I am dealing with two learning curves.

Actually, one of them is just a reminder of things I already knew, but at a higher rate of speed.

The first one is WordPress. It is a wonderfully adaptable and ownable blog software. Finding just what you want and being able to use it is a nice change from blogger. Of course, if you happen to hit this blog while I am trying things out, the appearance may change while you are off reading the comments on another post…

The second one is raising a child. Again. In my first marriage, there were two girls that came with the first wife. I raised them both as my own. (the older one has issues, and I will not be talking about her.) The younger one was six months old when I married her mother, and she only knows me as “daddy” – which is really, really cool. She is 22 now and married, living in Idaho with her husband and dog and cat in a house they just bought.

Now, I have this sixteen month old information sponge that I am raising. I have learned that chores go a lot quicker when a toddler is helping. No, really – they have to. At least, the chores that you can accomplish while watching a small person with eighteen arms and forty two hands. For example, emptying the dishwasher. MEG has figured out how to unlock and open the dishwasher (and also how to lock it and start it, whether it’s ready to go or not) so when the dishes are clean, they need to be put away. I have found that it takes about 3.5 seconds to empty and store the dishes. (when I was a teenager, it would take me about 3.5 days to do the dishes when asked. told. commanded. ordered. threatened.) Otherwise, most of them get to be reloaded and rewashed after MEG shares the flatware with the dogs and the plates with the cats.

While I was in the Marine Corps, two minute showers were the rule. We lived in squad bays from the Korean War era (interesting sidenote – my Dad helped build most of them on Camp Pendleton. he was a Marine Corps meteorologist, which is a perfect MOS for building squad bays, right?) (they are all replaced by BEQ dorms now, two Marines to a room, no comradarie…) Anyway – sixty guys, ten shower heads, reveille was called at 0500, assembly at 0600 and chow at 0630, so there was not a lot of time for you to relax in a long hot shower. That’s history. Now, two minutes to a toddler is forever. My shower lasts ninety seconds on a slow day, so MEG doesn’t start getting upset because I’m out of sight. Unless, of course, I’m up before she is, then I grab a longer shower and get shaved and dressed rather leisurely. On those days, I even get to enjoy shaving with the straight razor, taking my time and having deep thoughts.

Everything else is in a hurry – her hurry. Somethings don’t get done – the floor has little piles in the corner (I’m not going to tell you piles of what, so don’t even bother asking.) and the entertainment center needs to be dusted – again. But, I am not going to take time away from MEG’s learning curve to satisfy someone else’s idea of clean. The house is not going to fall apart, and we can still tell what color the tile is.

Make sure you wish your mother a Happy Mother’s Day tomorrow.

I may even break my own rule about not allowing bitterness to creep into my life and call my own mother. Maybe. Long story for another post.

Have a good weekend.

Thank you for stopping by, God bless you all, listen to The O Word on BlogTalkRadio, Wear Red on Fridays, and support Warriors for Innocence!

I have been messing around with computers since about 1982. That was the year the Marine Corps got digitized in it’s maintenance records, and being the MIMMS clerk for the Communications Platoon (along with being the parts guy, and a line company operator, and the Comm Chief’s driver…) I got to make the weekly trek down to S-1 with the disks under one arm. Yes, the disks were large enough to carry under your arm. They were about the size of dinner plates. Huge, really. And they only carried about 256k of stuff on them.

Anyway – I’ve been doing this for a while.

During the late eighties, I was involved in the running of several Bulletin Boards (BBS) while I was living in California. One of the highlights of running a BBS was providing “door” games for your callers. One of the best, in my opinion, was TradeWars, from martech software.

Now comes the blast from the past: The game is still out there. Not as popular as it once was, since everyone is doing the ‘net these days instead of telneting or dialing up their favorite BBS, but it’s still there. I have found a place that has a couple of games going, and I’ve been fooling around on there. you have to telnet “cavebbs.homeip.net 23” (without the quotes) to get there. It’s called the Cave BBS, run by Red Wolf. Registration is free, the board is text-based, and if you have the same memories I do the only thing missing is the handshaking of two modems at the blazing fast speed of 300 bpm.

If you remember the game, pop on in. If you are interested in learning the game, I’m sure I can help out with tips and advice.

If all this is Greek to you, then move along you young whippersnapper you – there’s nothing to see here.

Thank you for stopping by, God bless you all, listen to The O Word on BlogTalkRadio, Wear Red on Fridays, and support Warriors for Innocence!

On this day, in 1943, US forces landed on Tarawa. In honor of that occasion, once again I refer you to this post:

=+=+=+=
It was low tide. The young man stood on the outermost shelf of the reef that protected this island paradise, the crashing waves behind him, the coral cliffs that supported the flat top of the island more than a hundred yards away and thirty to forty feet high. The reef itself was only eight inches below the surface of the water; waves didn’t make it to this point because of the deep drop off at the end of the coral shelf. He had carefully made his way to this vantage point, gingerly stepping around the many sink holes that would be hidden from view in more turbulent water. His eyes scanned the many scars and cracks on the face of the cliff, knowing that each mark was man made-either with the picks and shovels of the defenders or the impact of high-explosive ordinance thrown from the invaders’ ships more than forty years in the past.

He searched and found the narrow slits at the tops of the cliffs, and followed them down twisted pathways to the narrow strips of dazzling white sand at the water’s edge. In his mind he replayed the words he had read – “…the landing craft ran aground on the reef… …as the ramps crashed down, we were sitting ducks for the Japanese guns in the cliffs… …I was the only one that made it to the beach from our LC… …they were dug in so deep we couldn’t get at them… …the water was red from the waves to the shore…” – and stood there, in the quiet summer sunshine, and listened to the ghosts of the Marines who had taken Tarawa.

He turned from the cliffs, and rejoined his fellow Marines as they regrouped at the base of one of the paths to the top. Pausing, they examined the shreds of leather that had been their boots before they stepped onto the knife-sharp coral shelf. The joking back and forth died down, replaced with the sobering realization of just what those young kids had faced in World War Two. Scrambling up the steep path, they found an opening into the warren of caves behind the cliff face. Moving from room to room, bent over double, they could see every inch of the defender’s territory from the base of the cliffs to the watery horizon. Idle kicking of the dust on the floor would turn up Japanese machine gun casings, bits of shrapnel, and the remains of cooking fires – signs of human occupation many years past.

Returning to the coveted airstrip, they boarded an older model cargo plane, ready to continue their flight back to the base on the island of Okinawa. The plane’s propellers strained against the wheel brakes as the engines were readied for the launch; assisted by an auxiliary jet engine, the plane leaped back into the clear blue sky over the Sea of Japan.
=+=+=+=

Thank you for stopping by, God bless you all, Wear Red on Fridays, and support Warriors for Innocence!

I experienced a new manifestation of a feeling I have had for a while.

I was in a large warehouse store the other day (red letters, rhymes with “bostco”) and I was waiting to check out. A gentleman walked by, a little older than I am, a little shorter than I am, dark complexion, with a splash of gray at his temples. He was walking with a purpose (he was a vet, I’ll tell you that right now. most vets walk with a purpose, unless they are on the golf course, but that’s another story…) and it wasn’t his coloring or his facial features that I noticed first – it was his ballcap. It was black, and along the side of the bill was stitched, in very small letters, “RANGER.”

“Ah,” I thought to myself. “A Ranger. Tough birds, those Rangers.”

Then I saw the tatto on his right upper arm.

2nd Btn Viet Nam 1966 1969

A rare bird, indeed.

Under his tatoo, the parachute insignia. Airborne Ranger.

Very, very rare bird.

I caught myself tearing up. I actually had a Tear of Pride in my eye – from seeing this complete stranger walk by with the earmarks of a distinguished and challenging service record.

TMBWitW looked at me, glanced where I was looking, and asked “Ranger? Isn’t that one of the elite?”

“Yup.”

“Why are you crying?”

“I’m not crying. I’ve got a Tear of Pride in my eye. Marines can have a single Tear of Pride; it’s in the code.”

“I think I need to see a written version of this code.”

“They don’t write it on paper, they write it on your heart. That way you can’t lose it.”

Just then Ranger walked back by, behind us, and commented on my red shirt. I thanked him for his service, and said “Welcome Home.”

He nodded back, and as he turned away I could see he had his Tear of Pride in his eye.

I used to work as the Registrar for a small Business College that has since been absorbed and merged out of existence. One of the requirements for the Paralegal Associates Degree program was that the applicant (student) needed to provide a letter of reference from a lawyer, legal firm, or private counselor.

One student brought in her letter during her first term of classes. Before I filed the letter in the student’s folder, I read through it.

Wow.

The letter of reference, signed by the lawyer, was pretty standard, as far as the wording went. What was less than standard was the accuracy of the speeling. In three paragraphs extolling the studint’s abilitys, goles, and dreems, there were at least five mispellings.

In each paragraph.

Since I was in a good mood, I figured I wood call John Doe, Attorney at Law.

Thank you for calling the offices of John Doe, Attorney At Law. We are sorry, no one is available to answer your call directly. Please leave your name, a number we can reach you at, and a brief message. Your call will be returned within one working day. Thank you. Beep.

Hi, Mr. Doe, this is Cary Cartter. I am the registrar at (name of defunct business college). If you could give me a call back at 602-555-1212, extension xxx, I’d like to talk to you about (name of student). Thank you!

About an hour later, my phone rang:

Thank you for calling (name of defunct business college), this is Cary. How may I help you?

Hi, Cary, this is John Doe. You left a message regarding (student) – is everything in order?

Hello, Mr. Doe. The letter itself is in order; I was just wondering – are you aware that there are quite a few spelling errors in this letter?

What do you mean?

For example, the word “reference” in the first sentence is spelled with an “a” and there are several more misspellings of that nature – would you like to do a rewrite before this is filed in the student’s permanent file?

Who the h*** do you think you are? Why are questioning the g**d*** spelling in that letter? Do you know who the f*** I am? Just because –

I do apologize, sir, I just assumed that a prominent attorney, such as yourself, would rather have a correctly spelled letter of reference under their letterhead, especially for a permanent entry. Since it offends you that I would ask you about it, I do apologize. Good bye.

A few minutes later, the President of the school called me into his office. I took the letter with me, knowing exactly what the conversation was going to be about.

J: So, Cary, ticking off lawyers now?

C: Yes, I am, Jeff. It’s great sport.

J: Do you have the letter?

C: Here you go.

He looked over it, and I could see the smirk starting on his lips before he even finished the first line.

J: You called him?

C: Yes, and asked if he wouldn’t like to do a rewrite.

J: He got upset?

C: Started cussing, actually, but I cut that off as fast as I could and ended the conversation.

J: He says you hung up on him.

C: If by “hung up on him” he means that I apologized and said good bye, yes I did.

J: Well, he apparently doesn’t care about his image. File it.

C: Yes, sir.

I made a mental note of the student’s name, a copy of the letter to frame and hang in my office, and went about my business.

Three months later the student’s academic abilities were such that she was given the option of retaking some classes or leaving the college. I had a chance to talk to her before she left. I asked her about the letter of reference, and she told me that he had just signed it, she was actually the one who wrote it while she was working in his office part time.

I didn’t say another word. I couldn’t, I was suppressing so much laughter.