Fruits, Vegetables, and Other Southern Foods

          The Admiral and I went to a buffet lunch. That is a treat, and it being without Princesses who were off doing whatever teenaged Princesses do, it was a time for us adults to relax, and converse.

            Foraging at a buffet is an individual pursuit, thus we went our separate ways leaving me without adult supervision. As we reunited at our chosen table and were settling into our feast, the ever observant and protective Admiral asked, "You do realize that you have two desserts, don't you?"

            "I do not," was my immediate, petulant, little boy defensive reply. It was so automatic that I had not even glanced at my food-laden tray.

            Recognizing a full-blown tantrum in the offing, she tried to soothe my ruffled feathers by offering, "I am concerned for your blood sugar, is all."

            "What two desserts?" I asked, taking a milder tack, recognizing that she had misidentified one of the foods.

            "You have banana pudding, and peach cobbler."

            I couldn't help but laugh at this breech of southern, culinary etiquette. Her stone-cold stare forced me into immediate explanation. "For one thing," I offered, fighting continued mirth, "it ain't 'banana pudding', it's 'nanner puddin', and everybody knows that 'nanner puddin' is a vegetable."

            Realizing her blunder as to all things southern (she was raised in Canada), she said, with no southern warmth, "Bananas are a fruit."

            "Well of course they are…" The Admiral had me, but agreeing gave me time to think of an adequate response, "…but when you put them in a puddin', they become a vegetable."

            Her jaw dropped in disbelief, but I kept a straight face, because not only was I right, but I did not want to make her feel ignorant as I added this pearl to her growing store of near useless southern knowledge.  She was quick to recover. "Then what is peach cobbler?"

            I was ready for her, "Peach cobbler is a bread." Then, because I seldom outwit the Admiral, I had to add, "Didn't you know that?"

            Her glare and stony silence assured me that I would pay for my wit later, but at that moment, it was worth it. We can make our choices, but the consequences are in the hands of others.

            She smiled at me, which put me on my guard, and asked, "What other southern culinary oddities am I missing out on?"

            "You know most of them, but since we've broached the subject," I stabbed a piece of fried okra with my fork and held it up for her to see, "this is fried okra."

            "Yes it is. So…"

            I could see a challenge rising in her eyes, so treading lightly, "The okra you stir about in the pan in some olive oil, and seasonings is delicious," so far, so good, "but it ain't fried okra," brandishing my impaled example before her, "this is fried okra."

            "You mean because is covered in a batter that absorbs twice the oil mine does and delivers it directly to your coronary arteries? Is that what you mean by 'fried'?"

            "Yes," I hurried, recognizing the beginning of the health argument, "battered in cornmeal, or a good beer-batter, deep fried to a tawny gold, that is the way to do it," rushing on, "just like we do pickles, green tomatoes, onion rings, squash, seafood, steak, pork, and anything else that is edible. I am certain I remember as a kid being taken to the Texas State Fair and having a deep fried chocolate bar."

            "What did it taste like?"

            "Chicken-fried chocolate," I said in the most matter-of-fact way I could.

            She ignored that. "Speaking of chicken-fried, what makes a Chicken-fried-steak a Chicken-fried steak?"

            "You fry it like you would a chicken, just like you would ice cream."

            She rolled her eyes, which meant it was time to move on from fried foods. I lowered my head and began the assault on my tray of food. The first fork full was a heap of collard greens, followed by a spoonful of that other vegetable, nanner puddin'.

            As I was delighting in this delicious vegetable, the Admiral asked, "What is your favorite meal?

            This was a trick question. She knows my favorite meal, it has never changed and she prepares it on special occasions, so on the defense, I answer, "Fried chicken," a pause here for emphasis, "rice and gravy," delivered almost as a song. Girding up for an attack, I said, "You know that."

            "There are no vegetables in that meal."

            "Rice is a vegetable."

            "Rice is a grain."

            "Yes," I conceded, "but when you pour white, chicken gravy over it, it becomes a vegetable." Again, I couldn't resist, "Didn't you know that?"

            "What is gravy then?" Her dander was rising. I was going to pay dearly for this, but in for a penny, in for a pound.

            "Gravy is a gift from God with the power to make good things better, and render the inedible, edible."

            "And the power to change a grain to a vegetable?" She asked.

            "To do most anything," was my reply. "There are some southern churches that teach that the Lord poured chicken gravy on the Sea of Galilee before he walked on it."

            I could see her fighting the laughter as she said, "And Peter sank," she began, "because he stepped off the gravy," we finished in unison.

            I nodded my head; she shook hers, and said, pointing to my dual desserts, "Eat your vegetables and bread, little boy."

            I did, thus ending the lesson.

Time Compression Warp Factor

          This past weekend, I attended my oldest son's, third child's graduation from his residency program. He is now a fully-fledged doctor, trained to go out and change the world. He is now the leader, even the teacher. At moments like this, with family and friends gathered around, and my having reached sixty-five only sixteen day previous, I grow reflective about my allotted time, what I have done with it, and what I will do with the rest. It all came crashing in on me, my personal black hole.

            I first heard the term “time compression warp factor” used by a fighter pilot who explained it as flying so fast in a limited space that when you launch your missiles, you have flown ahead of them, they activate, and you become the target. I do not know if it is a real thing, but it sounds cool. The term also has roots in Einstein’s Theory of Relativity. I am not able to explain that concept either, or get past the first chapter of Stephen Hawking’s A Brief History of Time, but I do have my own Time Compression Warp Factor theory that I can explain.

            It is, as you get older, time compresses in on itself with interesting phenomena. The calendar says your birthday is today, but you swear the last one was yesterday. That it is June, but Christmas was just last week. The grass is a foot high, and you wonder that it could grow like that overnight. Children and grandchildren who were toddlers in the morning are teenagers in the afternoon. There are now fifty seconds to a minute, a like number of minutes for an hour, twenty hours to the day, five days to the week, three weeks to the month, ten months to a year, and years are now bundled into seven to the decade, but are what a week used to be. Time is compressed.

            We have all heard, if not used, terms such as “Time flies”, or “They grow up so fast”, or “I need a twenty-five hour day”, and my personal favorite, “Where does all the time go?” I will try to answer by example.

            When I was pre-teen, I couldn’t wait for the teen years and all their coolness. When I lived long enough to be a teen, I yearned for the independence of young adult hood. At nineteen, I was immortal. Time stretched out for me and appeared endless. That is the way it is with immortals.

            About this time, we immortals have someone near us who dies, proving the immortal thing to be bogus. For me, it was other nineteen-year-old immortals in combat. We realized that there was an end, and it gave life a new perspective. We did not have an unlimited amount of time, but observation told us that there were people out there who were old, that it took a long time to get that way, and we would at least achieve that.

            Time marched on and us with it. In any marching group, unless someone is calling cadence, the steps continue to be rhythmic, but become faster, and faster, until we are all out of step and aren’t marching anymore, but running toward what we do not know, but we’re going to get there quick.

            That is how life is, and that is the Time Compression Warp Factor. When we are young, time stretches out to infinity. There is plenty of time for family, career, civic duty, church, etc., but somewhere along the way, our plans get derailed, our bucket list doesn’t get any shorter and when we’re through with the things we have to do, the things we want to do are still undone.

            We wake up some time between fifty and sixty, and realize, “Yeah, I’m mortal, and time is running out. I don’t have an unlimited supply of this stuff. How am I going to spend the rest of it?”

            We are also looking around and wondering where did it all go? Einstein is credited with proposing that time was invented for man so that all things do not happen at once. We are beginning see that as a possibility. All things are squeezing together into the same moment, and we feel we have to squeeze a whole lot of living into what time is left. When this happens, the minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years, seasons, decades all seem to run together and bump into each other creating the Time Compression Warp Factor.  The devices we use to measure these amounts of time say that they are the same, but a lifetime of living tells us that they are not. We are now flying so fast that we are the target. 

            Time Compression Warp Factor, it is a real thing; coming soon to a life near you. 

Rules to Date By

          We are going on vacation. It is a much needed one. We all have worked so hard the past few months that we have decided to take a break by working ten times harder to go have fun. That is the logic of a vacation. In my absence, this column is a much requested re-run.

            It seems that from the first time it ran, many parents have seen the wisdom of my words. They laughed at the first printing, but as their daughters have gotten older, they are now not laughing, but seeing the merit. This is how the rules came about.

            I was walking by the Princesses’ rooms and heard, “He’s so hot!” Oh dear. 

            These are not my first teenage daughters to show interest in the opposite sex. I have been through this three other times and have learned a few things along the way. This “hot” situation needed to be addressed and the law laid down. It is just better to clear things up early, like at birth.

            Me, “Knock, knock.”

            Princesses, “Come in.”

            As stern as I could, I looked them in the eye until I saw the fear. I had their attention and spoke, “Boys are not hot until they have graduated from college.”

            “What?”

            “You cannot think boys are hot until they are out of school, and come to think of it, not until you are graduated too.”

            There was stunned silence and a very soft-spoken, “Dad?”

            I did a crisp about face and exited the room. I had made my point. Score one for the Daddy-man. Yeah.

            Years ago, I formulated a set of rules for dating. Up until now, they have been verbal, but the time has come to write them down. It makes them solid, like stone. Here they are. 

            To all my daughters, natural, and those who are “adopted” by me by virtue of your being super cool, brilliant, and my loving you, and that pretty much includes all of you, I have formulated rules for your dating experience. Please remember that I am a guy, and know what I am talking about when I say guys are to be avoided. In fact, guys are pretty much worthless until Rule Four below is met.

            Rule One: See the above conversation. Boys are not hot until Rule Four, then, maybe, but only maybe.

            Rule Two: You cannot talk to boys until you are sixteen, and then in only one-word sentences. At seventeen, you may use two words, and at eighteen, none.

            Rule Three: You may be alone with a boy when you have achieved all the requirements outlined hereafter in Rule Four. Until then, you are to have at least one adult standing between you and any boy. One is the minimum. There is no maximum. The more adults present, the better. If these adults are carrying firearms openly, that is better still.

            Rule Four: You may date when you are finished with your first college degree and are accepted into graduate school. Any boy you choose to date has to have graduated from college, (he’ll be hot then...maybe) provide to me, or your parents as substitutes, his financial statements showing a strong investment portfolio, and at least a six figure income. He should be debt free with the exception of one luxury car, and a house. You may date him once a month, but you can talk all you want. The "adults present" and firearms requirements are now optional depending on the parent.

            Rule Five: You must be twenty-eight (28) years old to be eligible for Rule Four freedoms.

            Rule Six: You must date this chosen young man for ten years, then you may marry at thirty-eight. Forty is better, but if you cannot wait, you may marry early if all the adults in your life meet the young man and agree to his worthiness. If any of us, including the checker at the grocery store do not approve, he is out, O-U-T. No arguments or you are grounded for life. I don’t care how hot he is.

            Rule Seven: If you are ever in a situation where none of the above rules apply, call me.  I will make one up.  

            Should you have any questions, don't ask them. The Ten Commandments are written in stone, so are these rules. Remember the fifth commandment of the Big Ten; "Honor thy father and thy mother...and thy writing teacher..."  Cool your jets boys; you are not hot...yet.

            A word to fathers of daughters going through this dating thing; I suggest you take your latest target from the firing range showing a tight grouping center mass, and another in the head and post it on your front door. If you don't have one, you can borrow mine. Across it, use a line from comedian Bill Engval, and write, "I ain't afraid to go back to prison". It won't stop them, but it may slow them down enough for you to read them the rules. 

The Toilet Paper Roll War

          I am certain that this strikes you as a strange subject to write about, but I assure you, it has become an issue in our home. Am I the only person in this house that can change out a roll of toilet paper? Along with the first question comes a second, how do three sheets left on the roll constitute a reason to not change it?

            I have asked the question once a week for the past fifteen years. What is so hard about it?  If you see three sheets left on the roll, change it. What can you do with three sheets? Nothing, so why leave the roll?

            When this is presented in the calmest voice imaginable to the Admiral and Princesses, I’m greeted with silence, blank stares, maybe even a roll of the eyes, and then, “Why are you yelling at me?” I swear, I did not yell. I am convinced that this is a ploy women use to divert a man’s focus. It works.

            The Admiral did answer once, saying, “I don’t want to see them (the last three sheets) go to waste.” Okay, I'm down with that, save a tree, go green, there’s value in that, so why not take the last three otherwise useless sheets off the tube, change the roll, and place the sheets on top of the new roll to be used by the next person? Her response, see paragraph three.

            I have begun to think that the women I cohabit with do not know how to change the roll, but this cannot be true. The facility downstairs, the most often used, has a decoratively painted dowel notched on either end, which sits in corresponding grooves to hold it. You pick it up, no springs to collapse, or anything else mechanical, slide the empty or nearly empty roll off, put on a full one and set in back. “How can that be so hard?” I ask. 

            See paragraph three.

            The Princesses' bathroom is upstairs between their two rooms. I seldom journey up there unless I want to hunt wild beasts lurking in the piles of worn-ten-minutes-then-discarded-to-the-corner clothes, but seeing that this issue needed investigating, I ventured forth.

            What I suspected was true, but with a twist. There was a roll with three sheets hanging on the dispenser and on the floor were two other rolls in varying stages of use. “Maybe they really don’t know how to change the roll,” I told myself.

            With the best of intentions, I called the ladies upstairs for the express purpose of demonstrating the task. When gathered, I begin my instruction and demonstration. The results were fearfully predictable. See paragraph three.

            I don’t get it. Why is this so difficult? Is it just me? Of course, I am the one out of step, the faulty part. Maybe I’ll just take the holders off the wall and use that space for…I can’t think of anything.  I would ask the Admiral and Princesses for ideas, but I’m afraid of paragraph three.

            Since I have broached the toilet paper subject, I might as well explore another point of contention between the Admiral and me. Which is the proper placement of the roll on the spindle, the tailing sheet against the wall, or rudely intruding into the space of the room? Can you guess my preference? I try not to show bias here.

            “Doesn’t it make more sense,” I say, “and isn’t it more aesthetically (I throw in big words on occasions during “discussions” to have my point taken seriously) pleasing to have the tailing end of the roll against the wall? It doesn’t protrude into the room waving its little hand as if to say, ‘Here I am, use me’.” 

            I cringe, fearing a paragraph three response, but receive, “It’s easier to use when it points toward you and you pull from the top. You have to hunt for the end when it hangs against the wall.”

            There is weakness in her argument, but as I am about to exploit it, I see her eyes start to roll, and by now, I know when to quit. As you can see, we are at an impasse, aesthetically pleasing vs. utilitarian availability.

            To solve this dilemma, I thought I would allow the Princesses to have a say, thinking they would see the clear side of the argument. I did not get the results for which I held hope. 

            The sixteen-year-old, who I interrupted while obsessing over her Facebook page, looked at me and said, “Whatever”.  The fifteen-year-olds’ response was a brilliant rendition of the dreaded paragraph three. She is a student of the Admiral. You would think I would have learned.

            I know I should give up. This is a battle of the sexes, and being outnumbered, I know I cannot win. I ask myself, “Is this the hill I want to die on?”

            The answer is, “Yes”.

            I will not stop my efforts to show my way is superior. I just need to change tactics. Sun Tuz says in his ancient and famous treatise, "The Art of War", that all warfare is based on deception. When I get the opportunity to change the roll, I will continue to lay the tailing end against the wall, and if the Admiral or Princesses ever change a roll, they will do the opposite, but as Confucius says, "Persistence furthers." From now on, silent protests will be my way, stealth roll-changing the tactic. 

            Please don’t think me cowardly. I am not afraid of paragraph three, well, maybe a little, but, I swear, I’m just changing my approach. I am not giving up. I wonder if tackling the toothpaste squeezing issue would be easier. 

Memorial Day and Ribs

          It will be Memorial Day on Monday. Our family will put on our annual celebration. We will deck ourselves out in our homemade, red-while-and-blue t-shirts that we made years ago, decorate the house with patriotic banners, ribbons and bunting, and even lights along the driveway. It is a big deal for us and for many of our friends, but whereas we observe the day for its intended purpose, to honor our nation's fallen heroes who have sacrificed all for our safety and freedom, I suspect some of our guests are wanting to come over for another reason, the ribs.

            I have friends who love my ribs. These friends hint at various times of the year that it is time to do ribs and to invite them over.  I have friends who are only friends because I do ribs. They are the ones who, when the ribs are late coming off the grill, pace the floor drooling. They are the first to say, “We hate to eat and run, but…” 

            All want my recipe and I will tell them, as I am about to tell you, the recipe and the method, but nobody believes me because it is not magic, or complicated. It is so simple people think I am withholding some dark secret. Secrets take effort, and if cooking ribs took effort, I wouldn't do them. If it leans toward work, I am not doing it. Lazy describes my culinary work ethic. So, like myself, my recipe has to be simple and easy.

            The number of askers has grown to a demanding mob, well; a large group, maybe ten or so, and I acquiesce.  I shall reveal all…most all. You won't accept it, but here we go:

            Rub down the slab of ribs on both sides with a dry rub the night before you are going to cook them and keep them refrigerated. "Slap Ya’ Mama" is good stuff, if you can find it, as are many others on the grocer’s shelf, or you can make your own.  Guess which way I go…lazy.  Don’t overdo the rub, most go a long way. I guess I should used a culinary phrase such as, “season to taste”, but I ain’t no gourmet, or for that matter, a cook. 

            Build a small fire in such a way that you can feed it as the day wears on. My grill allows for indirect heat, and that is the only way go. Direct heat and flames are big no-nos. Your fire should be between two hunert, and two hunert and fity degrees. Maybe that’s “hunnert”. I am never sure.  The key is to cook the ribs s – l – o – w.  That is to say, not fast. If you do not have a goodly portion of the day to dedicate to this task, do not insult the ribs by trying.

            You place the ribs on the grill bowl side up, or for you scientific types, the concave side up, and you don’t turn them…ever…remember, lazy.  If you break a sweat doing this, you are doing something wrong.

            You now make a trip to the grill every half-hour, which figures to be about every other commercial if you are watching a ball game. This is when you add charcoal and smoke. Smoke is the key. You need lots of smoke, little heat, and did I mention s – l – o – w?

            The ribs are done when the meat pulls away from the ends of the bones. Depending on your grill, this could be anywhere from two-and-a-half to three hours on up to four to six hours, or even longer. You should consult a cookbook about cooking pork and use a meat thermometer, or do as my daddy taught me, put your fingers on the meat and count, “one Mississippi, two Mississippi”…  If you get to five Mississippi, they ain’t done.  I get to ten Mississippi these days.  It has something to do with the scar tissue on my fingertips.

            Oh yeah, I almost forgot, the smoke! That is the real secret. Let me tell you about it.  Smoke comes from wood. You burn it…slow. You burn it slow by getting it wet before it goes on the coals. I use a mixture of woods. They are…oops, running out of space here. Told ya’ I’d reveal all…most.

            As you are enjoying your ribs or whatever this Memorial Day, please, at some point in your festivities stop and remember. There are families who are hurting as they miss loved ones who are not here to celebrate. Take a moment, be silent, and offer up a "thank you" for their sacrifice. They did it for you, to protect your right to cook ribs on a holiday. Take just a moment. I know they will appreciate it. Besides, you've got thirty minutes before you have to check the ribs again. Enjoy.

The Season of Moving On

          It is the time of year when fledglings leave the nest and parents wonder where the time went, clinging to what was, knowing they have to let go. Their children are wondering how it took so long and are struggling to be free, not knowing what is over the next hill, but confident in the zeal and innocence of youth that whatever it is, they can conquer it. It is graduation season, and another generation moves on.

            It is a bittersweet time for parents and graduates. The graduate has spent roughly two-thirds of their lives preparing for high school graduation, and are now, at 17 to 19, beginning to realize that the near terminal case of total knowledge they were so sure of at the age of 14 to 16, may not be as iron clad as they thought. The parents have been through this before, and have spent approximately one-third of their lives getting the fledgling to the edge of the nest. They know the graduate, so full of confidence, pomp and circumstance as they strut their stuff across the stage for their piece of paper, has now gained only the right to begin to learn.

            That is the irony of graduation in anything, at any level. You work years to master a program, a situation, to become the big fish in the pond, and just as you become proficient, someone hands you a piece of paper declaring your mastery, says, "Congratulations," smiles, pats you on the back, and with malice aforethought, kicks you into the bigger pond where you become the little fish again. We call that growth, and I suppose it is, but it would be nice to be the big fish for a while and just swim around as lord of that particular pond, but that is stagnation, not good for you or the pond. 

            I reflect on past graduations. For me, high school was a biggie. No one in my family thought I would make it, but I did, without repeating a grade or a class. I became a big fish, ready to jump into a bigger pond.

            My high school pond was so big that it took three hours for my 984 co-fish to walk. Because my name begins with the letter "A", my glory was over within the first quarter hour, and I had to sit watching as the rest had their moment. I saw people cross that stage that I had never seen before. I was stunned to realize that I had been swimming in a very isolated area of the pond. I am certain that the size and number of my graduation is why I have an aversion to these types of ceremonies. That, and the fact that I was greeted by my family after the interminable display with the question, "When are you leaving?"

            I did leave, and after busting out of college joined the Marine Corps. That was a graduation to see. I don't know how many passed in review that day and earned the title of Marine, but I and my platoon did. I still remember our drill instructor's final words to us; "You think you know something, but you don't. All you have now is enough knowledge to be dangerous to yourself and others. That can get you and them killed. You also know enough to start learning. Don't waste it. That will save your life." I was a big fish going into a bigger pond, but this one had sharks in it.

            I survived that pond, went back to school for what seemed like forever, but did not graduate. After swimming in the shark pond, the rest of it seemed rather pointless to me, so I never had that experience, but I had seen enough.

               I reflect on my children's graduations, and my grandchildren's, and the graduations of students that I have taught, as well as those that have honored me by asking me to deliver key note addresses, and I see something in common to them all, something that is a pleasant surprise to me to overshadow my aversion.

            I sit and watch, or speak, and I am amazed at the feeling of satisfaction I get as I look at the graduates and a warmth flows over me. I am sure in that moment that the world is in good hands. These young people marching in the line behind us are better trained, better prepared, and made of better stuff.

            There are some in this year's class that can, and will solve some of the world's most demanding and perplexing problems. Some will grace the world with art, music, story, and poetry. They have been raised up for this purpose, and are ready to meet the challenge. As long as they believe they can, who are we to think otherwise and limit them in any way? We need what they have, and that is the joy of graduations. It is like spring. As flowers bloom, so do our children. In them are the seeds of hope for the future. Lead on graduates, and welcome to the pond. 

We Are Losing Who We Are

          We are losing it. That which makes us unique, we are losing it, our heritage, our history. It is sad, and sorry, but we are losing it.

            May 1, 1863, my great-great-grandfather stood on a battlefield in Port Gibson, Mississippi with 6,000 others, and faced off Grant's 20,000 invading Federal troops. The Confederates were attempting to prevent his eventual taking of Vicksburg, the Gibraltar of the South.

            May 1, 2013, the oldest Princess and I stood on that same battlefield, now silenced by the passing of 150 years. We were there to observe the sesquicentennial of our ancestor's capture by Federal forces, and the changing of our family history. We were there alone. My first emotion was disappointment followed by sadness. Of over 26,000 families represented on that field 150 years ago, only one was there on the day. Sad, we are losing it.

            Granted, May 1 this year was on a Wednesday, and it had been raining, with the threat of rain all day. The field is a long way off the beaten path down a dirt road, but we were there. Where were the rest? The question gnawed at me, but we were there to observe, and we did.

            Evans Atwood was captured about 10:00 AM in a ravine where he was attempting to aid an unnamed comrade to the makeshift hospital. He was allowed to continue there under guard where he became a prisoner. His life, our heritage, our history changed in those dreadful moments.

            I have visited this battlefield twice before, but this time was much different. The Princess and I located a likely ravine where Lieutenant Atwood first experienced the terror of being in enemy hands. At that moment, he knew that the best he would hope for was captivity, but he had to be anticipating the worse, him and his comrade's deaths. The battlefield was silent for us, but for him it was thunderous with the sound of cannon and rifle fire, men shouting in battle, and the cries of the wounded mixed with the silence of the dead. I felt his horror; I felt his fear, all of which have become part of who I am.

            We went to the preserved and open Shaifer House that served that day as a hospital for both Union and Confederate troops. We stood in the empty yard and could see and hear the milling of troops from both sides, the moans of the wounded laid out on the porches and benches as they were triaged for treatment. We envisioned the blanket covered dead laid out in the yard near the garden. We watched in our mind's eyes as our ancestor turned his wounded burden over to the hands of medical men, and turned himself to his captors, resigning himself to an unknown, and terrifying fate. It is a horrible moment in our family history, but it shapes us.

            We left the battlefield full of wonder and awe, still feeling the fear of battle, as well as the terror of imprisonment in the hands of a hated enemy. As we drove, we imagined the troops in blue fighting their way through the brambles, vines, and ravines pursuing the troops in gray retreating toward the town, the direction we were driving. I had questions that needed answers, and the town is where we would search for them.

            Port Gibson is an unusual town using for its slogan words attributed to Grant saying to leave the town, because it was, "Too pretty to burn". It is pretty in its own way with the unique Presbyterian Church's gold hand atop its steeple with the index finger pointing skyward, and its antebellum homes, but it is ugly in the poverty of small town, rural Mississippi.

            We stopped at the visitor's center on Church Street where I asked if the sesquicentennial of the battle had been observed, or if there were any activities planned on this, the anniversary day. The docent told us that yes, it was observed over the previous weekend, but there was nothing planned for the day.

            I asked, "Was the observance well attended?"

            "Yes," she replied, "we had about 100 people turn out". She spoke it with a mixture of pride and a little trepidation as to how I would receive it.

            I reserved my judgment of the town and its people until later and simply said, "That's nice," but it was not.

            We left the town headed home with mixed feelings of satisfaction that we had honored our ancestor who had been willing to sacrifice so much for the freedom of his new country, and pride at his courage in facing prison for over two years, and the feeling that this history was fading from our grasp. It is felt, and voiced by too many that the war is over, forget it, but I can't, and more importantly, I won't, it is too much of who I am.

            As we drove, I wondered as to other wars. Have we forgotten the Revolutionary War, the War of 1812, the Spanish-American War, the Mexican-American War that gave the soldiers on both sides of the Civil War their experience, World Wars I and II? Over the next ten to twenty years, we will lose those who fought in WWII. Not far behind them, those of us who were in Korea and Vietnam will be gone. Those wars are being actively forgotten how.

            There is danger in forgetting, but time does that to us. That is why history is studied, so we don't forget, and for the hope that just maybe we wont' be that stupid again. Let us work harder at remembering. We do not want to lose it all, and we are dangerously close.

A Rocker and the Front Porch

          I love my front porch. It is a special place. It is a place to go to relax, drift away and see things. It is mine, and maybe it is special only to me, but it is special.

            It is ordinary in appearance, a typical southern veranda, or if it were on a bayou in Louisiana, it would be the gallery. It is wide and long, running the length of the front of the house. It is screened in, as any good, special porch should be, and is situated geographically in such a way to catch most any breeze blowing except from the north, which wind you do not want anyway. The breezes aid in cooling, but in the hot months, the porch has ceiling fans, two of them, big ones.

            I am writing this while sitting in the rocking chair on the porch, and it is taking me forever. For one thing, the rocking chair is not conducive to work, nor for that matter is the porch. There are too many distractions. The hedges on three sides do not grow high enough to block my view of the yard, the creek that feeds the big pond, and the street way out there somewhere. If I turn my head slightly, I can see the little pond, the azalea bushes, and through the trees, the neighbor's house.  There is always something going on.

            Sitting here, I’ve watched squirrels, blue jays, mockingbirds, Great Blue Herons, hawks, Odessa the owl, an eagle once, and in the winter, little chickadee like birds.  There have been raccoons and opossums, roaming the creek and the yard, and on one occasion, a fox with a rabbit in its mouth.  I won’t be watching that rabbit again.

            The porch is accessed from the house by three doors, one from the family room, one from the master bedroom, and the front door, which opens to the rest of the house. In spring and fall, both days of either, we open all these doors making the house an extension of the porch, which I am not so sure was not the original intention of building the porch in the first place. I often get the feeling that the porch was constructed, and then the house added as an afterthought, a support system for the porch.

            The house is confining. It is not so much that it keeps me in; it is that it keeps life out. In the house, you don't get the wind and rain, the smells of the earth in spring, the radiant, often oppressive heat of summer, and the deadening cold of winter. On the porch, you are part of these. The porch is a magic place. It is a place I go to get away. It is a mini-vacation if only in my mind.

            The rocker I sit in is part of the porch. Other than rocking, it doesn't move much. It is an old, maple, hardback rocker. It has changed color over the years from a light blonde, to a deeper brown. I have rocked thousands of beats in that chair, and it has carried me that many miles as I sit, rock, and read.

            The chair has been a ship on the high seas in calm and in storm, a camel along caravan routes, and has taken me on foot as a prisoner and slave. It has been a horse on the plains of the west, a jet fighter of modern age, a bunker in combat, a rice paddy in the orient. It has taken me to the moon, and beyond, to the tops of Mounts Everest, McKinley, and Kilimanjaro. It has been a wonderful conveyance. It has propelled me thousands of miles, but has moved only inches.

            It is on this porch, and in that chair, that I have gone on other trips too, trips that did not require imagination, or the aid of a book. There have been many times when the reading, the hum of the fans, the calls of the birds, the gentle breeze, the nearness of a sleeping dog have robbed me of wakefulness. It has been in the in-between state of awake, and asleep that I have gone places, and seen things. The place is the same, I don't leave the porch, but the colors are more intense, the smells more fragrant, and each thing I observe is sharper, more in focus.

            I have seen the land as it was before with oaks older than the Spanish and French that walked here. I have seen the First Nations people pass this way before them, all moving along the expanse of my mind's clearer eye. I have seen the settlers come and tame the land, the street beyond the porch but a dirt road with wagons pulled by horses. Rows of crops growing along the land have swayed in the breezes, and I have been transfixed by the passing of generations marching before me.

            It is a good land, this place that we now call Lower Alabama. It has served many before us, and will serve many more after we have left our mark. I wonder, is it a good mark, or will our progeny call it a scar and work to repair it?

            As the street out there is now paved and people pass too fast to wave to me in the chair on the porch, I realize one day, they too will be no more. The thought makes me a little sad, but it is the way of all things. Time marches on, people and places change, but as long as I can have a chair and a porch, I will remember and enjoy the moments come rain, wind, shine, or cold. It's just a special place. 

Medicines I have Known

          I have never thought of myself as sickly. I feel that I am in good health, but when I compared myself to another man last week, I am a sick weakling, the runt of the litter who should have been turned out into the cold to fend for myself.

            I was asked to visit this man in the hospital. I entered his room, he is about my age, maybe a little older, and was in some serious pain. With his wife's help, he told me his symptoms and I concurred with the doctor's diagnosis that he was having gall bladder issues. I commented, "Ah, that's no biggie. I had mine taken out as an outpatient. I was in by 7:00 and home for lunch."

            For once, I had said the right thing. I could see the great relief in his face as the anxiety drained from him. He was almost giddy, still in pain, but he was better.

            As we talked, I discovered this was the first time in his entire life that he had ever been in a hospital as a patient. "Really," was the only thing I could muster because I was stunned. My first flashing thought after my brilliant statement was, "Has this guy lived his life in a bubble?" My second thought was to attempt to list the times I was in hospitals and all the reasons why. This caused me to marvel more at this man's avoidance of such places.

            His wife further compounded my incredulity by saying, "He's never been sick a day in all our married years."

            "Really," again, brilliantly spoken.

            We went on with our visit, but whenever I could, I brought the conversation back to this man's extreme good health and fortune from injury. I became convinced, he had never been sick a day in his life.

            The reason I am so amazed is that I am near the opposite. I have not been sick every day of my life, but I have spent more than my fair share of time with doctors and hospitals. It is possible that I have become accustomed to illness to the point that it feels normal.

            I was sickly from birth, the runt of previous reference. Fortunately, humans rarely come in litters, so I was kept, nursed, and somehow lived. My mother being a nurse, and having access to doctors, aided my survival, which leads to my current musings. It is a miracle I am alive. If it weren't for modern medicines, I would not be.

            Penicillin was the big drug of my childhood, and I am so glad it was there. I had infections almost continually. I was sickly. I was active, but sick.

            Having my tonsils taken out, something that is rarely done today, aided my health. I stopped having infections, but now I had allergies, which given the clarity of hindsight, were the most likely culprit to begin with.

            Thank goodness for antihistamines. The only problem with the first generation of them was that they made you sleepy. I could be a dopey kid living indoors, half asleep, or an active kid living out of doors, with sneezing, weepy eyes, and difficulty breathing. With medicines, there always seems to be a tradeoff.

            I know the wonder drugs of my youth, penicillin, smallpox and polio vaccines had drawbacks, and a small percentage of people taking them had horrible reactions, some even died, but the good they did far outweighed the bad. In my mind, and most of my generation, it was worth the risk. Smallpox and polio are gone, or controlled, and many sick kids are alive because of the new antibiotics.

            Today is a different story. There are miracle drugs for everything, even things that don't need a miracle. It is nice that I can stop my hair from falling out, but is it worth the expense and side effects? Not to me. The same can be said for a myriad number of diseases and discomforts. To those who suffer from whatever the ailment is advertised on TV tonight, I am sure they are relieved to be taking the medication, but these ads terrify me. If I were a hypochondriac, I would have a new disease every night, and the disclaimers make it sound as if the cure for one thing will be replaced with serious side effects, which are worse than the original disease.

            Due to my aging self, genetic predisposition, and former hard-charging life style, there is a lot wrong with me. I take enough pills daily to choke the proverbial horse. Some have side effects, and my body has had to adjust to them, but would I do without? No, I would not. My quality of life is enhanced by these medications. I am thankful for them. Without them, I would have been dead a long time ago.   

            The life expectancy in the US today is 77.9 years, up from 47.3 in 1900. There are many factors that contribute to the increase, but a lot is due to advances in medicines. I am grateful that I do not suffer from some of the diseases advertised on TV, but if I did, I would be thankful that there is something to ease the suffering. If it weren't for such remedies in my day, we runts of the litters would be long gone. 

The Confederacy Remembered

          April is Confederate History Month in Alabama. The fourth Monday in April is Confederate Memorial Day. Will you stop to remember? 

            We are into the third year of the Civil War Sesqucentenial rememberance of a war that crossed five Aprils. April of 1861 saw hostilities break out between north and south, and 148 years ago on April 9, the war ended with the surrender of Robert E. Lee's forces in Virginia. On that same day, the last full engagement battle of the war was fought here in Baldwin County near the township of Blakeley and became known as The Battle of Blakely.

            Please note the two spellings of the same word in the previous sentence. The town is named for Josiah Blakeley, with the letter "e" being used twice. The name given to the battle is "Blakely", with one "e", because that is how it is written in the official record, the Yankee record. To the victors go the history.

            My personal rememberance this year will span all four weeks of this month. It began last week with my making a presentation at the monthly meeting of the Fort Blakeley Camp, #1864, of The Sons of Confederate Veterans, a group of which I am proud to be a member. I presented information on the Battle of Oak Hills, or Wilson's Creek if you prefer the better known name the Yankees bestowed on the conflict. It was fought a few miles outside Springfield, Missouri in August of 1861, and was the second battle of the War Between the States, and the first major engagement west of the Mississippi.

            My next observance was this past Tuesday when the Fairhope Library's Book Review Series invited me to make a presentation on my yet-but-soon-to-be-published book, Under the Magnolia Tree, the Legend of Jeremy of Blakeley. It is the story of the battle told through the eyes of a twelve-year-old boy. Through him, we are able to gain a more human perspective beyond troop numbers and movements. The writing and telling of the story has brought me closer to the battlefield as I have spent many hours walking it in search of inspiration, and I have found it. The spirit of that battle is still strong.

            There was much more to the battle than the actual fighting. The fort had been under siege since April 1, and afterward, there were mopping up operations on the part of the Yankees and escaping for the Rebels. There are many stories of Confederate escapes, and attempts that failed. It was a long and deadly night.

            I will make a visit to Confederate Rest Cemetery at Point Clear. Due to family obligations, I was unable to attend the official memorial honoring the over 400 mostly unidentified Confederate soldiers who died at the hotel which was used as a hospital during the war. A fire years later destroyed the records, dooming the buried to anonymity.

            My memorial observance will conclude this year with a trip to Port Gibson, Mississippi, located a few miles south of Vicksburg. A battle, minor to history, but hugely significant to me and mine, was fought there the night and morning of April 30-May 1, 1863. Those days will mark the 150^th anniversary of the capture of my great-great-grandfather and his subsequent imprisonment in the north. It was an event that altered our family history in ways that we will never be able to fully comprehend, but just as 2nd Lieutenant Evans Atwood's blood flows through our veins, his experiences shape us. 

            You might wonder why all this remembrance. The answer is simple, because it is my heritage. Popular or not, it is who I am, and I am proud to claim it.

            The image of the Confederacy has become tarnished. Those who honor the Stars and Bars are often seen as racist, or as misguided in honoring a lost cause. A few local politicians have, as recent as the past two weeks, told us the war is over, forget it. I do so hope the cause is not lost, nor forgotten, because the cause was, and is, freedom.

            The South was fighting against unfair tariffs, unequal representation in congress, and a tyrannical government bent on destroying their way of life. If those causes sound familiar, they should. They are the same ones the united colonies fought for against England less than ninety years before.

            Granted, there were some unsavory aspects to southern culture in the 1860s that needed to be changed. Slavery is a terrible stain on our history and heritage, but the majority of Confederate soldiers did not own slaves.

            Fighting and dying to keep the rich man rich may have kept some on the battlefields for a few months, but how do we explain those who stayed to the task for four years?  What were they fighting for?

            The troops from Missouri, which was not a slave state, were the backbone of the defense at Fort Blakeley. They were the same units that fought at Wilson's Creek four years earlier. It is recorded that every one of them had been wounded at least once. What cause kept these men in the field across five Aprils? Freedom was the cause, and that is all. The same cause that made their grandfathers stand up to King George. They too were honoring their heritage.

            I do hope we never lose sight of that great cause, or the will to fight for it, because as soon as we do, it will be taken from us. We should honor all who fought for freedoms in the Civil War, south and north. Their sacrifice is deserving of our remembrance. May we ever be willing to stand and bear arms against anyone who would take away what they gave so much to guarantee.

Tractors and Yard Work

          Spring has sprung along with all the weeds that I euphemistically refer to as grass. It is time to mow. I know, it sounds like work, but it is not all bad.

            There was a time when I hated yard work. It was a huge bone of contention between my father and me. It was even bigger than cars and all the trouble I caused with them. As soon as he said, “The yard needs mowing,” the fight was on. I never won, but I made sure that the process was not pleasant for him. I was an awful child. I still don’t like mowing. It brings back all those very loud memories, but there is a difference now that makes me look forward to mowing.

            “I like tractors purdy good,” is a line from a movie that the oldest Princess quotes with a heavy drawl, and that is the essence of my feelings.  "I like tractors purdy good too."

            Over the next three days, I’ll be mowing the property for the first time this year, and although dirty work, it makes me happy. I do not miss mowing over the winter, but I do miss riding the tractor. The tractor is a nice little diesel powered one with a three-point lift and a pull behind, three-blade finish mower.  It is my man toy, one of many, but by far, my favorite.

            During the not mowing months, I find reasons to employ it in other activities. I drive it around the acreage to check for fallen trees, to make sure the fences are up, holding the nonexistent livestock, and to poison fire-ant beds. These are all legitimate activities that can be done in the truck, but with not as much fun as with the tractor. The Admiral tolerates this, pretending, as I do, that I am actually working, but she can't hide her amusement when I fire up my little darlin' and drive it down to check the mail. Mowing is its reason for living, and now, it is time, and I am a happy man.

            I cut a forty-eight inch swath with every pass, run over fire-ant beds with impunity, and mulch leaves as I go. The tractor maneuvers so well that I can dodge in and out of the myriad trees as if I were in a sports car. Shoot, I’ve even dodged spider webs on the thing although the roll bar tends to catch them on occasions and deposit them on my back, or worse, down my neck.

            I like the roll bar. This isn’t my first tractor, but the first so equipped. I have not needed it yet, but I’ve driven tractors before where I did. I have rolled one, driven one off a sea wall, and even gotten the frontend of one suspended off the ground driving through a swing set. I have the pictures to prove it.

            I love riding the tractor for another reason, the alone time. When I’m driving with the engine at 2200 rpm, and the mower blades roaring, I have my ear plugs in, my hat pulled low, and my brain on minimum function. I am in my own little world. There are no distractions. Even though I carry my cell phone, I can’t hear it ring. I get into a zone and my mind is free to wander, and it goes places hard to imagine when not on the tractor. It is the ultimate daydream machine. I am semi-conscious, sensory deprived, and I can go anywhere and do anything.

            I am caught in one of life’s unexpected ironies. I do not like mowing the grass, but that is when I can drive my tractor the most. I mean, you can't spend an hour going down to check the mail. I guess I can buy some more implements for it. It will be a hard sell though. I will have to convince the Admiral that we have to have a drag bar, or a front-end loader, or a back-hoe, and that life will be a lot better with them. I will have to sell her on the idea that the yard needs leveling, dirt needs moving, and maybe I can get her with the suggestion of digging a hole for a swimming pool. I have to have the rationale. I do not think, “I like tractors purdy good,” will cut it. There is profound truth in those words, but truth will not buy man-toys. 

April, It's Fools, It’s Baseball; It’s America

          April 1st has two meanings in our family. For the Admiral, it is April Fools' Day, and she lives up to the suggested behavior. She loves practical jokes, so the day is for her. She has gotten me so many times over the years that I have begun to dread the day, but this year, I got her.

            Our day starts early by most standards, but when the alarm went off on April 1 at the customary time, I shouted, "Oh, my gosh, it's 7:30!" Meaning, all who have to be somewhere, are horribly late. It was a good laugh, but I sat on pins and needles all day dreading her certain revenge. Not even that level of anxiety can dampen my mood and joy for the true meaning of the day. April 1st is the holy day-of-days, the Opening Day of baseball season.

            I love this time of year. The whole of America is innocent with new beginning. We’re born again. It is trite to quote John Fogerty’s “Centerfield”, but there really is “new grass on the field”. Another season of baseball has begun, and with it, America’s heart beats.

            Baseball is America’s game. It is a microcosm of the American experience. Just like our country, baseball is a game of individuals. Nine come together for a common cause, to win. These nine people are as diverse in character, stature, ability, and motivation as is the populace of our nation, but they, like our nation, ban together to contest for victory. No one person is greater than the whole. There may be stars on a baseball team but it is the utility player, the player who has a role, the unsung who labors in the shadows, it is he who makes the team and our nation winners. It is the common guy who is willing to sacrifice for the good of the team, for the good of us all.

            Again, like life in America, if you fail today, baseball allows you to get up and swing for the fence tomorrow. It almost insists that you do. Take the opportunity. Try again, fail again, but keep at it and you will succeed.

            Ted Williams is the last player to hit over .400. He hit .406 in 1941, a remarkable achievement.  If you break it down, that average means that for every ten times Ted Williams went to the plate to hit, he failed six of them. The National League batting champion for 2012, Buster Posey of the San Francisco Giants, hit .336.  That means that he failed 66.4% of the time. Our country is the same way. We may stumble and fall, but in the end, we will be winners if we keep swinging. We do not quit even if we are knocked down six times. We will get up and win the next four, and the game.

            As in America, there is symmetry in baseball. Our country is all about being square, and just. There are ninety feet between the bases. If there were ninety-one, no one would ever be safe, and if there were eighty-nine feet, no one would ever be out. That is not American. In America, we all have a chance to succeed equally. The American way of life is based on our dedication, skill, willingness to improve, level of sacrifice, and our never quit attitude, just like baseball.

            Baseball is the only game where the offense faces the entire defense of the other team one person at a time, just like Americans, we are never afraid of the odds. “It will take all nine of you to beat me. Bring me your best.” That is the American spirit. It is what makes us unconquerable. You cannot beat one of us much less nine of us. The only way America can be defeated, like a baseball team is from within.

            Dissension and complacency will bring us down. We all have to do our part or the team fails. No one is asked to do it all, but we are all asked to do some. With new grass on the field, we have an opportunity to revel in what makes us great, each other. Let us not let each other down, and as for the jokes made at our expense, let us revel in the fact that someone cares enough, and is secure enough to joke with us.

VWs In My Life

          I do not buy my children cars, not new ones anyway. If they want a car of their own, they have to buy it themselves, or agree to my plan, which is, I will buy them a car for no more than $1,500, it stays in my name for insurance purposes, and when they turn 18, and graduate from high school, it will be theirs. You don't get much car for $1,500. They are projects, and that is part of the deal.

            We, the child and me, work on it together with me providing the expertise and money, while they provide the labor. The minimum they have to do with the vehicle is make it run well, and be safe. Cosmetics are optional, but it has to be functional. The plan has turned out to be very beneficial for both parties.

            Not all eight of my children have taken me up on the offer. Two of the three boys entered into the contract and did no more than the minimum. They did not care if the floorboard was rotting out, or the fenders rusted through. As long as there was enough duct tape to hold it together, they were happy. One of the girls took the agreement as far as it would go. Over two years, she produced a beautifully restored 1974 Mercedes 280 SEL, which she drove away to college.

            For those who take me up on the offer, the benefits are many. They learn how an automobile works, how much it costs, and how hard it is to fix when it breaks. They take care of them, and never let anyone outside the family drive their cars, which is a safety issue in itself. It is a wonderful bonding time between the child and me. Now, it is the Princesses' turn.

            The older, driving one has chosen a VW Bug. After a year of looking, we found the right one, a 1972 Super Beetle. It is painted flat black and has been in the hands of idiots, so needs a lot of work. She wants the job done right and is patient, which is good, because this is going to take awhile. Research of the VIN has revealed its original color to be Texas Yellow; hence, the car is named Rose, as in The Yellow Rose of Texas. The Princess and Rose are girls after my own heart. I did not think it would affect me so, but when I opened the door to the car, the VW distinctive smell hit my heart like a freight train as memories flooded me.

            A Volkswagen was not my first car. I had a '52 Plymouth, a '57 Oldsmobile, and a Chevy Nova before I became part owner of a '62 VW Bus along with three other guys in my high school graduating class. Our plan was to drive it from Fort Worth to Cape Horn at the tip of South America. Because I was always tinkering with hotrods, I became the default mechanic. I embarked with a toolbox containing ten wrenches, a like number of sockets, a couple of screwdrivers, a hammer, pliers, and an adjustable wrench, most of which I still have. We made it almost to South America before we ran our money down to just enough to buy gas to get home, but my life's path with VWs was set.

            I wish I had time and space to list all the Volkswagens I have owned, and all the adventures I have had in them. That will be a good book project. It will be interesting to add up all the miles I have logged, the beaches, mountains, deserts, plains, and interstates I have traversed. The one great memory and tradition I will always treasure will be that all six children of the first litter came home from the hospital in VWs. For the last child, when our business was booming, and we had many luxury cars at our disposal, we chose a Sirocco, a sporty VW Rabbit that I was tricking out in the shop, to bring him home. Neither the Admiral nor I remember what car we brought the Princesses home in, but tradition dictates that it must have been a Volkswagen.

            Because of the simplicity of The People's Car, the ease of obtaining parts and their low cost, I worked on a lot of them through college. When I had all the education I wanted, and was making a career choice, I was making more money working on VWs than I ever would with a degree in biology. I went to a dealership, convinced them that I knew what I was doing, was hired as a mechanic, and the rest is history, but history always has another chapter, and we will write it. The Princess and I have a Beetle.

            I am excited to be working on a VW again, but I fear this path is coming to a serious fork. When the car is finished, will I be willing to relinquish it to the Princess? It will be a hard thing, but I am certain I will, but what about me? I see another Bug on the horizon, and another, and a Bus, and the beat goes on. They are part of who I am, how I got here, and now, where I am going. I think that when I pass, I will have the family get into a VW Bus and drive the highways scattering my ashes as they go. That just seems to fit me. 

The Prom Princesses

          I love girls. It is a good thing since I have five daughters, and a wife, not to mention the dog and frog, but sometimes it almost more than I can bear. Now is one of those times, it is prom time. God, give me strength.

            This is not my first rodeo with proms. I have been through many, even to the point of borrowing a friend's Rolls Royce and chauffeuring the girls and their dates to dances, but this one is different. It is the first prom for both the Princesses, and they are going to the same one, but to make this unique, they are not only going to the same one, but with the same boy, at the same time. It brings new meaning to the term "double date".

            After first glance, it is not as strange as it may seem, at least, not to me. The Princesses are very close, closer than any two siblings I have ever known, even twins. They say they should have been twins. They have the same likes, do many of the same things, and are truly BFFEs. That's "Best Friends For Ever" to those of you uninitiated into the lexicon of texting. They are very different in temperament, and to me, in looks, are joined at the hip in many ways, but going out with the same boy, at the same time, to the same dance? I don't know about this.

            The young man doing the asking is one they box with at the gym. He is a very nice boy, with some skill, excellent manners, and is okay looking. The Princesses say he is hot, but what do they know? Anyway, he came up to me at one of our sparring sessions, and asked me, calling me Mister Atwood, something I will never be comfortable with, "Do you mind if I ask your daughters to prom?"

            I wasn't certain I had heard him use the plural, but gave my blessing. I was still surprised when he went to each Princess, asking her out. They were thrilled, while I and the other boxers were delighted.

            I ask him later, "Why both?"

            His reply, "They're a set, aren't they?"

            On the way home, the Princesses could not shut-up about this young man, how thrilled they were that a senior, with his own car, had invited both of them to prom. I shuddered, and swallowed hard, but was smiling all the while. The Princesses are growing up.

            To the next boxing session, I had the Princesses wear their custom made shirts that have a set of boxing gloves on the front surrounded by the words, "Touch me, and the first lesson is free." I faintly hoped he might be discouraged, but the opposite was true. He was delighted and told me he was up to the challenge. I do hope he knows what the challenge is, and where it will come from.

            On the way home from that class, the talk took the turn I dreaded, dresses. I had almost forgotten about that subject much in the same way a patient in a bad accident or injury blocks out the memory for survival, but it came crashing back to my conscious mind. I was going to have to buy two dresses!

            The expense of two dresses is enough to make me go into shock, but when the talk turned to the fact that they had to match, but not be the same, I knew the Admiral and I were in for a long haul. As I write this, four days before the event, there are five dresses, one, the Admiral's prom dress, hanging in various places around the house, none of which exactly fit either of the Princesses. The Admiral has her work cut out for her. I want to go and hide in the shop until it is time to take pictures. Where is the Fairy Godmother when you need her?

             This week is supposed to be spring break, a week of fun, going places, and relaxing, but has turned into the high-intensity time of shopping for shoes and accessories, which cannot be done until dresses are decided upon and fitted. At the current rate, that may not be until the day of the prom, which further adds to the tension and stress.

            I have retreated deeper into the shop, somewhere behind the tractor humming to myself, making engine noises, trying to drown out the cries of, "This will never fit," or, "These shoes don't match this bag," and don't forget, "My hair looks awful!"

            It will all come together minutes after the young man is here to pick up his dates, giving me my opportunity to participate in the time honored ritual of terrorizing him as I casually finish cleaning my shotgun by working the action as he comes in the front door. Pictures will be taken, many laughs will be had, smiles shared, and the Admiral and I will shed a few tears as our young women walk away to get into a car with this intrepid young man.

            Don't you think the Princesses will be lovely with their formal dresses covered by their "Touch me, and the first lesson is free" T-shirts? Won't they be charmed by the sound of my maniacal laughter after I declare, "I don't mind going back to prison," as they walk away? It will be a night to remember.

Eat it, Don't Leave it

         I eat a lot and have a lot to eat, but it has not always been that way. My experience with doing with and without came while I was in the Marine Corps.

            My first meal in boot camp was breakfast and memorable for many reasons. One was a sign hanging behind the chow line that read, "Take all you want, eat all you take." I soon found out that they were serious about that.

            At that breakfast, I was so scared with Drill Instructors yelling, the noise, no sleep, sloppy clothes, my baldhead, that I kept my eyes straight ahead as instructed, and put my tray out whenever I wanted something. For some inexplicable reason, I thought you had to take everything. I ended up with a queasy stomach, and a tray heaped with food. As I approached the table, I saw that my fellow recruits, thinking more clearly than me, had a cracker, or a piece of toast, or nothing, but none had the arm straining weight of the food I carried.  

            When I sat, I saw our Drill Instructor glaring at me. I put the slogan I had seen together with that look and my tray that should have had a forklift under it instead of my quivering arms, and I knew I was in for a life altering experience.

            I watched in terror as the huge man stormed over to me. I was able to jump to the position of attention as he put his face an inch from mine and screamed the profanities of a demon. I was able to decipher that he ordered me to eat every bite of food on my plates, notice the plural. Further, I had three minutes to do it, and if I were unable to hold it down, I would have the opportunity to eat it again. I believed him. I looked at my tray and the horror of my error came crashing home. I thought to myself, "I am going to die in the Marine Corps, not in combat, but from breakfast."

            I sat to my task with both hands scooping food into my mouth. I chewed very little of it, and was getting through it pretty well until I saw the bowl of oatmeal. I have never liked oatmeal. The thought makes me sick, and there sat a bowl of the stuff, steaming, as if to mock me. I broke into a sweat that soaked my shirt.

            There was only one way I was going to be able to put that stuff on top of everything else and not see it again. I scooped the whole glob out of the bowl with my right hand. My gag reflex was working overtime as I brought the mess to my mouth. Before I got it there, a recruit sitting down the table from me, hurled his miniscule breakfast and everything he had eaten in the past month. Mine was on the way up to join his, but I believed the Drill Instructor's stated consequence. I crammed all the oatmeal into my mouth at once and swallowed to hold the coming eruption down. I closed my eyes and tears joined the sweat coursing down my face, but I did it. I got it all down, and held it. I won. I had survived breakfast.

            The next event with food was the opposite. In Vietnam, due to some real life and death circumstances, my unit was without food and water for three days and four nights, and under extreme physical duress. I dreamed of that boot camp breakfast and longed for the morsel of oatmeal that had slid down my face, onto my tray, that I hid by sliding a plate over it. These two experiences have combined to give me a near neurotic intolerance for wasting food.

            The real magnitude of my neurosis surfaced when I was a Scout Master. I had never been a waster, and it irked me when people would throw away untouched food in lunch lines, but with boys burning food just because they could, I became a Food Cop. Whatever you cooked, or took off the community plate, you ate. It became a hard and fast rule for my family, the scout troop, and me.

            Enter plastic storage containers. They are where food goes to die. This has become a point of contention between the Admiral and I. Being an Admiral, she thinks that every meal must feed a ships' company. Consequently, we have leftovers, and I don't mean a serving or two, I mean pans of stuff. After the meal, this food becomes an unrecognizable mass as it is squeezed into plastic containers and placed in the refrigerator.

            Someone will go there to investigate the leftovers, take out one of twenty plastic containers, open it, and not be able to discern what it is. They will sniff it in a vain attempt to identify the contents, and not being sure, or worse, knowing what the mass is, will return it to the fridge shelf where it will be shuttled into the dark recesses and left to become an unrecognizable mass with fur.

            When the refrigerator is cleaned, these tubs are emptied in a process that the Admiral euphemistically refers to as recycling. Knowing what you know about my aversion to waste, you can see how this process is ripe for conflict.

            We are working through it, cooking smaller portions, emphasizing the take-all-you-want-eat-all-you-take standard. It seems to be working. Either that or the Admiral is cleaning the fridge under the cover of darkness. The problem has a simple solution; eat it, don't leave it.