My Christmas Story.......................Good Grief.

I typically abhor Christmas, and the holiday season in general. I run from it. Ask my sisters, many are the stories of me running cursing and screaming from their houses because I just couldn’t handle making the sweet tea, or going out for ice. I’m not kidding I wish I was, but I’m not. I’m a holiday jerk. This year, as I’ve aged to the ripe old age of 43 I may be reconsidering some of these long held/bull-headed thoughts I’ve had over the years. Basically, I’m tired of being a selfish butthole.

First, lets look at the Peanuts Christmas Story. I was raised on this show. I missed it once, and I cried so much, and there was nothing mom or dad could do; it was horrible. The Peanuts Christmas Story is near perfection. It still amazes me on so many levels. How did “they” allow this subversive message out? The networks must have been insane. This is one of the things I absolutely love about Christmas. Charlie Brown is one of my heroes. In spite of certain failure and disaster, he muscles up and gives it his all. Charlie Brown is like us, he’s got no money and is caught in large world that’s hard nearly incomprehensible to understand. This makes his struggles seem not only real but epic. His efforts to find the perfect tree for the Christmas Play are akin to the Labors of Hercules. If Charlie Brown had a tatoo it would probably say something catchy like, “Don’t Give Up the Ship”. Christmas and Peanuts go together like pecans in pie.

I’ve spent Christmas’s all over the world Spain, Afghanistan, Knoxville, and now Iraq. But the  ones I remember the most fondly are in Cowan, Tennessee. We always, cut our own tree. Dad would usually go riding around in the woods and grab a Cedar Tree off the side of the road. Dad liked the Cedar cause it smelled so good, and didn’t get sap everywhere. Later, when I was in high-school me and mom went Christmas Tree hunting. We’d drive around some Cowan backroads and found a nice one. Me and Mom got out of the car, and were sizing it up. Just as I was ready to go to chopping with my trusty Boy Scout Hatchet Mom says, “Garry what’s that over there?” “Oh, that’s somebody’s house, and it looks like were standing in their front yard.” I replied. We back out nice and slow. We drove down the road and turned off onto a dirt road. We drove down a hill and around a little bend. Parking the car we got out and surveyed the landscape. Lots of fine Cedars to choose from. All of sudden, there’s blue lights! An unmarked police car is coming right at us with the blue dash light blazing. Mom screams, “Ahhhhh!!!” I’m totally confused. Then out jumps my buddy Eric grinning from ear to ear. “Gotcha!” I nearly pee my pants. Mom made him stay and help me chop down the tree. The tree is key. I still have a lot of the old faded decorations we had as kids.

Carroling, we always we went carroling. I pretended to hate it. We’d get out of school to walk around Cowan and sing. We always sang to the retired people and shut-ins. They loved it. Sometimes they’d have a cookie for us, but mostly just big smiles. My favorite song was, “Bring me some Piggy Pudding and Bring it right Now!” I would be scream-singing this at the top of my lungs. It was so funny. Luckily, our audience was largely hard of hearing. My teachers however, were not and I received more than one “stink eye” over my poetic license. It would be cold, we’d be out walking up and down the streets singing to homes and the local businesses. Afterwards, back in our classroom, somehow Hot Chocolate would be waiting with one of those extra-large marshmellows floating in the middle of it. We always had a big Christmas Tree in the classroom, and made the decorations for it out of construction paper and popcorn stringers.

Christmas plays, as a child I started out as a mere shepard, clothed in my Dad’s blue tartan robe. One year, I got to wear the electric blue terry cloth rob, and let’s just say it was badass. I was the ELECTRIC-NEON-DREAM-COAT-TECHNA-COLOR-SHEPARD! I liked being the shepard, nobody expected much, you just stood there next to the plastic sheep. Good times. Of course, I was always aggravated I never got picked to be Joseph. Dane Myers always got to be Joseph. Jealousy ran through my veins like sausage gravey over a homemade biscuit. Honestly, I was really jealous. However, one year I got to play the mean inn keeper. The one that “has no room”, that was me. So I’m in my cardboard inn, and Mary & Joseph (D.M.) walk up and ask meekly, “Do you have a place to for us to stay?” My cackle was heard echoing through the entire church, AAAAHHHHAAAHAHAHAHAAHAA…………….I’m 10 years old. “Room! Room for you!” I bellow. “We don’t serve your kind kind here!” I sneer as only a 10 year old child reared on the full-measure of 80’s sit-coms can sneer. My church is cracking up and laughing. Mary & Joseph are truly laughing and horror stricken at the same time. I’m laughing so hard on the inside, so hard. The Church Play Director, doesn’t know what to think, she just shakes her head. God Bless her soul for putting up with me. I was, and am a complete lunatic. Afterwards, all the old guys in the Church were patting me on the back and laughing congratulating me on a stellar performance. I imagine they were problably quite sleepy until I started yelling and making a scene.

My last Christmas play was “Mistletoe Macho”. It was a train wreck.  We were all frustrated hormonal teenagers. Because of my previous  shenanigans I had somehow moved into the lead role of “The Mistletoe Macho”. I never looked at my lines and had the poor Choir Director in tears. No really, at one point she was crying telling me how awful I was. She wanted to cancel the whole thing, but that wasn’t an option. Everyone else in the play went to the rich private school, Saint Andrews Sewanee up on the mountain. They were all in Drama Class, and took French and Latin. There was no way I could compete with that! So I just didn’t take it seriously, but somehow on performance night I managed to make it work to much appluase and laughter. Afterwards, I apologized to Cyntheia, our wonderful Choir Director.

What is Christmas without food! I was always the kid that liked to eat, still am. I eat my stress. I eat, and swallow my stress and anxiety to keep it deep inside where no one can see it. I would highly recommend this as the preferred method for dealing with lifes tribulations. Holiday feasts are mighty to behold and better to paratake. My Mom would always go above and beyond. Here repretoire was extensive. She made the best chocolate chip cookies. Especially, these Date-Nut-Ball things that were just amazing. Mom made it all. Here recipes were tried and true, perfected over decades.

Christmas dinners at my parents house are some of my happiest memories. My nephew Randy and I were invariably racing trucks through the house. The older folks would try relaxing until it became too much, and we were told to either go outside or locked in a room until we’d worn ourselves out. Christmas dinner involved the one time a year I saw my Dad pray in public. He always had a gift for words, and his offerings of thanksgivings and blessings were one of the few peaceful moments the busy little house on Hines Street ever experienced. My sister Faye, always had this amazing orange cranberry sauce. Glenda would bring pie, she makes the best crust ever. One year, around 1980 Mom had an organic impulse. Dad had to go and buy a live turkey. He kept the poor thing in the trunk of the car all day, till the fateful hour. When Dad opened the trunck out it popped in a flurry of feathers and squaks. Running all over the yard and neighborhood until they got it corned in the garage with the ax. Then, off came its head, no telling what the neighbors thought. Then Dad had to pluck it, he conned Faye into helping him pluck the bird, it was back braking work. Finally, Dad built a fire in the  backyard, and rigged up the old cast iron cauldron over my swing set. It was a Shakespearean Tragedy and Tom Turkey the star. “Double Double Toil and Trouble Fire will Burn and Couldron Bubble!” Then he gave the bird a good scalding to get the feathers off. Mom was never so happy. It was good eating too. When the Shores go Organic, its gonna be interesting for sure.

          Christmas morning, I always had a pile of toys. Thinking about it now I understand how much my Dad had to work to make that happen, and I feel guilty for being the kind of kid that had to have a bunch of toys to be happy. My Dad never had anything, and never wanted anything. He raised his kids, he wasn’t perfect by any means, but he hung in there when many people would have run away. Mom and Dad would stay up late cookinng the turkey and wrapping presents while we kids slept, or tried to sleep. I remember the day my brother got his 30-30 Marlin Hunting Rifle. I would get the same rifle in honor of him years later (I still have it). Christmas was the day we’d all sit around our tiny house and enjoy each others company. Somehow I always ended up with a toy race track. It had controllers and you’d race these electric cars around the track. Me and dad would play that thing for hours. I had one that was Star Wars themed and Dad would always be Darth Vader, and he would win. Luke Skywalker rarely won when my Dad was behind the wheel of his Tie-Fighter. It would make me so mad. We would have so much fun. It was one of the few days everyone seemed relaxed. Mom and Dad were glad to have pulled off another Christmas making there kids happy. My Mom and Dad worked so hard to give us stuff, stuff in hindsight I didn’t really need. Looking back on it all I am grateful for all they gave me. They gave me a safe childhood, and I was loved and cared for. That is no mean feat. It’s funny, I know people who’ve had money and wealth their entire lives. I’d not change places with them for one minute. This is what Christmas means to me, it wasn’t perfect. But it’s what I had, and that’s all I need.

 

 

 

 

OF SALAMANDERS AND DAYS GONE BY..........MARCH 2015

 


 “The walking of which I speak has nothing in it akin to taking exercise, as it is called, as the sick take medicine at stated hours …but it is itself the enterprise and adventure of the day.”
― Henry David Thoreau, Walking

The Cumberland Plateau
Photo courtesy of Jeanell Weintraub

March is here, the weather is milder and the rain is pouring. The plateau is soaking it up, overflowing, the creeks which have lain dormant are now actively running. Flowing over and under rocks and debris, the air is alive with the smell of rich decay. You can smell the forest on the wind. Busting down the trail, wind in my lungs the smells are amazing. This is my land. I am a son of the plateau. My father would bring me up to the mountain as a kid. We’d mostly go up to Morgan’s Steep or to The Cross and go for hikes, where he’d identify trees for me. He would rattle off their names like you would the names of your favorite nieces and nephews. He knew them well. We’d walk around, usually wearing identical hats of the camouflage/hunting variety. My favorite was a sporty one that was two-sided. Camouflage on one side Blaze Orange on the other, for hunting of course. I’ve never been much of a hunter, mostly just walking for me. Outside in the sun, wind, and rain. It was here on the Plateau where I learned to walk, truly walk. Walking not to reach any particular destination, but to ramble, explore to see what’s out there in the unknown. Walking in and of itself is ultimately divinely gratifying. The Domain, located at The University of the South in Sewanee, Tennessee has left a strong indelible print on my life that continues to guide me to this very day.

            Today is a great day, with all the rain everything looks like it’s been scrubbed clean. 

The Perimeter Trail Sewanee TN

The forest is bright, the browns and greens are popping and the sky is blue. The temperature is mild, shirtsleeves of course. My favorite place right now is out by the Forestry Cabin, where I then proceed to tramp and tumble down the Perimeter Trail. The trail circumnavigates “The Domain” of the University of the South in Sewanee Tennessee. It’s perched in a small corner of The Plateau conveniently located within six miles of my home in Cowan. This trial in its current form has been around since the mid 1980’s, I remember them completing sometime around 1992 or thereabouts. The Trail goes for around 20 miles or so, but it is cross-cut, intersected, and supplemented with so many other side-trails, old logging roads, and foot paths. You could lose yourself for years just tramping up and down this geography. It may be laid out on the map one way, but once your boots are on the ground, your experience may be different. Maps and compass are the tools of the trade for exploration. However, they are no substitute for wander-lust and strong legs. Otherwise, all your equipment will simply gather dust. Tennyson in his great poem Ulysses writes:

“Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
it may be that the gulfs will wash us down

It may be that we shall touch the Happy Isles”

  A. Tennyson – Ulysses

 The Cumberland Plateau, named after William “The Butcher” Augustus, Duke of Cumberland 

who defeated the Scottish Clans at the Battle of Culloden Moor. It was the humble Dukes treatment of the wounded that earned him the nickname “The Butcher”. April 16^th 1746, the Battle of Culloden Moor resulted in a devastating defeat for the Scottish Clans fighting under the Jacobite banner and secured the House of Hannover to the English throne for years to come. The Scottish defeat sent many fleeing across the sea to the new colonies where they found refuge and new life in the land named after a hated foe.  Geologically the Plateau is a mighty wonder. Millennia ago, the Middle Tennessee area consisted of a vast inland sea ringed with marshes and wetlands. Over the years sediments were deposited and layer upon layer of sandstone, coal, and limestone were laid down. During this time, movement of the Earth’s plates caused this “Appalachian Basin” to rise higher and higher. Over eons, this created a plateau that stretchers from modern day Southern New York all the way to North Alabama. This became what we now call the Cumberland Plateau. This geography is home to an immense diversity of plant, animal, and recently human species.
      My life’s experience with the Cumberland Plateau is entwined like a mighty grape vine with the Sewanee Perimeter Trail.    The Perimeter Trail first appeared on the planning books in 1984 and after many spurts and stops was officially completed in 1992. A healthy donation from Albert Roberts III of St Petersburg, Florida allowed for its completion and continued maintenance. The trail had been there before any of this official work commenced, but it was poorly mapped and lacked coherence. Signs now point the wanderer to various look outs and points of interest. The trail side maps are done in bronze for longevity. However, these are looking a little long in the tooth and show their age accordingly.
     The Perimeter Trail was established as a means to identify, unite, and map existing trails into a trail system that would be maintained for generations. Much of the trail system incorporates older trails, man-ways, game trails, and fire lanes. Notably, the Civilian Conservation Corps built several sections including the Arcadian, Corso, and the Shakerag Hollow trails, during the Great Depression of the 1930’s. The trail today is well marked, maintained, and attracts not only University students but folks from all over the county and beyond.  The trail snakes, winds, and circumambulates out and around The Domain of the University of the South for 18 t0 20 miles.    
     The trail provides me with continued activity and thought. I am a devotee of its circuitous paths and trails. Running the path is a tonic for my soul. Except for the time I ran into two unleashed dogs. Not so funny, my favorite line for this is, “Oh they wouldn’t bite you.” How am I supposed to know this? I was already plotting my escape, giving them some loud shouts, staring them down, and generally making a spectacle of myself. Luckily their owners appeared around the bend. I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t say what was on my mind, because it would not have been polite at all. I kept on trucking down the path.
     Usually I park my BRIGHT RED FORD BRONCO out by the gate which takes you out to the Olde Forestry Cabin. I run down the path. To my right is mixed hard woods of varying ages and species; to the left is a pine forest of some age. Their uniformity gives rise to suspicion of something deliberate. In the middle of the Pines is a clearing. In the clearing, someone/somebody has deemed it imperative to erect a weather station. The clearing is strange, encircled as it is with tall dark foreboding pine trees. It’s obviously of druid cult origins who used it for arcane rituals to communicate with beings from beyond space and time is unquestionable. However, the Elder Gods, The Crawling Chaos, and the Black Goat with a Thousand Young (too much H.P. Lovecraft as a child) have all been banished, replaced by the gods of science, research, and technology. The clearing is now simply a weather recording station, which it does so with calm scientific efficiency.  Just past the druid circle I go left and plunge at headlong full sprint down the Perimeter Trail. Foot catches root, then I’m tumbling and rolling as I continue down the trail, righting my trajectory, checking my zeal, and slowing the pace I marvel at the creation that unfolds.  The great plateau is worn and eroded, its rock exposed like bare skin. I marvel at the sandstone veined with minerals and ore, the lichens and moss clinging tightly. Stripped Wintergreen peaks out from the leaf litter, the smells on the wind. It’s all there. It’s all so incomprehensibly vibrant, a man could spend his life exploring and learning here and still only barely scratch the surface of understanding.

 I’ve been exploring the plateau and its environs for several decades with varying

The elusive Spotted Salamander

levels of intensity. It has always provided space for refuge, camaraderie, learning, and reflection. I am forever indebted and bound to this land, that my friends is a strange thing to say. But that is the way it is. Jogging down an old fire break, White Pines gracefully towering on either side the vaulting limbs intersect creating an atmosphere ethereal, holy as one of the great cathedrals of old. Alone I run the length of the road. It’s quiet with the exception of squirrels digging and jumping. I steadfastly follow the blue trail marks, and soon I’m back on the “main” road that runs through these hinterlands. There’s a University Van parked on the side of the road. Curious, I slow down and start looking around. There a vernal pool that’s formed due to the spring rains, it’s about an acre in size. These pools form during the spring, and slowly disappear over the dry summer months. The University has seen fit to ring it with tin sheeting. Interesting, hmmm.  A woman is tromping around in a pair of galoshes, she hasn’t seem me yet. I’m tempted to just continue my run and not bother her, but I’m curious so I give her my best, “Howdy there, what are you doing?” I query. Oh hey! She says. So I ask a few simple questions, and she goes on to tell me how she is out here studying the Spotted Salamander, and that this is it’s mating season in the early spring when these vernal pools form the get their mating rituals on, and lay eggs. Salamanders use vernal pools due to the lack of predatory fish which love to eat salamander eggs. The tin ring drives the salamanders through small openings and into waiting buckets. Then everyday, students come out to count and release them. The student goes on to tell me, this is her first time doing field work, and its really enjoyable, she’s from some place up North, and hasn’t spent much time outside I learn. She is finding this work very rewarding. She digs into a bucket and pulls out a Salamander thick roped, black slimy a full hand length long, it’s marvelous. I’ve never seen one of these, I say. It’s a Ambystoma maculatum and we’ve counted well over a 1000 specimens. She goes on to tell me these are mole salamanders, living the majority of their life deep in the leaf litter emerging at night to feed, and in the spring to mate. She shows me the poison glands on the back and under the neck. I tell her that I’ve been walking these trails for a long time and haven’t seen any Salamanders before today, I tell her how glad I am that she chatted with me. Bidding farewell, I try my best to file all this away in my mind for regurgitation into story form at a later date, but I’ve got a lot of ground left to cover and miles to go before I sleep.

A special thanks to the following:

The University of the South Archives – they were extremely gracious to me.

Wikipedia for photos of Salamanders (I didn’t have my camera that day)

Lance Brock – For running around in the woods with me.

Jeanell Weintraub - photograph

The University of the South Dupont Library – for books on Salamanders and 

providing information about the archives.

Happy Thanksgiving Ya'll...................................

November 21, 2015

 

The fall colors are fading and upon gossamer wings the holiday of turkey feasts approaches rapidly approaches. Thanksgiving! Thanksgiving, is a word that warms the heart of many an American. However, Fall Harvest festivals are known throughout the land, so I feel that Thanksgiving is a holiday that can be easily appreciated across the culture spectrum.

That notion is especially poignant this time around, as I am sitting in an abandoned Boeing airplane hangar in Iraq, Southwest Asia that is. For starters, let’s be thankful for the weather. At this moment I am not being cooked in the infernal oven that is Iraq, I can sit outside comfortably and engage in pleasant niceties with folks, all without the fear of bursting spontaneously into flame. Like a drunk pinnate doused in kerosene and lit on fire with a bunch bottle rockets in neighbors back yard. Never happened, I wasn’t there.  So I’m thankful, to not be subjugated to 125F heat, and when people tell you, “Oh it’s a dry heat.” At 125F, it’s hot so hot your eyeballs are cooking. That argument holds no water when its 125F.

Seriously, I’m thankful for my Mom. I love my Mom. Growing up she was the best Mom you could have ever hoped to have. She spoiled me, really spoiled me growing up. I wish I had appreciated it more, and understood things outside of my own selfish needs. I wish I’d given her and Dad more attention, but that’s water under the bridge. If I could go back in time and spend more time with Mom and Dad I’d do it in an instant, but I can’t. I miss my Dad every day, and I miss Mom to0. Soo I call, and chat her up. It’s great, and I’m thankful for the time I’ve gotten to spend with her. My advice, spend time with your folks those connections are worth more than anything you could ever buy or yearn for.

I also, have absolutely wonderfully sisters, brother, and various nieces, nephews, cousins, and in-laws. They’ve always been great to me. They treat me way better than I deserve. It’s nice to have family members you mostly get along with, sure there’s been some rough spots, but that’s part of life.

Our CF instructor Jence prepares for class.

I’m thankful for Denmark, they are Vikings. Vikings are bloodthirsty, war crazed barbarians, that once upon a time struck fear into the heart of Europe. The ogre Grendel met a Viking once, and got his arm ripped off in the process. They make Chewbacca look like a lap dog. The Vikings are fun. I’ve recently had the good fortune to be stationed with the Danish Army. They are some of the nicest most professional soldiers I’ve met. Truly, nice people, but they are also Vikings. The Vikings are fun. They have embraced the circuit training regime known as “Cross Fit” with gust-o. Three times a week they hold their ritual. I and my colleague Jerry are allowed in because my Danish Counterpart Thomas the Nurse vouches for our character, and desire to murder and pillage.  Every Wednesday we have a special happy time known as “Viking Raid”.  I am thankful for “Viking Raid”. Jence, a Viking/Certified CF Trainer describes the circuit. First, we will do 100 rows (lifting a weight or your choosing from the floor to your, shoulders) then we will run to the City, and stop at the Farmhouse (run, and do 10 burpee push-ups). Then we will run back on to the City. We will then do 200 Hammer Swings (hitting a tire with a hammer) and climb over the wall and into the houses. This necessitates 50 box jump burpees. Then we will grab our loot (weights of your choosing) and run, run, run back to the boats. Yes, we have to stop at the farm house and do burpee-pushups. Then it’s load your loot into the boat with 50 overhead presses and complete the evolution by doing 100 more rows……………….I love this, it keeps me sweating.

I’m thankful for my family and friends without them life would indeed be a bleak monotony punctuated with flashes of grotesque boredom. Not only am I thankful for friends I’m glad to be a friend. Being a friend is not an easy task. I rate my friends and family on the inconvenience scale. Essentially, how much can you inconvenience someone is directly proportional how dear they are to your heart. If someone ever says, “I can’t be bothered with that now.” Be concerned about the depth of your friendship. If they say, “Sure let’s do this, and grab some Senor Taco when were done.” Then you have found someone that is “True Blue”, well worth keeping. That’s my two cents on the subject of friendship. I can honestly say to my friends and family, you treat me better than I deserve, and I’m grateful.

Garry Shores 2010

I’m thankful to serve, growing up I was always fascinated by Dad. He had all these uniforms, and once a week he went to this place where they had a tank! (The local National Guard Armory). And he had all these pictures of him when he was in Germany, out in the woods. All my uncles served in WWII, in various positions. My Uncle Clifford was with the 1^st Marine Division and fought on Guadalcanal and Bougainville. . Where he was wounded in a mortar attack. My Aunt Rena served as a WAC Nurse and cared for the wounded returning from the Pacific Theater. I idolize my Father, Brother, Uncles, and Aunt who served. I joined the Navy in 1991 and was discharged in 1995. Rejoining as a Naval Reserve Officer in 2005 has been a life changing experience. People are always thanking for serving. Honestly, it makes me nervous. But I don’t mind, I truly enjoy serving and am thankful to have the good health to do this. Also, the support I get from my family, friends, and church is remarkable to say the least. It seems like I’m always running off leaving you guys and you’re always supporting me. As a nurse, the finest thing I’ve had the privilege to do is care for our wounded, and I couldn’t have done it without everyone’s encouragement and steadfast loyalty.

Greg Shores in the cockpit of an F18

 

 

Happy Thanksgiving ya’ll

Garry W Shores

THE CHURCH OF TYPE....................FROM THE SOUTH TO SANTA MONICA

THE CHURCH OF TYPE YA'LL

                   

 

        Sometimes the best move is too just leave. Pick yourself up and head for uncharted territory. The difficulty is in realizing your dilemma, like the frog in hot water not realizing you’re being boiled alive. This probably happens more often than you think. Blessed are those with insight into their station. Not everyone is able to read the cards on the table, fold their hand, and move on with it. Picking up your life and moving on is no mean feat. It requires a great deal of sacrifice, loss, and loads of self-esteem. My friend, Kevin Bradley did this. He left a successful business in Knoxville and set out for the uncharted lands of the West. If Los Angeles is the city of angels then Santa Monica is the Valley of the up and coming, the soon to be. Pico Boulevard in particular contains a bizarre assortment of businesses and activities. All of which is a feast for the imagination. Kevin has a unique ability to find original and authentic urban cultural landscapes. He did it in downtown Knoxville (before there was such a thing) and he’s done it again in Santa Monica. This area has been thriving for some time, but the presence of the Church of Type adds significantly to its bohemian atmosphere. 

          I’ve known Kevin since my glory days in Knoxxxville, land of vice – land of opportunity.  The year was 1998, and I, Garry W. Shores was living in Fort Sanders, a magnificent college ghetto. I had a humble apartment at 1537 Laurel Avenue. A large white and yellow wedding cake styled Victorian home built in late 1800’s. I lived out back in the carriage house while attending the University. It was filled with rowdies, college students, bands, and other such ne’er do wells. Living above us all was Mark Sarhoff, his wife my landlord, and he. Well he was a legend in the making. Mark owned a row of four or five buildings on Jackson Avenue. The problem was they were in deplorable condition. He showed me around, telling me I could live in one, but I couldn’t tell anyone, or have visitors as nothing was up to code, and people up the hill were hitting golf balls through the windows. I passed on the offer, but then he got me into the carriage house, and I started doing odd jobs for “the man”. He had me driving up and down the interstate in the middle of the night looking for Orange Barrels and Traffic Cones for his construction projects. I managed his parking lots till 4AM on the weekends. I sold cars, and did some insurance work for him. It was more like an underworld career than just a job. Weekends at four in the morning were spent huddled over kaa-bobs and shwarma’s at the Ali Baba Deli on Kingston Pike. Me, Mark, and my squeeze Dea, laughing and cutting up at four in the morning at a Middle Eastern deli in Knoxville, chugging beers in the parking lot. Life was strange.

One morning in around 1998 or there abouts, I awoke to find a street fair in progress, rising with difficulty, my head still thick with libations from the previous night’s I rallied, and out I went to the “Fair”. It was a typical Fort Sanders event. People shuffling around nursing hang-overs or drinking Bloody Mary’s a few tables set up with hippies selling hemp jewelry and glass pipes. The odd skate-boarder, a few randoms standing around smoking cigarettes, all standing around waiting for something to happen that never will. A few tents lined the street, to hawk their varied wares.  Armed with only a cup of coffee in hand, I ventured forth into the unknown. It was at this “Fair” I met Kevin and his Yee-Haw Industrial Letterpress. From that moment, I was on board. I stood transfixed and transcended, like Paul of Tarsus struck blind on the road to Galilee I was hit with the great and mighty thunderclap of Industrial Letterpress. The weather was cloudy, overcast but not too cold or windy. Kevin had just bought the infamous building on Gay Street. I used to take naps on the couch in the display window, next to the giant Piggly Wiggly Head. I know, it makes no sense. Kevin had a couch in the display window an old Victorian Couch with the stuffing coming out and it smelled like your grandma, but it was I a really long couch and sleeping on it was pretty nice.

          Soon, I began pulling down letterpress posters wherever I found them. I still have a few from those days. My favorite all time is the haunted pie social at the 11^th Street Espresso House. I acquired this one from the “Old Food Co-op” on Broadway. At the old food co-op you could hang out on the front bench and have a cold one with whoever was on break, like my good friend Sandi Walker. On the back of the 11^th Street Espresso House Poster it says “Save for Lark” then next to it is written, “Claimed by Garry W. Shores”. Possession is 9/10 the law my friends, my Dad taught me that. It reminds me of better, simpler times. They weren’t innocent by any stretch, but there was much less worry than there is now. Everyone didn’t have a cell phone, the internet hadn’t gotten so dumb, wireless didn’t exist (except for clunky phones), and nobody was “jihading” anybody. We were still fighting in places, but folks weren’t getting their heads sawed off at the grocery store either. They were good times.

          However, nothing stays the same, stagnation is inevitable and if we don’t keep on trucking then we’re done for. For good reason Kevin needed to move on, and he did. To Santa Monica California, and he has made it his own. Rising from the ashes like the phoenix of old - his creation, the mighty ziggurat of communication the indomitable CHURCH OF TYPE is the gold standard by which all letterpress is measured. I was in California, doing some training with the Navy, and I hadn’t seen Kevin in some time. We reconnected via social media, as people are want to do in the modern age. I found Pico Boulevard, Santa Monica. This Temple of Typeface is hard to miss, and all day I witnessed a stream of parishioners, penitents, and reprobates coming and going as the spirit took them. The space, though smaller is filled with old memories, and shelf upon shelf of ancient letterpress type. Kevin has the largest letterpress in the Los Angeles area and is making good use of it. I arrived Saturday morning, first thing after catching up we meet the neighbors. Pastry Chefs! They make the best croissants and everything else that’s yummy. His other neighbor is a Vietnamese lady that serves up Asian delights for lunch. Across the street is Trader Joes.

          The Church of Type is filled with Art, Letterpress taken to newer and more exalted heights of creativity and inventiveness. The Robot Series! The Robot Series breaks into the building blocks of type. Turning them literally into the circuitry boards of machinery creating a combination of robotic-mechanized-monster-machines that will expand your notions, and make you feel childlike with wonder once more. Vibrant hues, poetry, and robotic imagery combine to challenge your imagination. The robotic nuance has been advanced ten-fold. They speak, with magic eyes – it’s hard to believe two dimensions can move in such a manner. The Robots are on the whirly-gig march, it’s time to join their parade. Destructor, Voltor, Lovtron, and Transistor accept no substitutes, these are 100% original and 110% Kevin Bradley at his finest. Destined for fame and good fortune get yours today! Words are just words, to truly appreciate Church of Type seeing is believing, and you won’t believe your eyes brothers and sisters when you feast your eyes on the Robotic Mayhem of Pico Boulevard.

It lunch time so me, Kevin, and his intern jump into my tiny-small car and head out he gives directions. I follow directions. We go to the Apple Pan and order burgers, thick Spanish accents, “Do you know what you want?” I order a burger, this place is famous for its burgers. The Apple Pan is a classic LA Diner. It’s owned and operated by some 2^nd and 3^rd generation Mexican-Americans, and to say the place is crowded and vibrant would actually be an understatement. A “U-Shaped” Linoleum countertop with the masses crammed elbow to elbow and line almost out the door. The humidity is palpable there’s no AC in LA it’s California weather, which is typically low on the humidity and filled with cool breezes, but not today. The lady sitting next to me, starts talking me up. We get on well, she’s a music teacher and singer. For some reason, she keeps telling me how married she is. I share my pie with her. She orders me a to go pie, all for me. It’s not weird, I’m in California land of the strange. Meanwhile back at the shop………………..

The Church of Type - Brothers and sister is worthy of praise and stands high on the mountain. Guaranteed to Illuminate, Educate, and provide Revelations deeper understanding of the profound questions that vex mankind. To Paraphrase Mr. Kevin Bradley, “When in doubt make art, be nice to people, and you’ll be just fine.”  

 

THE CHURCH OF TYPE

                        3215 PICO BOULEVARD SANTA MONICA
                                                            CALIFORNIA
                                          310-310-3951
                                               WWW.CHURCHOFTYPE.COM
                                      CHURCHOFTYPE@GMAIL.COM
                            all photos used with the kind permission of K. Bradley

Camouflage and its various manifestations a short primer

Camouflage and its various manifestations a short primer

 

 

 

     I love camouflage. No really, since I was a small child I have adored the musty smell of damp canvas and all things green. There is a photo of me as a small three-year-old child attempting to wear my dad’s olive drab M-65 Field Jacket. So as usual for many of our addictions and hang-ups we can blame our parents. My affection for camouflage and the art of concealment stem directly from father-son time spent at the local National Guard Armory. Good times, they were. For many years now I’ve been an ardent, passionate collector of all things camouflage. I’m a veritable “Camo-Fashionista” so much so that I often forget the purpose. Namely, to hide yourself so you don’t get shot or blown up by the bad guys.

I’m a fan of military camouflage all era’s, all geographies, and countries. No pattern has escaped the watchful eye of Garry W. Shores. However, I will not bore you with the details of various British DPM (disruptive pattern material) patterns as it evolves from light to dark over the decades. Nor will I discuss WWII German SS Camouflage at all. I purposely know very little about it because its permutations and vagaries are just too much for this feeble mind to fully grasp. Vietnam era Tiger Stripe is difficulty enough. This essay will discuss camouflage as it relates to a question posed to me by an old friend, Ron Ramsey. He asks, “What is the best camouflage pattern for the Southeast, especially the Western North Carolina Region?” I will attempt an uncomplicated yet biased answer.

For starters concealment is a difficult thing. The modern world we live in is urban. It’s increasingly developed, with true wilderness being continually subjugated to the machinations of development. Consequently, in today’s urban/MOUT (military operation urban terrain) environment it is essential to blend in. In the urban setting, camouflage usually stands out. It signals a socio-economic status (low) and an educational level (low). If you need to blend in, and look like a redneck go to Wal-Mart, grab some Real-Tree Camo and thermal underwear. You’ll be fine I swear. Also, the poorer and dirtier you look the more people will overlook you. After all, the homeless are the great unseen. So if you need to blend in fast, swing by the local Thrift-Store and grab some clothes. The baggier, the better. The only people who tend to give homeless people a second glance are the police, so watch what you’re doing. The opposite could also be true, well dressed folks are scarcely hassled, and you could have your favorite camo stored in the trunk of your car for quick access. The point here is to consciously avoid the tacti-cool look. Stay away from 511 Gear, Operator Packs, especially the ball-cap with the American Flag velcroed to the front (dead giveaway). Throw your guns and knives in a regular book bag or messenger bag. I’m the worst at this I love camo-jackets and pants. I wear this stuff all the time, but I live in a small rural town where this is the norm.  Look at what’s normal for your area, and use that as your go-by.

      Diving right into the camo debate my favorite stand-by is OG-107 (Olive Green Shade 107). It is my favorite color on the face of the earth. As a child I wore OG-107 Sateen pants, and now J. Crew has a version. Of course theirs are slimmer and the material is not the same, but I doubt the J. Crew version will wear for 20+ years and still hold together, buttons and all. Green, plain and simple olive drab is hands down one of the best all-purpose camouflages on the market. It is versatile in urban or jungle environments and is easily obtainable. “Jungle Greens” as their called, were worn by US forces from the early 60’s all the way into the invasions of Grenada and Panama in the 80’s. Lightweight, breathable cotton is perfect for hot summer environments. They also make stronger more modern versions of this timeless camouflage classic, but me I stick with the cotton. I’ve not frozen to death in July yet. The Vietnam era Jungle Fatigue pants were notorious for ripping out the crotch, backside, and knees. The newer versions have those areas reinforced appropriately.

One of my favorite camouflage patterns is the British DPM pattern. Developed in the 60’s by the British Army this pattern is well suited to the Southeast. They make a summer/jungle variant and also a desert version. The desert version is especially handy during the fall and winter months. You can mix/match tops and bottoms. For example, if your standing in a tree line. Desert bottoms would mimic the ground and brush cover while the darker top would be your low hanging foliage. I learned this technique from an instructor at the Marine Corps Mountain Warfare Training Center in California. I like the British DPM because it is readily available, cheap, and it works. Cheap is good because prices for new camouflage uniforms can run $80 and up brand new, and used means the inventory may be limited to smaller sizes. Also, many of the “cooler” patterns have been discontinued making them hard to find and expensive. British camouflage is also tough, hard wearing, and long lasting. Other patterns that are good for “our neck of the woods include: Duck Hunter, Woodland, ERDL, and Rhodesian Camo.

I’ll discuss each pattern in turn, Duck Hunter is a classic splotch/leopard style print that has been around in various degrees since WWII. The Marines referred to it as “Frogskins”. The US Army briefly dabbled with this pattern until they kept getting mistaken for Waffen SS Soldiers. So they went back to their good old OD Green. Duck Hunter pattern was really popular in the good old days. It was the go-to camo for hunting. When the CIA decided to launch the Bay of Pigs Invasion what camo were the Cuban Anti-Communists wearing. Why yes it was Duck Hunter. When the CIA & JFK started sending advisors and Green Berets into Vietnam can you guess what camo they chose? Right again, the early advisors wore Duck Hunter Camo. If it’s good enough for CIA it’s good enough for you dear reader. The only drawback is, it usually doesn’t hold up to continued use and it’s made of cotton, which could be a potential liability. It really blends in good during the fall, and depending what style/color you find it will work very well in lusher environments as well.

Woodland Camo, is old school now. It’s good all around camo and can be had very cheaply. It’s solidly constructed too. And works in most wooded environments. I like this camo, I grew up with it. The only negative side to Woodland is the black. Black doesn’t occur in nature. You’ll notice the new Multi-cam omits this color. But I wouldn’t get hung up on that. When I was working down in Mindanao, Philippines all the Army SF guys were wearing it. One guy who was just reporting in was still clad in his ACU’s (gray atrocity) he stuck out. HE STUCK OUT like a turd in a pool. Woodland Camo is super awesome. You can get the jackets and take off the bottom pockets, resew them on your sleeves and all of sudden you’re an instant hi-speed operator type (really not a bad idea, then you can tuck the shirt in so when your crawling around you shirt doesn’t ride up).

ERDL Camo, this stuff was developed by the Engineering Research Development Laboratories in the 1950’s. And it is truly rad. I love this stuff. It comes in two flavors, Green Dominant and Brown Dominant. The Green works superbly in the lush kudzu laden South Knoxville environs that are so near and dear to my heart. It’s really effective summer camouflage. The problem is, it’s been out of production since the early 70’s. Finding it in any size other than small is an expensive chore. Reproductions are easily available but the cost is not economical. The jackets aren’t that difficult to find, and you could just sport that with some OD Green pants and be good to go. Pants are what wear out most quickly. They take the brunt of day to day wear. So if you find a pattern you like stock up on pants.

One of my all-time favorite camouflage pattern of all time is Rhodesian Brush-Stroke. Good luck finding this rare bird. Back in the 80’s you could buy it all day long out of the back of Soldier of Fortune Magazine. Brother that ship has sailed! Now you’re lucky to find a hat for less than $200 USD. Combat Jackets run in the $200-$400USD range, and it just gets crazier from there. My collection of Rhodesian Camo consists of 3 Flap Hats, 1 Boonie Hat, 2 Combat Jackets, 1 Long Sleeve Shirt, and 1 Short Sleeve Shirt. That’s just the original stuff I have, not including the reproduction flight suit or my collection of web gear. Does it work? I think so, I’ve never legitimately worn it while trying to hide or evade anything of substance. It’s more of a fashion thing with me. But that may soon change. The colors are right lots of green and browns. Also, rumor has it that the Marine Corps tested this pattern in the 90’s and it was one of their top picks. Furthermore, the Rhodesian Light Infantry was the premier counterinsurgency force during its bloody conflict with communist ZIPRA and ZANLA rebels. If it was good enough for them it’s good enough for me.

The bottom line. A lot of this boils down to personal style. There are tons of new and very effective camo on the market. I find them too expensive and not offering anything more than what I can get from other more readily available patterns. One of the more promising patterns is called A-TACS and it resembles the Rebel Commando Camouflage from Return of the Jedi. They have a summer version that has really nice greens/browns, and winter/fall version. It’s solidly built and pretty basic, it looks rugged as hell. 

The Desert…….again.

 

 

THE DESERT

People enjoy the desert, people love the austere open beauty of the desert, people who speak of the simplicity and silent majesty of the desert are completely full of crap. The desert sucks. The desert wants your moisture, the desert will take your moisture; leaving you a broken shell of what you once were and replace you with a dried husk devoid of life……..and moisture. The desert takes. The desert takes your moisture and replaces it with dust and scorpions. As soon as you open your mouth to curse its very existence the desert is robbing you of vital moisture and wetness. The infernal blazing sun is baking you. Back home, I enjoy slow cooking ribs in my oven at around 200F for about four hours. Then I give the ribs a healthy rub of salt and secret spices finishing the process on the grill. The entire operation takes about five to six hours, and the meat is tender, falling off the rib and melting in your mouth with its spicy goodness. The desert has similar plans. The desert has infinitely more patience than you or I. First, it will simmer you in the morning raising the temperature as the day goes by. By early afternoon, it will likely begin to slow cook you in the 110 degree range, your clothes help contain your moisture, which you will marinate in over the next few days. If you’re unlucky enough to not have a source for water replenishment the cooking process typically takes about 72 hours depending on how stupid you are. The desert will effectively cook and bake you into a large chunk of salty beef jerky, suitable for the palates of blow flies, coyotes, and buzzards.

The Mojave Desert, I’m out here again, and I actually like it even less than the last time I was out here in June. At least this time I look forward to a daily cold shower and flush toilets. It is truly a blessing to have a flush toilet, this is not usually the case. Over the last several years, due to my operational tempo I have become more than intimately familiar with large plastic blue toilets that reek of ammonia and human waste. I do not like this. The toilet paper is such that with any contact with moisture it almost instantly dissolves. Attempting to wipe your ass and nether regions with such material usually results in great suffering on your part. Your hot, sweaty stuck in a tight, hot, heat absorbing plastic tomb. And you’re trying to clean yourself with paper that instantly sticks and dissolves to your ass. It’s quite ridiculous. However, there is a solution: BABY WIPES. In the field baby wipes are the cloth that makes all things tolerable. Need to clean your butt sweat – BABY WIPES. Need to clean your filthy, filthy service weapon? Again: Baby wipes. That’s why at least one of my ammo pouches is filled with baby wipes. No really baby wipes; I prefer the unscented but beggars can’t be choosers so take what you can get. Getting off the bus at Camp Wilson, I am greeted with the traditional desert greeting. A blast of air that is akin to opening the door of a blast furnace. Jeez this is going to really suck it feels like a million degrees. All that talk about it being a dry heat is just complete nonsense. It’s hot, just plain hot, and from the moment you get off the bus to the moment you leave its geography, the desert is looking for anyway it can to kill you. To turn you into another “example”. The popular and tragic story around Camp Wilson is a young marine was set out to guard one of the road intersections out on the ranges. The ranges of Camp Wilson give the word desolation an entirely new meaning. It looks like the moon out there, no really the moon, or the planet Mercury which is worser. The last truck which is set out to pick up all the road guards doesn’t go all the way to where our young Marine is standing guard. They leave him out there. While everyone is back eating dinner and getting showers, and drinking beers this guy is out there panicking and trying to walk back to Camp Wilson. He gets turned around, probably because of dehydration, and he dies out there in the desert. They don’t realize he’s missing till two days later. Of course by the time he’s found it’s all over, the desert has made another “example” out of someone. 

TRAINING AND OTHER STUFF

We get settled into our shelters for the day, and our training schedule begins. We’re setting up tents, and our shock trauma equipment. Stretchers, monitors, oxygen, hang-down bags filled with bandages, and assorted equipment designed to save life and limb. Trauma care in the battlefield setting is focused on saving life and limb. Tourniquets have once again come back into style. They definitely save lives down range. Once one is placed you generally have six hours to reach surgical care to save the limb. Tourniquets are not the end all be all though. Sometimes it takes a combination of pressure dressings, tourniquets, and creativity to get it all under control. One of my favorite ways to control hemorrhage is a single point pressure. That basically means just plugging the whole with your finger. It reminds me of the little Dutch Boy who sticks his finger in the Dyke, but I digress. I’ve seen more than one person nearly bleed to death from lack of proper hemorrhage control. The last guy, a young man was flown into our Trauma Center from Sevierville he fell through a glass table severing his brachial artery. By the time he got to us, he’d bled himself white. However, he was still conscious, and because he was young and healthy, he compensated wonderfully. Luckily, I talked the trauma resident into letting me start the emergency release blood. However, on the way to surgery, I see Athena and Daniel with this “look” on their faces. I look down at the patient, he’s unresponsive. What’s going on? Uhh ohh. I check his carotid, and can’t feel anything. To begin CPR, Daniel jumps over the guard rail up onto the stretcher and starts cranking on the guys chest. Clearly, Daniel was a gymnast before his foray into healthcare. Athena’s squeezing the blood in, and I’m steering this nightmare down the hall, through the double doors into the main OR hallway. People are literally jumping out of the way. They know a train wreck when they see one. Magically, the doors to surgery open wide, and in we go and then it’s all one, two, three on to the surgical table. At this point our young man is moaning and Daniel stops CPR. I quickly give some semblance of report, and hand off the rest of the blood. Couldn’t you have at least gotten him intubated, asks the anesthesia provider? Well, at least he’s got a pulse now so I guess you’ve got that to work with, I say gathering my equipment and beating feet out of their “sterile” environment. Then we spend the next 45 minutes in OR Holding putting the chart together and documenting, last I heard the kid made a full recovery.

FLIGHT LINE

Today, our training is taking place out at the flight line. Not only do I hate the desert I hate the flight line. I especially hate this flight line which is located out in the middle of the Mojave Desert. The steel decking has the wonderful ability of reflecting heat and “ultraviolent” radiation back from the ground. I like to think of the steel decking as a force multiplier for heat stroke. Also, we are all kitted out in Plate Carriers and Kevlar Helmets. This adds about 60 pounds or so to your uniform. Also, the Armored Plates make you feel like a turtle, greatly hindering mobility. It wouldn’t be so bad if I could just dislocate my shoulders. Then I could access all the straps and buckles. You learn to make do. I’m sweating, constantly sweating. When/IF you stop sweating you die, but I’m still sweating so I’m good. We’re practicing loading and unloading on the V-22 Osprey platform. The V-22 is a tilt rotor, vertical take-off airplane. The Marines love anything that is vertical take-off. Vertical take-off makes long runways obsolete. The V-22 can outperform any helicopter by a long shot and can land almost anywhere a helicopter can land. However, it does kick up a lot of dust, those rotor blades are not a joke. I’m talking like you better have your goggles on, mouth shut, and be ready. It’s like walking into a sandstorm, with you and 3 of your closest friends schlepping some poor guy strapped to a stretcher. Luckily, today there is no rotor wash we’re working a static display. We load and unload, working the clamps and getting used to the cramped interior, the ramp is pretty steep and slick, all the nonskid paint has been worn thin through use. It could be a lot worse.

After a few hours of loading and offloading, news arrives that we’re getting a flight. We even get to have a fake patient. Now we’re excited. Training opportunities of this caliber are few and far between. In the NAVY patient transport is taken care of by “The En Route Care Team”. The “Team” typically consists of a corpsman and a nurse. They have to go through various trials, tribulations, inspections, and embarrassing molestations to obtain their “flight status”. Once cleared they are eligible for “The Dunker”. This consists of a day or so of water training where they strap you into a fake cockpit and throw you into a twelve foot pool. There you sit waiting, sinking to the bottom of the pool. Only when you’re completely submerged upside down at the bottom of the pool are you allowed to panic, grab, pull, and jerk your straps free and then crawl/swim your way to the surface. OK, but what if it’s at night you ask? Well, of course the NAVY has thought of this. You are also afforded the opportunity to do this little maneuver repeatedly in black-out goggles. I think this entire course of training is very similar to water boarding, or worse. Believe me, after this I will tell you anything you ever wanted to know. If it will make you happy, I’ll even make stuff up. Just please do not strap me into a cockpit and throw me into the bottom of a pool. Needless to say, this training is very expensive, difficult, and not everyone gets around to it.

V-22 OSPREY FLIGHT

PO Bentheredonethat, LT Newbie, HM3 Snacks, and myself get strapped in and ready to go. Snacks is strapped into the litter, which is secured to the side of the fuselage. Snacks is all smiles, he’s never flown on the Osprey. Snacks has also never been stuck for an IV in an airplane either, today he gets both. The plane taxies and then quickly gains altitude pushing me back and to the left of my seat. Crew Chief said the Osprey could pull some G’s, he was absolutely correct. I’m stuck to my chair, grinning enjoying the ride, soon it levels out. Then Crew Chief gives me the thumbs up signal we unbuckle and go to work. But it’s awkward, not only are we wearing flak jackets and Kevlar helmets we’re also tethered to the fuselage. A thick canvas belt is secured around our upper torsos, a long strap reaches out from the back which is secured to the bulkhead. It’s easy to get tangled, I have to readjust my tether to avoid this. I pull out my kit bag. It’s a mess, nothing is where it should be. Note to self, rearrange everything to make it more user friendly. I grab the emergency cricoid kit, Newbie starts pulling IV stuff together, and Bentheredonethat quickly applies a tourniquet to Snack’s right upper thigh. This is really basic stuff, but you gotta crawl before you can walk. The Marines have a saying, “Be Brilliant at the Basics” take that to heart and run with it. It’s a great way to organize your thoughts. Lighting is a bitch in the craft, and my headlamp batteries are dead in the water, more notes to self. Luckily I have a backup flashlight. Always carry two. Two lights, two sets of trauma shears, two knives. Then when something goes wrong you have a back-up. This is why we rehearse, to get the kinks smoothed out. I get the Cricoid Kit set up and go to work. I’m not really going to cut a hole in Snack’s neck and shove a tube in it, but I sure do act like I am, holding his throat, visualizing the incision site, using the tools in the kit as if I was really doing it. To my right, Newbie is getting the IV in, for real. I spike the bag and hand it to her. After much work we get it secured and start his fluids. Snacks is still smiling. We get about 30 minutes to work on Snacks before Crew Chief motions for us to get back into our seats. Talking in the Osprey is pointless and hearing anything is nearly impossible. The sense of touch is also compromised if you’re wearing combat gloves. Patient care is definitely a challenge, but I’ve already gotten some ideas. For example, plastic soda bottles make great sharps containers. Also, the humble trash bag, can hold trash or vomit (the Osprey makes pretty sharp turns). If possible, prepare your IV solutions prior to transport. Magazine pouches make great IV equipment holders. There’s much to learn and think about for sure. The landing is uneventful, we taxi to a halt. The Crew Chief approaches me screaming and thrusting a map into my hands, “Go to the right and down the hill.” He points at a building informing me this is where I need to be. Off we go into the light.

MARINES CONFUSED

Out the back of the fuselage, between the still whirling rotor blades into the middle of a boiling hot runway we descend. Me, Newbie, Bentheredonethat, and Snacks still clutching his IV bag high over his head. We must look like something crazy. “I can smell the ocean!” Newbie laughs at me for some reason. We make our way over to a distant fire truck. I notice distant fire breaks, and think we’re probably at Camp Pendleton. The Lance Corporal in the truck jumps up out of his seat. Yes Sir, can I help you? Marines are ridiculous. Ridiculously adherent to military courtesy. It’s pounded into them during boot camp. I just roll with it and try to nice. I ask, Where exactly are we? Your at blah-blah airfield at Camp Pendleton. Ohhh, that’s nice. Thanks, I say and we continue our walk hoping to find this mysterious building and get a ride back to 29 Palms which is many driving hours away. Snacks still has his IV. We’re walking nonchalantly four abreast down this dusty road. The LCPL calls out, Hey Sir, we need you back here Sir, our CO wants to know what’s going on. I brief the LCPL, who in turn informs the CO. Snacks, sits down and Bentheredonethat discontinues the IV. Almost immediately a Marine sticks his head out of the truck and says, Hey can I get one of those?Everyone looks at me. Sure why not, and out he climbs. Do it quick Bentheredonethat. She does. We get his IV going and the SLCPLIC  (senior lance corporal in charge) says, Hey they’re sending escorts to get you. Crap! We hurry and get our gear together, making our way down the runway. This runway is long and bleak, lacking any visible support structures. No hangers, no towers nothing just a long stretch of concrete in the middle of a vast nowhere of creosote bushes and scrub oaks desperately hanging on to life. The sky is cloudless and bright sky blue. My eyes are squinting in all this light, and sure enough I see a couple of Marines walking towards us from down the runway. A couple of fuel trucks and a camo net are rigged up down there. The PVT’s are staring at the ground not daring to make eye contact. We get to the end of the runway where the trucks are and immediately the PFC’s retreat into the background only to be replaced by a Marine Captain, who immediately begins his interrogation. In my best smirk and southern drawl I proceed to answer all his who, what, and what in the hell are you doing here questions. When he is sufficiently placated I begin my line of questioning which begins, So what are ya’ll doing out here? He tells me we’re the first plane he’s seen all day, and they are out here to refuel planes and provide security for the air strip. Cool, I reply. Reaching back into my memories of refueling, which is mostly nothing at all I ask, so does that mean you’re the Fuel Daddy out here? Perplexed, he stammers what? The fuel daddy you know, the guy in charge of refueling. Snacks and Newbie are grinning busting at the seams wanting to laugh but daring not to. The Captain changes the subject telling us to climb up the hill and get under some shade. We comply. At the top we can see the length and breadth of the runway, the distant mountains, and the unmistakable smell of the Pacific. The breeze is welcome after being cramped in the stifling Osprey. The Colonel and his XO come out to greet me, and I spend the next 45 minutes or so talking with the Colonel about everything from V-22’s to ISIS, to the abomination that is 29 Palms. I try to come off not too retarded, but from the wide grins the XO is giving me I’m not too sure about my success. The Colonel though seems to be pleased with my responses so I don’t think too much of it. We hear the distant roar of the Osprey, and my team pops out from under the camo net eager to get back. I excuse myself.  We make our way down the way too steep hill and onto the runway. The ride back is only remarkable for it’s speed. We make it back to 29 palms in like 20 minutes. The runway is still a boiling hot cauldron. Everyone is excited and chattering away at the good training we’ve just had. We’re like a bunch of thrilled school kids.