Title: Shameless, Shameless Plug
Date: June 26, 2009, Friday
Thought: , I would propose that I have learned as much about writing in this community than I have in all the college I have attended.

Jog: I belong to a writing community. That is no news to you, since you belong to it also. But, occasionally I have to remind myself the reason I first came in here was as an outlet where my work may be viewed and critiqued. Along the way I have discovered that I also learned a great deal about the craft. That’s right, WDC has been enormously beneficial. In fact, I would propose that I have learned as much about writing in this community than I have in all the college I have attended. I’m just a little peeved that I can’t get college credit for all this knowledge. I guess I’ll just have to settle for reaping the benefit of improved writing skills.

I bring this up because I find that recently I tend to spend more time blogging and reading blogs…mostly reading blogs…than actually writing. Although, I could argue that preparing a well ordered and structured blog that conveys an idea IS actually writing. In any case, I am disappointed that my portfolio seems to suffer when I get caught up in the blog thing. I encouraged myself, which was a one-sided conversation, to enter a contest and write something original. So, I did.

In response to a photo prompt I wrote a fiction piece about a well known figure in recent history. I would call the piece more of a ‘faction’ than fiction, since all the events of the short story really happened. I just added the filler to the story, supplying ample imagination and taking great advantage of my artistic license. Well, anyway, I thoroughly enjoyed myself creating the little piece and remembered why I joined this community in the first place.

Shamelessly, I now post the plug for the story in this entry. Read it if you wish; in fact I would be honored if you do. However, if you do, please take a moment and drop me a line. You see I’d kinda like to know if it’s any good. That was another reason I joined this community, remember—the critique. Regardless, I appreciate you reading this blog entry at least this far. And, I will end it here, counting myself fortunate indeed to have you with me and bowing out when I am ahead.

ID: 1574710   (Rated: 18+) The War Bird  History is controled by the history written before it. by PlannerDan

Title: Jobs
Date: June 25, 2009, Thursday
Thought: I came to the conclusion that, regardless of how much I enjoyed manhandling that iron, it would be much easier to do it at twenty than at fifty.

Jog: I’ve got a job. I’ve had one, of one sort or another, for almost forty-five years. I worked mowing lawns, hauling hay, and cutting broomcorn during my youth and didn’t really count those as jobs. Those early efforts were just a way to make spending money and were short time endeavors. Nope, my first job was working after school and during the summer for a discount store stocking shelves. I punched a time clock there and was expected to be on the job on a regular schedule. I can’t say that I enjoyed it much. But, it was steady work with a steady income.

The summer of my junior year I worked as a Fuller Brush salesman. I have no idea how I fell into that opportunity. But, I do know it formed some of my vocational decisions for the rest of my life. I absolutely hate going door to door. It’s the worst job I ever had. Even today, I do not do anything that requires door to door activity—fundraisers, political campaigning, whatever, if it involves going door to door, count me out. I much prefer my clients coming to me, at least I know they took the initiative to be there.

My senior year and summer between college I worked in the oil field as a ruff neck. This one I loved. It was hard, dirty, and sometimes dangerous work. It suited me very well. I enjoyed throwing that iron around. I guess the most important thing it taught me was the value of working as a team. There are four men who make up a drilling crew. Each one is necessary and if any one of them slacks it causes hardships on the others. It was there I learned how to be a hand. A good hand works hard and helps his crewmember. When the crew works well together, the company makes money. And, on a drilling rig, time literally is money.

However, it was on the drilling rig I learned two other valuable lessons. The first was that it’s best to be the boss. There are benefits for being the boss and I wanted to have them. On a drilling rig the boss of the crew is the driller. The driller’s boss is the Tool Pusher; he’s the guy who supervises several rigs and several crews. That was my dad. I worked for my dad, the Tool Pusher. I noticed also that my dad’s boss was the Company Man, the representative of the oil company who owns the mineral rights and who sells the refined oil and natural gas—that would be Mobil, Sun, Exxon, etc. All those company men were college educated. I figured out that I needed an education.

The second lesson I learned was that hard manual labor takes a toll on your body. On the crew, on which I worked, several men had missing parts, or parts that didn’t work right. It’s easy to lose a finger or smash an elbow or fracture a hip when that much iron is banging around you. I noticed that iron and hydraulics can be very unforgiving and it only takes a short lapse in diligence to screw up. Working in that oil and mud can also be very humbling at times. I came to the conclusion that, regardless of how much I enjoyed manhandling that iron, it would be much easier to do it at twenty than at fifty, which many of the ruff necks were. You don’t want to be an old man and still out there on that rig floor. I figured out that I needed an education.

So I went to school--lots of it. I went to trade schools, junior colleges, universities, and even a seminary. I earned a Bachelor of Arts and a Master of City and Regional Planning degrees. It took me almost twenty years to get it all done. But the degrees alone do not mean you will be any better off. You’ve got to do something with them and you have to apply that education you got at the school of hard knocks. The first lesson I learned in the oil field still held true. It really is best to be the boss. And so, twenty-one years ago I left the safety of my corporate position and struck out on my own—started my own company—my own planning consulting firm. You can find me on the Internet, if you Google Municipal Planning Resources Group, Inc. http://www.mprginc.com

I’ve had may jobs in my long career. Some of them were very menial and some were interesting. However, I most enjoy the one I hold now. Although, I still have to bend to the needs of my clients, I do exactly as I please. And, since I enjoy the work I do, I have difficulty counting it as a job. I am so glad that as a young man, I took notice of the toll that some of my jobs took on the men who were performing them. My way was certainly not easy, and no one gave me any gifts along the way. I had to earn it. But I am here to testify and be a witness to the fact that if a person will be steadfast in their determination, and take a chance every now and then, they will be rewarded. Daniel Burnham (some old planner guy) said, “Make no little plan, for they have no magic to stir men’s blood.” He was right.

 

Title: Dad’s Day
Date: June 21, 2009, Sunday
Thought: I did not have a clue what it meant to be a dad. I stumbled through it for the first dozen years.

Jog: Today is my day—Father’s Day. It has always been a very passive celebration in our family. Sometime during the day I will receive a couple of phone calls from my sons, wishing me a happy Father’s Day. I expect nothing more and to tell the truth the recognition by those two phone calls is plenty; in fact, it speaks volumes.

Our family has never been inclined to give gifts on these special days. The most we will do is to take the honored person out to eat, especially the mom’s. I don’t know why we have been so subdued in our demonstrations. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that finances were always so tight when we were younger—during the time traditions were established. It just never became a tradition. Even birthdays pass with moderate acknowledgement.

I’ve come to understand that the importance of these special days lays not in the value of the gift that is purchased, but in the sincerity of the recognition of the event. Linda and I have been married for forty-two years this coming August. There is no gift that can be purchased that will equal the accomplishment of her putting up with me for all those years. I will do something special for our 50th anniversary, after all simply to live that long is an accomplishment, much less to spend all that time with one person.

I’ve been a father for forty-one years, come October. I have not always done the best job. I was just a young man of twenty years when I had my first son—just a kid. To say the least, I did not have a clue what it meant to be a dad. I stumbled through it for the first dozen years. Unfortunately, those were the formative years in the lives of our young boys. Fortunately, I seemed to have stumbled in the right direction. Possibly that was due to the example left to me by my own father. I just did the things he did. It seemed to work; both my sons are fine men, of which I am very proud.

That brings me to my dad. It is strange indeed that after all this time, I have become more attached to my father. Dad died almost thirty years ago. For some reason I miss him more today than I did back then. I wonder why that is? When I was just a young man, my father was my hero. He was bigger than life and was the foundation upon which I built my image of what a dad should be. As I grew older, I realized that he was not perfect—not in many ways. I was not disillusioned nor disappointed in him; but I was somewhat sad that the image of my dad, which I formed in my youth, was flawed in places. My intellect told me that was only natural. None of us will forever be able to stand to the scrutiny and high standard of an adoring child.

So, today, I remember my dad and recognize that we both have a special day today, as do both of my sons. We belong to a vast fraternity of men. Today is our special day. One, which in most cases, will be observed simply. I suppose the thing that makes this so important is the responsibility we dads have to our children. It is a simple responsibility,requiring only that we love them and care for them, as we are able. If we do it with sincerity, we can make some mistakes along the way and everything will still turn out OK.

As Linda and I ate out last night at our favorite Italian restaurant, I witnesses a short glimpse of what this day means. A family was leaving the restaraunt, having finished their meal. As they passed by the tables, a man led his daughter of about five by the hand. I saw her look up at him with adoring eyes and simply say, “Daddy, look at this.” Now, it wasn’t what she said that impressed me. What I was struck with was how small she was beside him, how he held her small hand in his own, how she looked up to him, and how the simple little question was filled with a desire to please and a hope of approval. I’m sure she was rewarded with a smile and a comment. That’s what it means to be a dad, seizing the small almost hidden opportunities to make them happy, to make them feel secure, to make them feel loved.

Happy Dad’s Day to all you guys out there who find yourselves in that position. I hope you will have a very good day. I’m gonna just lay around and take it easy and wait for my two phone calls.

 

Title: Wall Street Roller Coaster
Date: June 19, 2009, Friday
Thought: I’ve never seen the thrill in being tossed from side to side and dropped vertically, leaving my stomach 100-feet behind me

Jog: I’m one of those boring guys who doesn’t like roller-coasters. Yeah, I know, to some of you that seems down right un-American. But, I’ve never seen the thrill in being tossed from side to side and dropped vertically, leaving my stomach 100-feet behind me--and, most ridiculously, paying for it. As a result, I generally steer clear of the gizmos.

So, why in the world do I follow the stock market? That has got to be the mother of all roller coasters. The only difference is it’s done in slow motion—over a long period of time. I’ve watched the funds we are invested in careen madly in a nosedive for a year and then rebound and tease me that they are going to soar again, only to drop again stubbornly. We have been fortunate, we escaped the mega losses that some experienced—thanks to the fact that we jumped off the dang ride in the middle and on again after it bounced rudely off the bottom.

Those of us who ride this financial roller coaster know that it is cyclical and will provide significant profits eventually. But, the dang ride is getting frustrating. I don’t enjoy roller coasters. In fact, I’m looking forward to the time when I can get off the dang thing...or at least find another ride that is less taxing—maybe like the merry-go-round. That one doesn’t go anywhere. Staying even sounds like a reasonable compromise.

 

Title: Hot Summer Mornings and Cool Lake Water
Date: June 8, 2009, Monday
Thought: I’m surprised I don’t see folks walking around buck-ass nekid, soaping up and saving on their water bill.

Jog: It’s June in Texas. Those who aren’t familiar with Texas will shrug and say, “So what?” Actually it really isn’t a big deal; but June in Texas is the precursor to some really hot days. A few years back we had over 100 consecutive days where the heat registered over 100 degrees. Now, there are places in this world where it gets hotter, and I guarantee you will not find me there. But, Texas in June, July, and August can be a scorcher. Life can be miserable. The funny thing is that when I was a kid, no one ever told me how hot it was; and, I really didn’t give a flip. I spent my entire summer outside doing stuff.

This morning as I left the house, early because that dang dog had been pestering me for about 45 minutes, I realized summer was here. It was 7:15 and it already felt like an oven. It is near 80 degrees outside and the humidity is 80%--a veritable recipe for discomfort. It’s almost like getting a mobile sauna. By noon we will be at 95 degrees and the humidity will still be 80%. I’m surprised I don’t see folks walking around buck-ass nekid, soaping up and saving on their water bill.

However, it does explain something about that black Lab dog of mine. It helps to explain why in the world he becomes deaf as we walk around the lake. I think the heat and humidity affects his hearing, because there is no way he will mind me as I holler, “Max, No! Max, No, damnit!” as he jumps into the lake. It seems to make no difference to him that I had just given him a bath yesterday, groomed him and killed the wet-dog smell that he sometimes gets (after all he is a dang dog.) And, it is my responsibility to keep him that way for at least a week. Do you think HE will get in trouble as we come back into the house dripping and grinning that dumb-ass grin he seems to get sometimes. Nope, I’m the guy who gets chewed on and who get to wash him down again in the backyard, as he stands there thinking, “Wow! What a deal! Getting wet twice in one morning!”

However, today I really thought I was going to have to go into the lake and save his black butt from drowning. You see, although Max loves to swim, he can’t do it for great stretches of time. After all, the most he does during the day is terrorize the UPS guy as he leaves a package at our door. The guy has given up on knocking on the door. Max thinks it’s great fun to snarl, snap and bark like the dickens when he hears the UPS truck. There’s no way he would bite the guy; Max just likes the show. And, the UPS guy isn’t taking any chances.

Anyway, after Max disobeyed me so blatantly and jumped into the lake today, I went ahead and tossed a stick into the lake and let him swim out and retrieve the thing about a dozen times. Hoping his urge to swim was satisfied I walked on down the pathway with a dripping dog scampering happily around me. I almost made it home. However, down at the shore was a multi-colored soccer ball floating along the shoreline. That’s the other thing Max loves—balls. So, down to the water’s edge and into the lake he goes. He was able to retrieve the ball by pressing it against the shore and biting into it, which totally deflates the thing.

Anyway, as it turned out the ball retained enough of its air to float along the surface and still hold its shape. Max brought the ball to me and dropped it at my feet. I am well trained and realize this is my cue to toss the thing back into the lake, which I did. Only this time, it was located away from the shore. Max jumped in and swam to the ball. However, each time he nosed it this time, it floated further out into the lake. Soon, Max is swimming in circles out in the middle of our little lake. Each time he noses the ball it pushes out in front of him. And, Max, has no intention of stopping. I called him several times to no avail. He either could not hear me or would not. All he could do was focus on that dang ball.

Just as I was thinking I was going to have to go out and get him, the ball began to be shoved toward the shoreline. Eventually, it snugged up against the bank and Max retrieved the thing. He walked up next to me, dropped the ball and laid down. He looked at me with those big brown eyes as if to say, “Don’t you throw that dang thing back into that water. I ain’t chasing it any more.”

I just answered back to him, “Hey, I’m not the one who insisted to take a break from the heat and jump in the lake. Next time listen to me!” Yeah, sure, as if that’s gonna happen.

 

Title: D-Day Remembered
Date: June 6, 2009, Saturday
Thought: We live in a different age with different values as well as interests. The significance of that time in our history is now lost to the history books and to stories told by old folks to impatient young ears.

Jog: Bill Clark was twenty years old when he died. He grew up in Tennessee, in Huntingdon, which is half-way between Nashville and Memphis. Due south of Huntingdon, about twenty minutes, is the little town of Parkers Crossroads, where a battle between the Blue and Gray was fought during the American Civil War. He grew up steeped in the tradition of the South; he was keenly aware of the battlefields which lay around him, reminding him of our heritage and the precious price to be paid by war. Bill Clark died on a battlefield in Normandy, France, on June 6th, 1944. The place was called Omaha Beach.

Bill’s family never really accepted his death. They didn’t get a chance to say good-bye; there never was a funeral. Although they did not know it, his body was buried in a cemetery in France, dedicated to fallen warriors of that battle. Sixty-three years after the tragedy of his death, a tragedy shared by 2,374 men, Bill came home—in a way. The dog tags he wore were uncovered in the beach at Normandy, after sixty-three years. They were weathered and blackened with age, but his name, identification number, religion, and blood type were still clearly visible. Over the course of time, they were eventually returned to his family.

As I read the article accounting this remarkable story, I was struck by the ages of the participants. There were comments by his cousins Lota and Ava, seventy-nine years and eighty-four years of age, respectively. I was reminded that this battle, which was fought by young men, is quickly running out of survivors. In a few years there will be none left. I remember reading somewhere that the average age of the soldier on Omaha beach was twenty-five. That would put them at being around ninety years old today. It was interesting that the article said the average age of the German soldier, serving in Normandy at that time, was around thirty-two. There likely are very few survivors from those who were counted as our enemy of that time.

Today is June 6th, the anniversary of the battle that we have come to commonly refer to as D-Day. I suspect that very few will stop during their day and remember the significance of that day. Many of that generation are now gone and the younger folks have other more pressing things on their minds. We live in a different age with different values as well as interests. The significance of that time in our history is now lost to the history books and to stories told by old folks to impatient young ears. Tom Brokaw was right when he called them “The Greatest Generation.” He said in fact, “this is the greatest generation any society has produced,” noting that this generation fought not for fame and recognition, but because it was the right thing to do. Many people may argue against this position, but I won’t be one of them. My mom and dad were a part of it; my dad was one of those young men who left his rural home and fought in the great conflict the history books call the Second World War. Somehow, after seeing their example, I agree with Brokaw.

 

Title: My Dog, Max—Again
Date: June 1, 2009, Monday
Thought: I suppose that’s just his way of reminding me that I belong to him.

Jog: He’s not too far away. I can’t see him right now, but I know he’s there. He’s always there. Of course I’m talking about my dog, Max. Some of you who are particularly spiritual would have thought I was talking about God, who of course is always there. But, at the moment, I’m not being especially spiritual—just a bit contemplative about my dog.

To some folks it would seem to be a nuisance, always having a dog under your feet, or at times laying on your feet under the desk, preventing you from rolling in and out to do your work. But to me it is tremendously endearing and comforting. To have another living being be so dedicated and totally trusting to you is a gift that many take for granted.

We have new neighbors next door. The young couple have an adorable little boy named Noah and a yellow Lab pup named Sugar. Since they have hardwood floors they have decided that Sugar must live outside. Her nails would scratch the floor and diminish the visual impact of the floors as well as hurt the value of the house. I respect that decision, but I am very disappointed in the affect it will have on Sugar. Although it is a very nice back yard, it is a lonely place. Sugar spends her time there alone, with the family moving about in the house. She often cries and barks to get their attention, but is rewarded only with a stern, “Sugar! Hush up!”

When that happens, I usually give Max an additional stroke, to which he usually adjusts his head to gain full advantage of my touch. Our home has witnessed the impact of having an animal living in the house. Although he does not chew, scratch, climb on the furniture, or mark the floors and furniture, our floors and carpets are forever littered with black hair, which even with all our effort seems to be impossible to remove. We do a very good job, but there is always a stray hair that seems to attach itself to the clothing of any visitor, leaving our clothes untouched. It is a battle we are destined to lose, but motivated to fight daily.

From what I understand, Labs are very people oriented. In fact, they get attached to THEIR people, and are happiest when they are with their people. We confirm that piece of information after witnessing Max’s actions. He is tremendously attached to us; we call him our Velcro dog. If we were to assign him to the back yard, he would pine away from loneliness. When I say Max has to be with me, I mean within five feet of me. If I enter a room and close the door behind me, he will lay up against that door and wait for my return. He does not whine or bark; he just lays his head on his paws and patiently waits. His patience amazes me.

How can someone not become attached to a dog like that? It is certainly beyond my ability to withstand. As a result, I have become a pitiful dog lover, who gushes about his dog with the slightest encouragement, boring friend and stranger with equal fervor. I’ve always determined I would not do that, but find myself helpless to prevent it. Especially when those brown eyes look up at me when he lays his head across my foot, or when he gives me a solitary lick on the elbow as I work at the computer. I suppose that’s just his way of reminding me that I belong to him.

I bring this piece to a conclusion, having once again spent time dedicated to my dog, Max. Many of you who are familiar with the relationship that black dog of mine and I have, will recognize the redundant feelings here. Those of you who are new to my blog will likely take this discourse as an obvious ramblings of a dog-lover, and perhaps consider it boring. It doesn’t really matter, because I write it not for you as much as for me, who selfishly is seeking an outlet for the emotions that I have for a black dog. Never having experienced this type of relationship with a canine, it is new to me also. Even as I write this, Max is nuzzling my foot, trying to find the right position to continue his nap. I am touched that he has chosen my foot, under my desk, in my way to close his eyes and rest. I must be careful not to disturb him.

 

Title: What’s Happening Below the Belt?
Date: May 31, 2009, Sunday
Thought: I’ve got to tell you, there’s a lot of pretty cool stuff happening below the belt. And, I would certainly want my doctor to know how to take care of all that area.

Jog: OK, what if your doctor informed you that he was only going to treat you from the waist up? Everything below the belt would be ignored. Or what if you decided you only care about your partner from the waist up? Nothing below the belt would get any attention. I’ve got to tell you, there’s a lot of pretty cool stuff happening below the belt. And, I would certainly want my doctor to know how to take care of all that area.

This concept was driven home to me yesterday. As you may or may not know, I am a city planner. As such, my professional affiliation requires that I obtain a certain amount of continuing education. That means I am occasionally attending seminars and conferences earning hours to apply to that requirement. As a result, I attended a seminar yesterday that dealt with the importance of trees in our urban areas. Sounds like a simple little topic and a little “Duh.” But, as usual, I found it very enlightening and I actually learned something.

We talked about how trees relate to safety, economic, aesthetics, health, and play. They are really an essential part of our urban environment and should be included in the planning of our spaces as we develop new land. All that was sufficiently interesting, but, what really impressed me was the fact that we know so little about what goes on under the ground—the area we can’t see.

There are in fact a lot of misconceptions about what happens under the ground. The lecturer asked for several persons in the audience to come to the front and take a position by very large note pads mounted on easels. The people were instructed to draw a tree, including the root system. Everyone seemed to be able to get the part located above the ground right. They also drew the root system in about the same way. They all drew what we have typically been told was how the root system of a tree looks underground. Although, some of the drawings were a little crude; they got the basics across. Here is an illustration of the standard concept, which we have been taught, of a tree and it’s root system.

Title: Losing the Tie
Date: May 29, 2009, Friday
Thought: I have nothing to prove—already done it.

Jog: Have you ever put your feet up on our desk and just snoozed? I mean right in the middle of the work day? I’ve got to admit it is a great experience. In fact that is what I am going to do as soon as I finish this entry. Or, I might have to split the entry with the snooze in the middle. (…..zzzzzz…)

Unfortunately, my snooze was interrupted with work—a phone call. I hate it when work gets in the way with my day. Anyway, it is my opinion that offices should have a free snooze rule. I mean, if a little snooze helps to refresh you and make you a little sharper, why not benefit from it. I know; my office instituted the rule at least three years ago. Anytime I feel a little sleepy, I drop what I’m doing, put my feet up on my desk, and snooze for twenty or thirty minutes. It works like a jewel.

OK, I know my situation has a few extenuating circumstances—like I’m the only employee in my firm at the moment and my office just happens to be in my home. And, after all, I am the boss and can do dang right what I please. However, that does not change the fact that I still think our offices should be a little less structured.

I have read accounts of successful businesses where the office model has changed from the stiff coat and tie professionalism of the Twentieth Century to something much more laid back. Ben and Jerry’s sell a lot of ice cream. They are one of the most successful companies around. However, they have changed the office to fit a different pattern. The first clue is by the company motto they have adopted: “If it’s not fun, why do it?”

It is not unusual today to find a successful, professional office where there isn’t a tie around and absolutely no coats. I remember an office where ties were outlawed. If you came to the office with a tie on, you ran the chance of having it cut-off leaving only a stub next to the knot—my kind of place. Myself, I have reduced my standard to always wearing jeans to work. I even wear them to corporate meetings and public hearings before city councils. As a concession, I wear a corduroy sports jacket with my jeans--no tie. It’s comfortable and even looks a little spiffy.

I’m beginning to be known as that exocentric planner guy. If you are good enough, folks look past the fancy stuff to the real thing. I’m that good. Besides, I’ve earned my stripes. I’ve been doing this long enough so that I have nothing to prove—already done it. I’ve earned the right to lose the tie. You know, life is pretty good. Now, I think I'll put my feet back up on my desk. I may or may not take a snooze--depends on how I feel.

 

Title: In Defense of a Tree
Date: May 26, 2009, Tuesday
Thought: For some insane reason I seem to think the cottonwood has some kind of rights. I know that sounds terribly liberal of me.

Jog: I’ve got this thing about trees. Although I am far from being some wacko tree lover who chains themselves to a tree to protect it from the bulldozer, I really hate to see one cut down—for any reason. And that has become somewhat of a problem. You see, I have two neighbors who are having a dispute. One neighbor has a swimming pool and a pristinely manicured lawn. The other neighbor has a magnificent cottonwood tree. It is a majestic tree that must top out at fifty feet in height. Some of you may already know the problem.

If I were planting trees in my new yard, I would never plant a cottonwood tree. Although they are gorgeous trees, they are a nuisance. They are beautiful to sit and stare at on warm summer days when the wind flutters their leaves. The breeze makes the tree actually shimmer. My youth is filled with memories of sitting in the shade and watching the breeze play with the large cottonwood leaves. However, I also remember the wispy seeds that are dispelled by the tree. It sends out these cottony deposits indiscriminately, covering everything with the cotton-like residue. It plays havoc on allergies as well as swimming pools.

My next door neighbor is a perfectionist, in fact both he and his wife are; they are a perfect match. Not a blade of grass is out of place and every flower bed is properly groomed. The life span of a weed is about thirteen seconds in their lawn. They attend to their swimming pool with the same religious zeal. So you can imagine their chagrin when each morning their pool has a film of cottonwood seeds floating in the water and their lawn looks like someone sprinkled it with flour.

Now, they have complained bitterly to my other neighbor, who owns the cottonwood tree. They insist that the tree be cut down. Seems as if the tree offends their sense of aesthetic order and is a nuisance to their entertainment plans. They see no reason why the rest of the free world does not agree with them and rid us all of the offending tree. I’m not real sure what my other neighbor thinks about their sensibilities. All I know is that the tree is still standing.

My perfectionist neighbors, who are really our best friends, have shared their miseries with us with the expectation and assumption that we agree that the offensive cottonwood must be destroyed. I have tried to be understanding, but am growing increasingly troubled. You see, I have come to have a completely different position. For some insane reason I seem to think the cottonwood has some kind of rights; although, I fully realize the Bill of Rights does not extend to plants. I know that sounds terribly liberal of me. And, I know that it’s just a dang tree, after all. But, I just can’t shake this feeling.

The tree has got to be in the vicinity of 90 years old. It stood in this field before urban development decided to cut roads and build houses. It survived storms and floods and drought. It survived when weaker trees succumbed to the elements. It stands today as a majestic testament to survival. That tree stood when the US faced the Great Crash on Wall Street. It may have shaded a vagabond or two during the depression. It was standing in that field on the day Pearl Harbor was bombed as well as on the day victory in Japan ended the Second World War on the decks of the USS Missouri. It stood in that field on the day I was born and on the days my children were born. And, it stands just outside my fence-line, on my neighbors property, today. Now it was there before the pool next door was built and before someone decided to turn that piece of ground into a pristine residential lawn. Somehow, someway I’ve got it figured that trees have the right to stand there until they expire of natural causes. What a shame it would be to cull it from existence because of a foolish and prideful desire to please someone’s sensibilities.

OK, I admit it is just a tree. Perhaps I am taking this much too far. After all, the desires of the human creatures on this planet should be paramount to that of a simple plant. The world would not be diminished if they were to cut it down. So, why, pray tell, am I so offended by the thought?

 

Title: A Time When I Was Young
Date: May 24, 2009, Sunday
Thought: I’ve come to realize that when old folks talk about sharing similar experiences, young folk don’t really seem to believe we were ever young like them.

Jog: There was a time when I was young. No, believe me; I really was. I remember the night I took my high school sweetheart to the prom. That was near to being forty-four years ago. I still remember the excitement of the prom. I remember how out of place I looked in my suit and how absolutely gorgeous Linda looked. Before the prom, we had to visit each parent’s house. First, it began at Linda’s where I picked her up and gave her the corsage, which was quite a quandary. How does a seventeen year old boy pin a corsage above the breast of his date with her mother watching. The answer is—you don’t. I sheepishly studied the location and noted the obvious presence of her breast (believe me as I affirm I had noticed them before) and punted to her mother, who pinned the dang thing on. Well, we had photos taken at her house and then a visit to my parents where we had photos taken again. And, then we spent a memorable evening at the prom. I remember it like it was yesterday.

I bring this up because it is the season of the prom around here. I don’t know if other countries have proms. However, I am sure it is a tradition in the USA, which will endure forever. Through adversity, catastrophe, pestilence, and changing fads, the prom will always exist. I dwell on this because my grandson and his date dropped in tonight on the way to their prom. As I looked in their faces I saw the exact same emotions I had when I was seventeen. I know the excitement they felt and the sheer wonder of life. I did not say anything to Ryan about that; because, I’ve come to realize that when old folks talk about sharing similar experiences, young folk don’t really seem to believe we were ever young like them. Intellectually they accept it but emotionally they can’t quite conceive it. I suppose it’s like thinking about your parents having sex. You are evidence of the experience but the thought of it doesn’t quite feel right.

But, yes, I was once young. And, I did the things that all youngsters did, which included making plenty of mistakes, which entitles me to say, “don’t do as I do; do as I say.” Well, like Ryan and his gorgeous date, I once attended a prom—with Linda, in fact. Her father said something that night which I will never forget. Before I tell you, I must relate a little story.

Prom night in Lindsay, Oklahoma, was an all night affair. The prom itself lasted till midnight, then there were several after-prom get togethers at different places, including the local theater, which was running movies until daylight. At daybreak, we had planned breakfast at a local restaurant; and it was only after breakfast that we would go home. It may not seem like much of an event, but for youngsters is was significant.

Well, Linda and I made it through much of the aftermath of the prom, and somewhere about 3:00 am we decided to go back to her house and wait for breakfast. We quietly took command of her living room, playing the radio softly, because her father had to work the next day and we did not want to wake him. We sat on the couch and just talked, for hours. Well, we talked for a long time, at least, because somewhere in the wee hours of the morning we both fell asleep on her couch, waiting for breakfast. All I remember is waking up laying on the couch, with Linda in my arms—fully clothed, of course. But I remember hearing her father talking to her mother in the adjoining room.

He said, with a harrumph, “Well, all I got to say is if he’s gonna sleep with her, he’s damn sure gonna marry her!”

That was enough to wake me up. It took me less than a minute to say my goodbye to Linda, who groggily was trying to make sense out of my panic, to get in my car, and headed home to safety. The bottom line is her father was correct. I damn sure married her.

Photo of Ryan and date—May 2009

Title: WDC Lazy
Date: May 22, 2009, Friday
Thought: I figure what goes around comes around. I can only imagine the number of folks who have entered into my “jog” page and then rapidly retreated to the safety of the main page.

Jog: It is no secret that I am a lazy WDC blogger. It is evident by my actions in here. I only show up sporadically. I scan down the blog listings and find folks who I know and peek at the preview thingy. If it grabs my attention, I come on in. Sometimes I will enter a site that isn’t one of my regulars. Very rarely am I disappointed with the material; but, sometimes I find drivel and back out of the site quickly. This doesn’t bother me, because I figure what goes around comes around. I can only imagine the number of folks who have entered into my “jog” page and then rapidly retreated to the safety of the main page. But all in all, I have found some very talented, imaginative, innovative, and interesting writers in WDC. That’s why I’ve been a member since 2004. I thank all of you for making this a pleasant and long running experience.

Along the line of interesting and talented WDC folks, I’ve gotten to interact with several of them on a more personal level. I talked to Nada and Scarlett on the phone the other day, and was super delighted. It lifted my dull day when two of my favorite folks dropped in for a chat on the phone. I’ve never talked to Scarlett on the phone, before. To hear her English accent was a pleasure. And, I got to SEE Mel & Tor (David) and Debi & Eric last week. Now, how cool is that? Pretty cool.

Well back to me being lazy—I really am. If I were industrious in here, I would comment on every blog I visited; and I would visit many more blogs. As it is, I scan the first page and if they ain’t there, I go no further. I know I have other things that press for my time. Things like making a living and doin’ stuff in my real life. But that does not change the fact that I find myself as being WDC Lazy. Is it a sign of the times? Is everyone a little WDC Lazy? Or, am I just getting old and crotchety? I guess I’d vote on the crotchety thing.

 

Title: Caring for Max
Date: May 20, 2009, Wednesday
Thought: He and I have a mutual affection that is very deep. It is amazing how a dog and a man can develop that relationship.

Jog: As some of you may know, Linda and I have just returned from a ten-day vacation. It might as well have been six-months, at least that’s how it felt to me. You need to understand, the most I have taken off from work in the last twenty years is seven days, and, I’ve only done that twice. I’ve been to numerous conferences and seminars that have lasted two or three days. I almost always stay at a Hilton, Hyatt, or Marriott, so as you can see, I’m not hurting for comfort. Since I charge everything off to the company, it usually is a pretty pleasant stay. Oh, and occasionally I attend some of the seminar sessions. So, you can see it hasn’t been ‘nose to the grindstone’ all those twenty years. But, nevertheless, I don’t do vacation well. I should, but I don’t.

The most difficult thing about this vacation was the fact that Max, my black Lab dog, was unable to go with us. Believe me; it was not because of my lack of trying. However, at every turn I was stifled in my planning to take him with us. Regardless of the difficulty, we are going to take him next trip. Anyway, as you can see, I am one of those pitiful, ridiculous, crazy people who absolutely adore their dog. I don’t act stupid around him—no baby talk and he doesn’t wear clothes. Even I realize that he is a dog and we don’t treat him like a human, which doesn’t mean he is not spoiled. But, I think he realizes he is a dog; and, that’s they way he and I both like it.

However, because Max is special to us, we spent extra effort in caring for him while we were gone. I refuse to board him. If he is going to have to stay at home, then I want it to be in his home. Our solution was to have my oldest son, Noel, house-sit for us, which includes walking and feeding Max. Noel was more than willing to do it. In spite of the fact that he owes his mom and me big-time for all we have done for him the last two years he has been going through his divorce. Although it is not spoken, the thousands of dollars spent on attorneys, room and board will never be worked off, even if he works 10-hour days for the next ten years (not that we would ever keep score.) This simply means we have a regular ‘house-sitter’ whenever we need it.

Now, this takes care of Max during the time Noel is at home, which is in the evenings. But, Max is used to a morning walk of about a mile-and-a-half EVERY morning. Noel leaves for work at 5:00 a.m. every morning, so that meant we needed to find someone to do the morning thing. However, God has provided. You see, God gave me two sons; and as it would happen, they BOTH owe us ‘big-time,’ which means my youngest son, Chad, was more than tickled to walk Max in the mornings and at noon. Fortunately, he has a job with really weird hours, which permitted him to do it on most of the days. The mornings where Chad was not available, we have a neighborhood friend who walks his dogs at the same time Max and I walk. Neal was more than happy to fill in the blanks. So, as you can see, with a little bit of coordination, Max was fixed. In fact, I rather believe he was very pleased with all the varied attention he received while we were gone.

Upon returning, we checked with everyone to see how Max did (not to mention the several phone call I made while we were gone.) Everyone gave us glorious accounts regarding Max’s conduct. Neal even walked Max off-leash a few times and was amazed at how he conducted himself. He would break and chase a squirrel a couple of times but would always come back and walk at Neal’s side when he had sent their furry butts up some tree. Neal was amazed that he did not have to call him back. The years of attention and training has paid off. I must say, I was very proud of our well behaved black dog. Other than not eating well and sleeping at strange locations in the house, all was well with Max. I have noticed that he quickly returned to normal as soon as I was back home. He once again is my ‘Velcro” dog, not straying more than five feet from me at any time.

It is no secret that I missed Max. He and I have a mutual affection that is very deep. It is amazing how a dog and a man can develop that relationship. I never thought it would happen to me; but I never owned a dog like Max before. Everything is back to normal. I am working at my desk now, making money or at least trying to. Max is curled up at my feet sleeping. It is as it should be. I couldn’t be happier.

 

Title: Back in the Saddle Again
Date: May 18, 2009, Monday
Thought: History is good, but we don’t live in history. We make it by living in the present.

Jog: There is a old country song called “Back in the Saddle Again.” The funny thing is I can’t remember anything about the song except its title. I suppose that’s the only thing that made an impression on me. Regardless, that’s what I am supposed to be—back in the saddle and ready for work. Well, excuse me if it doesn’t work that way.

We drove 9-1/2 hrs. to get home, pulling into our driveway at 4:30 pm on Sunday. I can’t tell you how excited we both were to get in the house to see Max. He was very happy to see his “mom and dad” again. However, he acted the same as when we have been gone for a couple of hours. Hmmm, I guess dogs have a different perception of time. That’s true, you know. Dogs live in the “now.” They have very little concept about the past and don’t care about the future. They live in the “now.” Oh, they certainly remember that dog that jumped them or that man who kicked them in the past. But, they don’t dwell on it. They simply file it away for that opportunity in the ‘now’ to bite them.

I’ve got to do a little more of that—living in the ‘now.’ I need to make the best of the moment that is before me. History is good, but we don’t live in history. We make it by living in the present. And, so I find that I must put my interest in history aside and concentrate on doing ‘now’ things. I suppose that means vacation is over. I can live with that. I will focus now with transitioning back into work mode, starting with cleaning my desk. That is, after I complete this entry and walk Max. Dang, I missed those walks with that dog.

By the way, I am totally confused. During the week, I was able to make ‘sorta’ regular entries. As a result, my views increased slightly, not my comments received but the number of persons who viewed my blog. To all of you who dropped in, welcome to my ‘jog.’ The curious thing was that, yesterday, I received 70 views of my ‘jog’ and a total of 120 views of various pieces in my portfolio. Now, that is definitely “up” for my site. That has happened before--not often but it has happened. It leaves me scratching my head and wondering what was different from the previous day, which only received 15 views. Oh, and not a review one, out of any of the views. Now, mind you, I’m happy with the views and don’t have a problem with the lack of reviews. It’s just a curious WDC thing that has left me wondering. Thus far this morning, I’ve had two views…yours now increases that number. Oh well, off to do ‘now’ things.

 

Title: Heading Home
Date: May 17, 2009, Sunday
Thought: I have focused my attention to the road in front of me and given no thought about the history of the places that lay on either side of the roadway.

Jog: History is where you find it. It is amazing how we live with the history of a place and never know about it. Many of you know that Linda and I have been on vacation. I have walked the ground where the armies of the North and South bled from various conflicts of the War Between the States. All of these places were national parks. Buildings have been erected there and parking lots built to hold the traffic that visits these places of interest. It is good we remember these places. I am very pleased that I came.

Linda and I are on our way home. As such, we were not looking for anymore history. I have focused my attention to the road in front of me and given no thought about the history of the places that lay on either side of the roadway. That is my loss and would have gone unknown had it not been for Mel.

The last leg of our travels took us to Doniphan, Mo. I was headed for the Wal Mart in Poplar Bluff and a little spread known as Almosta Ranch. I found both. Of course, I was somewhat tardy, which seems to be a characteristic of this trip…ask Debi and Eric. Anyway, the time we spent with David and Mel was terrific. David and I talked about the battlefields I had visited and the ladies talked about something else. But, this was after we received a short tour of their spread. Of course the tour included all the critters on the place, of which I had my favorites…but there were many. I love Sherman; but, I have a soft spot for Labs. And every one of the puppies rescued by Mel are as cute as they can be. I do think Mel should be allowed to keep the timid little girl….and Ricky should be able to keep the ornery pup that he is attached to. In fact, I don’t think the family should be broken; so just keep them all! The horses were magnificent and very well cared for. You can thank Mel for that. All of those animals respond to her. As soon as she hits the yard they all gravitate to Mel. Obviously we had a very rewarding visit at Almosta Ranch. All I can say is that if my car ever breaks down along some lonely, distant road, I hope it is in front of David and Mel’s place.

Now back to history. As we took our little tour of the small hamlet of Doniphan, Mel pointed out an old dirt road and mentioned it was one of the sites of the Trail of Tears. I was amazed that it was located this far north. Although I never doubted Mel for a moment, my reason said someone had made a mistake. I accepted the fact as presented and purposed to do some checking when I got home. Well, Mel did not give me that chance. Early this morning when I checked my email, she had sent me a link showing the locations of the Trail of Tears. There were at least four main trails, and this was the northern-most trail.

This is amazing. It is a significant moment in the history of our country. It is not one of our more attractive moments. In fact, it is one that we should be ashamed of. That we would subjugate a people and herd them as cattle into a distant place, that supposedly is out of our way, is a travesty. There were no monuments at this dirt trail—no national park or parking lots for the visitors. But this is what makes our country great. There are very few places in the world where the travesties of the nation will be placed under the spotlight for all to see just as well as the glories of the nation. We have no secrets. Could the former USSR say that or any number of existing countries? Nope, I don’t think so. I thank Mel for showing me an additional site of interest—for giving me another opportunity to learn.

However, today, I will not be looking for history. Nope, today I am heading home. I have but one focus and that is to get home. MY bed is waiting for me; and so is Max.

 

Title: A Day of Leisure
Date: May 14, 2009, Thursday
Thought: We are both ready for a warm meal, a leisure evening, a good night’s sleep, and a start on our journey home.

Jog: It was noon before we left the shelter of our condo, today (Thursday.) We slept in late, at least Linda did; I am unable to sleep past 6:00 am. So, we lazed around the condo and watched a couple of vintage movies—one staring Bettie Davis and the other Susan Haywood. The old movies were very interesting. The one with Bettie Davis was very well done; the Susan Haywood was “B” quality at best.

Around noon, Linda and I ventured out to Mt. Jackson (about 11 miles away) for lunch. We ended up at the Denny’s because it has wireless internet access and provided an opportunity for me to post an entry and check my email. The rest of the afternoon was spent visiting local museums. We hit the one in Mt. Jackson, which is maintained by the local historic society. As expected, it was very simple and highlighted old families from the area, which held little interest to me. But, they did a good job for a small town museum. The next museum was located a few miles down the road in the town of New Market. It was dedicated to Virginia Military Institute (VMI), which was considered the West Point of the South. It was from VMI that the Confederacy got many of its young officers during the Civil War.

I was unaware that there was a battlefield in this little town. In fact, they are having a reenactment of the battle this Saturday, which we will miss. It was not a battle of major proportion. It did not turn the tide for either the North or the South. However, it is part of the history of this place. The total count of participants is less than 10,000, if I remember correctly. The casualties numbers about 1,000. It was a Confederate victory. The Rebels sent the Union scurrying out of this valley. Every year the inhabitants in and around New Market gather and remember their involvement in the conflict—their own little battle.

As we were in route to the VMI battlefield museum, we passed another structure that bore a sign purporting to be an antique shop and museum. It was a private enterprise. This was my find for the day. As Linda and I walked into the establishment, it was dark. Two people were busy placing articles on tables and rearranging items. I later discovered they were a couple who owned and operated the place. It was a very interesting place. From the road there were four or five (I forget) massive columns holding the upper eaves of the structure—massive, white, columns approximately six feet in circumference. From the road, it appeared to be a mix between an anti-bellum plantation house and public library. I was to discover that it was built by the gentleman I was speaking with.

As I said, it was dark when we entered. The husband looked up, greeted us, and asked his wife to turn the lights on. The place smelled a little musky, like old relics. It was a tad dusty and the lighting, even with the lights turned on, was not good. He asked if we wanted to go through the museum and I declined. I was content with just walking through his antiques. The place was full of collectibles. From old comic books, novels, and non-fiction on the wars to antique dolls and gadgets, whose purpose was foreign to me. We got to talking and it was then I learned the history of the place.

It seems he has been building on this place since the early 1970’s. It currently has about 20,000 square feet. Out of that area, he has carved out 6,000 square feet upstairs for a living area. He has spent several million dollars on the place and is still making renovations and improvement. About six years ago he closed the museum and antique shop as the result of severe competition from the publicly operated VMI museum down the road. However, he has decided to reopen the place and today was his first day open, which accounts for the musty smell and the dusty shelves.

We chatted for about an hour about his museum and the Civil War. I found he was quite a philosopher. And, although I would not call him racist, he definitely held a very Southern take on the War and its cause, which to him was not the issue of slavery at all. After our visit, I changed my mind and Linda and I wandered through his museum. To say the least, his collection of artifacts is significant. He had no flashy presentation, just a lot of stuff. But, it was interesting stuff.

One of the items that captured my interest, which stays with me even now, were two bullets. They call them minie-balls. The two bullets were found on the battlefield of Gettysburg. They are unique in that they are fused together by the heat of their collision. Isn’t it interesting to consider they were fired at the same moment by opposing soldiers wearing grey and blue. Had either soldier hesitated or been quicker, the other would be dead. What history has been permitted to be written because they collided? And, how would history have been changed had they not? Likelihood is one or both soldiers were killed later in that day or in a subsequent battle--but, perhaps not. It makes me wonder.

After we pulled ourselves away from our host and his museum, Linda and I went home, or at least what we are calling home for the moment. It was close to seven o’clock and we had spent the whole afternoon hitting the museums. We are both ready for a warm meal, a leisure evening, a good night’s sleep, and a start on our journey home. We are going home tomorrow, at least we are starting the first leg of our trip. I am ready. Max has forgotten us and I miss the silly ole’ dog.

 

Title: Manassas
Date: May 13, 2009, Wednesday
Thought: We must certainly be a student of the past and give the past the respect it is due, but life goes on. We must be about the business of living it, making our own history.

Jog: It was an easier day for travel today. Our condo at Basye is a good base camp for it is the hub of a wheel and battlefields are its spokes. Unfortunately, each battlefield is located an hour-and-a-half or two hours from our base. And so, today we traveled an hour-and-a-half to Manassas, which is actually the location of two battles fought a year removed.

For some reason, the general public perceives that the Civil War was fought by two opposing governments with well trained armies. Those who have studied the war realize that this is not the case. The Civil War was initiated by politician who were ill prepared for war. Neither side had an army that possessed enough soldiers to wage a serious campaign. When the Civil War broke out, the Union officer ranks was decimated by the resignation of half of its officers. Some, myself included, would contend that the best officers went to the Confederacy.

Both armies made public appeals for new recruits, which swelled the ranks with green soldiers ill equipped to perform on the battlefield. In fact, in the initial days of the war, the Union was filled with men who had agreed to serve for 90 days—in today’s terms that is a very brief tour of duty. However, the popular sentiment was that this war would be a short one—one big decisive battle and it would be over—winner take all. The people in the North felt certain that would be the Union—the South was an upstart, spoiled child who would be jerked back into compliance.

On the day of the first Battle of Manassas, the populace from Washington gathered on the hillsides near the battlefield and watched from a distance. They brought their families and spread blankets on the ground for their picnic lunches—ready to witness the one grand battle of the War Between the States. They were soon rousted from their perches by the retreating Union Army. They had miscalculated; five years of fighting and 600,000 casualties later would show the naivety of their sentiment.

Linda and I arrived at the battlefield late in the morning. We spent time in the visitor’s center, watched a movie about the battles and walked through the gift shop. We then made a short trip down an arterial adjacent to the battlefield to an Olive Garden and had lunch. The area surrounding the battlefield is urban. Many mainline restaurants and hotels are located in close vicinity to the battlefield, as is the traffic associated with urban areas. And, that was the problem. This urban encroachment into the battlefield detracted from the spirit of this site. As we drove from site to site I was constantly aware of the stoplights, the traffic noise, the constant press of commerce in this twenty-first century. On one occasion, as a made a u-turn to return to one of the marked sites I had missed, I received an angry honk and gesture from a local resident. It reminded me that I was a detriment to progress, an interloper into his ordered society; I was a tourist.

This angered me. Although all that is true, I was a traffic hazard and an obvious tourist; I am also an American and this place belongs to me. I deserve the right to inspect it, revere it, and pay my respects to those who died here. I was unable to complete the driving tour. The moment was lost, so Linda and I returned home to our condo. However, with all that said, Manassas was not a failure. It was a reminder that we go on. We cannot stay fixed in the past, focusing on things done back then. We must certainly be a student of the past and give the past the respect it is due, but life goes on. We must be about the business of living it, making our own history.

I have accomplished the things I had wished on this vacation. I visited Gettysburg, Antietam, and Manassas. I met with Debi and Eric, which was a high mark for the vacation. There is but one thing left to do, and that is to meet with David and Mel, which I am looking forward to tremendously. However, on Thursday I plan on doing nothing. On Thursday Linda and I plan on just being at the condo—perhaps a walk—perhaps we will just sit on the back porch and gaze into the woods of the mountain—perhaps we will do nothing at all.

 

Title: Antietam
Date: May 12, 2009, Tuesday
Thought: There are no draws in war. Someone always loses; and many would say that no one really wins.

Jog: My apologies for the length of this entry. I visited the second of three Civil War battlefields today. I am amazed at how totally normal the places are that eventually become places of history. In September of 1862, Sharpsburg was a quiet little community with farms, churches, cornfields, and a river called the Antietam running next to it—the picture of serenity. However, it was here Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia encountered McClellan’s Army of the Potomac. The site was a result of opportunity and circumstance—not a result of its strategic importance. On the day after the armies collided, history recorded 51,000 casualties, the most costly in terms of bloodshed incurred on any single day of any war at that time and since then.

Like most of the major battles of the Civil War, the battle proceeded in phases, with one side striking out and the other side responding. The troops assemble long the battle lines facing each other in brigades, with their commanding generals, waiting to take their turn at sparing. A chess game of monumental proportion and deadly results is played with the lives of men. One brigade or two may strike out to either flank or the center—to which there are responding counter moves. Each side watches for a weakness in the line and for an opportunity to claim ‘checkmate.’ Rarely, does the whole army strike out at once along the entire line. Had that been the case at the Battle of Antietam, the Union, because of their sheer number would have surely carried the day decisively. However, it was not the case; as a result, we find a tragic sacrifice of life, as the young men of both sides are siphoned off in the different skirmishes.

In the early hours of the day, while it was still cool and the mist still hung close to the ground. The Union troops advanced on Lee’s left flank, through a cornfield, towards a ridge held by the Confederates. They walked through the cornfield, hidden from view; however their position was revealed by the brigade’s flag and standards which extended above the tops of the corn. Rebel soldiers from Texas and Georgia watched the colors advancing through the cornfield, waited behind a fence line at the edge of the cornfield, preparing to unleash a deadly storm of bullets when the Yankees emerged. As the Yankee soldiers broke into the open, merely a dozen yards from the waiting Rebels, they were greeted by volleys of musket fire. The entire front line of Union soldiers fell. The Union returned the fire with less success. Again, the Confederate’s fired massive volleys into the cornfield. The Union forces were decimated and dropped their arms and ran to the rear, pursued by the Confederates.

But what goes around, comes around. As the fleeing boys in blue ran to the rear they encountered a new brigade of Yankees, come to reinforce their number. Subsequently, as the Confederates pursued the fleeing Yankees, they ran headlong into the fresh Union troops, who returned the fire into the cornfield. Now it was the Rebels turn to face the staggering fire of synchronized volleys. The fallen dead of the Union soldiers were overlaid with Confederate soldiers. And back and forth it went that morning, as the two sides slugged it out for the cornfield, until the stalks of corn stood no more and carpet of bodies covered its soil.

I stood at the edge of that cornfield today, at the position where the Confederate soldiers waited for the Union soldiers to emerge from the cornfield. There are no stalks of corn waving at that location now. As I stared into the space where the corn should have been, I could visualize the flags of the Union moving above the corn; and I could feel the anticipation of the soldiers, among them men of the First Texas Volunteers, who waited anxiously for the men in blue to appear. For just a moment I was there. I heard the rustle of the stalks as the Yankee soldiers made their way towards me; I heard the order to fire at point blank range and could almost smell the smoke of their volleys. For just a moment I was there.

I moved on to later in the day to a new phase of the battle--to a place called the Sunken Road. It’s name is appropriate, for that is exactly what it is. Over the years, the carts and wagon trudged down that road wearing it down such that the grade of the road was lower than the adjacent ground. Along its shoulders the ground had been piled so that a trench of sorts had developed defining the limits of the road. On either side of the road, were wooden fences that demarked the adjacent fields. Along that road the Confederate troops waited for the advancing Union troops. After being commanded to hold that position, the Rebel captain promised to hold it until the last man fell. As the Union troops topped a small ridge running parallel and a hundred yards from the fence line, they became target practice for the concealed Rebels. Until, eventually, the sheer number of the Union troops overpowered the Confederate troops and they died within the limits of that sunken road as promised. I stood where they fought, along that fence line where they died. I walked the path of the old road, who’s purpose has forever been changed. No longer will it carry produce into town; it is now a monument to the men who died there—sacred ground purchased by their blood.

My last point of emphasis of this day was at what is known as Burnside’s Bridge. On the opposite side of the battlefield from the cornfield is a bridge crossing the river. The Union general, Burnside, was ordered to capture and hold that bridge. With great cost of life he stormed the bridge, only to be pushed back each time by the Rebel sharpshooters located on the high ridge across from the bridge. Eventually, Burnside would take the bridge and push the retreating Rebels back toward the town of Sharpsburg. It was only at the last moment, after having received reinforcements, were the Rebels able to push Burnside back across the bridge. Again, I stood on the ridge where the Confederates stood. The sense of history is strong at this place. I watched as a charter bus expelled a throng of high school kids who assaulted the bridge. As I stood high on the ridge, I could hear their squealing and laughter ran across the bridge, an antithesis of the solemn spirit of that place. To those kids, this was just an old stone bridge. To me it is so much more. It is a memorial that has been purchased with a great price. I wonder if some day, as a sixty year old man, one of those kids will stand again on that bridge and see it differently.

Some would say that the Battle of Antietam was a draw. But, there are no draws in war. Someone always loses; and many would say that no one really wins. Lee limped back into Virginia with his army bloodied but still intact. However, he lost the initiative that he once held. He lost the opportunity to claim the prize he sought. And, more importantly, he demonstrated the unthinkable fact that he and his Army of Northern Virginia were not invincible. Because of that, many historians consider the Battle of Antietam as a Union victory. I believe it is actually academic to argue for a winner or loser of this battle. It is a mute point, because in ten months Lee will again meet the Federal army in battle. However, this time it will be decisive. This time it will be the beginning of the end for Lee as he leads his army to another little town called Gettysburg.

 

Title: Gettysburg
Date: May 11, 2009, Monday
Thought: If ever you travel to Gettysburg to visit the battlefield, be sure and take Eric with you.

Jog: It was cold this morning on this mountainside. As I usually do, I rose at the breaking of day and watched the darkness transition into light. A gentle rain fell for a short time, which helped my mood as I began to write this entry. My attention to my writing is broken with my attention to the bacon frying in the skillet. That’s right; I’m fixing breakfast. I hope my attention to both the bacon and my writing is successful, especially the bacon.

Breakfast went well. Food tastes better when you’re on vacation, or so it seems. Linda and I rushed around and readied ourselves to drive to Gettysburg. The previous evening I assured Debi and Eric we would be arriving at the battlefield’s Visitor’s Center around 10:00 am. We pulled into the parking lot promptly at 11:30 am. OK, I had a little problem with a wrong turn that was corrected with only the loss of time…and about twenty miles of gas. But, I did the right thing; I called Debi and left a voice mail saying we were still coming but were a little delayed. The message went something like this:

“Hello, Debi? This is Dan—one-half of the Travelin’ Texans. Just wanted you to know we will be a little late. We are currently in either Alabama or West Virginia; we’re still figuring that out. We will see you probably closer to 11:30 am, depending on which state we turn out to be in. Bye!”

The rest of the trip was uneventful, except for the parking lot at the Visitor’s Center. Tired and exhausted, before the tour of the battlefield even began, we found a parking spot right up front close to the entrance. But as fate would have it, some jerk pulled into it and we had to drive out to the north forty to park the truck and hike in. As we got close to the entrance, out pops Eric and Debi from the vehicle that took our space. Hmmm…the Yankees won another one. We had a good laugh about that, as we made our introductions. And that’s how the rest of the day went, lots of laughs and good times. As I already knew, Debi and Eric are absolutely wonderful people and made our day perfect.

If ever you travel to Gettysburg to visit the battlefield, be sure and take Eric with you. While other visitors were driving to the sites, holding maps in their hands and scratching their heads figuring out the lay of the battle, Eric negotiated the roads with the familiarity of someone who lived there, in fact I found out he DID live there. In fact his room was in a building across from the street from the spot Lincoln delivered the Gettysburg address, which if you remember was in a cemetery dedicated to the fallen Union dead of the battle.

We visited the different sites of the three-day battle in chronological order. Sites that I had read about and painted in my imagination were rearranged when I looked at the actual location. However, unlike that which is often the case, I was not disappointed with the real thing. I gazed at the different battlefields from both perspectives, the Grey and the Blue. I constantly came away shaking my head with disbelief. I am totally amazed at the wonder of it all. How farm boys as well as city-dwellers could leave their homes and march in formation towards each other, firing volley after volley, is a mystery to me. What motivated these boys, who spoke the same language and shared the same history to face their brothers in battle? I still shake my head as I think about it. The plain fact is that they did it. And, I suppose we are a stronger people today because they did. I just pray that we never forget what they did for us at places like Gettysburg.

I visited Seminary Ridge, the Devil’s Den, Little Round Top, and the site of Pickett’s Charge. Through Eric’s skill at negotiating the roadways and his familiarity of the site, we viewed the battlefield from each side, the North and the South. Remarkable the different perspective a battlefield takes, depending from which way it is viewed. I can’t describe the emotion and feelings that I experienced at those sites, because I’m not sure I understand it all, even now. I suspect I will constantly be returning to them in my mind, as they open new perceptions and understanding through the years. I wish my grandson, Ryan, could have been with me. I would love to have been able to share this with him and instill in his heart the meaning of this place. I regret that I am just now experiencing it at sixty; I wish he could have experienced it at sixteen. He will have to just make do with Grandpa’s stories until he can experience it on his own.

Our tour ended after we had an evening meal with Debi and Eric, at a steak house in town. Exhausted, we all said our good-byes and headed for home and a good night’s rest. I hope this was not to taxing for Eric. It was a very full day and, unfortunately, he has to go to work the next day. I can’t say enough how much we enjoyed our time with Debi and Eric. It was enormously rewarding and will be a fond memory of our vacation. I have photos, by the way, but they will have to wait until I get back to Texas.

Tomorrow we plan on being at Antietam. This battlefield has the distinction of being the bloodiest one day of the Civil War. Among this great loss of life, a nation was healing itself. Tomorrow I will walk its fields. I fully expect to be just as moved as I was at Gettysburg; however, Linda and I will miss the company of Debi and Eric. I have come to miss a lot during this vacation, including my black-butted dog, Max. Well, I need to be off at making some memories—check in with you later.

PS here’s a photo of Debi & Eric and Linda & Dan




 

Title: Getting the Lay of the Land
Date: May 10, 2009, Sunday
Thought: At a couple of areas along the way, we emerged into valleys that were idyllic pictures of pastoral paradise. No wonder the South fought so passionately for their homes.

Jog: Well I suppose it was a pitiful sight. At least Linda is convinced that’s what I am--pitiful. It seems I have a driving need to check my email and post the entry I created last night, which is difficult to do when you don’t have internet service. Sure, I know it can wait; and I know I’m on vacation for Pete’s sake. But, I wanted to get on the Internet.

I noticed, when I was searching for hotel rooms for our trip, that almost all the hotels have free wireless Internet access now. So, my idea was to drive to their parking lot and connect to one of them. I know that sounds dumb. But, I tried it and actually got connected to two of them. However, for some reason, I did not stay on; they either wanted my email address or a credit card number; and I didn’t want to give it. I know Starbucks and Barns & Noble’s have free internet…but, not where I am. You should have seen me, driving into parking lots and checking my computer to find a connection. I just hope the police department didn’t get a phone call regarding a suspicious guy; or if they did, I’m glad they didn’t find him (me.)

Well, I eventually lucked out in the little town of Edinburg, Virginia. Just for kicks I pulled off the highway in this quaint little historic burg and checked for access. Of all places, I was sitting in Shentel’s parking lot (that’s Shenandoah Bell Telephone.) It was a hit. Both Shentel and some local guy had unsecured wireless sites. I tried the local guy’s and was successful; I was attached. Now, granted, I felt a little like a CIA agent (or Jack Bower, if you keep up with the TV show “24.”) After a few minutes my connection was good and I posted my blog entry. Amazing, isn’t it.

Well, anyway, as we were driving to Edinburg, we decided to take the back roads. What a glorious experience that turned out to be. The narrow little road wound around the mountains and up and down the terrain along the mountain streams. The trees, which were various shades of luscious green were snuggled up close to the edge of the road. We took our time and were rewarded by the scenes. At a couple of areas along the way, we emerged into valleys that were idyllic pictures of pastoral paradise. No wonder the South fought so passionately for their homes. Except for the idiot woman in the Corvette who came racing around a curve on the wrong side of the road, it was a totally enjoyable experience.

A hundred and fifty years ago Lee’s Army of Virginia marched stealthily through this Shenandoah Valley, sheltered by the mountains on the East, they enter Pennsylvania, circling around and heading towards Washington DC. Hustling on the other side of the mountain, parallel to Lee, was George Meade’s Army of the Potomac, just a half-step behind. Before today, the accounts of Lee’s march were simply facts in a history book. I just accepted the fact, wondering little about how you hide an army of sixty-thousand men walking through Virginia. My little drive, along this back road, helped me understand how even an army could be sheltered from detection in this valley—especially when you consider there was no areal reconisance or satellite surveillance.

I considered that even among all this beauty, the journey through this valley had to be grueling. I understand better now how it was that the pastoral settings in this valley could, and did, become battlefields, places where great carnage was effected. These idyllic valleys were the only places where men could stop their maneuvering and fight; now, how ironic is that. My quest to understand better the history of the Civil War has been aided by my new appreciation of this countryside, which is virtually unchanged since Lee marched through it, being shadowed by Meade.

We talked to Debi and Eric today. Tomorrow, Monday, we will meet them in Gettysburg. Like a reflection from history, this Texas Rebel with meet the my Yankee friend at Gettysburg—only this time there will be no battle, just a warm and pleasant visit with another American. But, underneath the veneer of the present quietly lays the roots of history—the North and the South, brothers from different viewpoints. There is very little difference in us and the northern and southern boys who met on that battlefield 150 years ago. Politics aside, how could they have ever fought and killed each other? It amazes me to think about it. But, there in Gettysburg, I will experience, vicariously, the result of Lee’s skirting through the Shenandoah Valley, as I walk the battlefields of Gettysburg.