Take it easy

From the past, via the future. August 10, 2016.

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And it's now the season of easy living.

We had a very cold December and January, followed by a warmish February, then a normalish March and April, and finally, a chilly, damp May.

Calving is all but done. We like to have 80 percent of the cows calved out in the first six weeks, and we did that and more this year. It was a very good calving season. It was a lot of hard work, mostly because of the weather.

That dampish, coolish March-May period really slowed the arrival of the season of easy living. I was finally able to turn my furnace off last week, and Sunday was the first night I was able to leave the windows open overnight. Ahhhhh. Finally.

Carpenter, Honey, and Sweat bees.

They appear to be drunk on the sweetness of spring nectar.

The roses bloomed two weeks late this year.

But now I'm behind on out-of-doors nice weather work. I've got a feces load of fence to fix, a shop to clean and organize, metal junk to load out and sell, stock tanks to drain and scrape and caulk and refill, and a bunch of other fun stuff to do.

But first, it's time to garden. Ah, gardening! What a way to waste money! I'd hate it if it wasn't so enjoyable.

This year (over the last two days, actually) I built some raised garden plots out of railroad ties...

You can never have too many railroad ties.

Seriously.

A well loved and trusty gardening tool.

Work in progress.

...and installed a couple of tractor-tire mini-gardens. Mostly for Mom, so she doesn't have to do as much bending over. Not that I won't benefit as well!

Shaping up.

Peppers and tomaters.

And melons and squash.

It's a lot of work, building those frames and filling them with earth. As I get older, railroad ties and dirt get heavier. But it's a fun project and it'll be interesting to see how it all works out. In theory, I can make the soil more perfect than in a regular garden, so I'm expecting a bumper crop. Or perhaps a crop failure.

So hard physical work, stinging sweat, aching muscles and joints. Part of the joy of spring. Love the smell of creosote in the sunshine, love the stinging tingle it gives when ground into sweating pores. That's livin'!

And of course the dogs help out. They know when I need to take a break and play ball.

Hey human! Quit larking about and get on with the serious stuff!

So the tire gardens are now planted, and the frames are ready for seed. Guess I'd better get to it.

Almost done (and other lies).

You can't have too many bobcats, either.

Soil sauce!

Almost done (really).

A little dihydrogen monooxide...

And here's a June 7 peek at Herefordshire...



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Be well and embrace the blessings of liberty.

Past 'n present

I came across a treasure last night whilst digging through some boxes of junk. Never did find my passport but in the bottom of an old trunk I found a folder of stuff from my 1985 Med deployment.

Stuff I hadn't seen in a very long time.

That '85 Med was quite the action packed adventure. In many ways it was my most memorable cruise. I've been kicking around the idea of writing about a few of the more noteworthy events but there's always been a bit of a problem. The most interesting stuff was classified. Turns out that almost everything was declassified last year, so I'll be able to treat these topics the way I'd like to and without dancing around a lot of detail. Which is nice, but then I started spinning my wheels a bit due to old brain syndrome. The folder of stuff I found last night contains a bunch of letters and pictures, and those things are really turning the key in the old memory lock. So now I just need to get on with it.

Here are a couple of ratty old polaroids.

Sticking a chest tube.

Same.

Flight Deck Battle Dressing Station. I'd forgotten that we pooled for a refer!

And a couple of track charts with part of the story of the cruise. I'd actually forgotten that we did ORE down in the Caribbean before translant and chopping to Sixth Fleet. We lost an Intruder in Panama.

First two ports, Toulon and Haifa, followed by Alexandria about 70 days later.

BENO Station!

Now on to the present. Here's what Nebraska smells like today.

Not successful.

Might be successful. Those eggs appear to be robin's egg blue.

Hoary Puccoon.

Deuce. AKA...

Shithead. Dangerous tanking from the aft station.

Soaking up the morning sunshine.

I see you! Youngest calf.

Western wheatgrass and sweetclover.

It's a calf's life.

The cow with the white 'stache has yet to calve.

That's it for now. More later.

Where the buffalo roam

For nearly every human on the face of the planet, the place where the buffalo roam exists solely in the mind. It's understandable, therefore, that for those few hardy souls who venture into buffaloland, things are never quite as they expected. And that's okay.

Stolen from the Neu Euorke Thymes! S

I don't know how widespread the national reporting was regarding the poor little buffalo calf abandoned by its herd in Yellowstone last month, but perhaps you saw or read about it. Some tourists “rescued” the calf and delivered it to park rangers, who tried to reintroduce it to the herd. Ultimately the calf was rejected by its group and the rangers euthanized it.

Stolen from natgeo, who stole it from the interwebs. Natgeo seem to believe that all humans are murderers of all of nature, and should never, therefore, be allowed into national parks. I disagree. So sue me. S

There was no shortage of opinions about the situation, but for all intents and purposes, there were really only two basic opinions. The tourists were heroes and the park rangers goons, or the reverse.

That’s one of the interesting things about humanity. For most of us, we tend to see the world in terms of opposites or opposing ideas. Good or bad, right or wrong, black or white, my side or the enemy. It’s human nature, but it’s a serious shortcoming, and it keeps a lot of people very unhappy in my opinion. Unhappy in the sense that they feel a need for the world to be one way or another, and they become very unhappy when the reality doesn’t match their desire.

In the case of the buffalo calf there really weren’t any “sides” at all. First of all, the buffalo herd was simply being a buffalo herd. Buffalo are herding, grazing prey animals. Individuals in the herd have to stay with the herd in order to survive. Even the baby calves. If a baby calf can’t keep up, it will be abandoned and perish. That’s just nature. Buffalo have evolved this behavior and they can no more abandon it than they can start climbing trees and become monkeys. This is just reality. It’s neither good nor bad, it just is.

In the case of the humans, there were really no sides either. The tourists were trying to save the baby calf. Humans have a very strong drive to nurture babies. It’s primarily a drive to nurture our own young, but it tends to leak across species boundaries, probably because we also have the ability to reason. That doesn’t make a lot of logical sense, but it’s a consequence of having both instinct and reason operating at the same time. It’s neither good nor bad, it just is. The tourists felt a need to intervene, and used reason to come up with and execute their plan to put the calf in their car and take it to the park rangers. Not knowing or understanding the nature of buffalo, it seemed to them a reasonably good idea.

When presented with the calf, the park rangers found themselves in a tough situation. Part of their job is to manage the interface between nature and tourist; to teach and explain, as well as to protect human visitors, wildlife, and the environment. Park rangers understand the nature of buffalo, and they knew that the odds were against the herd accepting the calf. They gave it their best shot, but it didn’t work out. The herd had moved on and the calf no longer belonged. To human sensibilities this seems harsh, but buffalo are not human. When the rangers saw that the calf was rejected, they were in a tough situation. Leave the calf to starve and be predated, or euthanize it.

At the end of the day we had a case of buffalo being buffalo and humans being humans. No right or wrong, good or bad. What happened, happened. The buffalo behaved like buffalo. The people behaved like people.

A lot of folks have opined that the tourists should never have touched the calf, and that the rangers should never have tried to reintroduce it to the herd. Well, that’s one approach. But even if we agree that in general such attempted reintroductions usually fail, they don’t always fail. Where and how do you draw the line?

In reality, you simply can’t draw the line. You can make and try to stick to various guidelines, but there is simply no one-size-fits-all solution. Nature doesn’t work that way. The universe is a dynamic place.

Hijinks I

Idle hands are the tools of the devil.

That's the way I remember hearing it anyway. A lot of navy Chiefs seemed to have that one memorized.

And it's true, in a way, as long as you understand that young sailors aren't evil, they're just young men.

Never having been a young female sailor I'll not speak for them, though in my time I knew a few who could get up to no good with the best of their y chromosome-equipped shipmates.

As I see it, the problem (which isn't really a problem per se, more a potential problem) isn't idle hands, it's active minds.

No matter how busy the hands are, the mind always has plenty of spare cycles to get up to devilment.

At least that's my experience, and I don't think I was different than any of my seagoing peers. Or of my age and sex cohort in general.

Most of the devilment -- again in my personal experience -- was just for fun. Seldom was it intrinsically mean spirited.

All it usually took was an idle thought. "I wonder what would happen if..." Or, "you know what would be funny as hell...?"

On the bulkhead behind the sick call check in counter at the Oceana medical clinic hung a framed print of a seascape painting. It was a very pretty image; the open sea filled with storm-tossed waves beneath a glowering overcast. The original artist had done a masterful job in capturing the light and shadow of a restless sea, the frenzied disorder of foaming, wind-driven, ocean waves, the indistinctness of the horizon and commingling of sea and sky. It was beautiful. Something like this, although larger and perhaps, well, better.

Oceana was a Master Jet Base, though, the heart of Naviation on the east coast. I always felt the fine print was missing something, missing a key element to make it representative of its location.

Very early one morning when I had the duty -- 0200 or thereabouts -- I was bored to tears and in danger of nodding off. The emergency room was silent and most of the lights had been turned off. The mindless drivel of the paperback I was reading was turning my mind to mush. I got up and stretched and told whoever I was standing watch with that I was "going on rounds."

I don't think there was an actual written requirement that watchstanders make rounds of the clinic but we always did. It seemed like a good idea to walk around and make sure there were no smoldering fires or broken water pipes and that no hobos had taken up residence. It was also a good opportunity to get the blood flowing at zero dark thirty to help stave off incipient unconsciousness.

As I walked through the sick call waiting area I glanced at the seascape painting behind the counter. I wound my way through the chairs in the waiting area and a magazine caught my eye. If I recall correctly it was an issue U.S. Naval Institute Proceedings, and it featured a painting of a carrier at sea on the cover. Rather in this style, though from a different perspective.

Must have been one of the naval art contest issues. At any rate, the painting of the carrier showed an F-14 in the break, a planform view with wings spread against an indistinct gray-green horizon. Something clicked in my idle brain. I looked at the magazine cover, then at the painting behind the counter. Hmmm. I wonder what would happen if...?

In those days there wasn't always a lot of time wasted between thought and deed. It took only a few minutes to snip the Tomcat free of the magazine cover. I didn't have any paste, but unfiretruck would do. I carefully dabbed a bit of liquid whiteout to the backside of the little two dimensional airplane and attached just so on the seascape painting hanging from the wall. I stepped back and eyed my handiwork. The scale was probably wrong, for it seemed to my eye that the perspective of the painting was more near than far, and the perspective of the Tomcat more far than near. Nevertheless, the colors matched perfectly and, the more I looked at it, the more the jet looked like it belonged. The painting was now, to my satisfaction, appropriate for its location. My work was done. Now to kick back and wait for the fireworks. Surely someone would get their shorts in a snarl.

No one noticed. I waited in vain for a long time, but never heard any howls of horror. The little F-14 had found a home. Did anyone ever notice? Several years later I saw, upon returning from a long deployment, that the Tomcat had been removed from the print, leaving behind a blob of whiteout, which someone had tried to blend in with, apparently, a crayon.

Ah well. Guess I found out what would happen if...

And yes, this was a very tame hijink. It was also what the ground pounders call a shaping operation. Stand by.

Kenney's Kids

Let's play a word association game. Or name association if you prefer. I'll say a word/name, and you say the first thing that pops into your mind. Ready? Okay, here goes.

SAC

Hmmm, very interesting. Most of you who understood SAC to mean not a brown paper container for carrying six packs of beer but Strategic Air Command said "Curtis LeMay."

I'm not surprised. General Curtis E. LeMay, the cigar-chomping combat commander of Eighth Air Force fame who went on to be the architect of Japanese urban renewal as the leader and driving force at XXI Bomber Command, is often said to be the father of SAC. And there's no doubt whatsoever that he put his indelible stamp on the outfit as its commander from 1948-1957.

But he wasn't SAC's first commander, and if a squid may make so bold, he wasn't the father of the Strategic Air Command.

This guy was.

General George C. Kenney S

Recently there was some interesting discussion over at the Chant regarding flag ossifers in today's American unicorned services. The consensus (which I agree with) is that today's U.S. Military Services are awash in a sea of mass-suckage (love that phrase) and that our present military leaders are, in very many (nearly all) cases falling short. We're desperately in need of principled warrior leaders but we're saddled with perfumed political podiatric product pushers.

I don't want to turn this into a George Kenney hagiography. This was intended to be a short post to showcase my crappy photography. I'll see if I can do a proper post on Kenney in the near future. But ladies and gents, this guy was a warrior and a combat leader. And for those who argue that FOGO's can't help it, because after all, they have to be political, let me just offer this. Fifth Air Force under Douglas MacArthur. And he got sent home from France in 1940 for micturating in everyone's cornflakes!

Part of the citation for his first DSC:

For extraordinary heroism in action near Jametz, France, October 9, 1918. This officer gave proof of his bravery and devotion to duty when he was attacked by a superior number of aircraft. He accepted combat, destroyed one plane and drove the others off. Notwithstanding that the enemy returned and attacked again in strong numbers, he continued his mission and enabled his observer to secure information of great military value.

Okay. Enough, for the moment, about "Bust 'Em Up" Kenney. On to the Strategic Air Command Museum near Ashland, Nebraska, which I visited on Saturday with my Mom and brother Justin. I intended to take mucho photographos, but I ended up being a tour guide. Mom and brother were like little kids, amazed at how big and how shiny and how powerful and how cool. And neither know a thing about hairpanes in general, let alone military aviation, let alone SAC's mission and hardware. So I spent three hours 'splaining basic stuff as we walked through the displays. Which was very enjoyable but precluded most of the image making. So I'll have to return to the museum at some point and dedicate a good, solid day to making images. Which is a burden, but I'll find a way to bear up.

Before I roll out the few ratty pictures, here's a short video:



Yeah, baby, J-93!

And some images. Click for more bigger.

LGEN John Hesterman. Official USAF Foto.

SM-65 Atlas ICBM

The mighty Thor IRBM. SBAMA stands for San Bernardino Air Material Area. I rest my case.

The BONE. This one was an early A model. Here it's dressed up like a B.

CT-39 Sabreliner

SNARK.

SR-71

Down the starboard maw of an FB-111. Those vanes were an attempt to tame the compressor stall of the TF-30. 

B-17G

F-101B Voodoo

T-Bird

Grumman Iron! An HU-16 Albatross

RF-4C

Hmmmmm...

Hustler. My favorite bomber.

Where the fire comes out of the J-79.

A little worn and weary but still pretty.

MK 36 10MT crowd pleaser.

Navy representation at SAC Museum.

Deuce. Pretty as pretty gets.

As we all know, President George W. Hitler was able to escape the horrors of Veet-Nam by running away to the Deuce.

And that's about it. I'll have more and better in the future, Good Lord willin' an' the creek don't rise.

Breathe the air of Liberty

Each year as the end of May approaches a kaleidoscope of images forms in my mind. Young men filled with youth and vigor who no longer walk among us.

My navy job was rather tough in the sense that I was present when many of those young men slipped the surly bonds as I tried desperately to keep the spark of life from fleeing mangled flesh. Too often I failed. Too often mine were among the last living hands to touch these heroes. Living with those memories has been hard at times.

But it’s what we do. We go on. We remember the past, remember our fallen shipmates and comrades, we never forget. But we can’t afford to dwell only on the loss.

The world goes on. In May, when new calves are on the ground, grazing new grass in a sea of colorful wildflowers, nature’s reality provides the correct and appropriate perspective.

On Saturday I traveled to Omaha to take in the State Track Meet where a niece was running and to attend the high school graduation reception of another niece.

Niece one ran very well, collecting personal best times in her leg of the 4x800 and in the 800 run. Burke Stadium was alive with fans watching the action, watching young men and women compete.

The reception for niece two was great. Watching and visiting with her and her friends was a treat.

I suspect that the fallen would be pleased. Their sacrifice to the Constitution of the United States was not in vain, as it cannot be in vain so long as free men and women breathe the air of Liberty.

I thought I’d share a few names of Kimball County’s WWII fallen.

Keith Childers joined the Navy in May, 1941. He served in USS Enterprise (CV-6) as an Aviation Machinist’s Mate, and fell at Eastern Solomons on August 24, 1942. Robert Bickel fell in USS Arizona on December 7, 1941. Charles Lanning fell in USS Minneapolis at the Battle of Tassafaronga on November 30, 1942, near Savo Island in the Solomons.

I think most of us realize that the price of our freedom was paid for, in part, with the lives of men and women we've never met, or even heard of. There are other costs of course, and the Americans who served in battle are not solely responsible for our good fortune. But they did sacrifice a lot for us. Some gave all. Keith Childers, Robert Bickel and Charles Lanning died in hellish naval combat as their ships were torn by storms of bombs and shells. Few if any Kimball residents remember these men or their families. I certainly don't. But I can mark their existence and the gift they made to all of us. Thank you Shipmates. May you rest in peace.

Though congress made it a three-day weekend in 1971, Memorial Day is nevertheless still formally a day to remember those who fell in the service of our country, and specifically those who fell during time of war.

Since the end of the Vietnam War, service in the U.S. military has been a volunteer affair. For more than 40 years now, those who have served have had to make the decision on their own, and then have had to voluntarily jump through a bunch of tough hoops to even be allowed to wear the uniform. This is neither a good thing nor a bad thing. There are good and valid reasons to field either a conscript or a volunteer force. One thing the volunteer force seems to have done, however, is to distance most Americans from their military.

Perhaps this is why so many folks think of Memorial Day in terms of time off from work, rather than as an opportunity to honor and think about the sacrifice of the relatively few for the overwhelmingly many.

For those who served and survived, though, Memorial Day is much more than a holiday. For many of us, it is a time of reflection, a time to brush cobwebs away from painful memories and to think about and honor our fallen comrades.

No one joins the U.S. Military with the intent to die in battle. In fact, the military go to great lengths to weed out the applicants who have a death wish. They are simply too selfish and too immature to be reliable, to be a team player, to guard the backs of their comrades.

No, those who make the cut expect and plan to survive. We know the risks, we can each of us calculate the odds. The odds, in the aggregate, are in our favor. But the risk is real, as each of us knows full well.

Regardless of the risk, each of us have determined that our country, the grand, wonderful idea of these United States of America, is worth the possibilities that the risk entails. We go into harm’s way as a service to our country and to our fellow citizens. Most of us survive. Some of us do not. The fallen are an important reason we celebrate Memorial Day. If you get the chance, perhaps you can take a few moments to reflect on the heroic nature of the sacrifices others have made so that you might enjoy the manifold blessings of life in America.

The young and living are also an important reason to celebrate. They are America, and they breathe the air of Liberty in part because of the sacrifice of the fallen.

They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old;

Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn,

At the going down of the sun and in the morning

We will remember them.

Laurence Binyon (1869-1943) “For the Fallen”

Dreams of my delerium

Ever wonder where dreams come from? Not so much the nuts and bolts functioning of the brain during dreaming, but the stuff you see. What is that? Why are those things showing up in that way? What's it all about?



I went to Omaha on a whirlwind trip Friday, returned on Sunday. About 15 hours driving. Which was tiring. I must be getting olden.

Had a great time. Niece had her personal best in both the 800 and the 4x800 on Saturday morning at State Track.. Not quick enough to medal but more than quick enough to put a big smile on unk's face.

Then we (Mom, brother and I) made a quick run through the SAC Museum. Much enjoyment, but only a few pics. It's hard to shoot in there! I'll post what I have later.



'Nother niece graduated high school and had a big reception Saturday afternoon. Great time with family; first time in a dog's age all us sibs have been together. Which of course caused pictures to be taken. Which I won't bother ya'll with.

Stopped on the way home yesterday to buy a new .22 reefle. Ruger 10-22 takedown tactical. Needed a new pickup .22 but I wanted something like the Henry AR-7. The Ruger seems even a better bet. I'll post something on it soon.

Got home, played with and fed the dog, collapsed exhausted into bed.

And had the strangest ongoing series of dreams. Something about wrecking a U-Haul and having the U-Haul mafia after me to make the damage good. Crazy. But where, to the best of my recollection, most dreams are single-episode, this one went on and on all night. Every time I'd wake I'd think, 'ah, glad that one's over," only to return to the dream as soon as the REMs returned.

Today I'm wiped out. Feel like I've been beat with a knotted plow line and pulled through a knothole. Several times.

Hope the U-Haul mafia stay away tonight.

Here's a much more better dream, from back in the day when the Blues flew Scooters. My kingdom for a time machine!



And of course these new guys were waiting for me when I returned.

Wishing you all sweet and mafia-free dreams. :)