As if on cue, Father Al used Eucharistic Prayer C today. The lines from that celebratory prayer have been running in my mind all week. It was good to be at Barney’s Church & Bar (also known to the world as St. Barnabas Episcopal Church in Roanoke) today. It is a pretty little church, decorated as one would expect of an Anglican structure – simple, tasteful, dignified. I counted a dozen communicants today but understand that many were on the lake, or visiting relatives, or getting away to New York for a few shows, or jetting to Barbados. Episcopalians are a cosmopolitan bunch, with lots of places to go and people to see. It is easy to see that I am going to be very happy at Barney’s. As I was talking to Father Al this morning, I flashed on a memory from the mid-1980s when I took the job as a city manager in Missouri. I asked my hiring city to provide me with the name and phone number for the Episcopal church. Once in hand, I called the priest and blurted out, “I am heading your way, I want to be a part of your parish, put me on committees, sign me up for service projects, I am ready and eager.” The priest later told me that he about passed out from the enthusiasm and was intimidated by the prospect of my arrival. I tried to be less animated with Father Al today. I transferred “my letter” from Missouri to Barney’s some months ago. Apparently, I have been something of a mystery to the parish secretary who received “my letter” but didn’t believe it. Alabama Anglicans must be a suspicious crowd.
After Mass, the communicants gathered on the church steps to chit-chat. I related that I was leaving for the Southwest Adventure and would not return until mid-July. One of my fellow worshippers commented on a place to stay near the Grand Canyon. I reminded him that I was dragging the Airstream and would not need a hotel. Another offered, in humorous repartee, that there would be “no Marriott for you.” I thought about that comment as I drove home to Welch. A Democrat Episcopalian would offer “no Marriott for you.” A Republican Episcopalian would have said, “No Ritz Carlton for you.” A good earnest Methodist would say, “No Holiday Inn Express for you.” A devote Southern Baptist would say, “No Comfort Inn for you.” A wild-eyed snake-handler would say, “No Motel 6 for you.” And, a tree-arbor evangelical would say, “No back seat at a truck stop for you.” Yet another thing about my fellow Barney-folk is that I spotted several O’Bama bumper stickers on cars in the parking lot, proving that Barney Episcopalians are either politically brave or hopelessly intoxicated.
It is Trinity Sunday and Father Al did a nice job of trying to untangle this deepest of Christian doctrinal knots. Immaculate conception, no problem. Virginal birth, OK, I can accept that. Accession, easy. Resurrection is challenging and requires faith. But, the Trinity is a tough nut to crack. A Bloody Mary before the homily helps in accepting the explanation. It makes more sense that way. While in Iraq, I was asked several times by Muslims how I could believe in a pantheistic religion. I responded that I did not because of the Trinity. Made the mistake of pulling out the Creed of St. Athanasius which brought more confusion to the discussion. Imagine having a discussion of the Trinity filtered through an Arabic translator. That is one of the reasons I was paid hazard pay.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Saturday, May 29, 2010
The Fading Art of Fine Letterwriting
The Next-Nevill-Shute, one of my finest former students, graciously provided me with a wonderful piece of letterwriting that I feel compelled to share with you.
Quoting Next-Nevill-Shute, this is "a letter by Lieutenant General Simon Bolivar Buckner, Jr to a Major General Connor. Buckner descends from the General Buckner of the Confederate army who surrendered Ft. Donelson to General Grant in the Civil War.
In this letter Buckner outlines his “recipe” for the Mint Julep, and my God, if it doesn’t have you salivating for one by the end of the letter, you should just move to Iowa and start drinking warm cans of Schlitz like us Yankees."
“My Dear General Connor:
Your letter requesting my formula for mixing mint juleps leaves me in the same position in which Captain Barber found himself when asked how he was able to carve the image of an elephant from a block of wood. He said that it was a simple process consisting merely of whittling off the part that didn't look like an elephant.
The preparation of the quintessence of gentlemanly beverages can be described only in like terms. A mint julep is not a product of a formula. It is a ceremony and must be performed by a gentleman possessing a true sense of the artistic, a deep reverence for the ingredients and a proper appreciation of the occasion. It is a rite that must not be entrusted to a novice, a statistician nor a Yankee. It is a heritage of the Old South, and emblem of hospitality, and a vehicle in which noble minds can travel together upon the flower-strewn paths of a happy and congenial thought.
So far as the mere mechanics of the operation are concerned, the procedure, stripped of its ceremonial embellishments, can be described as follows:
Go to a spring where cool, crystal-clear water bubbles from under a bank of dew-washed ferns. In a consecrated vessel, dip up a little water at the source. Follow the stream thru its banks of green moss and wild flowers until it broadens and trickles thru beds of mint growing in aromatic profusion and waving softly in the summer breeze. Gather the sweetest and tenderest shoots and gently carry them home. Go to the sideboard and select a decanter of Kentucky Bourbon distilled by a master hand, mellowed with age, yet still vigorous and inspiring. An ancestral sugar bowl, a row of silver goblets, some spoons and some ice and you are ready to start.
Into a canvas bag pound twice as much ice as you think you will need. Make it fine as snow, keep it dry and do not allow it to degenerate into slush. Into each goblet, put a slightly heaping teaspoonful of granulated sugar, barely cover this with spring water and slightly bruise one mint leaf into this, leaving the spoon in the goblet. Then pour elixir from the decanter until the goblets are about one-fourth full. Fill the goblets with snowy ice, sprinkling in a small amount of sugar as you fill. Wipe the outside of the goblets dry, and embellish copiously with mint.
Then comes the delicate and important operation of frosting. By proper manipulation of the spoon, the ingredients are circulated and blended until nature, wishing to take a further hand and add another of its beautiful phenomena, encrusts the whole in a glistening coat of white frost.
Thus harmoniously blended by the deft touches of a skilled hand, you have a beverage eminently appropriate for honorable men and beautiful women.
When all is ready, assemble your guests on the porch or in the garden where the aroma of the juleps will rise heavenward and make the birds sing. Propose a worthy toast, raise the goblets to your lips, bury your nose in the mint, inhale a deep breath of its fragrance and sip the nectar of the gods.
Being overcome with thirst, I can write no further.
Sincerely,
Lt. Gen. S.B. Buckner, Jr.
VMI Class of 1906”
Quoting Next-Nevill-Shute, this is "a letter by Lieutenant General Simon Bolivar Buckner, Jr to a Major General Connor. Buckner descends from the General Buckner of the Confederate army who surrendered Ft. Donelson to General Grant in the Civil War.
In this letter Buckner outlines his “recipe” for the Mint Julep, and my God, if it doesn’t have you salivating for one by the end of the letter, you should just move to Iowa and start drinking warm cans of Schlitz like us Yankees."
“My Dear General Connor:
Your letter requesting my formula for mixing mint juleps leaves me in the same position in which Captain Barber found himself when asked how he was able to carve the image of an elephant from a block of wood. He said that it was a simple process consisting merely of whittling off the part that didn't look like an elephant.
The preparation of the quintessence of gentlemanly beverages can be described only in like terms. A mint julep is not a product of a formula. It is a ceremony and must be performed by a gentleman possessing a true sense of the artistic, a deep reverence for the ingredients and a proper appreciation of the occasion. It is a rite that must not be entrusted to a novice, a statistician nor a Yankee. It is a heritage of the Old South, and emblem of hospitality, and a vehicle in which noble minds can travel together upon the flower-strewn paths of a happy and congenial thought.
So far as the mere mechanics of the operation are concerned, the procedure, stripped of its ceremonial embellishments, can be described as follows:
Go to a spring where cool, crystal-clear water bubbles from under a bank of dew-washed ferns. In a consecrated vessel, dip up a little water at the source. Follow the stream thru its banks of green moss and wild flowers until it broadens and trickles thru beds of mint growing in aromatic profusion and waving softly in the summer breeze. Gather the sweetest and tenderest shoots and gently carry them home. Go to the sideboard and select a decanter of Kentucky Bourbon distilled by a master hand, mellowed with age, yet still vigorous and inspiring. An ancestral sugar bowl, a row of silver goblets, some spoons and some ice and you are ready to start.
Into a canvas bag pound twice as much ice as you think you will need. Make it fine as snow, keep it dry and do not allow it to degenerate into slush. Into each goblet, put a slightly heaping teaspoonful of granulated sugar, barely cover this with spring water and slightly bruise one mint leaf into this, leaving the spoon in the goblet. Then pour elixir from the decanter until the goblets are about one-fourth full. Fill the goblets with snowy ice, sprinkling in a small amount of sugar as you fill. Wipe the outside of the goblets dry, and embellish copiously with mint.
Then comes the delicate and important operation of frosting. By proper manipulation of the spoon, the ingredients are circulated and blended until nature, wishing to take a further hand and add another of its beautiful phenomena, encrusts the whole in a glistening coat of white frost.
Thus harmoniously blended by the deft touches of a skilled hand, you have a beverage eminently appropriate for honorable men and beautiful women.
When all is ready, assemble your guests on the porch or in the garden where the aroma of the juleps will rise heavenward and make the birds sing. Propose a worthy toast, raise the goblets to your lips, bury your nose in the mint, inhale a deep breath of its fragrance and sip the nectar of the gods.
Being overcome with thirst, I can write no further.
Sincerely,
Lt. Gen. S.B. Buckner, Jr.
VMI Class of 1906”
Life's Balance
Just when I cozy up with the notion that justice is relative and yen and yang are convenient constructs to explain unexplainable phenomenon, all hell breaks out. It all occurred innocently enough, with a slight miscalculation in one instance and a random act of mechanical retribution in another. As I have posted previously, I am engaged in a fight to the finish with the privet on my land. The effort extracts an exacting cost, given my advancing years and State Department level of physical conditions -- I can sit in front of a computer for hours without effort, I can sip tea and discuss issues of the day with foreign and domestic leaders, I can even fire off a pointed, even stern, memorandum. When I disengaged from the Privet War last evening, I paid little attention to the storm clouds gathering to the south. As usual, I parked the truck near the Airstream, put away my tools that prove to strike terror up and down the bark of the enemy, and joined Tinker for a light meal and some congenial conversation. As we were enjoying some Blue Bell ice cream (a flavor I have never experienced -- Banana Pudding), the "cloud came up" as we say in these parts and the place was drenched. I scampered to the Airstream, and being exhausted from the day's labor, fell into bed. The sound of the rain on the Airstream was a tonic and I was quickly asleep. Upon rising, I stepped outside the Airstream for a few moments and, upon returning, discovered that the door was securely locked. Naturally, my keys were securely locked inside the trailer. Thinking that I might have an extra key in the truck, I discovered that I had failed to roll up the window on the driver's side and the interior was soaks -- I am talking a puddle of water in the floor board. Stranded outside in a pair of gym shorts, t-shirt, and flip-flops, I had no alternative but to report all these facts to The Old Goat and Tinker. Both, in unison, quetioned me on not having a spare set of keys readily available in an accessible location. Knowing that stewing about the matter would accomplish little, I called the Airstream dealer to determine if they might have a pass key to the trailer. I am awaiting a return call now.
So, what does this have to do with justice? If all things balance, then the good fight in the Privet War, the careful planning in anticipation of leaving State and Iraq, the due diligence paid to a close financial discipline that made the truck and the Airstream and the land possible, then something has to go wrong. Flooding the truck and being locked out of the Airstream may well qualify as the balancing events that bring equilibrium to my life equation.
(The Airstream dealer telephoned to say they do not have a pass key. And, neither of Roanoke's locksmiths do Airstream locks. The cost of gaining entry into my home is mounting.)
So, what does this have to do with justice? If all things balance, then the good fight in the Privet War, the careful planning in anticipation of leaving State and Iraq, the due diligence paid to a close financial discipline that made the truck and the Airstream and the land possible, then something has to go wrong. Flooding the truck and being locked out of the Airstream may well qualify as the balancing events that bring equilibrium to my life equation.
(The Airstream dealer telephoned to say they do not have a pass key. And, neither of Roanoke's locksmiths do Airstream locks. The cost of gaining entry into my home is mounting.)
Friday, May 28, 2010
Fixed Notion
I described the Airstream to WitchWoman in an email. Being from Kansas, she is not exactly long on the imaginative arts. When her son-in-law snapped a picture of a classic truck and travel trailer, the image fixed in her mind of how any truck with Airstream attached coming out of Alabama must look. I am afraid I will never convince her otherwise. The first picture is my rig with the playful lime green Adorondak chairs. The second is Jethro Bodein's get-up.
The High Sheriff
Received a civics lesson today from the Chambers County Sheriff's Office. Some jaybirds dumped a couple dozen used tires off on Tinker's land. Rather than live with it -- something The Old Goat and Tinker have done foreever -- I called the Sheriff's Office. It is clearly illegal dumping, an obvious violation of the law, even in Chambers County. Instead of treating it as a breach of the civil code, the Sheriff's Office referred me to the county health officer. It was, in the Sheriff's opinion, not a "real" crime that demanded allocation of resources. I called the health guy and and he told me that we had to move the tires onto the county right of way along County Road 248 (that is the dirt road on which I live). He would get a gang of county prisoners to pick up the tires, probably sometime next week. If the tires remained where they were dumpted -- on Tinker's land -- he would be powerless to do anything about it since the prisoners cannot go onto private property to pick up stuff. I thanked him and Tinker and I stacked the tires onto the right of way, as directed. Now it is a waiting game until they are picked up. What is instructive is that the Sheriff has his own view of what rises to his attention. Granted, if the cracker-jack Sheriff's Department was actually solving murders and breaking up drug cartels, I would agree with him that discarded tires are a low priority. Such is not the case. After the conversation, I thought about it for a while and remembered that the infamous FBI crime statistics that tell Americans how much crime is infecting their communities are compiled from reports from county sheriffs. If a sheriff wants to show a decline in crime, don't report any crimes. If a sheriff wants to demonstrate his toughness in anticipation of an election, report more arrests. In a word, the crime statistics over which we all make such a fuss are faulty. I can guarantee that Chambers County never reports illegal dumping as an issue although it clearly is. I wonder if the Sheriff would think it a crime if some mysterious person dumpted a truckload of used tires on his front yard? I wonder if he would leap into action and investigate? I wonder if he would even take the call reporting that his front lawn was strewn with used tires?
The other part of the civics lesson was The Old Goat and Tinker. It never occurred to them to call the Sheriff about the tires. They are the best of citizens for elected officials such as the Sheriff. They never complain, they don't bother him with calls, they expect (and get) nothing. The Sheriff can run his department without fear that The Old Goat or Tinker are going to bother him with pesky calls for service. Now, if they would not vote, they would be perfect citizens.
Well, they will be voting, even if I have to drag them to the polls. We are a block of three votes. Watch out!
The other part of the civics lesson was The Old Goat and Tinker. It never occurred to them to call the Sheriff about the tires. They are the best of citizens for elected officials such as the Sheriff. They never complain, they don't bother him with calls, they expect (and get) nothing. The Sheriff can run his department without fear that The Old Goat or Tinker are going to bother him with pesky calls for service. Now, if they would not vote, they would be perfect citizens.
Well, they will be voting, even if I have to drag them to the polls. We are a block of three votes. Watch out!
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Hand-to-Hand Combat
My ass is worn slap out. Finished the bush-hogging today then turned my attention to land clearing, specifically my aggressive anti-privet hedge campaign. The dag-gone privet almost got me today. At a critical juncture in the battle, I surprised the foe by whipping out the chain saw and letting that little beauty sing a few chorus of "O Solo Meo." In the end, I puttered home on the tractor, tired and sweaty but victorious. The privet campaign is critical to placement of the Airstream on the land. And, since the Airstream will be home until I build, this is an essential struggle. Not to mention that privet is an invasive species. My suspicion is that the US Department of Agriculture introduced privet to the South in the same way that it blessed us with kudzu. (I am from the Government and I am here to help you.) And, who says that Reconstruction is over? Privet can grow on concrete. It crowds out native plants. Auburn did a study on the impact on privet and concluded that it is kills off hundreds (as I remember 530 or so but my fatigued memory cannot call up the precise number now) of native species. Privet is my enemy. And I am on a crusade, dare I say a jihad, to wipe it off my land. But the battle has its costs. I am exhausted. My clothes are soaked from sweat. My arms and legs are rubbery. The prescription for this situation: long shower and a couple of beers.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Stuck in the Mud
My wallet is $85 lighter after I had to pay Mr. Ward to come wench the tractor out of the mud. It got there when I drove a touch too close to the stream feeding the lake. I knew better but persisted, nevertheless. Still, I finished most of the bush-hogging yesterday and will turn my attention to some clean up work on my land today. That is, after I file for unemployment compensation. Yes, after over forty years of paying and bitching about the public dole, I am lining up with my hand out. OK, I am embarrassed. I plan on wearing sunglasses and a hat into the office. I am not sure which will prod me more to get a job -- health insurance premiums or the shame of feeding at the public trough.
Tinker and I are taking the Airstream to West Point Lake this weekend for a three-day music festival. May do a little fishing in between the musical acts. I asked The Old Goat to join us but he declined. The Lake is just a few miles from the house so we will be close in case he needs something.
Tinker and I are taking the Airstream to West Point Lake this weekend for a three-day music festival. May do a little fishing in between the musical acts. I asked The Old Goat to join us but he declined. The Lake is just a few miles from the house so we will be close in case he needs something.
Monday, May 24, 2010
This Fragile Earth
There is great phrasing in Eucharistic Prayer C of the Book of Common Prayer. The seldom used prayer is in the Prayer Book as an alternative to the traditional Prayer A and the contemporary Prayer B. The prayers are side-by-side in the Prayer Book because of the Episcopal notion of compromise and inclusiveness. I have no idea how Prayer C, much less D, made the final cut. But it is my favorite. In my pat, I served as a lay reader in the two dioceses, Mississippi and West Missouri. If I behave myself I might have the same privilege here in the Alabama. When serving in a Mass where Eucharistic Prayer C was used, I would refer to it as the "Star Wars Prayer." Anyway, Eucharistic Prayer C has been running through my mind today. The lines that keep coming back to me are: "this fragile Earth, our island home." Somehow or another, I have connected those lines with the Airstream. Maybe it is because I am picking it up in a few hours and it is one my mind. I plan to drag it home to Welch and park it in Tinker's yard until I complete the infrastructure on my place. I realize that living in the Airstream is temporary. But, for a matter of months, perhaps years, the Airstream will be home. While in it, there are lessons to learn.
Stewardship comes to mind. Just as I did with my house, the Airstream will require my care and attention. Just as our island home deserves our diligence and respect. Stewardship is about accepting responsibility. If the roof leaks, if the plumbing clogs, if the pump breaks, I have to fix it. Yes, I could let somebody else do it, but this land and this Airstream are mine. I am responsible for them. I will perform due diligence to keep all working properly, but plan to keep DIY sites on my favorites and copies of Walden and the Complete Guide to Organic Gardening on my bookshelf.
Living in the confined quarters of the Airstream will make me mindful of simplicity. I will not have the room for stuff. Looking around The Old Goat's house, I am amazed at all the stuff. You can barely find a flat surface that is not covered with stuff -- and none of it is edible or useful. I suspect that in the distant future, archeologists will dig into our landfills and conclude that we had a curious religion that focused on acquiring stuff.
Given where the Airstream is to be sited, the land surrounding it is, shall we say, undeveloped. I hope I gain a deeper appreciation for the Alabama woodland environment. My knowledge of the trees and animals is painfully limited. Since my "profession for tax purposes" is tree farming, I had better learn something about them. I have been tracking sightings of critters by annotating my journal with the date, place, time, and circumstances of each sighting. My little piece of ground hosts a good variety of wildlife. There are squirrels, turtles, snakes, lizards, rabbits, deer, field mice, but also turkeys and foxes. The bird population is huge. When I am living on the land full time, I am confident I will see more. The point is that by living close I might succeed at becoming a part of Nature instead of a visitor.
And finally, by exercising stewardship, by living simply, and by respecting Nature, I hope to achieve humility. It would also be interesting to learn something about how (or if) I fit into the Big Picture.
This Earth, our island home. This Airstream, my castle, my safe harbor, my home.
Stewardship comes to mind. Just as I did with my house, the Airstream will require my care and attention. Just as our island home deserves our diligence and respect. Stewardship is about accepting responsibility. If the roof leaks, if the plumbing clogs, if the pump breaks, I have to fix it. Yes, I could let somebody else do it, but this land and this Airstream are mine. I am responsible for them. I will perform due diligence to keep all working properly, but plan to keep DIY sites on my favorites and copies of Walden and the Complete Guide to Organic Gardening on my bookshelf.
Living in the confined quarters of the Airstream will make me mindful of simplicity. I will not have the room for stuff. Looking around The Old Goat's house, I am amazed at all the stuff. You can barely find a flat surface that is not covered with stuff -- and none of it is edible or useful. I suspect that in the distant future, archeologists will dig into our landfills and conclude that we had a curious religion that focused on acquiring stuff.
Given where the Airstream is to be sited, the land surrounding it is, shall we say, undeveloped. I hope I gain a deeper appreciation for the Alabama woodland environment. My knowledge of the trees and animals is painfully limited. Since my "profession for tax purposes" is tree farming, I had better learn something about them. I have been tracking sightings of critters by annotating my journal with the date, place, time, and circumstances of each sighting. My little piece of ground hosts a good variety of wildlife. There are squirrels, turtles, snakes, lizards, rabbits, deer, field mice, but also turkeys and foxes. The bird population is huge. When I am living on the land full time, I am confident I will see more. The point is that by living close I might succeed at becoming a part of Nature instead of a visitor.
And finally, by exercising stewardship, by living simply, and by respecting Nature, I hope to achieve humility. It would also be interesting to learn something about how (or if) I fit into the Big Picture.
This Earth, our island home. This Airstream, my castle, my safe harbor, my home.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
The Food Week
Life with my Dad and brother has a rhythm. Thursday is Frozen Pizza Night. Friday is Burger King Night. Saturday is Jack’s (for the uninitiated, Jack’s is a regional McDonald’s knock-off) Special Breakfast Morning. Sunday is Supper at Tinker’s. The flow of the week is set by eating; more specifically, by cheap eating. When going to Burger King, for instance, don’t go without a stack of discount coupons. The frozen pizza featured on Thursday is Wal-Mart’s “most affordable” even though it has little relation to its Pizza Hut or Pizza Inn cousins. And, there is a reason it is called a “special” breakfast at Jack’s – less than two bucks for eggs, hash browns, grits, and bacon. What a deal!
I have to figure how I will fit into the grand cycle. At first, I considered a Sushi Tuesday but questioned if The Old Goat and Tinker would think they had to fish for their dinner. I thought about a Vegan Wednesday but even I thought that was foolish. Vegans make less sense to me than Flat Earthers or conspiracy theorists who assume the government acts with stealth, cunning, and intelligence. The idea I like most is Grilled Monday. The plan is to stick with the crowd-pleasers at first – burgers and chicken – before moving onto real cooking. The bible of all things proper and delicious and Dixie -- Southern Living – is full of great grilling recipes this time of year. Saw a picture with write-up on grilled peaches. How clever is that? Plus, grilling is just so elemental. Fire. Meat. Stick. Throw in a salad and you have an instant party.
If grilling is the decision, next is the grill. I’ve had my eye on one of those Green Egg grills but haven’t convinced myself that I want to pay more for a grill than I will for food in a year. As Hamilton once observed, men divide themselves into two groups – he went on to say some stuff about political rights and obligations but what I think he really meant was that you are either a gas man or a charcoal man. I am definitely in the charcoal camp. Yes, it is more trouble, takes longer, dampens spontaneity, and requires planning. Still, I like the charcoal. I use a starter that eschews lighter fluid. It is a flue affair that allows the user to light the charcoal in a matter of minutes. If my more reasonable side decides against the Green Egg, then the only real choice is a Webber Kettle. (Since I will be on the road in June, I have to make sure whatever grill I get can be easily stowed.)
The perfect grilled dinner would be to use fresh produce out of the garden and a couple of fish out of the lake. Dessert on the grill would be the ideal topper. Once I enjoyed an apple pie that Captain Cho “baked” on a grill. It was delicious. I think initially I will stick to grilled peaches. Now, where was that recipe?
I have to figure how I will fit into the grand cycle. At first, I considered a Sushi Tuesday but questioned if The Old Goat and Tinker would think they had to fish for their dinner. I thought about a Vegan Wednesday but even I thought that was foolish. Vegans make less sense to me than Flat Earthers or conspiracy theorists who assume the government acts with stealth, cunning, and intelligence. The idea I like most is Grilled Monday. The plan is to stick with the crowd-pleasers at first – burgers and chicken – before moving onto real cooking. The bible of all things proper and delicious and Dixie -- Southern Living – is full of great grilling recipes this time of year. Saw a picture with write-up on grilled peaches. How clever is that? Plus, grilling is just so elemental. Fire. Meat. Stick. Throw in a salad and you have an instant party.
If grilling is the decision, next is the grill. I’ve had my eye on one of those Green Egg grills but haven’t convinced myself that I want to pay more for a grill than I will for food in a year. As Hamilton once observed, men divide themselves into two groups – he went on to say some stuff about political rights and obligations but what I think he really meant was that you are either a gas man or a charcoal man. I am definitely in the charcoal camp. Yes, it is more trouble, takes longer, dampens spontaneity, and requires planning. Still, I like the charcoal. I use a starter that eschews lighter fluid. It is a flue affair that allows the user to light the charcoal in a matter of minutes. If my more reasonable side decides against the Green Egg, then the only real choice is a Webber Kettle. (Since I will be on the road in June, I have to make sure whatever grill I get can be easily stowed.)
The perfect grilled dinner would be to use fresh produce out of the garden and a couple of fish out of the lake. Dessert on the grill would be the ideal topper. Once I enjoyed an apple pie that Captain Cho “baked” on a grill. It was delicious. I think initially I will stick to grilled peaches. Now, where was that recipe?
Thursday, May 20, 2010
View from the Tractor
This retirement stuff is exhausting. Yesterday it was fixing The Old Goat's plumbing. (Glad to report that the job is done.) Today, bush-hogging. I rode the tractor all day. Took a break mid-afternoon when the gas tank ran empty. On the positive side, though, I got lots done. And, I had all day to think. Good because my behind is as numb as it was riding in an MRAP from Basra to Umm Qasr.
Met fellow blogger Rancho Serando yesterday. Delightful. We are forming the Alabama Bloggers' Society (BS for short).
While I was chugging along on the tractor, I happen to notice that The Old Goat was on his riding lawnmower, speeding around his yard. He looked like something out of NASCAR. Later, I asked, "Dad, don't you think you are driving your mower a little fast?" "Hell, no. Why, I can cut this grass in thirty minutes." I expected his next statement to be that he could do all the bush-hogging in two hours or less. He has a fascination with speed. His motto is: If something is worth doing, it is worth doing fast.
Tinker and I have tickets to the West Pont Lake Music Festival over Memorial Day weekend. We are dragging the Airstream along. If nothing else, it will give us a cool place to recover from the Southern sun, at the site of the festival.
WelchSuperService is not necessarily deep this week. No pearls of wisdom. I am busy trying to figure out what this retirement is all about, assured that it will not last long. I want to enjoy it while it does. Three days into it, I like the way it wears. I have options. Is there any better definition of freedom than that?
Met fellow blogger Rancho Serando yesterday. Delightful. We are forming the Alabama Bloggers' Society (BS for short).
While I was chugging along on the tractor, I happen to notice that The Old Goat was on his riding lawnmower, speeding around his yard. He looked like something out of NASCAR. Later, I asked, "Dad, don't you think you are driving your mower a little fast?" "Hell, no. Why, I can cut this grass in thirty minutes." I expected his next statement to be that he could do all the bush-hogging in two hours or less. He has a fascination with speed. His motto is: If something is worth doing, it is worth doing fast.
Tinker and I have tickets to the West Pont Lake Music Festival over Memorial Day weekend. We are dragging the Airstream along. If nothing else, it will give us a cool place to recover from the Southern sun, at the site of the festival.
WelchSuperService is not necessarily deep this week. No pearls of wisdom. I am busy trying to figure out what this retirement is all about, assured that it will not last long. I want to enjoy it while it does. Three days into it, I like the way it wears. I have options. Is there any better definition of freedom than that?
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Water Leak
I've been home a matter of hours and already my plan of attack has been modified to accommodate The Old Goat. There is a leak in the water line from the pump. Nothing can be more important to Dad than to fix it. Tomorrow, I will dig up the water line, find the leak, fix it, and settle him down. About the only method of calming the waters is to comply. (I usually dismiss my Dad's bull-headed ways by rationalizing that it is his age. Sometimes, though, I think it springs from his deprivation. For instance, he focuses on food, as if there won't be any when he is hungry. I ascribe that to my bootlegger grandfather and his lousy ideas about children -- they make good field hands. Many years ago, I picked up a copy of "Let Us Know Praise Famous Men." I thought I was reading the story of my Dad's childhood in share-cropping Depression-era Alabama. It stunned me at the time and greatly expanded my tolerance of his strident ways.)
***
I know with ever fiber in me that I need to get my own place as soon as possible.
***
The county is sending one of it's minions to meet me tomorrow at my land to figure out how big of a culvert and the associated supplies will be needed to bridge the ditch along the dirt road. This step is important since it is the key to building a driveway. Hard to park the Airstream on the land if you can't get there.
***
And, I had forgotten how quickly things grow in Alabama. Before I can do much of anything on the property, I have to bush-hog it. That means that while Wednesday is all about water lines, Thursday will be about the tractor and grass cutting.
***
Tinker scored me a couple of river birch trees and a redbud. Like to get them in before the heat of the summer hits. It is too late to do much good with a garden but I do intend to begin building the soil for next year's effort. I had such good luck with the raised beds in Joplin that I think I will replicate the method here, just on a slightly larger scale.
***
All of the stuff I shipped from Iraq has arrived. Last box came today. When I pick up the Airstream, I will see how my worldly possessions fit into it. Material possession, as with work and time, expand to fit the space available. When there is an overflow, it is officially "too much." I am still lacking some basics: cookware, dishes, sheets, pillows, that sort of thing. I was thinking that a shopping trip to Bed, Bath, and Beyond might be in order. I would take The Old Goat with me but he would bitch about the price of every item -- "you can get that cheaper at the flea market..." Yeah, well, that is fine. Just that I don't prefer to eat off plates that were used as dog bowls. He means well.
***
Watched with delight today as a warbler or maybe a wren gave himself a bath in a rivulet formed by a heavy spring shower. I scrambled for my bird book but gave up the hunt when I realized that I was missing the show. The little guy must have a date tonight. He was amusingly thorough.
***
I know with ever fiber in me that I need to get my own place as soon as possible.
***
The county is sending one of it's minions to meet me tomorrow at my land to figure out how big of a culvert and the associated supplies will be needed to bridge the ditch along the dirt road. This step is important since it is the key to building a driveway. Hard to park the Airstream on the land if you can't get there.
***
And, I had forgotten how quickly things grow in Alabama. Before I can do much of anything on the property, I have to bush-hog it. That means that while Wednesday is all about water lines, Thursday will be about the tractor and grass cutting.
***
Tinker scored me a couple of river birch trees and a redbud. Like to get them in before the heat of the summer hits. It is too late to do much good with a garden but I do intend to begin building the soil for next year's effort. I had such good luck with the raised beds in Joplin that I think I will replicate the method here, just on a slightly larger scale.
***
All of the stuff I shipped from Iraq has arrived. Last box came today. When I pick up the Airstream, I will see how my worldly possessions fit into it. Material possession, as with work and time, expand to fit the space available. When there is an overflow, it is officially "too much." I am still lacking some basics: cookware, dishes, sheets, pillows, that sort of thing. I was thinking that a shopping trip to Bed, Bath, and Beyond might be in order. I would take The Old Goat with me but he would bitch about the price of every item -- "you can get that cheaper at the flea market..." Yeah, well, that is fine. Just that I don't prefer to eat off plates that were used as dog bowls. He means well.
***
Watched with delight today as a warbler or maybe a wren gave himself a bath in a rivulet formed by a heavy spring shower. I scrambled for my bird book but gave up the hunt when I realized that I was missing the show. The little guy must have a date tonight. He was amusingly thorough.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
The Flight Home
My intentions were good. I took my lap-top with me on the flight from Kuwait to DC, thinking that twelve-plus hours would be an ideal time to write. Did not work out. I was in Row 37, Seat C, on the aisle. The seats surrounding Row 37 are so close together that I was barely able to put my little computer bag under the seat in front of me. When the lady in front of me reclined her seat, I almost lost two front teeth. Unable to reach down, I gave up trying to retrieve the computer until the plane landed at Dulles. I did manage to take off my shoes before settling into my seat Arriving in DC, I found one under Row 40 and the other half way to the lavatory. And, somehow, I lost my blanket. The mysteries of flight.
I have developed a strategy for arduous flights. Always take a book. Something German – ponderous and insufferable – a piece of writing that embraces qualifying clauses and laborious definitions. When the drink cart comes along, order as many Scotch minis as the flight attendant will permit you. Drink them all. If food is served, eat it. Eat everything. Put the pretend butter on the pretend dinner roll. Eat the pretend main course, even if it is curry surprise. Eat the pretend dessert. When pretend dinner is complete – and here is the heart of this strategy – pop two Tylenol PMs. At this point, you are ready to read. Within minutes, either the Scotch, the food, the Tylenol or the German will knock you out faster than what grandma did to the cat she caught in the milk bucket. When following this procedure to the letter, I fall asleep before the plane enters Turkish air space and sleep until we reach Newfoundland. From that point, it is about three hours into Washington..
As uncomfortable as the flight from Kuwait to Washington was, the fact is that I am on American soil now. I won’t be leaving the States for the rest of my life, although I’ve learned not to think in absolutes.
I have developed a strategy for arduous flights. Always take a book. Something German – ponderous and insufferable – a piece of writing that embraces qualifying clauses and laborious definitions. When the drink cart comes along, order as many Scotch minis as the flight attendant will permit you. Drink them all. If food is served, eat it. Eat everything. Put the pretend butter on the pretend dinner roll. Eat the pretend main course, even if it is curry surprise. Eat the pretend dessert. When pretend dinner is complete – and here is the heart of this strategy – pop two Tylenol PMs. At this point, you are ready to read. Within minutes, either the Scotch, the food, the Tylenol or the German will knock you out faster than what grandma did to the cat she caught in the milk bucket. When following this procedure to the letter, I fall asleep before the plane enters Turkish air space and sleep until we reach Newfoundland. From that point, it is about three hours into Washington..
As uncomfortable as the flight from Kuwait to Washington was, the fact is that I am on American soil now. I won’t be leaving the States for the rest of my life, although I’ve learned not to think in absolutes.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Best Laid Plans
My plans for exiting Iraq are experiencing a hiccup. (Shocking … and so unexpected …) The culprit is not bureaucratic but meteorological. Dust. Baghdad is having one of its routine dustings. Instead of blistering sunshine, the morning brought reddish grim air and the taste of dirt in your mouth. The dust stops fixed wing air operations. That impacts me because I am scheduled to helicopter from the Embassy to Baghdad International (known here as BIAP) in order to connect with a military flight to Kuwait. With the dust, no flight to BIAP; no flight to BIAP, means no flight to Kuwait; and, no flight to Kuwait, scratches the flight to DC.
I do have a back-up. I signed up to ride the Rhino out to BIAP late this afternoon. Getting to the airport takes on a whole new meaning in Iraq. You don’t have a buddy swing by to pick you up and drop you at the terminal. Taxis are not an option. There are only two options for getting to BIAP from the Embassy: helicopter or Rhino. (In the annals of motor vehicle history, only the Oscar Mayer Weiner-mobile and the Citron match the Rhino in absurdity. It is a mega-ton, armor reinforced bus.) The Rhino runs regardless of the dust. The plan, then, is to motor out to BIAP and wait there in hopes that the fixed-wing flight to Kuwait flies.
Thanks, Iraq. I appreciate another opportunity to learn humility and practice patience.
I do have a back-up. I signed up to ride the Rhino out to BIAP late this afternoon. Getting to the airport takes on a whole new meaning in Iraq. You don’t have a buddy swing by to pick you up and drop you at the terminal. Taxis are not an option. There are only two options for getting to BIAP from the Embassy: helicopter or Rhino. (In the annals of motor vehicle history, only the Oscar Mayer Weiner-mobile and the Citron match the Rhino in absurdity. It is a mega-ton, armor reinforced bus.) The Rhino runs regardless of the dust. The plan, then, is to motor out to BIAP and wait there in hopes that the fixed-wing flight to Kuwait flies.
Thanks, Iraq. I appreciate another opportunity to learn humility and practice patience.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
The Embassy
The last two days have been about checking out at the US Embassy in Baghdad. Depending on with whom you speak, this compound is a) the world’s largest embassy; or, b) the world’s most expensive embassy; or, c) the world’s most poorly constructed embassy. Perhaps all three. It is an impressive site with two-tone sand-colored cubes placed around the largest expanse of manicured lawn in Iraq. The place is crawling with desperate inmates. The longer I am confined here, the more thankful I am that my two years in Iraq were spent in the real country.
The place is lousy with foreign service officers (FSOs). They infest every corner – swilling skim milk cappuccinos at the Green Bean, complaining about the lack of fresh strawberries at the dining hall, bitching that flies are permitted within the Embassy compound. Given the quarters in which I am housed, the food provided at the dining hall (I had actual fried eggs and real bacon for breakfast this morning), and the amenities available within the compound, I have to remind myself that this is a hardship post. Imagine having Johnny Walker Blue on the shelves at the Welch Super Service? The Embassy Store has Blue ($174), and Green ($47), and Black ($40), and Red (for the maintenance crew and the Peruvian guards, I suppose).
If not the biggest US embassy in the world, it has to be near the top. There are between 3,000 and 5,000 people living here (again, it depends on who is telling the story) on an plot of land about half a mile long and a quarter mile wide.
I was told today that the price tag on this place was over $800 million. And construction continues. It will break a billion easily. The cost of building embassies and consulates must be going through the roof. Initial numbers being thrown around for the Basra Consulate are in excess of $500 million. It must be the added cost of security.
Repairs are ubitiquious on practically every building on the compound. One of the decorative three-story awnings on an administrative building detached itself and showered the walkway below with chunks of concrete. There are horror stories of bathrooms not flushing because they were never hooked to the sewer lines and showers sending electricity through the bodies of would-be clean FSOs. Before the place opened somebody realized that there were only enough rooms for half of the folks employed by the Embassy. The solution was to retrofit the rooms. When that was done, it adversely impacted the air conditioning systems.
Google the Embassy in Baghdad. Select Google images. The place has a certain Stalinist charm. Call me Old School but I like the idea of US embassies all looking like Mt. Vernon, or Montecello, or better yet, Tara. I think every American embassy should spend as much as we have on the lawn here in Baghdad to grow magnolias on the grounds. Our embassies should be little pieces of the US. American art should adorn the halls. American customs – sandlot baseball, Frisbee, picnics – should be standard fare at a US mission. There should be easy access to grills and maybe even a drive-in picture show. There is no better way to introduce foreigners to Americans than to invite them to see how we live. That, in part, is how we won the Cold War.
If I were an Iraqi, I doubt that I would be impressed by America based on the Baghdad compound. There is little about it that celebrates who and what Americans are. I suspect that the only lesson the Iraqis get from the American Embassy – which cannot be seen from the road that passes in front of it because of the walls – is that we are afraid. Few Iraqis will get into the US compound. Few Americans are allowed outside the gates.
You have to ask yourself what a billion dollars is buying us?
The place is lousy with foreign service officers (FSOs). They infest every corner – swilling skim milk cappuccinos at the Green Bean, complaining about the lack of fresh strawberries at the dining hall, bitching that flies are permitted within the Embassy compound. Given the quarters in which I am housed, the food provided at the dining hall (I had actual fried eggs and real bacon for breakfast this morning), and the amenities available within the compound, I have to remind myself that this is a hardship post. Imagine having Johnny Walker Blue on the shelves at the Welch Super Service? The Embassy Store has Blue ($174), and Green ($47), and Black ($40), and Red (for the maintenance crew and the Peruvian guards, I suppose).
If not the biggest US embassy in the world, it has to be near the top. There are between 3,000 and 5,000 people living here (again, it depends on who is telling the story) on an plot of land about half a mile long and a quarter mile wide.
I was told today that the price tag on this place was over $800 million. And construction continues. It will break a billion easily. The cost of building embassies and consulates must be going through the roof. Initial numbers being thrown around for the Basra Consulate are in excess of $500 million. It must be the added cost of security.
Repairs are ubitiquious on practically every building on the compound. One of the decorative three-story awnings on an administrative building detached itself and showered the walkway below with chunks of concrete. There are horror stories of bathrooms not flushing because they were never hooked to the sewer lines and showers sending electricity through the bodies of would-be clean FSOs. Before the place opened somebody realized that there were only enough rooms for half of the folks employed by the Embassy. The solution was to retrofit the rooms. When that was done, it adversely impacted the air conditioning systems.
Google the Embassy in Baghdad. Select Google images. The place has a certain Stalinist charm. Call me Old School but I like the idea of US embassies all looking like Mt. Vernon, or Montecello, or better yet, Tara. I think every American embassy should spend as much as we have on the lawn here in Baghdad to grow magnolias on the grounds. Our embassies should be little pieces of the US. American art should adorn the halls. American customs – sandlot baseball, Frisbee, picnics – should be standard fare at a US mission. There should be easy access to grills and maybe even a drive-in picture show. There is no better way to introduce foreigners to Americans than to invite them to see how we live. That, in part, is how we won the Cold War.
If I were an Iraqi, I doubt that I would be impressed by America based on the Baghdad compound. There is little about it that celebrates who and what Americans are. I suspect that the only lesson the Iraqis get from the American Embassy – which cannot be seen from the road that passes in front of it because of the walls – is that we are afraid. Few Iraqis will get into the US compound. Few Americans are allowed outside the gates.
You have to ask yourself what a billion dollars is buying us?
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Hail and Farewell
The tradition here in Basra is that when a colleague departs for home, a US flag is flown over the compound, lowered, folded, and presented. As with everything else we do, we’ve abbreviated all that into simply “he’s folded the flag.” Sometimes, we hold a “hail and farewell” soiree where we greet any newcomers to the group and bid farewell to those heading elsewhere. These affairs are held at the only PRT bar in Iraq – the Screaming Donkey – located here within the compound. We had a particularly good party last night. I am feeling the after affects today. Our management officer (who is leaving on the same plane as I) took it upon himself to remodel the Donkey in anticipation of last night’s party. It looked stunning. The bar itself is adorned with candid shots of colleagues over time. It is a comfortable place to be. We had great food provided by our dining hall crew, and the live music was courtesy of the military (it was not marching music but funk and jazzy rock – horns, guitars, sultry vocals, good beat). The party was still going strong at midnight when I determined that it was time for me to call it quits. The Brits came over, a variety of local Iraqis, a few contractors, even my dentist. Good crowd and a lot of fun. It was a nice way to close out the time in Basra.
My last day in Basra is full of mundane details – a last load of laundry, a final mailing of stuff I don’t want to carry on the flight home, a quick brush up of my quarters to welcome the next occupant, sign out of my computer account, and a round of hand-shakes. Otherwise, I am ready to go. Next stop, Baghdad.
My last day in Basra is full of mundane details – a last load of laundry, a final mailing of stuff I don’t want to carry on the flight home, a quick brush up of my quarters to welcome the next occupant, sign out of my computer account, and a round of hand-shakes. Otherwise, I am ready to go. Next stop, Baghdad.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Basra, Iraq's Economic Engine
Basra is an important city, not just to Iraq, but to the wider Middle East. It sits atop one of the largest known oil reserves in the world. It is Iraq’s only seaport. It is sandwiched between Iran and Afghanistan to the north, Kuwait and Saudi Arabia to the south. And, just down the Gulf are the Emirates. Baghdad may be the capital but Basra is the economic engine of Iraq. This is the place that will play are large part in determining how Iraq develops post-US occupation.
There are a number of factors that support those sweeping statements.
First, Basra is a big city. The city proper is about 1.25 million people and the larger province is 3.5 million. The population is largely homogenous, over 85% of Basrawis are Shia. Big cities don’t just disappear. There is a momentum about them. Big cities that have frail underpinnings suffer but Basra is not in that category. It is Iraq’s second largest city and given its location on the Persian Gulf and its resources, the place is in early bloom.
Second, the US has not been parsimonious with Basra. Since the serious reconstruction began in 2005, the US has dropped more than $2.5 billion for infrastructure projects in the province. Water, sewer, electricity systems have been rebuilt, roads, bridges, and canals repaired and improved, schools and medical clinics built. The US has put money into training Basrawi workers, into libraries, and into the local university and the various vocational and technical schools. The money has had positive impacts. There has also been waste but that is the topic of another post.
Third, there is a reason that international oil companies are beating a path to Basra’s door. This is where the oil is. The province earns money off every drop pumped. Given how much is here, Basra’s share of the profits will be enormous. There is also trade. Basra’s Umm Qasr port is Iraq’s outlet to the sea. Iraq, much to its chagrin, imports practically everything. Manufacturing in the country is dead – for my socialist friends, look at Iraq and industry here to get a glimpse of how letting the State control things works. Importers can either fly stuff in (prohibitively expensive), drive things in (time expensive), or ship them in (quantity discount). Most opt to ship and the only port is Umm Qasr. Basra is the primary supply route to Iraq.
Fourth, one of the lessons the Iraqis learned through bitter experience is that centralized government exacts too high a cost in national progress. For a generation, Iraq was run out of Baghdad. Industries, commercial ventures, resource processors were State-owned enterprises (SOEs). The new Iraqi Constitution commits the nation to decentralize authority. Most Iraqaphiles (folks who are fascinated with all things Iraqi) dismiss any possibility of a decentralized governance of the country. They were shocked when the Council of Representatives passed a number of measures that kept faith with the Constitution. One bill broke up the traditionally powerful and monolith ministry, Municipalities and Public Works (MoMPW) and devolved its authorities and its budget allocations to the provinces. In another, the Ministry of Labor and Social Assistance was disbanded on the national level with their duties handed to the provinces. These latest enactments provide yet more credence to the views of many that the Provincial Powers Law passed a couple of years ago was no fluke.
Fifth, and closely allied with the decentralization of governance in Iraq, was the passage by the Council of two items that will have enormous impact on Basra. The first is a $1 per barrel tax on all oil drilled in the province. Current drilling produces almost a million barrels each day. That rate of drilling is bound to increase as hostilities fade into memory, the US withdraws, Iraq ceases to be an armed camp, and private investment increases here. The second windfall for Basra was approval of an 5% import fee on all items brought into the country. Between the oil tax and the import fee, Basra’s budget could easily see a $700 million increase the first year. Imagine if you expected to have $237 million but instead found yourself with almost a billion.
Sixth, because of the enormous increase in cash, the Iraqis are getting serious about governance. The place is one of the most corrupt in the world. The patience of the Basrawis is worn thin by years of deprivation. Now that money is flowing, they are beginning to demand that their elected leadership shape up. Corruption will not end; one just hopes that it can be minimized.
And, finally, what makes Basra such an exciting place and a spot to watch is that Basrawis are enterprising. They figure stuff out quickly and they find ways to profit from even bad situations. The security they enjoy, thanks to the Americans, gives the Basrawis a chance to engage with the world. Most Iraqis recognize that being cut off from the global community has retarded the country. Now they are scrambling to catch up. And, they will.
There are a number of factors that support those sweeping statements.
First, Basra is a big city. The city proper is about 1.25 million people and the larger province is 3.5 million. The population is largely homogenous, over 85% of Basrawis are Shia. Big cities don’t just disappear. There is a momentum about them. Big cities that have frail underpinnings suffer but Basra is not in that category. It is Iraq’s second largest city and given its location on the Persian Gulf and its resources, the place is in early bloom.
Second, the US has not been parsimonious with Basra. Since the serious reconstruction began in 2005, the US has dropped more than $2.5 billion for infrastructure projects in the province. Water, sewer, electricity systems have been rebuilt, roads, bridges, and canals repaired and improved, schools and medical clinics built. The US has put money into training Basrawi workers, into libraries, and into the local university and the various vocational and technical schools. The money has had positive impacts. There has also been waste but that is the topic of another post.
Third, there is a reason that international oil companies are beating a path to Basra’s door. This is where the oil is. The province earns money off every drop pumped. Given how much is here, Basra’s share of the profits will be enormous. There is also trade. Basra’s Umm Qasr port is Iraq’s outlet to the sea. Iraq, much to its chagrin, imports practically everything. Manufacturing in the country is dead – for my socialist friends, look at Iraq and industry here to get a glimpse of how letting the State control things works. Importers can either fly stuff in (prohibitively expensive), drive things in (time expensive), or ship them in (quantity discount). Most opt to ship and the only port is Umm Qasr. Basra is the primary supply route to Iraq.
Fourth, one of the lessons the Iraqis learned through bitter experience is that centralized government exacts too high a cost in national progress. For a generation, Iraq was run out of Baghdad. Industries, commercial ventures, resource processors were State-owned enterprises (SOEs). The new Iraqi Constitution commits the nation to decentralize authority. Most Iraqaphiles (folks who are fascinated with all things Iraqi) dismiss any possibility of a decentralized governance of the country. They were shocked when the Council of Representatives passed a number of measures that kept faith with the Constitution. One bill broke up the traditionally powerful and monolith ministry, Municipalities and Public Works (MoMPW) and devolved its authorities and its budget allocations to the provinces. In another, the Ministry of Labor and Social Assistance was disbanded on the national level with their duties handed to the provinces. These latest enactments provide yet more credence to the views of many that the Provincial Powers Law passed a couple of years ago was no fluke.
Fifth, and closely allied with the decentralization of governance in Iraq, was the passage by the Council of two items that will have enormous impact on Basra. The first is a $1 per barrel tax on all oil drilled in the province. Current drilling produces almost a million barrels each day. That rate of drilling is bound to increase as hostilities fade into memory, the US withdraws, Iraq ceases to be an armed camp, and private investment increases here. The second windfall for Basra was approval of an 5% import fee on all items brought into the country. Between the oil tax and the import fee, Basra’s budget could easily see a $700 million increase the first year. Imagine if you expected to have $237 million but instead found yourself with almost a billion.
Sixth, because of the enormous increase in cash, the Iraqis are getting serious about governance. The place is one of the most corrupt in the world. The patience of the Basrawis is worn thin by years of deprivation. Now that money is flowing, they are beginning to demand that their elected leadership shape up. Corruption will not end; one just hopes that it can be minimized.
And, finally, what makes Basra such an exciting place and a spot to watch is that Basrawis are enterprising. They figure stuff out quickly and they find ways to profit from even bad situations. The security they enjoy, thanks to the Americans, gives the Basrawis a chance to engage with the world. Most Iraqis recognize that being cut off from the global community has retarded the country. Now they are scrambling to catch up. And, they will.
Friday, May 7, 2010
Ripples
I am 99.9% happy about completing my tour in Iraq and returning home. The .1% of me is wondering how much havoc my moving back home will cause to The Old Goat and Tinker.
(Before I continue, I need to say that the appellation, The Old Goat, refers to my Dad. It is used with affection but is descriptive of his contrary ways. Dad is in his mid-80s and is healthy and vital, active in his church, and always ready with an opinion on most any issue that arises.)
The Old Goat and Tinker have developed a rhythm. Every Thursday is pizza night, every Friday night is Burger King. Every Saturday morning is Jack’s Super Breakfast. Every Sunday afternoon at 4 is dinner.
I have been out of their loop for forty years. My return will impact their rhythm. To make matters worse, I am not a pizza fan. The last thing my waistline and my heart need is a Whopper. I could just stay home but that would cause as big a show as going. It is a quandary.
I wrote to Tinker the other day and asked if he wanted to go the West Point Lake MusicFest, a three-day event over Memorial Day weekend. I laid out a plan that we would drag the Airstream down to the Lake and enjoy the music with the comfort of having a living space close at hand. After I sent the message to him, I realized that if we go to the music festival, The Old Goat will go to Burger King and Jack’s alone. And, before you state the obvious, of course he is invited to go with us. (Here is where he really earns the title of The Old Goat.) I can hear his reaction when asked. “Why, hell no, I don’t want to get caught up in the s#&ttin’ mess.” And, on and on. All the time knowing that if he went he would have a heck of a good time. The man is stubborn.
All of that got me thinking about how me interjecting myself back into their lives is going to cause ripples. That is the .1% concern I have. Part of the reason for relocating onto the land in Chambers County is to be around for The Old Goat. Tinker has carried all the load of keeping an eye out for him without complaint. And, other than his insistence upon eating at 4 pm, and his curious ways, The Old Goat is self-sufficient. I have no doubt that he’ll outlive both Tinker and me. Could be that I moving back so that The Old Goat can keep an eye on me.
Whatever the situation is, is. And, if I cause problems, well, it is family. They are the ones who will cut you a sprout when you cause a dust-up. I am banking on it.
(Before I continue, I need to say that the appellation, The Old Goat, refers to my Dad. It is used with affection but is descriptive of his contrary ways. Dad is in his mid-80s and is healthy and vital, active in his church, and always ready with an opinion on most any issue that arises.)
The Old Goat and Tinker have developed a rhythm. Every Thursday is pizza night, every Friday night is Burger King. Every Saturday morning is Jack’s Super Breakfast. Every Sunday afternoon at 4 is dinner.
I have been out of their loop for forty years. My return will impact their rhythm. To make matters worse, I am not a pizza fan. The last thing my waistline and my heart need is a Whopper. I could just stay home but that would cause as big a show as going. It is a quandary.
I wrote to Tinker the other day and asked if he wanted to go the West Point Lake MusicFest, a three-day event over Memorial Day weekend. I laid out a plan that we would drag the Airstream down to the Lake and enjoy the music with the comfort of having a living space close at hand. After I sent the message to him, I realized that if we go to the music festival, The Old Goat will go to Burger King and Jack’s alone. And, before you state the obvious, of course he is invited to go with us. (Here is where he really earns the title of The Old Goat.) I can hear his reaction when asked. “Why, hell no, I don’t want to get caught up in the s#&ttin’ mess.” And, on and on. All the time knowing that if he went he would have a heck of a good time. The man is stubborn.
All of that got me thinking about how me interjecting myself back into their lives is going to cause ripples. That is the .1% concern I have. Part of the reason for relocating onto the land in Chambers County is to be around for The Old Goat. Tinker has carried all the load of keeping an eye out for him without complaint. And, other than his insistence upon eating at 4 pm, and his curious ways, The Old Goat is self-sufficient. I have no doubt that he’ll outlive both Tinker and me. Could be that I moving back so that The Old Goat can keep an eye on me.
Whatever the situation is, is. And, if I cause problems, well, it is family. They are the ones who will cut you a sprout when you cause a dust-up. I am banking on it.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Journals and Blogs
WitchWoman and I are having an on-going conversation about journals,and blogs. Both of us journal but each in our own privacy. Have for years. Having a pen in hand and scratching words onto a fresh sheet of paper is a sublime experience.
The nature of our conversation centers on the degree to which one puts his/her soul onto the page and for whom the writing is intended. WitchWoman contends that writing is private and, thus, kept close. A journal is a private document into which one pours all. It has an audience of one – the writer. Journals are helpful tools to work out difficult issues. They are the “whiteboard” of the mind on which you can scribble and doodle ideas, dissect and compound notions, explore options. The stuff that gets into a journal should not be taken as truth or as concluded fact. The journal is the place in which you try to discern the truth and the way to do that is to explore the possibilities. Even to use the journal as a record of events presents issues of bias, perception, and emphasis. Detailing a luncheon date, for instance, may seem innocuous until put into broader perspective. The journal is that safe place to sort out the details. It is safe because it is solely yours.
Blogs are completely different. A blog is the kid screaming at his mother to watch him dive in the pool, or ride his bicycle, or jump out of a tree. There is no pretense in blogging to maintain any privacy, and from some of the blogs I read, little effort at modesty. A blog is self-promotion even when it is created with the best of intentions. Welch Super Service is all about me. And I shamelessly throw it open on the absurd presumption that the world “needs” to know what Tom is thinking.
It may surprise some readers but I usually draft these posts then go back and edit them before putting them on the blog. I guarantee to you that I do not edit my journal entries. That begs the obvious question: are blogs less genuine than journals? Not necessarily. Both attempt to make sense of the world. Both can be completely honest or not, depending on the character of the person writing them. A blog is a wider conversation, an invitation to exchange with others. Admittedly, they are self-aggrandizing but they can also be congenial. I think of a blog in the same terms as the chit-chat at a cocktail or dinner party while a journal are those quiet moments you spend alone, hashing over events, thoughts, threats, and opportunities.
This is another example of what WitchWoman does to me. She makes me examine my motives. For that, I am grateful. Welch Super Service is an invitation to converse. It is as much me as a person can share without offending. It is about connecting.
The nature of our conversation centers on the degree to which one puts his/her soul onto the page and for whom the writing is intended. WitchWoman contends that writing is private and, thus, kept close. A journal is a private document into which one pours all. It has an audience of one – the writer. Journals are helpful tools to work out difficult issues. They are the “whiteboard” of the mind on which you can scribble and doodle ideas, dissect and compound notions, explore options. The stuff that gets into a journal should not be taken as truth or as concluded fact. The journal is the place in which you try to discern the truth and the way to do that is to explore the possibilities. Even to use the journal as a record of events presents issues of bias, perception, and emphasis. Detailing a luncheon date, for instance, may seem innocuous until put into broader perspective. The journal is that safe place to sort out the details. It is safe because it is solely yours.
Blogs are completely different. A blog is the kid screaming at his mother to watch him dive in the pool, or ride his bicycle, or jump out of a tree. There is no pretense in blogging to maintain any privacy, and from some of the blogs I read, little effort at modesty. A blog is self-promotion even when it is created with the best of intentions. Welch Super Service is all about me. And I shamelessly throw it open on the absurd presumption that the world “needs” to know what Tom is thinking.
It may surprise some readers but I usually draft these posts then go back and edit them before putting them on the blog. I guarantee to you that I do not edit my journal entries. That begs the obvious question: are blogs less genuine than journals? Not necessarily. Both attempt to make sense of the world. Both can be completely honest or not, depending on the character of the person writing them. A blog is a wider conversation, an invitation to exchange with others. Admittedly, they are self-aggrandizing but they can also be congenial. I think of a blog in the same terms as the chit-chat at a cocktail or dinner party while a journal are those quiet moments you spend alone, hashing over events, thoughts, threats, and opportunities.
This is another example of what WitchWoman does to me. She makes me examine my motives. For that, I am grateful. Welch Super Service is an invitation to converse. It is as much me as a person can share without offending. It is about connecting.
Kay Ivey
On June 1, I will cast my ballot in the primary in Alabama. Now, I am a life-long Democrat. But, I will vote in the Republican primary this time. The reason is Kay Ivey. She is running for lieutenant governor and I want to make sure that she survives the primary and stands before the voters in Alabama in November. I have known Kay since the late 1970s. At that time, I was the city manager in a small west Alabama town desperate for jobs for our citizens. Kay was with the Alabama Development Office, a state agency that assisted in the economic development of Alabama cities. Working with her was a treat – professional, enthusiastic, demanding. I developed an appreciation for her character and felt then that if she ever ran for state-wide office, I would contribute to her effort and vote for her.
Kay and I do not agree on issues. She is a strong conservative Republican. I am a Democrat with conservative fiscal leanings but clearly progressive on social issues. Yet, I do not see the conflict in my decision to vote for Kay.
In Federalist 10, James Madison articulated the nature of a republican form of government. After defining a democracy and a republic, he then said that one of the differences between them is that in a democracy everybody makes social decisions while in a republic, everybody selects a few people to make them. He then goes on to make the critical observation:
The effect of the first difference is, on the one hand, to refine and enlarge the public views, by passing them through the medium of a chosen body of citizens, whose wisdom may best discern the true interest of their country, and whose patriotism and love of justice will be least likely to sacrifice it to temporary or partial considerations. Under such a regulation, it may well happen that the public voice, pronounced by the representatives of the people, will be more consonant to the public good than if pronounced by the people themselves, convened for the purpose. On the other hand, the effect may be inverted. Men of factious tempers, of local prejudices, or of sinister designs, may, by intrigue, by corruption, or by other means, first obtain the suffrages, and then betray the interests, of the people.
What Mr. Madison points out is why the character of our elected leadership is vitally important to the survival of the nation. We are a republic. We elect a select number from among our ranks to make decisions on our behalf. We entrust to them the responsibility to examine the issues that confront the entire community and we place confidence in their collective wisdom to select the right path
As much as some of my Democrat friends detest me saying it, character actually does matter. In fact, I go so far as to say that it is the only real criteria for elected leadership in a republic. Madison gives us the qualities that make a good representative: patriotism and love of justice. Put into other words, does the representative truly care about the continuation of the nation, state, county, or city? And, does the representative truly want to see the “right” thing done? When those criteria are your guiding principles, ideology fades away.
Put into practice, what I am saying is that I expect my representatives to genuinely examine issues. I want them to wrestle with the details and the potential outcomes. I want them to exercise their insight and judgment to make the best decision for the community. Then, I want them to explain it to me. For my part, I promise not to react ideologically; instead, I will listen to the logic and put it in context with what I know to be the character of the person. If I am unhappy with a representative, it is contingent upon me to explain to him/her why and how a decision should be altered. If I am unable to put forth a compelling argument, then I shut up and go home. The type of republic Mr. Madison envisioned was one in which citizenship was an active noun. It is not one in which citizens are spoon-fed edicts from the state. To the contrary, he expected citizens to be engaged and in conversation with their representatives.
As lieutenant governor, Kay will preside over the State Senate and fill in for the governor during his absence. Other than those official duties, Kay can use her considerable energy to press for a better Alabama. I trust her to give issues the due diligence they require and make decisions based on her love of Alabama and her desire to see each Alabama citizen treated fairly and humanely.
I’m voting for Kay Ivey. I hope you do, too.
Kay and I do not agree on issues. She is a strong conservative Republican. I am a Democrat with conservative fiscal leanings but clearly progressive on social issues. Yet, I do not see the conflict in my decision to vote for Kay.
In Federalist 10, James Madison articulated the nature of a republican form of government. After defining a democracy and a republic, he then said that one of the differences between them is that in a democracy everybody makes social decisions while in a republic, everybody selects a few people to make them. He then goes on to make the critical observation:
The effect of the first difference is, on the one hand, to refine and enlarge the public views, by passing them through the medium of a chosen body of citizens, whose wisdom may best discern the true interest of their country, and whose patriotism and love of justice will be least likely to sacrifice it to temporary or partial considerations. Under such a regulation, it may well happen that the public voice, pronounced by the representatives of the people, will be more consonant to the public good than if pronounced by the people themselves, convened for the purpose. On the other hand, the effect may be inverted. Men of factious tempers, of local prejudices, or of sinister designs, may, by intrigue, by corruption, or by other means, first obtain the suffrages, and then betray the interests, of the people.
What Mr. Madison points out is why the character of our elected leadership is vitally important to the survival of the nation. We are a republic. We elect a select number from among our ranks to make decisions on our behalf. We entrust to them the responsibility to examine the issues that confront the entire community and we place confidence in their collective wisdom to select the right path
As much as some of my Democrat friends detest me saying it, character actually does matter. In fact, I go so far as to say that it is the only real criteria for elected leadership in a republic. Madison gives us the qualities that make a good representative: patriotism and love of justice. Put into other words, does the representative truly care about the continuation of the nation, state, county, or city? And, does the representative truly want to see the “right” thing done? When those criteria are your guiding principles, ideology fades away.
Put into practice, what I am saying is that I expect my representatives to genuinely examine issues. I want them to wrestle with the details and the potential outcomes. I want them to exercise their insight and judgment to make the best decision for the community. Then, I want them to explain it to me. For my part, I promise not to react ideologically; instead, I will listen to the logic and put it in context with what I know to be the character of the person. If I am unhappy with a representative, it is contingent upon me to explain to him/her why and how a decision should be altered. If I am unable to put forth a compelling argument, then I shut up and go home. The type of republic Mr. Madison envisioned was one in which citizenship was an active noun. It is not one in which citizens are spoon-fed edicts from the state. To the contrary, he expected citizens to be engaged and in conversation with their representatives.
As lieutenant governor, Kay will preside over the State Senate and fill in for the governor during his absence. Other than those official duties, Kay can use her considerable energy to press for a better Alabama. I trust her to give issues the due diligence they require and make decisions based on her love of Alabama and her desire to see each Alabama citizen treated fairly and humanely.
I’m voting for Kay Ivey. I hope you do, too.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Getting to Iraq
As I indicated earlier, I spent the last two years in Iraq with the State Department. In the fall of 2007, while listening to NPR one morning, I caught a story about the inability of the State Department to get career foreign service officers (FSOs) to go to Iraq. During the story, the head of the FSO union delivered testimony about the danger faced by FSOs and the hardship such unaccompanied tours placed on them. My reaction was one of disbelief and shame. How could folks who had chosen a career path involving being positioned in troublesome spots around the world in order to represent the United States be unwilling to do their duties? Most of it, of course, was the anti-war sentiments of the individuals within State, egged on by their personal animosity toward President Bush. I felt it was an embarrassing moment for our country.
Senator Lugar of Indiana was chairing the hearing at which the testimony was delivered. I fired off an email message to his office saying that if FSOs did not want to serve on PRTs, perhaps other Americans with applicable skills would. Sometime in winter, I received a terse message from his office pointing me to a website for government jobs. There I found the Provincial Reconstruction Teams (PRT) and THE job for me: senior city management advisor. I applied and was hired.
At that point, I applied for a one-year leave of absence from my job as a professor of political science. The University was ugly about it, as if I was committing treason. In one of the nastiest letters I have ever received, the University administrator gave me a drop-dead date to return to work or sacrifice my job. My plan was to return to the teaching after a year, enriched with experiences that would give my in-class activities greater relevance and gravity. At the time, Iraq was THE war and THE issue. What better way to learn more about it than be in Iraq and work with the Iraqis?
I make myself sound noble. And, I paint the University as jack-asses. Neither is the truth – although from what I has happened to the University in the last two years, one might conclude that it is being lead by one.
The truth is that I was growing old teaching. I could no longer feel the passion. My finances were fine but I thought I could do better. I was trying to get beyond a divorce. My kids were grown and scattered. I liked WitchWoman but could not figure out what to do with her. I was restless. In lots of ways, I ran away to Iraq. Sort of a modern day version of joining the French Foreign Legion, or stealing away to join the circus.
For the University’s part, I asked for a leave of absence during a transition from a real president to a stooge for the Board of Governors. Bad timing on my part. The administrative staff was more focused on not making any mistakes than they were on advancing the University’s mission and nobody saw any potential in exploiting my work in Iraq. That explains why near the end of the first year, when the PRT leader in Basra offered me a job, the University’s response to my request for an extension of the leave was quickly and summarily rejected.
Again, I have to be careful of false nobility. The US civilians I’ve met in Iraq are here either because they are running from something or else for the money. I fall into the first category although I like the money, too. After a year, I had not run away from my demons. When the University said no to the extension, I put in my paperwork to retire from teaching and accepted the second year assignment in Basra. Good decisions. Neither the University nor I have missed each other.
That is enough background on getting to Iraq. At some point, I will talk about some of the experiences here. I’ve kept journals during the two years and expect to sort through them as I unwind from the tour. I will leave you with one ironic fact. They union representative who testified before Senator Lugar’s committee in 2007 became my boss in Basra a month after I arrived.
Senator Lugar of Indiana was chairing the hearing at which the testimony was delivered. I fired off an email message to his office saying that if FSOs did not want to serve on PRTs, perhaps other Americans with applicable skills would. Sometime in winter, I received a terse message from his office pointing me to a website for government jobs. There I found the Provincial Reconstruction Teams (PRT) and THE job for me: senior city management advisor. I applied and was hired.
At that point, I applied for a one-year leave of absence from my job as a professor of political science. The University was ugly about it, as if I was committing treason. In one of the nastiest letters I have ever received, the University administrator gave me a drop-dead date to return to work or sacrifice my job. My plan was to return to the teaching after a year, enriched with experiences that would give my in-class activities greater relevance and gravity. At the time, Iraq was THE war and THE issue. What better way to learn more about it than be in Iraq and work with the Iraqis?
I make myself sound noble. And, I paint the University as jack-asses. Neither is the truth – although from what I has happened to the University in the last two years, one might conclude that it is being lead by one.
The truth is that I was growing old teaching. I could no longer feel the passion. My finances were fine but I thought I could do better. I was trying to get beyond a divorce. My kids were grown and scattered. I liked WitchWoman but could not figure out what to do with her. I was restless. In lots of ways, I ran away to Iraq. Sort of a modern day version of joining the French Foreign Legion, or stealing away to join the circus.
For the University’s part, I asked for a leave of absence during a transition from a real president to a stooge for the Board of Governors. Bad timing on my part. The administrative staff was more focused on not making any mistakes than they were on advancing the University’s mission and nobody saw any potential in exploiting my work in Iraq. That explains why near the end of the first year, when the PRT leader in Basra offered me a job, the University’s response to my request for an extension of the leave was quickly and summarily rejected.
Again, I have to be careful of false nobility. The US civilians I’ve met in Iraq are here either because they are running from something or else for the money. I fall into the first category although I like the money, too. After a year, I had not run away from my demons. When the University said no to the extension, I put in my paperwork to retire from teaching and accepted the second year assignment in Basra. Good decisions. Neither the University nor I have missed each other.
That is enough background on getting to Iraq. At some point, I will talk about some of the experiences here. I’ve kept journals during the two years and expect to sort through them as I unwind from the tour. I will leave you with one ironic fact. They union representative who testified before Senator Lugar’s committee in 2007 became my boss in Basra a month after I arrived.
Monday, May 3, 2010
The Recalcitrant Molar
At 59, I have more natural teeth than any other Simpson in my prolific family. I have lost only one and that was a story in itself. I was in the service and reported to sick call with pain. The military dentist looked at the offending tooth and promptly extracted it. There was no discussion, no consultation. I guess he figured that I was nothing more than a cog in the war machine and did not warrant him expending any of his time and expertise on a simple filling. Anyway, that was many years ago. In the intervening years, I have tried to practice good oral health – I brush at least twice daily, floss religiously (keeping floss in several places in my room, in my office desk, and in my brief case). I use Listerine as if it were a single malt Scotch. Still, I have had issues with my teeth. Twenty years ago, I had a root canal done on a wayward molar, thinking that I could save the renegade. About three years ago, I started having insurgency attacks from this very same molar. Soreness, swelling, and throbbing pain. I was able to treat the issue with antibiotics. Until recently. Finally consulting a dentist, I was told that the root canal I had done was a botched job, that it had failed and the tooth had to come out.
That day has arrived. I go under the pliers in an hour or so. And, I hate it. More, I hate the idea of losing a tooth. One of my goals in life was to make it to the finish line with all of the natural choppers in place. Having already lost one, I feel doubly let down with the loss of another.
The dentist who is doing the deed is a good fellow. He examined all my remaining teeth, studied the x-rays, and announced that they were sound and should make it till the end, unless I started chewing on washers and bolts.
It is one of those signs of age, when you worry more about gum loss and wear marks than you do about how white your teeth are. You have to remember that I am not of the fluoride generation, so I took on the enemies of teeth with few allies – Crest, a toothbrush, with floss coming in as a late comer. Although with my rising affluence, I opted to replace Crest with Rembrandt several years ago.
Shades of the past, though, surround this dental work. The fellow wielding the pliers is a military dentist. I still have visions of my original experience back as an inductee. It gives me pause.
That day has arrived. I go under the pliers in an hour or so. And, I hate it. More, I hate the idea of losing a tooth. One of my goals in life was to make it to the finish line with all of the natural choppers in place. Having already lost one, I feel doubly let down with the loss of another.
The dentist who is doing the deed is a good fellow. He examined all my remaining teeth, studied the x-rays, and announced that they were sound and should make it till the end, unless I started chewing on washers and bolts.
It is one of those signs of age, when you worry more about gum loss and wear marks than you do about how white your teeth are. You have to remember that I am not of the fluoride generation, so I took on the enemies of teeth with few allies – Crest, a toothbrush, with floss coming in as a late comer. Although with my rising affluence, I opted to replace Crest with Rembrandt several years ago.
Shades of the past, though, surround this dental work. The fellow wielding the pliers is a military dentist. I still have visions of my original experience back as an inductee. It gives me pause.
The Planned Departure
My time in Basra is down to less than a week. I packed all of my worldly possessions and began mailing them to my brother in Alabama. In all, four boxes of stuff. The modest quarters I have occupied for two years looks barren. It looks bigger than it lives. I have grown accustomed to the compact space – good training for the Airstream.
The State Department is requiring that I out-process at the Embassy in Baghdad before flying to Washington to out-process at Main State. Next Sunday, I will fly to Baghdad. The entire process there should take less than a day but, naturally, I will be stuck there waiting for flights out for a week. The only advantage to being at the Embassy is that they sell alcohol in the Embassy store. And, because State Department folks are accustomed to high quality stuff, I will have a good selection of Scotches and wines. It should be a restful and relaxing few days.
If all goes well, the last leg of my journey home ends when the United Airline’s flight touches down in Atlanta on Monday, 17 May.
My brother, Tinker, will pick me up at the airport. Next day, he will driving me to take delivery of the truck. Sometime in the subsequent days, I will take delivery of the Airstream.
One thing I have learned while in Iraq is that precise timetables and elaborate plans are fool’s play. (Don’t believe the movies that depict precision military planning – at best, the Army guesses at the flow of events then tries to adjust to reality as it unfolds.) I have a plan with definitive dates but maintain an optimistic good nature, recognizing that when things work as intended, it is serendipitous.
The keys to being good natured are flexibility and surprise that things worked.
The State Department is requiring that I out-process at the Embassy in Baghdad before flying to Washington to out-process at Main State. Next Sunday, I will fly to Baghdad. The entire process there should take less than a day but, naturally, I will be stuck there waiting for flights out for a week. The only advantage to being at the Embassy is that they sell alcohol in the Embassy store. And, because State Department folks are accustomed to high quality stuff, I will have a good selection of Scotches and wines. It should be a restful and relaxing few days.
If all goes well, the last leg of my journey home ends when the United Airline’s flight touches down in Atlanta on Monday, 17 May.
My brother, Tinker, will pick me up at the airport. Next day, he will driving me to take delivery of the truck. Sometime in the subsequent days, I will take delivery of the Airstream.
One thing I have learned while in Iraq is that precise timetables and elaborate plans are fool’s play. (Don’t believe the movies that depict precision military planning – at best, the Army guesses at the flow of events then tries to adjust to reality as it unfolds.) I have a plan with definitive dates but maintain an optimistic good nature, recognizing that when things work as intended, it is serendipitous.
The keys to being good natured are flexibility and surprise that things worked.
Welcome
Welcome to Welch Super Service, a blog about a guy making a huge change in his life. The blog’s title comes from a sign that has been atop the Welch Super Service gas and grocery, at the heart of my soon-to-be home, Welch, Alabama. The sign one of those vintage Coca-Cola ones, has been up since I was a kid. Imagine what “super service” was back in the 1950s. The sign, the store, and the community, continue to welcome customers driving up and down US 431 in east central Alabama. If you ever find yourself in the area, stop in for a cold “drank.”
In about two weeks, I will depart Iraq after a two-year stint with the US State Department. My plan is to relocate onto a piece of ground in Alabama – the place I was born. I have not lived there since I was in high school, a very long time ago. In anticipation of the change in addresses, I bought a truck and an Airstream travel trailer. Figured with the two, I had solved most of my transportation and housing needs. There are a couple of things I need to do before I actually move in. I have to drill a well, install a septic system, get a driveway constructed, and obtain electricity and propane gas. In addition, I want to pour a cement slab for the Airstream and build a cover over it. My idea is that I will eventually enclose the Airstream parking spot and make it into a general use room, what the Iraqis would call a diwan (a sheikh’s room). And, at some point, I intend to build a modest cabin on the property. When all of that happens, the Airstream will be up for sale. Early bids are welcomed.
At this moment, in this very first post, I am in Iraq, Basra to be specific. My job is that of a governance advisor. My actual specialty is city management but Iraqis have a different way of looking at the management of their cities than Americans. All that ends in a few days and I will be back home, Sweet Home Alabama, hoping that I can survive it.
In about two weeks, I will depart Iraq after a two-year stint with the US State Department. My plan is to relocate onto a piece of ground in Alabama – the place I was born. I have not lived there since I was in high school, a very long time ago. In anticipation of the change in addresses, I bought a truck and an Airstream travel trailer. Figured with the two, I had solved most of my transportation and housing needs. There are a couple of things I need to do before I actually move in. I have to drill a well, install a septic system, get a driveway constructed, and obtain electricity and propane gas. In addition, I want to pour a cement slab for the Airstream and build a cover over it. My idea is that I will eventually enclose the Airstream parking spot and make it into a general use room, what the Iraqis would call a diwan (a sheikh’s room). And, at some point, I intend to build a modest cabin on the property. When all of that happens, the Airstream will be up for sale. Early bids are welcomed.
At this moment, in this very first post, I am in Iraq, Basra to be specific. My job is that of a governance advisor. My actual specialty is city management but Iraqis have a different way of looking at the management of their cities than Americans. All that ends in a few days and I will be back home, Sweet Home Alabama, hoping that I can survive it.
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