ‘bout it. The Arab Spring was now well over a year old and he hadn’t held a job in twice that time. He’d been laid off from his mower operator job with the City of Yazoo Mississippi well before Spring—giving him plenty of time to work on the big problems.

Bubba had sent in recommendations to the state fish & game local office, demanding a change to the hand fishin’ of Catfish—there just wasn’t anything wrong with Noodlin’ in Bubba’s mind; he’d done it since he was a kid. Most of the time he’d been with his Dad and Uncle Billy Bob, but had recently talked his cousins and best friend Sammy into taking a chance with him.

But, he had spent most of his time lately thinkin’ ‘bout nothing but solving this Arab Spring hoop-de-doo. Bubba didn’t hold much stock in the news papers; his eighth grade education didn’t allow much readin’ and writin’. But Bubba had studied and studied the news casts and commentary on the cable TV stations—this new fangled luxury had just recently been pushed into Yazoo City by a new satellite hook up to the house. Of course that came only six months after getting electricity to the ole homestead. This was no small feet to Bubba; he’d always wanted electricity.

He thought he had finally come up with the solution. If only he knew somebody in the Mississippi Air National Guard, he was sure he could make diplomacy work to his advantage and maybe make a little cash on the side. Ya see, Bubba needed the money to git married—he had a real strong infatuation on Cindy Lou and didn’t think he could hold out much longer..

Just last night, Bubba had heard ‘bout the French maybe going into Syria and cleaning house. The French, Bubba thought and then just burst out laughing. When had the French ever done anything through to the end? Bubba just kept recalling what Georgie Patton used to say: "I would rather have a German division in front of me than a French one behind me." “Just look what they had done over there in Louisiana—that was a mess ever since Katrina had come through and those French Quarters were still not worth a nickel. In Bubba’s mind He was for the Mississippi Legislature passing a law stating that if there’s ever another war in Europe, the looser has to keep France.

Bubba carried around in his pocket this picture he’d come across that he just knew proved his idea to be correct.

 

Bubba admired all those Arab fighters but thought they were being held back. They’d come across some mighty fine lookin’ shootin’ arms but so far hadn’t got them many of those tanks. Now tanks just might be the solution but Bubba thought he was on the right track and the cost would be a bunch less that a hundred tanks or so—of this Bubba was positive. He just needed to get the mayor to listen; he just knew that the mayor must know somebody in the Mississippi Air National Guard.

Ya see, Bubba had worked out the entire solution just by studying the photo he carried in his pocket. He take it out and show the picture to everybody he came into contact with: walkin’ down Yazoo’s Main Street, at Good Fellow’s Church on Sunday evening or at his favorite watering hole, the Suds and Gas.

Bubba would back his acquaintance into a corner and say: “See here. These guys heads are cold. I don’t know why beings a though they all live in the desert, but see right there” he’d say pointing at the picture, “they’re all wrapped up cause it’s cold over there.”

Bubba had reasoned it out one day laying on the creek bank after a tough struggle of noodlin’ with a hefty catfish—he was tired but his brain never shut off. His first thought had been a question: “Why did they wear those sheets on their heads?” He thought ‘bout it for a while and it finally come to him. They’re heads are cold. Then he thought: “Why wear sheets on their heads?” This question stumped Bubba for some time ‘till he decided to look at the question backards. Why not wear sheets. There just had to be more to it so Bubba kept on a’thinkin’.

Like a bolt of lightening it came to Bubba: there must be a real problem with theft over there in the Arab lands. It just had to be theft otherwise they’d leave their bed sheets at home when they went off to work in the morning. It wasn’t so much that their heads were cold; they were more worried ‘bout somebody stealin’ the bed sheets. So, if his supposin’ was right; how could Bubba solve the problem. He laid back down on the creek bank and resumed to thinkin’.

For some unknown reason, after a while Bubba’s mind wondered off to that trip he, his dad and Uncle Billy Bob had made to Atlanta a couple of summers back and the thrill he had a’watchin’ those Braves play the Dodgers—he still had the cap.

That’s when the second lightening bolt hit him square between the eyes. “That’s it! That’s the answer.” Bubba squealed. “That’s all it would take.”

After gittin’ home, Bubba took a pencil, a scrap of paper and wrote out his solution and added that paper to the picture he carried in his pocket. He also drafted a letter to the Atlanta Braves and sent it off the very next morning. Now all he had to do was locate somebody in the Mississippi Air National Guard.

A week later, Bubba got his answer back from the Braves. They were in if he could just arrange delivery. Now it was even more important to find somebody in the Air Guard.

The very next morning Bubba cornered the Mayor in a café down on main street and forced him to listen to his idea. “Ya see Mayor, if we can just get the Mississippi Air National Guard to fly over there and air drop a few plane loads of Atlanta Brave gimme caps all over the desert, there wouldn’t be any more need for those Arabs to wear their bed shhets on their heads all day long. They could leave them a’home and stop worryin’ ‘bout theft. They just need to stop the bed sheet staelin’. I tell ya Mayor, gimme caps is the solution!”

Fenway @ 100

On the 20^th of April in 1912, Fenway Park opened its doors for the first time to Major League Baseball. Today marks the one hundredth anniversary of that occasion—that is 100 years for you that are numerically challenged. Fittingly enough, the Red Sox’s opponents on that day were the New York Yankees. Again, today’s Red Sox opponent will be the New York Yankees—100 years later. In 1912 the Red Sox won and the rest is history, right up to today.

I have never been to a game at Fenway—have always wanted to but so far the stars have not aligned—far too many armadillos in the back yard is my best guess. So, I’m guessing this desire calls for the formulation of that great American nostalgic undertaking—a Road Trip. Maybe I can talk my son into a short jaunt to the New England area in the near future. I would really like to take in a game at Fenway. I think my son may have already been there; he’ll probably let me know just as soon as he sees this peace. I was in town (Boston for those MLB challenged out there) one weekend when the Red Sox were in town, but was accompanied by a bunch of fuddy-duddies that were not baseball fans and the opportunity escaped my reach—I have been told that there are six or eight Red Blooded Americans that aren’t MLB fans out there some where.

How often do you get to be connected with history? The chance to watch and feel the tingle of a game (any game for that matter) being played in a stadium that reaches back into history one hundred years should not be looked on with the slightest bit of trepidation. If ya got the chance, take it,

I have encountered the opportunity to do so several times over the span of years I have been walking this Earth and have never regretted taking the chance any of those thrilling times. Sometimes it has to become a memory that comes back to you later when you realize that the chance of it ever happening again is now gone forever. Twice while stationed in the New York area in the early 80s my wife Patsy and the kids, Joe and Stephanie, had a like opportunity. A visit from my parents, Dutch and Anne from Texas, found us at the top of the Empire State Building and the Statue of Liberty on the same day. Both of my parents are no longer with us, but Man, what a memory? The other opportunity that I will never forget was the trip the wife, kids and I took into Manhattan one weekend and rode the elevators to the top of World Trade Center #1. Walking out on that observation deck and realizing you were a quarter mile closer to Heaven was amazing—but never again!

Watching the news on CBS this morning, they had a segment on Fenway @ 100 and Erica Hill ( a self professed “life long Yankee fan”) said that she had attended school in Boston and her dad had reminded her not to root for the Red Sox, but her impression of exiting the tunnel to gaze upon the grounds at Fenway took her breath away. This also got me to remembering back.

I have written here in the past about my early trip to see the Cardinals play the Dodgers in 1951 and the thrill that was to me—eight future Hall of Famers on the field that day. On equal stance within my memory vault is another trip in April of 1979 that three of us from my Army days (Dick Ellis, Mike Longwell and I) stopping off on our way back to West Point at Yankee Stadium to buy a scalper’s ticket to see a Yankee game that evening.

Upon arriving on the scene of Old Yankee Stadium—not the New Yankee Stadium on today, the Old Yankee Stadium, the House that Ruth built—we happened upon a group of cops who just so happened to be members of the same National Guard unit we had visited just that same day. They parked our van on the street right in front of the stadium and promised us it would be safe and there when the game was over—they watched it and it was there when we exited for our trip home.

But—I need to get to the memory—the best and most amazing part of the entire night was not the game, who was on the field or any specific play that night. No, the thrill was exiting the tunnel and first casting my eyes on the playing field of Yankee Stadium for the first time. Your breath departs your body or you forget to breathe; whatever it is, you are stopped dead in your tracks. I’m not sure you heart beats for a moment or two. It is a feeling you have to experience; one can not adequately describe. It has to be lived.

If you have the chance some time today, take a moment and dig into your vault of memories and dredge up a connection with history. See how it makes you feel. I recommend the trip. Leave me a comment describing your discovery. Your day will be the better for doing so. Take my word for it.

Is the world overpopulated?

I got to wondering about the fear of overpopulation just the other day—not sure why my brain turned that direction but it did.

I went out on the internet—ya know that you can find anything on the internet. I don’t yet know how all that stuff gets there, but it’s there.

My research established these facts:

(1) According to Matt Rosenberg, at the website: http:/geography.about.com/od/populationgeography/a/popdensity.htm

90% of the population occupies only 3% of the land. Looks like we have room for many more people than we currently have populating the world; so why the concern?

(2) Land covers only 29% of the globe.

(3) .03 (people) x .29 (land) = .0087 = .87% Let's call it 1%.

(4) Therefore, if Mr. Rosenberg is correct with his data, I believe it's very safe to say that less than 2% of the Earth's surface is inhabited by humans. Again I ponder, why the concern?

Keeping Mr. Rosenberg’s facts in mind; here’s the facts prompting my thought process:

Every morning of the world—well, just about every morning—Little Gus, Otis and I take a walk around the neighborhood. It gets us outta the house and they both really enjoy it. You might even go so far as to say that they are fanatical about it—jumping around and barking as soon as I put on my ball cap. The fresh air most likely doesn’t hurt us!

About three weeks ago, I noticed an unusual looking weed along the sidewalk close to the park at the pipeline right-of-way. It wasn’t one I remembered seeing before. It stood out as really different from all those around it that had developed as a result of all the rains we have received this spring. I took the following photo of it and was determined to check it out. Well as things often happen; I forget and the photo sat on my phone for the next week or so.

I noticed the weed over the following weeks—nothing in particularly changing—and eventually had to go outta town, loosing track of my unusual weed. I had to see my Grandson’s initial soccer game. That was a real thrill. In doing so, I had no idea what had happened over the weekend while I was outta town.

Come Monday morning after breakfast, I donned my cap, the jumping and barking commenced and soon we were out the door.

Heading down the sidewalk, listening to the birds singin’ and generally paying no specific attention whatsoever; I was startled when I came upon the weed that I had completely removed from my mind. There it was. But to my surprise the ugly duckling was no longer a weed, but the beautiful flower you see in the following photo

Day in and day out for a week to ten days I admired this flower as the Pups and I passed it on our morning walks.

Searching the area surrounding the right-of-way park; I could not find another sunflower plant anywhere in the area.

The seed that brought this plant to my area had to have come by whatever means from a great distance off—not an easy task one would surmise.

What a wonder Nature is when it endeavors to replicate itself. This struggle is somewhat amazing.

Then came this morning. I again had that startled feeling when we came upon sunflower point, as the Pups and I had began to refer to it. The area surrounding the stalk was still promulgated with the assortment of weeds that had been there prior to the sunflower’s appearance, but everything-else was different.

I though to myself: “Those damn deer!” But then I realized that the deer hadn’t been in our area for as long as the rains have been pelting us. Maybe it was a dog? No, it couldn’t have been a dog. There was no evidence of rampage anywhere else in the area. The revelation about the number of people inhabiting the surface of the Earth came to me in somewhat a fit of rage. Right there on the spot, I decided.

Take a look at what I found as we trudged up the trail.

There’s only one culprit that could do damage like this. A human, only a human, would do this kind of damage and deprive the rest of us what Nature struggles to produce and just for the extremely short pleasure that the top of one single solitary sunflower stalk will bring them.

Our walk path is not on any beaten trail. There is only one answer to the question of “Who coulda done it?” It has to be one of my neighbors right here in my own backyard—so to speak.

Therefore, I conclude that it isn’t in Chinese or India where the population seems to the most of us to be outta whack. Both of the Pups thought I was crazy; they couldn’t understand my reasoning. No matter though, I am sure I’ve made the right decision.

No! There’s one too many humans inhabiting the Earth’s surface and that one is right here in Central Texas. Now we have to decide what to do about it!

I ask you, is this proof enough?

So, how is your PSA level?

Reader Warning: If you are the least bit squeamish, do not continue! This will be true especially if you are a male member of the species. Females having experienced childbirth simply refer to this as payback.

Yesterday I had my first annual appointment with my new urologist, Doctor Joy (first names only) up at ADC-North—actually my first female urologist as a matter of fact. She replaces Doc Koushik who I saw only once prior to him moving on to greener pastures. Doc Koushik had been my new urologist then only because I had fired my old urologist. I won’t go into that here; if you want to know more on that front you will have to search the archive on my blog site.

I had a consult with Doc Joy the prior week after I finally got around to calling; Patsy had been on me for some time to do so. She was surprised that I got an appointment to see any urologists that quick; but I did. We discussed where I was and what had brought me here; talked about Doc Libensky (last name in this case only), the guy that started all this back in 2002 and his replacement; I saw him (can’t recall his name; oh yah, it was Doc Pradeep) once before he also left for a greener pasture. Doc Joy checked the computer and found all my records to still be intact; even the visits with Doc Steven—the Doc I fired—had been sent over routinely and scanned into the database).

Nothing left to do now but the rectal exam that my primary passes off every year to my urologist visit—it’s easier on both him and me for the urologist to do so but eventually it has to be fingered. Yes it did and so I drop trou and bend over the table. Probing complete, Doc Joy recommended that I set up appointment for cysto and CT scan with Nurse Laura and quickly departs; the visit bringing to mind a short porno loop fro the 70s.

Yesterday, after fighting the MOPAC traffic for over an hour, I still arrived early, maybe ten minutes or so; took my place in the waiting area; opened my current book and started to read. Almost a full chapter later, I was called back and quickly ushered into a restroom for the opportunity to provide a urine sample. “OK, I can do that.” This is not always an easy task with your mind in a far, far away universe thinkin’ of what is yet to come. This time I had planned ahead in order to comply and eventually accomplished the task.

Returning from urine compliance, Nurse Laura showed me to the exam room. Nurse Laura says: “You know the drill?” as she directed me to disrobe completely below my waist, offering me a sheet to cover myself—sheet is the hospital slang for large piece of paper not able to withstand the slightest rip or tear.

“Yep! That’s easy for you to say! This will be the eighteenth time, but that doesn’t make it any easier.”

Both giggle and move on. She says to “lay back to get comfortable.” I move to a reclined position and take advantage of the last peaceful rest I will have for the next twenty-four hours.

Nurse Laura starts ripping at the sheet covering me, places a sterile covering over my nether region, grabs ahold of what she can and starts swabbing.

My mind begins to remind me in stark realism of what is to come and I roll into the world of memory, hoping to forego the entire procedure. My body knows otherwise—the anxiety of what is ahead causes me to break out into a cold sweat and a tenseness of muscles that can only be matched by rigor mortis.

With closed eyes, like that could help, I am transported into an outta-body state and begin to recall the cystos of the past.

I am alone in the exam room with absolutely nothing to occupy my mind but thoughts of the torture to come.

Soon, the nurse is back through the door pushing the dreaded cart with the ultimate device of torture. You can’t see what’s on the cart—it’s covered up to keep it sterile; but I know what’s there—you bet I know.

Nurse says: “Are you allergic to iodine?”

“No.” They ask this every time, sometimes more than once. Those allergic to iodine must have some awful reaction to it as they make a big deal of it.

“I gonna wash you. You might feel a cold sensation.” Then she starts. (The he and she are interchangeable from this point on.)

Cold! Are you kidding me? Iodine is cold. You know how cold alcohol feels when you apply it to your skin. The reason for this sensation is the rate of evaporation as it dissipates into the air. Well, iodine evaporates faster than alcohol and the medical profession is not bashful about the application of iodine. The nurses sorta just poor it all over the intended area and dab away to insure cleanliness. But COLD it is! I always thought this was just to get you ready for the next step.

Nurse says: “OK, now I am going to apply lidocaine down the urethra to make it feel better during the procedure.” She grabs Mr. P, squeezes to open him up and begins to push the lidocaine outta the tube. It feels like she is pushing the tube down Mr. P’s throat and by-the-way, it burns like HELL.

Up to this point we have been both frozen and burned. You might ask what can come next. Well, I’m gonna tell you; patience my reader, patience, I won’t let you down.

Nurse says: “I’m sorry about that.” You might believe her; I don’t.

After all I have previously suffered; the goal turns to keeping the lidocaine inside—don’t you dare let it ooze out. This Nurse does with one of those big black clips that you most likely have used to keep a three inch stack of your tax forms together or notes for your next staff meeting. That’s right, one of those big black clips. Don’t ya dare think they have removed any amount of tension fro that clip? Nope, not a bit; it’s just as strong as it ever was. B-e-l-i-e-e-e-v-e me! Now, there you lay, covered by a big paper sheet, Mr. P adorned with a big black clip sticking up through a whole in the middle of the sterile pad—not at attention or even saluting; Mr. P’s head is hung low.

Over her shoulder Nurse says as she departs: “We’ll be back in a few minutes to do the procedure. Just rest now.”

Rest! Does the medical profession even have a clue to what constitutes rest? I don’t think so.

Again, I am left to cogitate my predicament and what is yet to come. The time seems to stop, anxiety builds, no movement whatsoever. H.G. Wells, where are you?

Weird thoughts run through your mind during this lull in the action; not the least of which is: RUN and RUN fast.

Before you know it, the door bangs open and in strides the Doc and his team in force. My first thought: “Why does it take so many?” Ya know there always seems to be somebody in need of training and I seem to always be chosen for the guinea pig for such activity; my fate I guess. At this juncture there is a great deal of scurrying around and equipment checking that takes place. Another thought pops into mind: “Why haven’t they already checked the equipment?” Directly, they are ready to proceed.

Doc says: “I’m going to insert this device, then I will fill your bladder with the solution from this bag and we’ll look around.”

I always wonder who else he’s gonna allow to gander so I ask. “Whadda you mean we’ll look around Doc?”

“You can see every thing I see on that monitor right there” as Doc points at a TV monitor sitting over my right shoulder. I’m laying back with that big black clip strangling Mr. P and he wants me to crank the top part of my body around so I can see what he sees—no way is this about to happen. You would have to be a contortionist to accomplish this. I am not sure I wanta know what’s going on in there anyway.

Doc removes the clip and I experience a short moment of relief—still burning, but better.

“Now we begin.” Doc starts insertin’ the torture device into me and says: “Take short quick breaths and it will be better”

“Ahh. Ahh. Yes, OK. Ahh ahaah.”

Did I mention that the device was the exact same size as an NFL football—maybe I forgot to tell ya that? Well, as far as I am concerned, it’s the exact same size.

“Ahh. Ahh. Ahh.” That lidocaine doesn’t seem to be doing its part or even coming close.

“There’s the prostrate. It looks enlarged.” OK, it’s enlarged, but this does this stop the onslaught? No way, it continues.

“OK, here’s the bladder. Now we’ll fill it up with sterile water.” There he goes again with the we’ll. As far as I can tell, he is the only one with any control of the football device.

“Ahh. Ahh. Ahh.”

He starts the water flow.

“Ahh. Ahh. Ahh.”

“How are you doing? Are you watching the monitor?”

“Ahh. Ahh. OK so far Doc. Ahh. Ahh.” As far as I can tell, Doc has rammed the football within about an inch and a half of my tonsils or so it seemed. I know for a fact that the lidocaine isn’t doing its part.

The Doc and his crew are talking to you just like it’s an everyday conversation and all you are trying to do is stay alive and breathe; just breathe.

“That’s all the water and the bladder isn’t yet fully extended; too many folds. We need more water.”

Doc says: “You have a large bladder. Possibly the second largest on earth. There’s gotta be a blue whale out there with one larger than this!” Off goes the nurse to get another bag of water. Time keeps ticking by. So much for the thoroughness of the equipment check.

“Ahh. Ahh. Ahh.” I continue to breathe as the dock pats me on the knee and just smiles.

Nurse is back. The new bag is hung and flowing.

Doc says: “Now that’s better.” He begins to look around.

“There’s the operation spot. It still looks goods—no grow back.”

Don’t get me started on the operation. That is another story all to itself.

“Uh oh, what is this? There’s a small protrusion on the upper left quadrant. See it?”

Hell no, I don’t see it. Man, I’m doing nothin’ but breathin’. “Ahh. Ahh. Ahh. Ahh. Ahh.”

Doc turns and asks the nurse for the Bowie Knife device (not the actual name of the device, but you get the idea)—I never caught the name and never hope to . As you might expect, it was not in the exam room either. The nurse high tails it outta there for the Bowie Knife.

Bowie Knife, you might ask. This device slides down inside the football size tube and as far as I can tell, you have to insert it crossways or it won’t work. So crossways he did—as far as I can tell.

“You might feel a little pinch. Are you ready?”

“Ahh. Ahh. Ahh. Ahh. Ahh. OK Doc. Ahh. Ahh. Ahh.”

A little pinch, HELL! There was a whole Latin Quarter knife fight goin’ on down there. I think some of the guys had brought machetes, maybe even fencing foils; I couldn’t be sure.

“There, we got it.”

Again with the we. Why do they do that? Are they trying to make us feel as we are part of the team? I don’t wanta be part of the team; I just want this to be over.

“Ahh. Ahh. Ahh. Ahh. Ahh.”

Now Doc is dragging the Bowie Knife back out. I am positive he used the same procedure to get it back out as he used getting it in: crossways.

Everybody seemed to be proud of the team when they finally got that Bowie Knife back out. They were digging around for a specimen jar to capture the culprit in and send off to some CSI lab for analysis.

Doc says: “Ya wanta see what we took out? Here, look.” he says as he shoves it into my face.

“Ahh. Ahh. Ahh. Ahh. Ahh. OK Doc. Ahh. Ahh. Ahh.”

Doc goes back to looking around again. “The rest looks pretty good. Get ready for me to come out now.”

Removing the football sized device is about as eventful as removing the Bowie Knife; except it wasn’t brought out crossways—it just felt like it was.

“Ahh. Ahh. Ahh. Ahh. Ahh. OK Doc. Ahh. Ahh. Ahh.”

Then it’s over. Talk about an Alka-Seltzer moment, this was it. You have no idea what a relief it is for the procedure to be over.

Doc says: “OK. We’ll leave while you get cleaned up and then we’ll talk.” They depart leaving just me and the new trainee guy.

Training Guy says; “Man, I thought ya were gonna raise up off that table and hit him. They shouldn’t have males in here when they’re doing this—it’s too much.” Without stopping to breathe, he continued: “This is my first day and my last; I can’t do this! As soon as I help you get cleaned up, I’m outta here.” And he was. I found out on my next visit that he had given notice that afternoon and came back only to get his first and final paycheck. As fretful as this was for Training Guy, I had no symphony for him.

Eventually I return to my body and begin to redress myself. Doc Joy soon rejoins me and we discuss what had taken place.

I have now been clear of cancer for ten years and will no longer have to experience this torture every three months or every six months or every year for that matter—never again.

“Ahh. Ahh. Ahh. Ahh. Ahh.” Now I just gotta get over yesterday

Never been touched!

Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee. I know that’s not mine, but that single statement describes the guy I’m gonna tell you ‘bout. I can’t portray him any better no matter how hard I try. How else would you start off a boxing story?

It was just after the Summer Olympics of 1976 and Charles Mooney, a soldier assigned to the 530^th Supply and Service Battalion, had tried out and was talented enough to win a Silver Medal in the bantamweight division. Upon his return to Fort Bragg, the command was alive with boxers and those wanting to be boxers—they were everywhere.[i] The excitement only grew when the entire US Team was invited and attended a rally on post—everybody seemed to be in the boxing mood.

The call went out for those wishing to try out for battalion and command teams competing at the unit level and hoping to advance all the way to the post championships. Charles Mooney was exempted from the hoop-dé-do; he was spending much of his time with the Gunslinger—the XVIII ^th Airborne Corps and Ft Bragg Commander—Charlie was in real demand.

The Battalion Chaplain had some boxing experience and volunteered to coach the team. I tried to assist as much as my time would allow—the rigors of command didn’t leave much in the way of free time.

Every gym rat plus a few wantabes showed up for the initial meeting—all eager to get started. Of course there were those that were only looking to avoid whatever they could manage to get away with. One of those looking for the easy way was a supply specialist named Reese who was assigned to the Assistant Chief of Staff for Materials office within the Support Command. Reese was a GRE (gym rat extraordinaire) and continually sought the way around instead of through—he’d do anything, even to the extent of working harder than required to accomplish his daily routine.

At the time, running was our forté so the training to box started almost immediately. Initially training time came after the normal duty day, but the Chaplain wrangled the boss into allowing the team members to train three days a week after morning formations and details were completed. Of course the Sergeant Majors of each command section complained but the Chaplain got his way and the training routine was set.

Lots of heavy bag and light sparing took up the day. Reese seemed to be doing fairly well for himself and his prospects of making the team looked good. The guy was quick if nothin’ else—real quick. I managed to get by and show some command interest in the guys from the Headquarters Company—GIs like interest, no matter the source.

Early on, the Chaplain set up some sparing bouts with the other commands within the Support Command. These generated more interest in what was transpiring than one might imagine. Having a celebrity in the crowd, our Charlie again, didn’t hurt a bit. Our guy Reese did all right for himself as a novice to the sport. Did I mention that he was quick?

Training continued and before long it was time for the battalion level elimination bouts. These were important, both for team points and individual fighter advancement. With only one field house rigged with a boxing ring on the side of Ft Bragg where our units resided, we would have to make do—old WWII barracks buildings don’t allow for much in the way of reconfiguration. Chairs ran along two opposite sides of the ring and barely only standing room on the other sides made for an awkward set-up—we made it work.

Our first challenge came from the Supply & Service battalion and our fighters held their own; three of the five real bouts went into the record in our column. Reese punched his opponent into oblivion with no trouble whatsoever—he is fast! The Supply & Service battalion won the match overall as they took the two bouts that our unit lost and scored unopposed wins in the weight classes that we had no participants in—there being eleven weight classes overall. This was a disappointment to our guys and consoling them with the win facts didn’t make a difference.

The next day they were back into the training routine. The Chaplain decided that the time had come to start cutting boxers and concentrate on those that had the best chance of moving up and on. He set up a round robin internal tournament to decide just who would remain and who would return to their routine duty assignment—he had knuckled under to the command pressure of the everyday task of mission requirements.

Reese took his weight class just as everybody was beginning to expect—I seem to remember mentioning that Reese was fast—you recall that don’t you? The team was cut to twelve members in an attempt to try and cover as many weight classes as possible, even though some classes had multiple contenders in them. Better to be safe because one can never tell what’s around the next corner in mission needs.

Reese was becoming loud and boisterous about his singular talent in finishing off his opponents in the very first round—his hand quickness was trouble for every one of them, even his own team members in training bouts. None of them wanted to get in the ring with him—even the heavyweights.

Up next was the Support Command Championships and the entire team was high as a kite. They still had very little experience but seemed to be unafraid of what was to come. Reese had become the expo-facto team leader and looked up to by all.

The team came through the ordeal with flying colors, wining all five weight classes we entered and scoring enough points to be declared the Support Command Champions.

Then came the word of our next challenge. Ft Bragg was to entertain a box-off with challengers from Camp Lejeune, our Marine neighbors just to the east of us. The guys’ first questions was: “Are we gonna have to fight the Spinks brothers?” Luckily the answer to that for our guys was no. Just like Charlie, they were spending too much time away from the ring to be able to compete. However they were gonna attend and the morale factor just might be too much to overcome. There being few knowledgeable boxing aficionados, I was volunteered to judge many of the bouts—not much of a conflict here; each fight was fairly one-sided.

The night arrived and the bouts started. When all was said and done each post had scored five wins—a draw; a sister kissing if there ever was. Reese had, again, KO’d his opponent in the first round and obtained a standing ovation from the Spinks brothers. There was no touching him.

Next for the team it was back to training because the post championships were the next weekend. Reese was even more motivated to train instead of accomplishing his regular job than ever before. After the unit’s three mile run every morning, Reese would often retrace the route before heading to the gym. He had become fanatical about taking the post championship—nothing else mattered.

Saturday night arrived right on schedule—you probably already guessed that. The entire team was enthused. I was again tapped to judge and eventually lost track of what was happening with the team. I saw much of what was going on but had to remain on my designated judge’s stool most of the evening.

Close to 9:30 PM, Reese’s bout came up and I was again in line to judge. I ask those in charge if this was gonna be a problem and all seemed to agree that I was on the up-and-up—the course was set: Reese in the ring and me on my stool a’watching and a’judging.

The combatants were announced and sent to their corners. The Chaplain gave Reese his pre-bout instructions. Reese looked like he could take on the world. This, as they say, was for all the marbles and Reese looked ready to roll.

The bell rang and the fight was on. Reese hit the other guy with a couple of jabs and he looked startled from both the speed and the thud. They circled and Reese got in a few more jabs plus hook or two. His opponent was staggered just as each before him had been. As the round continued, Reese hit his opponent as often as he desired; the other not getting a lick in anywhere. Three minutes doesn’t last long when you are doing the damage and soon the first round was over. The challenger had not landed a glove and I scored the round 10 to 1 in Reese’s favor. I can’t tell you why I gave the guy the one point. I guess I just thought that he deserved something for the beating he was taking.

As short as three minutes is; I know you realize that the one minute between rounds is even shorter—much too short for the guy taking the punishment.

The second round bell sounded and both fighters made their way to center ring. As soon as they arrived, the challenger started to back away from the coming onslaught. Reese hit him over and over. First jabs, then hooks, an uppercut thrown in here and there and then more bone chilling jabs followed. It was brutal to watch. The guy again lasted the round and looked to be so grateful for the bell and the temporary end of his punishment. I scored this round like the first, 10 to 1—again feeling sorry for Reese’s opponent.

During the between round, I watched the guy in the other corner. It seemed that he was on his way out and wanted desperately to throw in the towel—just so it all could be over. In Reese’s corner the Chaplain was all over Reese. I could hear just a bit of antagonism in his demeanor. Reese had never let a bout get this far. Every fight to date had ended in the first round. Reese bounced, looked confident and nodded his head to end it as soon as possible.

The bell to open the third and final round sounded. Again to center ring, the tapping of gloves and the bout was back on in haste. Reese landed blow after blow throughout the first minute and continued the same pillaging during the second minute. I had no idea why the other guy was still standing. There was nothing to give him any hope that he could continue, much less come out victorious. Another thirty seconds of pounding took place. I just knew that there was no way that the other two judges could have scored the bout any differently than I had—Reese’s opponent had never landed a glove on him.

I snuck a look at the clock—twenty seconds remained. I looked back up just in time to see a roundabout flailing left hand land directly on Reese’s nose. He had finally been touched and the touch was a good one—misdirected and oddly thrown, but good nonetheless. I don’t think his opponent even knew it landed, but Reese did. Twenty seconds or less; he could avoid Muhammad Ali for that long; just twenty seconds and the Post Championship in his weight class was his. Shuffle here, shuffle there; run around if he had too—the points had to be on his side. Ten per round was the max. The bout was his.

Immediately, Reese looked for his corner and in what amounted to a panic, he began to try to get outta his gloves and the ring at the same time. He had never been touched but Reese had finally been hit and he didn’t like it one bit. He raced to the Chaplain who was trying emphatically to encourage him to stay in the ring and last it out. Reese wanting nothing more to do with the sport of boxing climbed through the ropes and exited the area on his way to anywhere but the ring. It was over and his opponent was soon to be declared Champion.

I conferred with the other two judges and they both had similar scores. Had Reese finished the round inside the ring, he would have won the bout.

In any event, the team from Headquarters and Headquarters Company, 1^st Corps Support Command won the championship and we were presented the trophy you see below. Reese attended the presentation, but …….

SP4 Reese is looking over the shoulder of PFC Anthony who has the trophy in his hands. The trophy is being presented to the Ft Bragg Boxing Championship Team by COL Elmer D. Pendleton (Commander, 1^st Corps Support Command) and being accepted by CPT John Howard Hatfield (Commander of Headquarters and Headquarters Company, 1^st Corps Support Command).

---

[i] The USA had done rather well at the Olympic Games: Flyweight – Leo Randolph – Gold; Bantamweight – Charles Mooney – Silver; Lightweight – Howard Davis – Gold; Light Welterweight – Ray Leonard – Gold; Middleweight – Michael Spinks – Gold; Light Heavyweight – Leon Spinks – Gold; and Heavyweight – John Tate – Gold (Tate defeated by Teófilo Stevenson from Cuba—one of only three boxers to win Gold in three Olympics Games).

Did you survive Valentines Day?

I’m here and hoping I did.

After last year’s debacle (we wont even go back to the year before last!), I’m really hoping I did OK this year. I tried. I have often been told that trying is all it takes. I don’t think those guys know a damn thing ‘bout Valentines Day—trying don’t get ya anywhere.

While the wife was at work, I made myself lunch and kept the pups off the carpet—didn’t even allow them outta the kitchen. I decorated the kitchen and made the wife a Valentine Sack—you remember those; the kind you pasted harts on and hoped your best girl would give you a special Valentine—even though she had absolutely no idea whatsoever that she was your best girl. I made me one also just so I could put my two lonely cards inside and re-read again later. Of course I maintained the appropriate proportionality between the sacks—I’m not completely stupid.

I next went over to the HEB, searched up and down the Valentine Card aisle for just the right card that had exactly the right words on the inside—like I could really tell. I walked around and around the flowers and finally picked out just the exact right ones in this area also—ditto the previous comment.

Brought all the goodies home and added some appropriate sentiments to the inside of the card. Then I sat back and waited on the inevitable outcome.

The wife arrives: “What’s this?” she comments as she stares down the big sack I have provided for the collection of her valentines.

Just WHO gets all the attention at my house?

I explain that I wanted her to recapture her youth, but only if she wanted to. She did enjoy the roses—actually took a few to work with her the next day; saying: she “wanted to enjoy them more.” There wasn’t as much excitement about the sack—Gus and I had put a lot of work in on that; I was disappointed now. The pups, both Little Gus and Otis thought the sack was the top of the world. They kept running at it and poking it with their nose and tail: “Look Mom; we got a sack!”

See, I put it in there!

Patsy got a bite of ham or two, went upstairs to change clothes and we were off to the Austin City Limits Live stage to take in a Rob Schneider concert. She had scored the tickets at work—actually she is my main link to good tickets to whatever is going on in the Austin area now that I have retired and no longer have various vendors attempting to bribe me for business purposes.

I am always looking for somebody I know when we are out like this and invariably I never see anybody I know.

Making our way through the throng, we encountered some of Patsy’s associates and the Director of Marketing who were working the event and I scored some very cool sunglasses and a hand soap dispenser—you can never get too much free junque, ya know? Soon after we were chased down by one of the two of Patsy’s employees and their significant others—also attending the event—prior to heading to our seats. We spent the rest of the pre-show available time with good people and great conversation.

The organization where Patsy works has a suite at the ACL-Live stage so we took advantage and had two or three (or more) glasses of champagne and several chocolate covered strawberries apiece before the show and again at intermission.

Schneider’s show has been reworked a bit since the last time I saw him at a ACL Festival several years back—probably a little more that just a little re-work has taken place. He has a string quartet, an additional cello, a piano and trumpet player accompanying him now along with two girl singers who perform off and on (singularly) throughout the show. The songs had been captured from the late 1930s and early 1940s—My Funny Valentine, As Time Goes By and the like. We both enjoyed the show immensely.

Made our way to our seats and found some squatters; sternly advised them that they needed to move—actually considered chunking them over the rail; we were on the first row of the mezzanine and could have. They moved to the seats I kindly advised them that were available at the time but were up and down during the whole show.

Checking around the section, one of the group spotted Mathew McConaughey (with fiancée) and Robert Rodriguez sitting in our section. I thought it so sad that neither of them knew Patsy nor I—their loss.

We didn’t get out of the theatre until after 11 PM and finally home some twenty minutes later. The pups were irritated that they had to stay up past their bedtime—mine also. I paid for it this morning with Champagne Head.

Yep, I survived Valentines Day; but just barely.

Pressin’ 2

The other day I was bagging up some blueberries for breakfast. I use the frozen ones that I get over at the Sam’s Store. Every week, I bag them up three spoonfuls at a time in those cheap, cheap sandwich bags. Those I get over at the Hch-E-B. Blue berries in my cereal or grits, ya just gotta love it.

Finished bagging, I was a’gandering at the box while gettin’ it ready for the recycle bin when I noticed that it had the how-to-use instructions in both English and Spanish. Well, how about that?

How to use: Como usar. That’s pretty simple I thought to myself. #1-Tuck the flap inside the bag. (Meter la lengueta hacia adentro de la bosia.) I thought it odd that the instructions didn’t even mention to insert the sandwich into the bag first; the picture showed the sandwich inside the bag so I assume the bag company pretty much figured that we could get that part on our own—both of us; English and Spanish. #2-Fold cuff over end of bag. (Doblar la solapa sorbe el extremo de la bolsa.) I was gettin’ that bosia bag link like you can’t believe. I did have some problem with the extremo; I couldn’t for the life of me figure how that worked it’s way into the mix. #3-Sandwich is locked in. (El sandwich queda seguro ademtro.) I got it now.

I thought to myself: “This Spanish is not as hard as Rush Limbaugh makes it out to be. I can do this, probably to the extremo.”

Right then and there is most likely where I took my first wrong turn.

I thought to myself out loud: “The next time I have the opportunity, I’m gonna press 2.”

It wasn’t half a day before that opportunity dropped right into my lap. Those timeshare guys called again. Several of them call the house every day. Oh, it’s not always the same company calling, but its timeshare guys all right. They want to either help me sell one of the three I have or help me take advantage of another good deal that has just suddenly become available. Actually one of the three was sold a long time ago—but they keep calling.

Well, the phone rang and I picked it up and answered. Almost immediately the voice says: “Press 1 for English or 2 for Spanish. Man, here was my chance to try out my newly developed skill. I hit that 2 as fast as I could. I didn’t want them to think I was wavering—cause I ain’t.

The next thing I know some guys comes is on the line and is rattling off some las and comos and manyanas and throwing a couple of hăbles here and there at me. Before you can say Spanish ain’t that hard, I was pressing my responses. We were flying through the conversation at warp speed—Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock woulda been damn proud of me. I was pretty able to keep up and thought I knew just what was agoin’ on; b-e-l-i-e-v-e me. Less than ten or so minutes later, a couple of credit card number checks and I’m off the line proud as hell that I have finally sold one of them timeshares—I think it was the one in Branson.

I was real damn proud of myself. So proud in fact that I deserved a couple pats on the back and a big ole glass of iced tea. I proceeded straight to the fridge and por’d me one.

Deciding to take the wife out to a movie that evening I called up the movie theatre that afternoon and got one of those recording thingamajigs, just as you might expect. I again decided that I would try my new found skill from another direction. It ask and I pressed 2. The device ran through a list of movies and I kept apressin’ responses ‘till it ask me for my credit card number and before you can heat a bowl of chili, I was set.

The tickets were there awaitin’. The movie was just as I imagined and we both enjoyed it immensely. I gettin’ good at this.

The next morning, not very early mind you, I realized that I was outta that Frontline ointment to put on the dogs for this month’s flee dose. I got on the land line, ya know that’s what they call it now—it’s not a phone anymore. So anyway, I ring up one of those suppliers that ya get a flyer for in the Sunday paper. The machine on the other end picks up and the recording says: “Thanks for calling, press 1 for English or 2 for Spanish.”

I’m so confident now that I had hit that 2 before the voice had even finished the instructions. I was keen to give it another shot. Newt Gingrich ain’t got nothin’ on me!

This time its a lady is on the other end of the line. She starts off with one of those hăblas and I’m a si’ing her right back. She takes off rattlin’ questions at me a mile a minute with me throwin’ in a si every now and then just to keep her honest. I have to pull out the ole credito cardo at least twice but have absolutely no problemo getting’ the numbers across to her—this is easy, ya oughta try it. I think I took these guys to the cleaners on the price of that Frontline ointment. I can’t get this stuff anywhere near this cheap at the Sam’s store or my vet.

That afternoon I took the opportunity to call down to the Paramount Theatre trying to get me some of those Garrison Keillor tickets for the show coming up in March. Again, I get that answering machine thingy—don’t anybody work at these gal darn places anymore? Well, it said the show was sold out but if I wanted to add my name to the automated waiting list just in case there was a cancellation, I should hang on and follow the instructions; that I did. A new recordin’ starts right away and just to show off my savör fairé I hit that dang 2 again. I hăblaed every question with a punch here, a stab there, did the obligatory credito cardo check and BANG I was on the list.

*****

Just yesterday a tractor trailer-load of Frontline showed up in the driveway and the driver hăblas me a time or two while I’m atrying to tell him that I have only the one Blue Tick, a scruffy mongrel and no place to store a trailer load of Frontline—‘sides that’s enough for every pound-hound in the county plus the four neighboring counties as well as far into the next year.

While I’m arguing back and forth with the guy, my cellular starts avibrating in my pocket. I wave off the driver for a minute with an hăbla or two and try to comprehend just what the guy on the phone is trying to tell me. Best I can tell as I’m not fur real sure—he’s hăblaing faster than I hear—but it seems I have just purchased a $1.3 million dollar condo in some place called Kabő San Luki or the such—I don’t even know where that is. Where’s my National Geographic world map when I need it?

Things just seem to keep on getting worse. In the last few days I have been contacted by some guy at the FBI is calling ‘bout some money laundering scheme connected to the Fitzgerald Theatre in St Paul, Minysoter; the Texas State Attorney General asking somethin’ ‘bout franchise taxes I owe for two or three movie theatres I seem to have purchased; one in El Paso another over in Juarez and somewhere called Vera Cruz. All this time I thought Vera Cruz was just my massage therapist’s name. Man, how did I get into this fix?

Man! Pressin’ 2 just ain’t as easy as ya might think! Oh, here comes my public defender—I hope he has good news. Ya know, if I ever get outta here, I just might have that darn phone taken out completely—at a minimum, I’m takin’ the 2s off every darn phone in the house.