Alright, I’m back. I’m in the states. I had to stop writing for a little while just because of the workload and to ensure I didn’t write anything at all that might be even remotely risky. Too many responsibilities.

Now, let’s review:

When I left I know I was defending a constitutional republic. I got back and it was something else. What did you do to my country?

Next up, Earth Day and all its glory. Okay, I’m a conservationist. And a conservative. I love the idea that we can be environmentally conscious. I see limits on that and I see the environmental movement more interested in restraining progress an punishing people than I do preserving what we have that is good. I mean, think about wind energy. It’s effective. It’s not as effective as we would like but it has a great deal of potential, and a couple of turbines churning away on some Texas farmer’s property can make that family a great deal of money. So now we have to restrict those windfarms because some bats and birds are upset by the turbines.

When recycling a product costs significantly more energy and effort than replacing the product, we have to think about the net-sum impact.

However, I understand the whole purpose of Earth Day. We really need to come together as a planet. I know that there are many people who are against the idea of submitting the most successful, longest running, continuous, free republic in the modern world to the one-world government/order of the United Nations.

Short-sighted.

Only when we have put aside our disagreements with each other and submitted to a single voice will the aliens reveal themselves. Only then will they share their warp-drive technologies and cures for cancer. Only then will be allowed into the Federation of Planets.

Let’s move it along. I’m looking to get off this rock.

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But I have been home on leave. Two weeks that flew by and were a good warning as to what I would face when I get back.

I’ve lost my patience.

It’s somewhere out on a battlefield in the mountains. I certainly didn’t have it when I was back in the states. Americans do a great deal of whining. No wonder when folks from other countries make fun of us, it usually involves some sort of nasal voice. We just can’t seem to stop. We have more than anyone else in the way of freedom and the ability to change our own lives through hard work. All we have to do is take responsibility for ourselves.

But it never seems to be enough.

And my ability to tolerate hearing people complain is gone. Finished. I had a few friends I was around when I was home and they noticed some of the changes. In time I am sure I will be able to revert back to living a normal life, but while home, I would get tense when in a large group of people for more than a few minutes, especially as I started to hear the whining: “Gah, they didn’t put enough salt on the fries!!!” “Ugh, I like the way this copy of Pride and Prejudice looks better than that one but it’s $3 more!!! I can’t believe we have to read it!” “Uh, miss, I said a Diet Coke, not a Caffeine Free Diet Coke. I can’t believe you would bring me a caffeine free Diet Coke when that is clearly not acceptable!”

However, I’m back in the thick of things. Snow lays heavy everywhere. It hasn’t stopped falling for days. We are getting to the point we could build our own snow forts and igloos. At least it keeps the dust covered up, but when all this stuff starts to melt… the mud is going to be unbelievable. And we’ll deal with it.

Without complaining.

As a matter of fact, her funeral is happening as I write this and link to other posts, other letters from the past. I am glad she passed on peacefully.

I would very much like to have been able to be around those from her home town who would share stories about her.

But she died in her own home of over 30 years, in a place of comfort as she lay down in the morning to rest. It was the bedroom, though not the exact same bed in which my grandfather died many years prior, asleep next to her.

I was her only grandchild. I was spoiled in some ways, but in others it wasn’t so great to be the focus of so much criticism. When I was younger it bothered me. As I grew older I saw it for what it was… her love for me. And it was just her way.

Make no mistake, she lived a wonderful life and that is why I do not mourn.

I do not need words of comfort. I celebrate.

In recent years I was able to get her to talk far more freely about her past, and it was fascinating. She was deeply religious and lived her faith through her deeds, not just her words, so finding out about her early life was great.

My grandmother’s life was about service, though we did not always see eye to eye. I am not so altruistic. When I do things for others it’s because it makes me feel good. She would do for others regardless of how it made her feel. Martyrdom was an occasional pastime.

Later in life she became a teacher, earning her master’s degree. She then taught for over 25 years at the same private Christian school, almost always third grade.

She also taught Sunday School. She volunteered much time with her church.

Most remarkable, even in her final days she still remembered every single one of her students. She was the one who was so tough on them, but did it in ways that helped them, even if it wouldn’t be allowed in a public school classroom. She put a cardboard box around 3 sides of a student’s desk once to keep her focussed on the board instead of others. One of her former students wrote to me recently that she remembers my grandmother telling her, “Show me a cluttered desk and I’ll show you a cluttered mind.” It stuck with her ever since. My grandmother had no problem smacking a child’s hand with a ruler.

But most of her students still say she is the one who turned their lives around. The principal of the school where she taught is a former student who supposedly had a learning disability when he was very young. She attributed it to self-discipline and applied a great deal of her own. But she always did it with love.

“Your dad thinks I’m too critical,” she confessed to me not too long ago. “He’s always acting that way. What do you think?”

Clearly a trap, but she taught me honesty. “Yes, you often are, Mamaw.”

“Well I didn’t think I was bad,” she said.

“Oh, yes you can be. Remember there was a time when I refused to talk to you for a year? There was a reason.”

“So do you think there is something I can do now? Maybe I can learn…” I started laughing. “What is it?”

“Mamaw, you are over 80 years old. You’ve been this way your whole life. It doesn’t bother me now, but I think it’s a little late for you to worry about going to a self-help seminar. At this point, you’re pretty well set in your ways.”

For a second she looked offended, but then she started laughing along with me.

And she (along with the regular work of my mother) gave me the greatest gift I have: my love of learning. It has never stopped. I was raised with books in my hands from the time I was an infant and I cannot imagine life without them. I get a little uneasy in a room that has no books. It does not make sense to me.

She started my love of reading, my love of stories, my understanding that the written word carries a special quality, almost magical. In my bedroom at her house there was a deep drawer filled to the top with children’s books. I started reading before I started school. She recalled the first night I read to her. She said I was 3 when I said, “Mamaw, you always read to me. Tonight I’m going to read to you.” And apparently I did although I was probably a little older, though. Ever distrustful of good things, she started quizzing me after I was done, pointing to individual words, telling me to say them. I did.

I still remember that book and the illustrations: The Fox Went Out on a Chilly Night.

And it could not have happened without her.

I’ve even passed this love along, volunteering time to work with children, often third graders, on their reading and mentoring to them. One of the kids I tutored years ago started college this fall, on his way to law school. He says he owes some of his success to me. I told him it was actually my grandmother.

When I get back to the States I will go visit the cemetery where she is interred alongside my grandfather.

I think I’ll take a book along.

In light of the recent economic downturn, we have had to make cutbacks, so the fewer number of helpers I have this year means I cannot respond to each of you individually.

First, I would like to address logisitcs. Stop it with the stockings. Your parents haven’t bothered to have the chimney swept in years, the few of you who have one. The last thing I need after dropping down a soot-chute is to deal with a jungle of used socks in my face. Nasty.

Note to Billy in Springfield: I know you are not using your own sock, but if you put up another one of those oversize stockings, I’m going to sneak up to your room and take a baseball bat to you while you sleep until the swelling and disfigurement leave you with a club-foot that will fit in that body-bag you hang. Stop being greedy. You’re getting 2 butterscotches this year. And not Werthers’, but some drug-store special.

Let this be a warning to you all.

Second, deliveries will be delayed this year as, apparently, Reindeer emissions have been declared an environmental hazzard. We cannot run them too fast or else they will breathe out more than their “fair share” of CO2, a naturally occurring substance vital to the survival of plant life, and subsequently all life on earth. (Consult with your parents on the paradox. Point out all known life is carbon-based and requires oxygen in paired bonds.)

Finally, it has come to my attention a number of individuals are acting in my name or at least are trying to carry out operations parallel to mine. These individuals include your Speakers of the House, Senate, and Chief Executive. Unfortunately for our privately funded operations, these people have the ability to compel by force the restructuring of our finances, though they have not learned how to amass wealth on their own through private enterprise.

In addition, they are carrying out these operations as a result of decisions by your parents, older brothers and sisters, and other adults without children, who do not understand that they, too, are supposed to be working hard in order to give to you this Christmas/holiday season. It appears they believe they are entitled to Holiday Largesse throughout the year so they are making you pay for their presents. You just don’t know it yet.

My recommendation: Get up, go outside and play with whatever you naturally find out there. Sticks are good. Pine cones are even better. (Let dead things lay where they are.) Then come back in, clean up, and demand your parents enjoy this Christmas by being with the people you love, sharing a good meal made at home, and being thankful for the reason we historically have celebrated this season*. Be grateful for whatever they provide and realize you are not entitled to anything that is the result of my labors. I give because I want to, but I can stop at any time. Enjoy love expressed without strings attached.

*Pagan hippies: Yes, I know it supposedly started with y’all killing trees in Europe. Deal. The Christians got it and ran with it while y’all sat back. Just don’t push me. While He will forgive you… that’s His thing… you really don’t want an angry saint you’d normally worship as a god coming after you. I can get into your house while you sleep. Smile and enjoy the eggnog. We still love you.

It makes a big difference here. We don’t just get to go shopping.

Mail is sporadic at best. Often the powers that be don’t like sending airplanes out to us. There aren’t enough of us to warrant it. Ticks me off to no end. We are the ones most dependent on basic post to stay attached to home, have the fewest resources, and yet our mail can sit for a month or more on an air strip. When we do get mail as much as 2/3rds of it is misdirected mail that should go elsewhere, which leads us to wonder what happens to ours.

To get here it has to take several hops… when people feel like tossing it on a plane to the next hop.

With the winter setting in, fewer and fewer planes are willing to land for us. They will circle and go home. Passengers trying to get here have been thoroughly frustrated.

Don’t get me started on getting mail OUT. We get a mail clerk once every 6-8 weeks or so to inspect packages and meter the mail. It’s been a while since he was here last. We’re not a priority. So much so when he left last time, we found out he just left the mail just off the runway where it sat in the rain and snow until we could get a tarp to cover. Now when we can get people out here we have someone take one or two packages to drop in the mail once they get to the supported areas.

So like I say, mail is a big deal.

Well, I have received care packages from some of the finest of my friends whom I’ve known and shared a meal with. I get artwork from children, which then adorns my walls in my tin-can/room. And I have received care packages recently from folks who don’t even know me but know about me through here or through other friends.

I have school supplies to give to these children here, and I will be next time I am in an area safe for children. And another fine bastard won some sort of poetry contest and I was the humble person he chose to have his prize sent to. You know… food snob that I am… it is something when a cold can of beef ravioli is something to savor and delight with its variety of flavors and textures, the sweet initial blush, the tang of the tomatoes as the pasta gives way to the beefy center, hints of basil and oregano finishing the feast. Nothing to wash it down with, water would only dilute the flavors, anything else overpower the sensation.

Thank you. All of you. This old/young man is humbled.

Instead, I hurt a little inside, but want to celebrate the wonderful life that this beautiful woman gave us.

Fran died of cancer. She had many bouts of it over the last few years, each time undergoing treatments that weakened her physically, sometimes emotionally, but she always came back from it all.

She was a true military spouse, with all the travel that involves, living in several places in Europe, relics of which decorate her house in our little mountain town. She took in soldiers who needed a place for a day or two. She gave of herself in so many ways, but always drawing strength from those encounters.

I remember sitting in her office many days, listening to her complaints which she always minimized, and she wanting to hear of the struggles I had been going through. She was a great listener. I hope I was able to be the same for her.

Joining the military was a big step that I discussed with her before committing. I also discussed my dreams of my medical career. She has kept on me about both ever since. She was always so proud I felt humbled.

I remember being a sounding board for her ideas to teach a class a little better. She appreciated, even advocated my few meager suggestions as if they were gold.

I remember seeing over the years her white hair falling out, then coming back, then falling out again. And her choices of scarves and wigs. And her big glasses when she had to grade papers too long. And how her very soft, tired voice would change to a full, resounding voice when she taught. And the complete honesty with which she shared about her illness with her students.

She and her family had me over for dinner a number of times, classic family dinners wherein we sat for a while in the living room talking, Fran, her husband, her daughter and any other guests, then a few moments laughing in the kitchen as we brought the food out to the table, then everyone sitting down in the dining room, grace, and the passing around of a variety of wines. Finally, after everything was cleared, more time sitting at the table with more talking, more stories, more laughter.

And I heard from another friend that Fran knew these would be her final days. And yet she thought of others, her students. She still took the time and energy to write out final paperwork, even final exams, just so her students wouldn’t be faced at the end of their semester with an exam written by a new teacher with different expectations and no understanding of what and how she taught. There was a reason her students went to her classes.

I thank God for allowing such a beautiful person touch my life with love for far longer than I ever deserved. I can understand, though, why he decided he wanted her closer to Him now.

Earlier I was walking from village to village. The cold has frozen the water on the ground into crystals among the dirt. Pebbles crunch through the ice under our boots. the skies are beautiful, as they usually are here. Bright blues celebrate the day.

On our right we pass a mosque. There are many in this country but in the smaller villages, there are few. They become centers of community life. I see them and think of the churches back home, or especially in West Virginia. They are common, and often the only place in town that is almost always open.

An old man came out, curious as to why we would be there, but gracious nonetheless. He invited us in. We had to decline for now, respectfully thanking him but letting him know we were not Muslim and did not wish to disrespect their place. Still, it was an honor. Tasha-kor. Thank you.

Further up the street children were excited to see us. You could see them daring each other to get closer. We kneal down aware of the muzzles on our weapons, aware of the distance of our hands to the trigger. One soldier speaks to a father. I wave at a shy child poking his head from behind his sister’s skirt. Salam.

He shouts “A-Salam al lekum!” then darts back, waiting a moment before peering out again to smile and see the effect of his greeting.

Two boys come walking up along the road from the mosque. They are shy at first, but I greet them. One is carrying a book. He must be about eight years old. We start moving and he walks alongside me. I ask how he is. He says that he is very well.

“Where are you going?”

“I am going home, sir,” he replied. “I was just leaving the mosque. I was studying.”

“What were you studying?”

“Reading. I have a Qu’ran here, but I don’t want to fall behind in studying so I want to be able to read everything. I go to the mosque to work on reading. They help me.”

His friend seems older, but less mature. It turns out they are the same age, but in different grades.

“Do you like to study?”

“Yes. It is good for when I am older.”

“What do you want to do when you get older?”

“I want to be a doctor,” he says with humility. “It is hard. It will take time so I work as much as I can.”

I brighten up even more. Doktor. Medecin. A boy after my own heart. “I am a medic, actually.” We stop again and he stops for a moment. He looks me up and down.

“Yes,” I reply to his unasked question, “I do have some supplies on me.” Not much, but I do have my stethoscope, some bandages and my oto-opthalmoscope. I show him the stethoscope. Let him listen to his heart. Then I let him listen to my heart, buried under the armor. He concentrates intensely. If I knew I could have gotten another one quickly, I might have given it to him, just as a reminder. But I also know about the hospital in the nearby town. They have two stethoscopes and one blood pressure cuff for the entire hospital. They could use the equipment every day, if I were to give away my gear. But I do give him a couple of bandages for practice. I hope he isn’t forced to use them.

We are close to his house and he walks inside the gate, his friend following. He waves goodbye and tells us he hopes to see us again. If he stays as serious about his studies, he will be one of the people who bring about and sustain the change for the better for this country.

I have close family involved.

Prayers are needed.

I’m in a class with 4 of the 5 services out here. The Marines here are, of course, keeping me in trouble. I was credited with saying something that it was really one of them. To give him his due, I wish I had come up with it.

Instructor: So that’s pretty “hooah,” right? Wait, what do you Marines say? “Oorah,” right?

Marine: Yep

Instructor: What do the Air Force guys say?

Me: Yippee.

Instructor: And what do the Navy boys say?

Marine: Harder! Please!

Don’t let the Marines beat us at Valour-IT like they did at wit. (but that was freakin’ funny)

Project Valour-IT.

Since my site is pretty much only read by my friends, you should all know how dear this cause is to me. Not much explanation needed. I’ve sided with the Marines before, but, hey, the Army has me now.

So please give.

I donate to four charities per year: A children’s hospital, emergency soldier’s relief, a police officer association, and this group. I have friends who have benefitted directly from it.

Thank you.

My commander assigned me training. This is normal. Unfortunately, the training is in another country, well away from my unit. I’m back in the desert, back in the heat. I’ll be here for a few days, but I’ll be missing key events going on back in-country.

And I have some guilt. I do not begrudge the military folks at this base for the comforts they have, especially the comforts that are so far and away from what we have down range, but I wish I could send our soldiers here on occasion. There are moments when I want to smack the crap out of an airman or squid as they complain that sometimes the high speed wireless internet doesn’t reach all the way back into their air-conditioned, private room. They even consider this hardship duty. They have a mall. A mall. They are all built huge because of the great gyms, access to supplements, and plenty of time to work out since they work a standard work week, 7-8 hrs a day, 4-5 days a week. The soldiers out where I am, not so much. Again, if I could, I’d certainly like to get away with it, but I can’t. Someone has to be in the fight, while someone else has to support us. The big advantage is that we have far fewer rules out there. No reflective safety belts at night. No saluting. We can carry backpacks wherever the hell we please. It’s called “living far away from the flagpole.”

I almost made myself sick at my first meal here. There was so much good food. I ignored the complaints around me. Incredibly fresh vegetables lined the salad bar, with varieties of fresh fruit, multiple entrees to choose from along with a place that would make your stir-fry to your specification on the spot. It’s nothing like the chow we suffer through out there. They even have the premium, not from concentrate juices. And milk. I never thought I’d crave milk so much, but after seeing the shelves in our dining hall lined with crates of boxed milk gathering dust, real milk is amazing. And pop tarts. I ate like a refugee who finally made it to the shelter, cautious at taking anything then wanting to horde it all to just get flavors.

I’m jumpy as well, loud noises startling me. We don’t wear our armor here. No one has a weapon. My hip feels uncomfortable without at least my sidearm, I’ve noticed. I sometimes awake in the night, a little anxious because I had reached out for my pistol which wasn’t there. There are too many people around, with a feel of a college campus.

Women are everywhere. It’s noticeable. I’m in an infantry unit. With all the combined forces of us, NATO, Afghans and the others in our area, we have one single female soldier, and she’s only around for another month or so. I’m glad the mall here has a variety of shampoos. I breathe in the scent of their hair.

But I arrived here with a slight cold. Nothing serious, though with all the air travel over several days and the shift in temperatures from the mid 30s to the mid 90s, I look a little rough, especially around the eyes. No one messes with me. No one demands a great deal. With the exception of a few other Army folks and some Marines, people avoid me, apparently put off by the look on my face. I’ll have to tone that down back in the states. Today is a full day of rest in the tent for me.

And I miss my soldiers and my fellow soldiers from our NATO partner. We’ve grown on each other, come to rely on each other. They mean a great deal to me, true friendships forming with mutual respect and trust, even some interdependence. Now I’m not there. I’ve received text messages from them, information on a firefight they were engaged in, the fortunes of war in a technology age.

May they be safe while I am. If they are to fight, I’d rather be alongside.

Go now.

This far out in the frontier, distant noises are a cause for concern. Flying machines are even more rare, so they grab our attention, whereas at most bases and back in the states, airplane noise dissolves into the background of our every day. For us, it means something has gone very wrong.

Up in the sky we saw the reason. It was not a mortar being fired. It was thunder. Clouds had come across the mountains, bringing with it our first rain since arriving. Higher up, it was the first snow. Our turn for snow will be coming soon. And it will be relentless.

We know it rains here; we arrived during the dry season, but ruts cut into the sides of the mountains show rain’s path, and the path the melts will take in the spring.

Out on the streets in the villages, shopkeepers pull in their wares underneath the awnings that serve both as shade and as their security door once night rolls through. A shop is generally little more than a hole in a wall with an old fashioned garage-door type closure. There is no electricity.

We pass through town, tires crusting in the mud on the normal roads, then flinging it wildly on the paved streets. Our speed varies. We do it to keep from getting into patterns, but we also do it so we don’t dirty the women walking by in their chadarri.

The rain falls in fits, clearing the dust from signs. What were once strange scribblings are starting to take shape in my mind. The meanings of the words are still mostly a mystery, but I can make the sounds and read the numbers. Attempting to shift in my seat, the gear we wear making it difficult, I peer through the narrow window to my right. Peaks in the distance are grabbing their winter coating of purity, white on white.

So we pass, moving to our next meeting, our next opportunity to guide and shape. We hope for the best, happy to breathe in the air, this time with a hint of moisture and almost no dust, like back home. We can only prepare and watch for so much. As they say, the rest is in God’s hands.

I have been enjoying my time. Yes there are frustrations, but not as bad as my civilian world positions. It is a little dusty here, though. Just sayin’.

HOWEVER. I am out here. I was taught to do a particular job. I was also taught how to use a particular piece of software to do that job. In fact, we were told we HAD to. I estimate that you spent over $22,000 (food, housing, salary, classroom, instructors) on training me on that one program ALONE, not including the training on the job at which I will use that software.

I have seen the software unused in offices where there are big bases. I also realize it is relatively expensive compared to… say… a DVD-burning software package, but not so much in comparison to the cost of a laptop.

I’ve gone up my chain of command. I’ve gone through outside routes. I’ve gone through underground routes. It all comes back to, “We just don’t have enough copies to give [to those in the field who actually need it and can use it every flippin' day to produce the crap we constantly demand from them].”

What gives? I realize our civilian bosses are completely hamstringing us in getting things done, but there are places where a couple of hundred dollars can be brought together, right? I mean, I’ve seen that happen many times over. One fight, one team, right?

Thanks for your time,

me