Recent polls show that something like 85% of Americans believe our country is headed in the wrong direction. Put me in that camp. Republican President Bush’s approval numbers have dropped below 30% and those that believe the Democratic Congress is doing a good job have fallen below 10%. In the last two years, gas prices have doubled, food prices have skyrocketed, retirement plans have been reduced in value by 20 % and the value of housing is down at least 15%. The stock market has lost 2000 points. Neither of the political parties has served us well, and neither appears to have a handle on how to address the problems America is facing. The presidential candidates do not inspire confidence. America is falling into despair because neither party seems to know what we want. Fortunately I do.
A military we can be proud of. OK. We have that.
A hardheaded, no nonsense, foreign policy that makes it clear that the U.S. can be your best friend or worst enemy. In the future, when and if we go to war, it needs to be as a country, not a political party.
An economic policy that makes our currency strong. The dollar has fallen to the same level as the Canadian “loony” for goodness sake.
A domestic policy that doesn’t include bailouts. Yes, we must take care of Americans who are not able to help themselves. But we should be reducing reliance on government and increasing self reliance. John Smith said, “He that shall not worke shall not eate.” It was a solid prescription for success in 1608 and will be just as successful in 2008.
A space program with a plan. What in the world is going on at NASA? There wasn’t a person alive watching the moon landings in 1969 who did not anticipate spending spring break on Mars by 2000. Let’s get there. The space program is the nursery of high tech. Also the way to stop asteroids before they stop us.
Politicians who have at least the average morality of say, a Russian gangster. That is, if a person is a thief, a wife beater or wife cheater, a drunk, a dope addict, an out of control gambler, or financially irresponsible, why is he or she entrusted with the government?
Cheap energy. Americans like big houses, big cars, big companies, and big ideas because we are big people. Nothing wrong with that. It’s our culture. But they all require cheap energy. Should we drill for oil in Alaska or the Atlantic? How about the Pacific? Nuclear? Wind? Geothermal? Bio-fuels? Coal? Natural gas? Fuel cells? Hell, yes, all of the above. What we are doing now is like starving to death inside a McDonald’s because the French fries are too greasy. Let’s start drilling!
Competence. Cranes inspected by the government shouldn’t fall down a week later. Neither should freeway overpasses. Airplanes should be inspected on a regular basis, not all the same day shutting down the air transportation system. Government regulated banks shouldn’t fail. The IRS should be able to answer questions about taxes. Social security should be secure.
Immigration policy that makes sense, somewhere between putting the southern border at Guatemala and rounding up half the country’s workforce and deporting it. If you are here and working, we can make you legal. If you are a criminal you are going to have to leave. Today. And, yes, put up a fence.
Freedom, free enterprise and capitalism. These are what made America successful in the past; they will do so again.
There you have it. Why is that so difficult? Why can’t the Republicans and Democrats put the train back on the track? Why can’t they even talk to each other? I know what you are thinking. Perhaps we need a new political party. One which understands that talking about problems isn’t the same as solving them. It is time to launch the New Whig Party. It’s too late for ’08. But the way things are going, we’re going to walk into the White House in 2012. Remember, you heard it here first. You know I’m right.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
PB27 Happy New Year
For me, and I suspect most teachers, June 2 (or whatever the day is after graduation) is New Year’s Day. This is the time of the year for “review”, “reflection”, and “resolutions”. A time to take stock of one’s life. I have been writing this column for a year now; the first column appeared in the June 21, 2007 “Sentinel”. The subject was “Finishing last for a great cause.” In it I resolved (remember June is for resolutions) to not embarrass myself in the annual Kayla5K run. I also encouraged more of you to participate. Last Saturday I completed my 5th Kayla run with an astounding time (for me) amidst a record breaking turnout. Good job, Granville. (And “Good job, Haven, too”, I might add.)
Note: For the person logging the times, if you are still at the high school waiting for me to cross the finish line, you can go home. I threw that little computer tag in the duck pond just north of the school. I have resolved for the 08-09 academic year that I will quit judging myself against others; from now on it is just me against me.
Many of my readers have asked me how I came to be the popular author of a semi regular newspaper column. It happened like this: One Friday night after our weekly trip to dine with friends at Brew’s (not only a good place to eat but a good place to BE), my loving wife of some 25 years said, “We need to talk”. This is normally not a good sign. She explained that in the course of the evening, I had “dominated the conversation”, repeated myself by “telling the same stupid stories I had told before”, and insisted that “you know I’m right.” For a few minutes I couldn’t figure out what she was trying to get at. Then it hit me. The wife, in her own sweet way, was trying to say that I needed to acquire a larger audience. So I went to Chuck Peterson and offered to write a column from time to time for the Sentinel as a public service. (This was after he explained that he wouldn’t pay.)
Chuck appeared to be delighted to have me on the staff. But before I began, I needed to establish some ground rules. First, I resolved to separate the column from my “day job”. I didn’t want to write about education and I didn’t want my readers (both of them) to think that I inflict my philosophy, experiences, point of view, historical perspective, and political ramblings on my students. That would be crazy. What I teach is precisely what the school board has approved and the state of Ohio requires. (And, if I may say so, I think I am a good teacher. I NEVER deviate from the lesson plan in the classroom). Secondly, I resolved to take this endeavor seriously. I wanted to avoid humorous content. It is very difficult to write humor, and while I think I am funny, hardly anyone else does. Finally, I decided to avoid controversy. We have enough controversy in our country and in our town. I am the type of person that likes to bring people together. I hope that you have found the ideas you have been exposed to in this column are ones we can all agree upon. It is time for us to come together as a village, as a country, and, I sincerely hope, as a world.
Whether I have been successful or not, I will leave to you, the readers. But maybe those of you who are not in education, should do what I am doing. Take a moment for reflection and set some new goals. Get fit. The Kayla 5K will be here before you know it. If you didn’t get out this year, I’ll be looking for you next June. Get green. Don’t drive when you can ride your bike (wear your helmet!) or walk. My goal is 100 carless trips to school next year. Get involved. Vote! Run for office. I’m going to. Participatory democracy requires participation. And Happy New Year. You know I’m right.
Note: For the person logging the times, if you are still at the high school waiting for me to cross the finish line, you can go home. I threw that little computer tag in the duck pond just north of the school. I have resolved for the 08-09 academic year that I will quit judging myself against others; from now on it is just me against me.
Many of my readers have asked me how I came to be the popular author of a semi regular newspaper column. It happened like this: One Friday night after our weekly trip to dine with friends at Brew’s (not only a good place to eat but a good place to BE), my loving wife of some 25 years said, “We need to talk”. This is normally not a good sign. She explained that in the course of the evening, I had “dominated the conversation”, repeated myself by “telling the same stupid stories I had told before”, and insisted that “you know I’m right.” For a few minutes I couldn’t figure out what she was trying to get at. Then it hit me. The wife, in her own sweet way, was trying to say that I needed to acquire a larger audience. So I went to Chuck Peterson and offered to write a column from time to time for the Sentinel as a public service. (This was after he explained that he wouldn’t pay.)
Chuck appeared to be delighted to have me on the staff. But before I began, I needed to establish some ground rules. First, I resolved to separate the column from my “day job”. I didn’t want to write about education and I didn’t want my readers (both of them) to think that I inflict my philosophy, experiences, point of view, historical perspective, and political ramblings on my students. That would be crazy. What I teach is precisely what the school board has approved and the state of Ohio requires. (And, if I may say so, I think I am a good teacher. I NEVER deviate from the lesson plan in the classroom). Secondly, I resolved to take this endeavor seriously. I wanted to avoid humorous content. It is very difficult to write humor, and while I think I am funny, hardly anyone else does. Finally, I decided to avoid controversy. We have enough controversy in our country and in our town. I am the type of person that likes to bring people together. I hope that you have found the ideas you have been exposed to in this column are ones we can all agree upon. It is time for us to come together as a village, as a country, and, I sincerely hope, as a world.
Whether I have been successful or not, I will leave to you, the readers. But maybe those of you who are not in education, should do what I am doing. Take a moment for reflection and set some new goals. Get fit. The Kayla 5K will be here before you know it. If you didn’t get out this year, I’ll be looking for you next June. Get green. Don’t drive when you can ride your bike (wear your helmet!) or walk. My goal is 100 carless trips to school next year. Get involved. Vote! Run for office. I’m going to. Participatory democracy requires participation. And Happy New Year. You know I’m right.
PB26 The End of the Year
This has been, far and away, my best year of teaching. This is not surprising as every year I have taught school has been better than the year before. Sort of like being married to my loving wife of some 25 years. I have informed the board, however, that I will not be teaching forever. I am going to retire at the end of the 2028-2029 school year. So the class of 2029, which of course has not been born yet, will be my last. I am not going to change my mind and I am going to be difficult to replace so the board may want to start looking around now. Don’t say you haven’t been warned.
Although this was a great year, it has ended on a very sour note. I will start next year without three of my esteemed colleagues, individuals I have come to rely upon and to whom I owe a great deal. Fortunately they are all moving on to great situations but that doesn’t help me does it? First, Sonja Miller, an extraordinary English teacher. Although we have a very strong English department, Sonja brought a certain je ne sais quoi that made it even better. (Language teachers note my inclusion of a little French lingo.) Plus Sonja likes my column. That makes three fans. Then Abbey Walls, a guidance person. NO ONE cares more about kids. We had some stressful times this year and she was always right where she could do the most good. I am old. She is wise. I shall miss her. At the district office, Eydie Schilling, is also moving on. Every time I got a great idea, and that happened to me a lot, Eydie was supportive, encouraging, and positive. She knows how to do all the paper work and stuff and was more than willing to pitch in and help. (Now I have spent my life around civil servants, and I love them to death, especially MLWOS25yrs, but “more than willing to pitch in and help” doesn’t often come up in the conversation.) I’ll miss her, too.
The biggest blow was finding out Chuck Dilbone had resigned as principal. I have had lots of bosses. I was stationed at 10 major commands in the military and given the rotation system, had an average of two skippers at each for a total of 20. All were professional. Some were legends. They all had executive officers, another 20. The military is all about leadership; we teach it, practice it and live it. (When the military adopted Total Quality Management from the business world, it was changed it to “Total Quality Leadership”.) Still, leadership is easier in the military than it is in the front office at Granville High. A military leader answers only to his boss in the chain of command. None of those military guys were better than Mr. Dilbone because a principal must answer to the board, the parents, the teachers and, in many ways, the kids. Chuck Dilbone does it as well as it can be done. The only criticisms I heard about Chuck were from teachers who said he favored parents and parents who said he favored teachers. They were both right but when it really matters, he always comes down on the side of the kids. I came to work at GHS when I was 54.9 years old. (Math teachers note the metric system.) I really didn’t think anyone could teach me much about leadership (or anything else). I was wrong. Chuck was always there when I needed him and not when I didn’t, the definition of a perfect leader. He taught me a lot. I am a much better teacher and a better person for it. (I don’t think Chuck likes my column, but I’m happy if he likes my teaching.)
Even though we will take some hits, we have a great school and we will muddle through next year. Given Granville Schools reputation for excellence, there will be many capable candidates to choose from to replace our departed comrades. But you new hires better be on your game. You are following the best of the best. You know I’m right.
Although this was a great year, it has ended on a very sour note. I will start next year without three of my esteemed colleagues, individuals I have come to rely upon and to whom I owe a great deal. Fortunately they are all moving on to great situations but that doesn’t help me does it? First, Sonja Miller, an extraordinary English teacher. Although we have a very strong English department, Sonja brought a certain je ne sais quoi that made it even better. (Language teachers note my inclusion of a little French lingo.) Plus Sonja likes my column. That makes three fans. Then Abbey Walls, a guidance person. NO ONE cares more about kids. We had some stressful times this year and she was always right where she could do the most good. I am old. She is wise. I shall miss her. At the district office, Eydie Schilling, is also moving on. Every time I got a great idea, and that happened to me a lot, Eydie was supportive, encouraging, and positive. She knows how to do all the paper work and stuff and was more than willing to pitch in and help. (Now I have spent my life around civil servants, and I love them to death, especially MLWOS25yrs, but “more than willing to pitch in and help” doesn’t often come up in the conversation.) I’ll miss her, too.
The biggest blow was finding out Chuck Dilbone had resigned as principal. I have had lots of bosses. I was stationed at 10 major commands in the military and given the rotation system, had an average of two skippers at each for a total of 20. All were professional. Some were legends. They all had executive officers, another 20. The military is all about leadership; we teach it, practice it and live it. (When the military adopted Total Quality Management from the business world, it was changed it to “Total Quality Leadership”.) Still, leadership is easier in the military than it is in the front office at Granville High. A military leader answers only to his boss in the chain of command. None of those military guys were better than Mr. Dilbone because a principal must answer to the board, the parents, the teachers and, in many ways, the kids. Chuck Dilbone does it as well as it can be done. The only criticisms I heard about Chuck were from teachers who said he favored parents and parents who said he favored teachers. They were both right but when it really matters, he always comes down on the side of the kids. I came to work at GHS when I was 54.9 years old. (Math teachers note the metric system.) I really didn’t think anyone could teach me much about leadership (or anything else). I was wrong. Chuck was always there when I needed him and not when I didn’t, the definition of a perfect leader. He taught me a lot. I am a much better teacher and a better person for it. (I don’t think Chuck likes my column, but I’m happy if he likes my teaching.)
Even though we will take some hits, we have a great school and we will muddle through next year. Given Granville Schools reputation for excellence, there will be many capable candidates to choose from to replace our departed comrades. But you new hires better be on your game. You are following the best of the best. You know I’m right.
PB25
As my potential post teaching political career gathers momentum (big mo), I am often asked if I am a Republican or Democrat. I have been both; I am neither at the moment. I believe that both parties have lost touch with the real America. Look at the candidates, one of whom will surely be president. Barack Obama is certainly an interesting candidate. But he campaigns by bowling. Did you see him bowl? Pathetic. Hillary Clinton campaigns by drinking a shot and a beer. What message does THAT send to our young people? And John S. McCain. A true American hero but I don’t know that he is right for the presidency. I have great respect for military pilots but he’s married to a rich woman. Let’s get someone in there who needs a job.
I think we need a new party and fresh leadership. What Americans want is not an amateur bowler or worse, an amateur drinker. We don’t need a president who is married to a brewery heiress. Americans want only one thing; good government. Such as
Military: A military we can be proud of. Ok, we have that.
Immigration: We don’t even know who lives here. Why isn’t our government capable of building a simple fence? Critics say it won’t work. Of course it will work. All you have to do is taser the people who come across without permission. And we don’t even know who lives in our country. Let’s take a survey. If you are in this country illegally but are behaving yourself, you fill out the paperwork, pay your fine, and welcome to America. If you are a criminal, you go home. How hard is that?
Government services: Make ‘em work. Once a government inspector inspects a bridge, it shouldn’t fall down. Airliners shouldn’t have out of spec wiring. Construction cranes shouldn’t topple over. Hurricane relief ought to arrive on time.
I think we need a new party and fresh leadership. What Americans want is not an amateur bowler or worse, an amateur drinker. We don’t need a president who is married to a brewery heiress. Americans want only one thing; good government. Such as
Military: A military we can be proud of. Ok, we have that.
Immigration: We don’t even know who lives here. Why isn’t our government capable of building a simple fence? Critics say it won’t work. Of course it will work. All you have to do is taser the people who come across without permission. And we don’t even know who lives in our country. Let’s take a survey. If you are in this country illegally but are behaving yourself, you fill out the paperwork, pay your fine, and welcome to America. If you are a criminal, you go home. How hard is that?
Government services: Make ‘em work. Once a government inspector inspects a bridge, it shouldn’t fall down. Airliners shouldn’t have out of spec wiring. Construction cranes shouldn’t topple over. Hurricane relief ought to arrive on time.
PB21 Hat in the Ring
In my last column, I omitted a key phrase, which I need to correct immediately. In speaking of a potential post teaching political career, I stated that “I was struck by what a remarkably clean life I have led.” That sentence should have been followed by “for an ex-sailor”. Even so, the groundswell of support for my participation in the political process continues to grow. Since that column was published an additional three citizens have come forward suggesting it is time for me to offer myself as a candidate. That is an increase of over 100%, and one that I really don’t think I can ignore.
In that light, I have concluded that it is necessary to put myself, my family, and my friends through the sort of hell that modern campaigning has become. I owe that to my country and my community. But I want to assure my loyal readers (both of you) that I have no desire for self aggrandizement. I am only interested in serving man-(and woman) kind.
I won’t run on my war record. I want to state categorically that I have never been shot at, or shot at anyone else. I have to get that out right now. I am not proud of that fact, but it is true. I was in the military for nearly 30 years during which I was paid by the taxpayers every two weeks, and yet I never killed a single communist. This is not a very good return on investment for our citizens. All of my war stories are “supply war stories”. You know, like “the massive food poisoning incident”, the admiral’s lost shorts in the ship’s laundry caper”, and “the failure to balance out the cash at midnight crisis”. While fascinating, they will not stand up to the gripping tale of the Bosnian sniper attack on you know who.
I have also reviewed the sermons delivered by my spiritual advisors, Karen and Thom, over the past several years. I have found nothing controversial what-so-ever (other than the usual silliness like “love they neighbor”, “thou shall not kill”, or “the meek shall inherit the earth”). If my pastors did say anything controversial, I was either a. not there, b. “zoned out”, or c. “staring out into space”. I think Karen and Thom will back me up on that one. And I will disown ALL my grandparents AND Blackie before I will disown Karen and Thom.
There has also been some cheap shots from my detractors (yes, I have them) suggesting that a vote for me would be a “twofer”. The implication is that my loving wife of some 25 years tells me what to do and therefore I can’t think for myself. This is a lie. While MLWOS25yrs does tell me what to do, I don’t listen. I am either, a. not there, b. zoned out, or c. staring out into space. That doesn’t mean that she won’t play a meaningful role in the conduct of whatever political office I am elected to fill. She will have input into those issues that are important to her and the nation such as remodeling, fashion, and shopping.
It is also important to clear the air about my middle name. I don’t use it. I use my middle initial “R” on official correspondence. It’s not that I am ashamed of it. My parents gave me my name and they must have had good reason to do so. I just don’t think it should become a campaign issue. I know the rumor is out there that the R stands for “Redneck”. It does not. And I think that those spreading that rumor should be barbequed, run over by a pick up truck and spit on with tobacco juice.
The only question remaining is what office is most in need of my attention. I will leave that up to you, the citizens. As a veteran high school teacher, there are really no jobs I am not fully equipped to handle. But if I were on the city council, and was unsure how to handle the growing deer problem, I would not be resting on my laurels. You know I’m right.
In that light, I have concluded that it is necessary to put myself, my family, and my friends through the sort of hell that modern campaigning has become. I owe that to my country and my community. But I want to assure my loyal readers (both of you) that I have no desire for self aggrandizement. I am only interested in serving man-(and woman) kind.
I won’t run on my war record. I want to state categorically that I have never been shot at, or shot at anyone else. I have to get that out right now. I am not proud of that fact, but it is true. I was in the military for nearly 30 years during which I was paid by the taxpayers every two weeks, and yet I never killed a single communist. This is not a very good return on investment for our citizens. All of my war stories are “supply war stories”. You know, like “the massive food poisoning incident”, the admiral’s lost shorts in the ship’s laundry caper”, and “the failure to balance out the cash at midnight crisis”. While fascinating, they will not stand up to the gripping tale of the Bosnian sniper attack on you know who.
I have also reviewed the sermons delivered by my spiritual advisors, Karen and Thom, over the past several years. I have found nothing controversial what-so-ever (other than the usual silliness like “love they neighbor”, “thou shall not kill”, or “the meek shall inherit the earth”). If my pastors did say anything controversial, I was either a. not there, b. “zoned out”, or c. “staring out into space”. I think Karen and Thom will back me up on that one. And I will disown ALL my grandparents AND Blackie before I will disown Karen and Thom.
There has also been some cheap shots from my detractors (yes, I have them) suggesting that a vote for me would be a “twofer”. The implication is that my loving wife of some 25 years tells me what to do and therefore I can’t think for myself. This is a lie. While MLWOS25yrs does tell me what to do, I don’t listen. I am either, a. not there, b. zoned out, or c. staring out into space. That doesn’t mean that she won’t play a meaningful role in the conduct of whatever political office I am elected to fill. She will have input into those issues that are important to her and the nation such as remodeling, fashion, and shopping.
It is also important to clear the air about my middle name. I don’t use it. I use my middle initial “R” on official correspondence. It’s not that I am ashamed of it. My parents gave me my name and they must have had good reason to do so. I just don’t think it should become a campaign issue. I know the rumor is out there that the R stands for “Redneck”. It does not. And I think that those spreading that rumor should be barbequed, run over by a pick up truck and spit on with tobacco juice.
The only question remaining is what office is most in need of my attention. I will leave that up to you, the citizens. As a veteran high school teacher, there are really no jobs I am not fully equipped to handle. But if I were on the city council, and was unsure how to handle the growing deer problem, I would not be resting on my laurels. You know I’m right.
PB20 Crazy Charlie, Part 2
Recently several of my students have urged me to run for political office. But before I throw my hat into the ring, I want to give it some careful consideration. I am well aware that every aspect of my personal and professional life will be subjected to relentless scrutiny. In looking back over the years, I was struck by what a remarkably clean life I have led. There is only one part of my past that I regret and really can’t explain. I was once a volunteer for an environmentalist lobbying group. I think it is wise to get my story out there before it becomes fodder for the tabloids. While I don’t remember how I got involved, I do remember why I dropped my association with the group forever.
We were on a deployment to the Mediterranean aboard U.S.S. Dwight D. Eisenhower (Ike). We were approaching Majorca, one of the Balearic Islands off the coast of Spain, for some well-earned liberty. I was sitting in my office drinking coffee, the supply officer’s station for “sea and anchor detail”. (Supply officers generally don’t get too involved in actual ship handling evolutions.) As I looked up at the close circuit TV monitoring our approach to port, the view switched to another ship approaching at a high rate of speed from the starboard quarter. It was called the Sea Grass or something like that, a ship operated by the environmentalist group to which I belonged. Originally a group that had championed saving whales, it had branched out into condemning the U.S. government for utilizing nuclear power. Ike was nuclear powered. The Sea Grass was intent on launching Zodiac boats loaded with red paint, and attacking our ship. The idea was to video tape the marking of our ship with red paint to simulate blood and give the video to local TV stations. What the Sea Grass hadn’t counted on was Crazy Charlie, Ike’s new overzealous, unrestrained, totally dedicated weapons officer.
Suddenly the Captain’s voice was heard on the ship’s loud speaker system; “Motor Vessel Sea Grass, you are approaching a United States warship. Change course now!” The Sea Grass kept coming. Next we heard, “Repel boarders, repel boarders”. I broke out in a cold sweat when I saw the motley members of Charlie’s newly recruited security force man the 50 caliber machine guns which suddenly sprouted around the ship. (When the call came to “Repel Boarders”, those sailors designated for the security force donned flak jackets, pulled the machine guns out of the lockers, and prepared to defeat the enemy.) There was no doubt in my military mind that the blood of a bunch of misguided, but basically decent environmentalists, for whom I had recently collected donations, was about to be shed. A 50 cal is a devastating weapon capable of shredding any substance made by man other than tank armor. The thin skin of the Sea Grass would provide no protection whatsoever. Oblivious of its imminent demise, it continued to approach. I could clearly see two Zodiac boats lowered into the water with cans of red paint. There was a person on the bridge of the Sea Grass filming the action with one of those big old video cameras. The Zodiacs headed straight for us.
Just when I thought the shooting was about to commence, the security force dropped the 50 cals and took up charged 2 ½ inch fire hoses. The stream from the hoses swamped the Zodiacs and knocked the paint into the water along with the video camera held by the hapless tree (whale?) hugger. Next the water stream was directed down the stack of the Sea Grass. The peace now crowd withdrew in defeat. Later the Spanish government impounded the Sea Grass for the duration of our visit in Spanish waters.
At that moment I changed my mind about the environmentalist movement and Crazy Charlie. He was no longer Crazy Charlie; just Charlie. Not only was he not crazy, he was one of the shrewdest individuals I ever met. I wonder where he is now. Charlie is probably the one who should run for office. You know I’m right.
We were on a deployment to the Mediterranean aboard U.S.S. Dwight D. Eisenhower (Ike). We were approaching Majorca, one of the Balearic Islands off the coast of Spain, for some well-earned liberty. I was sitting in my office drinking coffee, the supply officer’s station for “sea and anchor detail”. (Supply officers generally don’t get too involved in actual ship handling evolutions.) As I looked up at the close circuit TV monitoring our approach to port, the view switched to another ship approaching at a high rate of speed from the starboard quarter. It was called the Sea Grass or something like that, a ship operated by the environmentalist group to which I belonged. Originally a group that had championed saving whales, it had branched out into condemning the U.S. government for utilizing nuclear power. Ike was nuclear powered. The Sea Grass was intent on launching Zodiac boats loaded with red paint, and attacking our ship. The idea was to video tape the marking of our ship with red paint to simulate blood and give the video to local TV stations. What the Sea Grass hadn’t counted on was Crazy Charlie, Ike’s new overzealous, unrestrained, totally dedicated weapons officer.
Suddenly the Captain’s voice was heard on the ship’s loud speaker system; “Motor Vessel Sea Grass, you are approaching a United States warship. Change course now!” The Sea Grass kept coming. Next we heard, “Repel boarders, repel boarders”. I broke out in a cold sweat when I saw the motley members of Charlie’s newly recruited security force man the 50 caliber machine guns which suddenly sprouted around the ship. (When the call came to “Repel Boarders”, those sailors designated for the security force donned flak jackets, pulled the machine guns out of the lockers, and prepared to defeat the enemy.) There was no doubt in my military mind that the blood of a bunch of misguided, but basically decent environmentalists, for whom I had recently collected donations, was about to be shed. A 50 cal is a devastating weapon capable of shredding any substance made by man other than tank armor. The thin skin of the Sea Grass would provide no protection whatsoever. Oblivious of its imminent demise, it continued to approach. I could clearly see two Zodiac boats lowered into the water with cans of red paint. There was a person on the bridge of the Sea Grass filming the action with one of those big old video cameras. The Zodiacs headed straight for us.
Just when I thought the shooting was about to commence, the security force dropped the 50 cals and took up charged 2 ½ inch fire hoses. The stream from the hoses swamped the Zodiacs and knocked the paint into the water along with the video camera held by the hapless tree (whale?) hugger. Next the water stream was directed down the stack of the Sea Grass. The peace now crowd withdrew in defeat. Later the Spanish government impounded the Sea Grass for the duration of our visit in Spanish waters.
At that moment I changed my mind about the environmentalist movement and Crazy Charlie. He was no longer Crazy Charlie; just Charlie. Not only was he not crazy, he was one of the shrewdest individuals I ever met. I wonder where he is now. Charlie is probably the one who should run for office. You know I’m right.
PB19 Crazy Charlie Part 1
He was the new Weapons Officer on Ike (USS Dwight D. Eisenhower CVN-69). Charlie seemed like an ok guy. Ships, even big ships, are small communities at sea and new arrivals are scrutinized like new people in a small town. We are anxious to determine if they will “fit in”. A naval aviator, Charlie seemed like a regular guy, and one that did not seem to harbor any unusual animus towards supply officers (like me).
But soon there were some unsettling incidents. First of all my car pool buddy, Fergie, who worked for Charlie, received a less than optimal fitness report, effectively ending Fergie’s chance at promotion and continuation in the service. Now I have to admit, Fergie was someone who didn’t exactly “fit in” but I knew him to be an exceptionally fine person, unusually concerned about the welfare of his sailors. I decided to speak to Charlie about it. It was not a positive experience. Charlie told me that Fergie was “too weak” to be a Naval Officer and while admittedly a “fine person”, did not belong in the Navy. That seemed a harsh judgment to me especially for a guy who had been on board only a couple of months. Charlie then abruptly left me standing in his office.
Then there was the security force, a responsibility of the Weapons Officer. Prior to Charlie’s arrival, the security force had been a small group of sailors (around 20). They were designated to address any attempt to take over the ship by terrorists when called away by the ship’s public address system (known as the 1MC in the Navy). In the sleepy 80s, no one was much concerned about terrorism, until Charlie came aboard, that is. He increased the security force to over 200 sailors and Marines, issued them fully loaded weapons, and drilled them relentlessly.
When a ship is in port, once the working day is over, most of the crew return to their homes like normal commuters (unless they have the “duty”.) One afternoon, having worked a little later than usual, I decided to leave the ship for home while a security drill was underway. Big mistake. As I walked through the door to the mess area, a huge sailor, bulked up with a flak jacket, and holding a sawed off 12 gauge shotgun, ordered me to lie on the deck. “I am an officer, Son”, I sputtered. “On the deck, Sir, NOW”, he responded. Not wanting to get shot on my own mess deck, I complied. When the 1MC announced that the drill was over, the sailor helped me up. “Sorry Sir, but Commander Walton requires us to treat every drill as the real thing.” “No problem, Petty Officer”, says I with a grimace, dusting myself off. “I will speak to him in the morning”.
“What the hell are you trying to do?” I shouted at Charlie in his office early the next morning. “Your getting those kids all fired up and handing them loaded shotguns? And automatic rifles? And 9 mm pistols? Someone is going to get killed playing your stupid games.” “Now calm down, Chop (the universal nickname for supply officers.) I know that you and the rest of the officers think I’m nuts. I know that the other ships in port know what’s going on here and that they call me Crazy Charlie. I know that you think that this is some sort of stupid game. But I don’t think so and neither does the captain. Every one on the naval base is talking about how excessive Ike’s security drills are and how it is ludicrous that we use so many loaded weapons. But look at it this way. If there ARE terrorists contemplating an attack on a Navy warship, and I believe there are, do you think they are going to hit Ike?” With that, Charlie got up and left his office.
As it turned out, I would soon have an opportunity to see Charlie’s security force in action for real. That will be the subject of a future column. But the point is, Charlie Walton (not his real name) was ahead of his time. You know I’m right.
But soon there were some unsettling incidents. First of all my car pool buddy, Fergie, who worked for Charlie, received a less than optimal fitness report, effectively ending Fergie’s chance at promotion and continuation in the service. Now I have to admit, Fergie was someone who didn’t exactly “fit in” but I knew him to be an exceptionally fine person, unusually concerned about the welfare of his sailors. I decided to speak to Charlie about it. It was not a positive experience. Charlie told me that Fergie was “too weak” to be a Naval Officer and while admittedly a “fine person”, did not belong in the Navy. That seemed a harsh judgment to me especially for a guy who had been on board only a couple of months. Charlie then abruptly left me standing in his office.
Then there was the security force, a responsibility of the Weapons Officer. Prior to Charlie’s arrival, the security force had been a small group of sailors (around 20). They were designated to address any attempt to take over the ship by terrorists when called away by the ship’s public address system (known as the 1MC in the Navy). In the sleepy 80s, no one was much concerned about terrorism, until Charlie came aboard, that is. He increased the security force to over 200 sailors and Marines, issued them fully loaded weapons, and drilled them relentlessly.
When a ship is in port, once the working day is over, most of the crew return to their homes like normal commuters (unless they have the “duty”.) One afternoon, having worked a little later than usual, I decided to leave the ship for home while a security drill was underway. Big mistake. As I walked through the door to the mess area, a huge sailor, bulked up with a flak jacket, and holding a sawed off 12 gauge shotgun, ordered me to lie on the deck. “I am an officer, Son”, I sputtered. “On the deck, Sir, NOW”, he responded. Not wanting to get shot on my own mess deck, I complied. When the 1MC announced that the drill was over, the sailor helped me up. “Sorry Sir, but Commander Walton requires us to treat every drill as the real thing.” “No problem, Petty Officer”, says I with a grimace, dusting myself off. “I will speak to him in the morning”.
“What the hell are you trying to do?” I shouted at Charlie in his office early the next morning. “Your getting those kids all fired up and handing them loaded shotguns? And automatic rifles? And 9 mm pistols? Someone is going to get killed playing your stupid games.” “Now calm down, Chop (the universal nickname for supply officers.) I know that you and the rest of the officers think I’m nuts. I know that the other ships in port know what’s going on here and that they call me Crazy Charlie. I know that you think that this is some sort of stupid game. But I don’t think so and neither does the captain. Every one on the naval base is talking about how excessive Ike’s security drills are and how it is ludicrous that we use so many loaded weapons. But look at it this way. If there ARE terrorists contemplating an attack on a Navy warship, and I believe there are, do you think they are going to hit Ike?” With that, Charlie got up and left his office.
As it turned out, I would soon have an opportunity to see Charlie’s security force in action for real. That will be the subject of a future column. But the point is, Charlie Walton (not his real name) was ahead of his time. You know I’m right.
PB12 Face to Face (Cheek) with the Sov’s
There was only one day in my Naval career of some 29 years that I was ashamed to be a sailor. I was assigned to an aircraft carrier (long ago turned into razor blades), on station in the Indian Ocean. We had been at sea for well over two months and nothing had happened. The weather was perfect every day, sunny and 70 degrees, and seas were invariably calm. The ship had established a regular workweek of 8 days. (I have no idea why it wasn’t 7 days but it was 8.) We would work long hours for seven days, but on the eighth, we took the day off, at least those that were not involved in actually operating the ship. The flight deck was secured from flight operations and several large barbeque grills were hoisted out of the hold. Uniforms were not required on deck so most of the crew were in tee shirts and jogging shorts. We called it a steel beach picnic. The officers cooked burgers and hot dogs, large containers of iced pop were set up, and ice cream was scooped for those ready for desert. Members of the crew not eating were tossing footballs or Frisbees, or just sunning themselves on a blanket.
I was standing next to the rail chatting with one of my enlisted sailors when suddenly a Soviet Kresta class cruiser appeared from behind on the horizon, coming towards us at full speed. Now there was something very wrong about this. While we knew we were always being shadowed by the Sov’s, we were also supposed to be shadowing THEM. A carrier never leaves sight of land without at least one escort ship. When deployed, as we were, carriers become part of a battle group (now called a strike group). A battle group consisted of the aircraft carrier, two cruisers for anti air protection and two destroyers for anti submarine warfare. Now I’m just a supply guy but it seemed to me that if I was looking down the barrel of a Soviet 5” naval gun, I should have seen our escort ships with a whole bunch of American naval guns pointed at THEM. I didn’t. All I saw was a Russian ship coming up fast.
Soviet ships were scary looking. While our ships tend to have few weapons, but with lots of ammo for reloads, Russian ships had lots of different weapons. The Krestas bristled with guns, torpedo launchers, missile launchers, and all kinds of other nasty looking stuff. They probably had smaller magazines but they also allocated far less space for crew comfort and berthing. In any case, when the Kresta came alongside at full speed, no more than 50 feet from our ship, it was an awe inspiring sight. Soviet sailors were lining the rails in their dress uniforms (they wore little pom poms on their hats) while the officers were snapping pictures from the bridge of us in our gym shorts playing Frisbee and eating hot dogs.
I just stood there with my mouth wide open like the Iowa farm boy I used to be. Apparently a significant number of my shipmates chose to demonstrate their patriotism by extending their middle fingers or, worse, dropping their shorts in a classic “moon” position. Our admiral was livid. The Sov’s had caught us with our pants down in more ways than one. There are lots of rules about military to military protocol and none of them involve mooning. Those of us who pride ourselves in being professional were embarrassed and so was our Navy.
Somewhere in the archives of the Soviet Union are pictures of the crew of a U.S. warship at its worst. It was the only time in my career that I was embarrassed to be a sailor. But I was damned proud to be an American! My only regret is that my bare butt is not in those pictures. You know I’m right!
I was standing next to the rail chatting with one of my enlisted sailors when suddenly a Soviet Kresta class cruiser appeared from behind on the horizon, coming towards us at full speed. Now there was something very wrong about this. While we knew we were always being shadowed by the Sov’s, we were also supposed to be shadowing THEM. A carrier never leaves sight of land without at least one escort ship. When deployed, as we were, carriers become part of a battle group (now called a strike group). A battle group consisted of the aircraft carrier, two cruisers for anti air protection and two destroyers for anti submarine warfare. Now I’m just a supply guy but it seemed to me that if I was looking down the barrel of a Soviet 5” naval gun, I should have seen our escort ships with a whole bunch of American naval guns pointed at THEM. I didn’t. All I saw was a Russian ship coming up fast.
Soviet ships were scary looking. While our ships tend to have few weapons, but with lots of ammo for reloads, Russian ships had lots of different weapons. The Krestas bristled with guns, torpedo launchers, missile launchers, and all kinds of other nasty looking stuff. They probably had smaller magazines but they also allocated far less space for crew comfort and berthing. In any case, when the Kresta came alongside at full speed, no more than 50 feet from our ship, it was an awe inspiring sight. Soviet sailors were lining the rails in their dress uniforms (they wore little pom poms on their hats) while the officers were snapping pictures from the bridge of us in our gym shorts playing Frisbee and eating hot dogs.
I just stood there with my mouth wide open like the Iowa farm boy I used to be. Apparently a significant number of my shipmates chose to demonstrate their patriotism by extending their middle fingers or, worse, dropping their shorts in a classic “moon” position. Our admiral was livid. The Sov’s had caught us with our pants down in more ways than one. There are lots of rules about military to military protocol and none of them involve mooning. Those of us who pride ourselves in being professional were embarrassed and so was our Navy.
Somewhere in the archives of the Soviet Union are pictures of the crew of a U.S. warship at its worst. It was the only time in my career that I was embarrassed to be a sailor. But I was damned proud to be an American! My only regret is that my bare butt is not in those pictures. You know I’m right!
PB11 Hitler Jr.
She was the most beautiful woman I have ever seen before or since, (other than my loving wife of some 26 years, of course). It happened like this. I had only been married for a couple of years, when I had the chance to go on a secret mission and take my wife. Since the mission involved a short stay in Paris, she readily agreed to go. We arrived at Charles de Gaulle Airport with our luggage. We had a lot of luggage. We also had our 18 month old daughter and her support system; car seat, a fold up stroller, something called a “sassy seat” for restaurant dining, boxes of Cheerios, and bags of toys.
As soon as we stepped into the lobby I saw her. Let me be clear. This was nothing salacious about it. She was a very wholesome looking, clean cut young woman in a simple print dress. Long, straight hair. Perfect features, slender body. I think she may have been Swiss, German Swiss, for reasons that will soon become clear. But I couldn’t take my eyes off her. It was like spotting a 7’7” professional basketball player in the barbershop. As hard as I tried, I just couldn’t look away even though I knew I should. Not surprisingly she became rather uncomfortable and whispered something to the young man who suddenly joined her. Her partner oozed masculinity. He was of average size but with above average muscles. Blond, blue eyed. Aryan looking. Let’s be straight up here. He looked like a Nazi and acted like one, too.
The Neo Nazi gave me one last long evil stare and they went on their way. I suddenly noticed that the young woman had left her camera on the chair next to us. I immediately volunteered to go find her. I left the camera in case she returned before I could track her down. I hurried off to find the second most beautiful woman in the world and, after searching every corner of the busy airport for well over half an hour, found her. As I walked towards her, gasping for breath, I shouted that I had found her camera. She looked frightened. I immediately grasped that she spoke no English. Being a man of the world, I switched to French. More fear, no comprehension. Hitler, Jr., started towards me and said in the only English words he knew, “Ask a clerk, ask a clerk”. I said, “Go find the Fuhrer”. Suddenly I recalled a class I had taken at Upper Iowa (the Harvard of northern Fayette County) in Native American studies and switched to sign language. I pantomimed the taking of a picture, placing my hands up to my face as if looking through the viewfinder of a camera. She got it. She grabbed her Nationalist Socialist boyfriend and pulled him back. Then she smiled and indicated that we should go get the camera together.
Unfortunately by now I had no clue where I was or, more importantly, where I had been. So she TOOK MY HAND, and off we went to find my family. When my wife handed over the camera, she thanked us profusely in some language that I am pretty sure was German, but who knows? I sighed with the satisfaction of a person who has done God’s work with no thought of reward in this life and started looking for the baggage claim. Suddenly, there she was again. Approaching from the direction of the gift shop, she handed a little stuffed bear to our daughter, smiled, turned around, and left.
Somewhere in an isolated chalet near Zurich, a middle aged woman, somewhat plump, but with traces of youthful beauty remaining, is sitting on her balcony overlooking the Swiss Alps. She is listening to yodeling on her ipod and munching one of those giant triangular Swiss chocolate bars. Her husband, an international banker, is at work transferring funds to the grandchildren of the Third Reich in Argentina. She stares out over the valley and thinks wistfully, “I wonder what ever happened to the cool guy with the beautiful wife, and the cute kid at the Paris airport?” YOU know AND you know I’m right.
As soon as we stepped into the lobby I saw her. Let me be clear. This was nothing salacious about it. She was a very wholesome looking, clean cut young woman in a simple print dress. Long, straight hair. Perfect features, slender body. I think she may have been Swiss, German Swiss, for reasons that will soon become clear. But I couldn’t take my eyes off her. It was like spotting a 7’7” professional basketball player in the barbershop. As hard as I tried, I just couldn’t look away even though I knew I should. Not surprisingly she became rather uncomfortable and whispered something to the young man who suddenly joined her. Her partner oozed masculinity. He was of average size but with above average muscles. Blond, blue eyed. Aryan looking. Let’s be straight up here. He looked like a Nazi and acted like one, too.
The Neo Nazi gave me one last long evil stare and they went on their way. I suddenly noticed that the young woman had left her camera on the chair next to us. I immediately volunteered to go find her. I left the camera in case she returned before I could track her down. I hurried off to find the second most beautiful woman in the world and, after searching every corner of the busy airport for well over half an hour, found her. As I walked towards her, gasping for breath, I shouted that I had found her camera. She looked frightened. I immediately grasped that she spoke no English. Being a man of the world, I switched to French. More fear, no comprehension. Hitler, Jr., started towards me and said in the only English words he knew, “Ask a clerk, ask a clerk”. I said, “Go find the Fuhrer”. Suddenly I recalled a class I had taken at Upper Iowa (the Harvard of northern Fayette County) in Native American studies and switched to sign language. I pantomimed the taking of a picture, placing my hands up to my face as if looking through the viewfinder of a camera. She got it. She grabbed her Nationalist Socialist boyfriend and pulled him back. Then she smiled and indicated that we should go get the camera together.
Unfortunately by now I had no clue where I was or, more importantly, where I had been. So she TOOK MY HAND, and off we went to find my family. When my wife handed over the camera, she thanked us profusely in some language that I am pretty sure was German, but who knows? I sighed with the satisfaction of a person who has done God’s work with no thought of reward in this life and started looking for the baggage claim. Suddenly, there she was again. Approaching from the direction of the gift shop, she handed a little stuffed bear to our daughter, smiled, turned around, and left.
Somewhere in an isolated chalet near Zurich, a middle aged woman, somewhat plump, but with traces of youthful beauty remaining, is sitting on her balcony overlooking the Swiss Alps. She is listening to yodeling on her ipod and munching one of those giant triangular Swiss chocolate bars. Her husband, an international banker, is at work transferring funds to the grandchildren of the Third Reich in Argentina. She stares out over the valley and thinks wistfully, “I wonder what ever happened to the cool guy with the beautiful wife, and the cute kid at the Paris airport?” YOU know AND you know I’m right.
PB9 The Grim Reaperette
Last Tuesday morning I knew I was going to die. I didn’t suspect. I didn’t wonder. I KNEW! And soon. Last year, a pet rabbit, beloved by many at GHS, disappeared and was found dead. The “science” teacher, explained that the rabbit knew that the end was near and had wandered off to find a quiet place to expire. Did you read the recent news reports of a cat that sleeps next to hospital patients the day before they pass on? I WAS that rabbit. It was time for the cat.
It started at Buckeye Lake Saturday afternoon. My loving wife of some 25 years and I anchored the boat and raised a toast to being empty nesters once again. While eating our lunch, however, I couldn’t help but notice a particularly malevolent Blue Heron lingering nearby. When I woke up Tuesday, my head had swollen to the size of a beach ball, the inside of my skull was being pummeled by siege guns, and my temperature was off the scale. I knew at once that I had contracted avian flu from the heron.
I have been following this insidious disease for many years, but little did I know that I would become the first U.S. fatality. Still, my duties on earth were not done. I slowly pedaled my bike to school because I didn’t trust myself to drive. My eyes had become little slits that barely allowed me to take in my surroundings. But I knew that the story of Jamestown and Plymouth, the morning history lesson, was too important to leave to a substitute teacher. Of course, I felt obliged to inform my students of my condition so that they could take precautions. Trying to put a positive spin on the horrific news, I reminded them that although many of us were to die, the survivors would get lots of time off from school. Somehow I got through Tuesday and Wednesday, but I still had one more duty to perform; open house at the high school. I pulled myself together for one last gallant effort, and wheezing, spitting, and coughing, passed on to the parents for the last time my philosophy of education.
When I got home I told my LWOS25yrs that this was it. I went over the arrangements I have made for the final send off. She was very sad but managed to remain composed. She only questioned my request for a Viking funeral. “Do we really have to burn the boat? “Yes!” I replied, “And, I want the Granville High School Band playing “ The Saints go Marching In” all the way to Lake Hudson.” Next I penned a note to Professor Santoni, forgiving him for the hateful things he had written about me in this very newspaper. Finally, I gave a final hug to my faithful Lab, Blackie. That’s when I “lost it”. She, too, however, took it surprisingly well. Blackie looked at me with those huge brown eyes as if to say, “Whatever. Do you have a dog biscuit?” I tossed down the last swig of Nyquil and put my head down on my pillow for the last time.
I awoke Thursday morning feeling remarkably well! Could it be that Nyquil is the long sought remedy for bird flu? Further research required. In any case, I had looked Death in the face and she had blinked. Obviously my Maker likes what I am doing and wants me to keep it up. I went off to school with a new sense of purpose and a feeling of well being.
My grandmother Palmquist, a true pioneer of the old West, feared nothing, including death. I try to be like her. As the old country and western song says, “I wanna go to heaven but I don’t wanna go tonight.” Still in all, it is a useful exercise to remind ourselves from time to time that we aren’t going to be around forever. I appreciate life more now having survived those two horrible days. But I sure wish I hadn’t sent the note to Santoni. You know I’m right.
It started at Buckeye Lake Saturday afternoon. My loving wife of some 25 years and I anchored the boat and raised a toast to being empty nesters once again. While eating our lunch, however, I couldn’t help but notice a particularly malevolent Blue Heron lingering nearby. When I woke up Tuesday, my head had swollen to the size of a beach ball, the inside of my skull was being pummeled by siege guns, and my temperature was off the scale. I knew at once that I had contracted avian flu from the heron.
I have been following this insidious disease for many years, but little did I know that I would become the first U.S. fatality. Still, my duties on earth were not done. I slowly pedaled my bike to school because I didn’t trust myself to drive. My eyes had become little slits that barely allowed me to take in my surroundings. But I knew that the story of Jamestown and Plymouth, the morning history lesson, was too important to leave to a substitute teacher. Of course, I felt obliged to inform my students of my condition so that they could take precautions. Trying to put a positive spin on the horrific news, I reminded them that although many of us were to die, the survivors would get lots of time off from school. Somehow I got through Tuesday and Wednesday, but I still had one more duty to perform; open house at the high school. I pulled myself together for one last gallant effort, and wheezing, spitting, and coughing, passed on to the parents for the last time my philosophy of education.
When I got home I told my LWOS25yrs that this was it. I went over the arrangements I have made for the final send off. She was very sad but managed to remain composed. She only questioned my request for a Viking funeral. “Do we really have to burn the boat? “Yes!” I replied, “And, I want the Granville High School Band playing “ The Saints go Marching In” all the way to Lake Hudson.” Next I penned a note to Professor Santoni, forgiving him for the hateful things he had written about me in this very newspaper. Finally, I gave a final hug to my faithful Lab, Blackie. That’s when I “lost it”. She, too, however, took it surprisingly well. Blackie looked at me with those huge brown eyes as if to say, “Whatever. Do you have a dog biscuit?” I tossed down the last swig of Nyquil and put my head down on my pillow for the last time.
I awoke Thursday morning feeling remarkably well! Could it be that Nyquil is the long sought remedy for bird flu? Further research required. In any case, I had looked Death in the face and she had blinked. Obviously my Maker likes what I am doing and wants me to keep it up. I went off to school with a new sense of purpose and a feeling of well being.
My grandmother Palmquist, a true pioneer of the old West, feared nothing, including death. I try to be like her. As the old country and western song says, “I wanna go to heaven but I don’t wanna go tonight.” Still in all, it is a useful exercise to remind ourselves from time to time that we aren’t going to be around forever. I appreciate life more now having survived those two horrible days. But I sure wish I hadn’t sent the note to Santoni. You know I’m right.
PB8 I Still Like Ike
A few weeks ago my loving wife of some 25 years informed me that she had been assigned to a secret mission in Norfolk, Virginia, and asked if I would like to go along. I jumped at the chance because I knew I could visit Jamestown, Williamsburg and Yorktown, while she was doing whatever she was doing during the day. In the evening, we could have dinner with one of our navy friends, now an admiral, and his wife, in their new home in Virginia Beach. Because the Commander was on orders, we scored a room in the officers’ quarters on the Norfolk Navy Base. The following morning after MLWOS25yrs went off to work, I jumped in my rental car to do some history.
My route off the base took me past the piers and, as I drove by, I saw an old friend; USS Dwight D. Eisenhower. I decided Jamestown could wait. In light of post 9/11 security, getting on board was a challenge but, with persistence and my retired military ID card, I was able to walk up the brow and enter the hangar bay. It was like coming home.
USS Dwight D. Eisenhower, or “Ike”, is the second of ten Nimitz class aircraft carriers. The final ship in the class, USS George H.W. Bush, is still being built. Displacing 97,000 tons, these carriers are the largest and most complex warships ever built. Powered by two nuclear reactors, Nimitz class carriers are totally self sustaining. They are capable of launching their 85 aircraft day or night and raining unbelievable death and destruction on the enemy at very short notice. But the very presence of these ships usually means that we don’t have to use them.
Twenty years ago, I was assigned to Ike as the Assistant Supply Officer. My boss was the supply officer. His job was to insure that the supply department functioned correctly in support of the ship, the captain, the air wing, and the embarked admiral and his staff. My job was to do what the supply officer told me to do. We worked really well together. Running the supply department involved; supervising 15 officers and 750 enlisted men; inventory management of 120,000 spare parts; food service (four meals a day for 5,680 men; we offered a midnight supper); providing all non tactical computer systems; running the ship’s laundry, two barbershops, and five retail stores; accounting for all ship’s purchases and receipts; paying the crew (we carried several million dollars in cash); and managing the 250 staterooms (the “hotel”) for all the officers. Oh, and we were responsible for the maintenance of our “spaces” (compartments) encompassing about 25% of the ship. No glamour and lots of work but until I came to Granville, it was the best job I ever had.
Lots of sailors get attached to their ships but Ike really was special. We called it “Ike mystique”. Everyone wanted to be assigned to Ike. The captain set the tone. He was adamant that his crew be professional, positive, and pleasant. It was a requirement that everyone get along and we did. “I like Ike” buttons were worn on our uniforms in defiance of regulations. We worked very long hours but had lots of fun doing it. Ike deployed to the Mediterranean, visited 11 different ports and met every commitment with professionalism, confidence, and a “can do” attitude. Everything just came together.
It all ended badly. Returning from that extremely successful six month deployment, just fifteen minutes from the pier in Norfolk where all of our families were waiting for us, we ran into another ship. No one was hurt but Ike sustained some damage. Collisions of navy ships, no matter how minor, are not acceptable for obvious reasons. We got a new captain shortly thereafter and what promised to be a joyful reunion became more like a funeral. It was a very sad day.
My evening with the admiral ended badly too. After a very nice dinner at his new home on the beach, I backed my rental car into his newly landscaped flower garden and knocked down the wall around it. I guess you have to take the bad with the good. You know I’m right!
My route off the base took me past the piers and, as I drove by, I saw an old friend; USS Dwight D. Eisenhower. I decided Jamestown could wait. In light of post 9/11 security, getting on board was a challenge but, with persistence and my retired military ID card, I was able to walk up the brow and enter the hangar bay. It was like coming home.
USS Dwight D. Eisenhower, or “Ike”, is the second of ten Nimitz class aircraft carriers. The final ship in the class, USS George H.W. Bush, is still being built. Displacing 97,000 tons, these carriers are the largest and most complex warships ever built. Powered by two nuclear reactors, Nimitz class carriers are totally self sustaining. They are capable of launching their 85 aircraft day or night and raining unbelievable death and destruction on the enemy at very short notice. But the very presence of these ships usually means that we don’t have to use them.
Twenty years ago, I was assigned to Ike as the Assistant Supply Officer. My boss was the supply officer. His job was to insure that the supply department functioned correctly in support of the ship, the captain, the air wing, and the embarked admiral and his staff. My job was to do what the supply officer told me to do. We worked really well together. Running the supply department involved; supervising 15 officers and 750 enlisted men; inventory management of 120,000 spare parts; food service (four meals a day for 5,680 men; we offered a midnight supper); providing all non tactical computer systems; running the ship’s laundry, two barbershops, and five retail stores; accounting for all ship’s purchases and receipts; paying the crew (we carried several million dollars in cash); and managing the 250 staterooms (the “hotel”) for all the officers. Oh, and we were responsible for the maintenance of our “spaces” (compartments) encompassing about 25% of the ship. No glamour and lots of work but until I came to Granville, it was the best job I ever had.
Lots of sailors get attached to their ships but Ike really was special. We called it “Ike mystique”. Everyone wanted to be assigned to Ike. The captain set the tone. He was adamant that his crew be professional, positive, and pleasant. It was a requirement that everyone get along and we did. “I like Ike” buttons were worn on our uniforms in defiance of regulations. We worked very long hours but had lots of fun doing it. Ike deployed to the Mediterranean, visited 11 different ports and met every commitment with professionalism, confidence, and a “can do” attitude. Everything just came together.
It all ended badly. Returning from that extremely successful six month deployment, just fifteen minutes from the pier in Norfolk where all of our families were waiting for us, we ran into another ship. No one was hurt but Ike sustained some damage. Collisions of navy ships, no matter how minor, are not acceptable for obvious reasons. We got a new captain shortly thereafter and what promised to be a joyful reunion became more like a funeral. It was a very sad day.
My evening with the admiral ended badly too. After a very nice dinner at his new home on the beach, I backed my rental car into his newly landscaped flower garden and knocked down the wall around it. I guess you have to take the bad with the good. You know I’m right!
PB4 A Solution to the Deer Problem
When I returned recently from celebrating the birthday of our glorious country on the Jersey Shore (home to nineteen varieties of biting flies), we encountered disaster: the deer had once again devoured our “deer resistant” shrubbery. It is time that our community addresses the “deer problem” once and for all. I know that there are those of you who enjoy watching the deer, and because you don’t have a yard or drive a car, want us to just leave the poor deer alone. And, as one who appreciates the great outdoors, I am sympathetic to those sentiments. But the deer have to go for three reasons. First of all the White Tailed Deer are not native to Ohio. They are therefore, I am sorry to say, illegal immigrants. Secondly, in a recent survey by the Department of Natural Resources, 95% of does were found to be pregnant. Clearly the deer are not practicing safe sex. Finally, hostas, the yard plant known to be the drug of choice among the deer population, is full of transfats and high fructose corn syrup. Deer should be eating nothing but organic weeds to stay healthy. As a public service, I have decided to try “critical thinking”, a technique recommended by teachers (but seldom actually used), to come up with a solution.
First, looking to our glorious history, I discovered that we have indeed been down this road before. In the late 1860’s, a plague of bison nearly ruined the West: some 50 million giant turf and shrubbery eating beasts roaming unchecked across the plains. Soon there were no hostas left west of the Mississippi. Trains were stopped in their tracks, waiting for the herds to pass by.
Babies born in the waiting cars were ready for school by the time the trains got going again. Americans were clamoring for something to be done. As is usual in our glorious history, a hero arose to meet the challenge, in this case a man named William Frederick Cody (his real name). William was born, not surprisingly, in Iowa. Hired by the Kansas Pacific Railroad to address the “Bison Problem”, he went to work. The first thing he did was to start calling the critters “Buffalos” to avoid the wrath of Bison lovers. Then he rounded up all his buddies and provided them with .50 cal rifles (made possible by something they had in those days called the second amendment), unlimited adult beverages, and tickets for trains headed west. When they came to a buffalo herd, they started shooting. William killed over 5000 bison himself and has been known ever since as “Buffalo Bill” (his real nickname). In very short order the hunters killed ALL the remaining buffalo, ending the “Bison Problem” forever. Unfortunately, it left a horrible gooey mess all over the landscape and the smell could be detected in Cincinnati.
I think we can do better. The one thing we’ve got going for us is that deer are stupid, dumber than a boat load of Kentuckians playing slot machines. So we take a big chunk of the recently acquired green space in Spring Valley and surround it with a 20 foot fence. Then we build a funnel shaped entrance with a narrow end and a very wide mouth. By planting row upon row of hostas from known deer areas (most of the county), we can entice the deer to follow the fence right into the narrow enclosure where they will be unable to figure out how to escape. You know, like a minnow trap. Soon all the deer in the area will be in the enclosure where they will have only a healthy diet of weeds. Perhaps the Planned NonParent Organization will donate a variety of deer contraceptives to keep them from getting in the family way. Push comes to shove, we can deport them to the “West” currently located somewhere on the Idaho/Wyoming border. Problem solved. I know it will be expensive but what choice do we have? Unless we want to go back to firearms and adult beverages . . .
There will be those that shake their heads, unconvinced, I’m sure. But YOU know I’m right.
First, looking to our glorious history, I discovered that we have indeed been down this road before. In the late 1860’s, a plague of bison nearly ruined the West: some 50 million giant turf and shrubbery eating beasts roaming unchecked across the plains. Soon there were no hostas left west of the Mississippi. Trains were stopped in their tracks, waiting for the herds to pass by.
Babies born in the waiting cars were ready for school by the time the trains got going again. Americans were clamoring for something to be done. As is usual in our glorious history, a hero arose to meet the challenge, in this case a man named William Frederick Cody (his real name). William was born, not surprisingly, in Iowa. Hired by the Kansas Pacific Railroad to address the “Bison Problem”, he went to work. The first thing he did was to start calling the critters “Buffalos” to avoid the wrath of Bison lovers. Then he rounded up all his buddies and provided them with .50 cal rifles (made possible by something they had in those days called the second amendment), unlimited adult beverages, and tickets for trains headed west. When they came to a buffalo herd, they started shooting. William killed over 5000 bison himself and has been known ever since as “Buffalo Bill” (his real nickname). In very short order the hunters killed ALL the remaining buffalo, ending the “Bison Problem” forever. Unfortunately, it left a horrible gooey mess all over the landscape and the smell could be detected in Cincinnati.
I think we can do better. The one thing we’ve got going for us is that deer are stupid, dumber than a boat load of Kentuckians playing slot machines. So we take a big chunk of the recently acquired green space in Spring Valley and surround it with a 20 foot fence. Then we build a funnel shaped entrance with a narrow end and a very wide mouth. By planting row upon row of hostas from known deer areas (most of the county), we can entice the deer to follow the fence right into the narrow enclosure where they will be unable to figure out how to escape. You know, like a minnow trap. Soon all the deer in the area will be in the enclosure where they will have only a healthy diet of weeds. Perhaps the Planned NonParent Organization will donate a variety of deer contraceptives to keep them from getting in the family way. Push comes to shove, we can deport them to the “West” currently located somewhere on the Idaho/Wyoming border. Problem solved. I know it will be expensive but what choice do we have? Unless we want to go back to firearms and adult beverages . . .
There will be those that shake their heads, unconvinced, I’m sure. But YOU know I’m right.
PB3
Shortly after I started teaching, I was busy at my desk trying to come up with a sea story to lighten up a lecture on the intricacies of the Pendleton Civil Service Act of 1883, when a student came up to me with tears in her eyes. “I’m last in the class”, she moaned. “Well, someone has to be last”, I replied. She quickly turned around and left. I immediately realized my mistake and tracked her down. We talked about what she could do to improve and that was the end of it. As I recall, she did in fact bring up her grade significantly. I don’t remember anything I said in the second conversation but I remember precisely the first. Unfortunately, I’ll bet the student does too.
Something similar happened yesterday. A friend with whom I often engage in what I consider witty repartee, came up to me with tears in her eyes and said, “My son has just left for Iraq. How should I feel?” I replied, “Happy”. Then I muttered some other inane platitudes and went on my way. Here’s what I wish I had said.
“Mom, you should feel scared and proud. Scared because bad stuff can happen in the military. The odds are very, very slim but your son could be hurt, not to mention killed. It is now estimated that over half of those who experience combat suffer some sort of psychological problems. (I’ve never been in combat. But it seems to me if you DIDN’T suffer psychological damage you must already have been a psycho.) And then there is the frequent opportunity for injury just in training.
But we all have to live in dread of the late night phone call, especially those of us with loved ones away from home. Depending on what is going on, the military is usually far safer than many other occupations. And safety is a religion in the military. Your son is among professionals who care about his welfare and will be doing absolutely everything that can be done to keep him alive and well.
Most of all, however, you should feel proud. Your son is among a small group of America’s best who have volunteered to serve their country at a time when it is not fashionable to do so. He didn’t have to do this; there is no draft and we are experiencing the best job market in years. And over half of the people in our country think what he is doing is pointless. There is nothing in the desert but sand, heat, long hours, sand, fear, boredom, and sand. Then there are the people who apparently try to kill our guys only when they are taking a break from killing each other.
The fact that your son is willing to step up and serve says as much about you as it does about him. Being a soldier is to put the lives of others ahead of one’s own. Those people for whom your son is sacrificing may be Americans who are ungrateful and overfed, or foreigners with no understanding or appreciation of his attempts to give them the means for a better life. It doesn’t matter. To be a soldier is also to be an idealist; to believe that the words of the Declaration of Independence were true in 1776, are true now, and apply to everyone, American or not. The price of independence is paid by everyday people like your son who are willing to risk it all so that we and others can live free.”
You know I’m right. Have a great Fourth of July.
Something similar happened yesterday. A friend with whom I often engage in what I consider witty repartee, came up to me with tears in her eyes and said, “My son has just left for Iraq. How should I feel?” I replied, “Happy”. Then I muttered some other inane platitudes and went on my way. Here’s what I wish I had said.
“Mom, you should feel scared and proud. Scared because bad stuff can happen in the military. The odds are very, very slim but your son could be hurt, not to mention killed. It is now estimated that over half of those who experience combat suffer some sort of psychological problems. (I’ve never been in combat. But it seems to me if you DIDN’T suffer psychological damage you must already have been a psycho.) And then there is the frequent opportunity for injury just in training.
But we all have to live in dread of the late night phone call, especially those of us with loved ones away from home. Depending on what is going on, the military is usually far safer than many other occupations. And safety is a religion in the military. Your son is among professionals who care about his welfare and will be doing absolutely everything that can be done to keep him alive and well.
Most of all, however, you should feel proud. Your son is among a small group of America’s best who have volunteered to serve their country at a time when it is not fashionable to do so. He didn’t have to do this; there is no draft and we are experiencing the best job market in years. And over half of the people in our country think what he is doing is pointless. There is nothing in the desert but sand, heat, long hours, sand, fear, boredom, and sand. Then there are the people who apparently try to kill our guys only when they are taking a break from killing each other.
The fact that your son is willing to step up and serve says as much about you as it does about him. Being a soldier is to put the lives of others ahead of one’s own. Those people for whom your son is sacrificing may be Americans who are ungrateful and overfed, or foreigners with no understanding or appreciation of his attempts to give them the means for a better life. It doesn’t matter. To be a soldier is also to be an idealist; to believe that the words of the Declaration of Independence were true in 1776, are true now, and apply to everyone, American or not. The price of independence is paid by everyday people like your son who are willing to risk it all so that we and others can live free.”
You know I’m right. Have a great Fourth of July.
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