Saturday, September 27, 2025

You Haven't Lived Until...

 For the last year, I have been taunted. I have lost sleep, tormented, and confused. In the words of the great Arlo Guthrie,  I was hung down, brung down, hung up, and all kinds o' mean nasty ugly things, over a decision that I made last September and October. That is, to not order a particular dish containing potatoes at my favorite Thai restaurant, Taste the Thai and Sushi House in Littleton, New Hampshire.

Potatoes are controversial, being that they are from the Axis of Evil. For a glimpse into my turbulent past with this lifelong adversary, read Please Don't Pass the Potatoes, from this blog from a few years ago.

The first time we dined at Taste the Thai and Sushi House restaurant, we were in for something good. Sometimes, you can walk into a place and feel the satisfaction of those dining, as well as the attention to quality among the staff. This was that kind of place. They are the winners of the Best in New Hampshire Awards.

We ordered the crystal dumplings, which were small and delicate, with a robust, thick dipping sauce. Truly a starter, and I was sure of this because had they brought me a galvanized maple sugaring bucket full of these, I would have eaten them all. The six we had was the preparatory note for a great dinner. We also had the pan-fried pork dumplings, sipping on the beautiful and mysterious Butterfly Pea.

Judy, our waitress, stood before us asking what we were going to have for the entrĂ©e. Donna chose the Tom Kha soup, just knowing it was going to be wonderful.  

Tom Kha Soup

When it came to my turn, I did something I often do. I asked Judy, "What is the meal that people keep coming back to this restaurant for?" For any good restaurant, there is a signature dish that brings people in, a must-have meal that the chefs have perfected and has become the heartbeat of the establishment.

You will know you have made a mistake when the server simply points to the most expensive thing on the menu and has no compelling story to tell. Sometimes I ask what their favorite is, but asking what the patrons' favorite is almost always gives the best recommendations. 

Judy did not hesitate: Masaman Curry. She pointed to it on the menu and said it is the most ordered item on their menu. People really love it. I noticed on the menu that CNN actually reported it as the #1 best meal in the world in 2017. I was in for an experience! As Judy described the dish's composition, I followed her words down the menu, and I hit the wall I just cannot breach. Potato! Why would they put this thing in the most delicious meal on the planet? It is so wrong! 

I told Judy that I could not do the potatoes and asked if there was another very popular item on the menu. She instantly directed me to the Ginger Stir Fry. 

Ginger Stir Fried Beef

Anyone or any restaurant can make a recipe, but there is an art to making a composed dish. The ingredients take on a new identity altogether and cease being what they were. This was that. I am grateful to our server, Judy, as I probably would not have ordered this dish and would have missed out on the experience.

About 5 weeks later, we were back in Littleton, and now it was the last couple of days of October. On our way in, we stopped here at Taste the Thai. We were very pleased to find that Judy was once again our server. Donna loves soups, and this time she took it to the next level by trying the Tom Yum soup with seafood. 

Tom Yum soup with Seafood

Again, I put my trust in Judy and asked her to order for me. She started to offer the Massaman Curry, but I reminded her about the potatoes. She knew who I was instantly because she then said, "Well, last time you had the Ginger Stir Fried Beef. I think you will really like the Thai Basil, Pad Kra-Prow." This dish came with my choice of meat (by which I mean beef) stir-fried with basil sauce, garlic, onions, green beans, bell peppers, and basil. (The mussel was actually from Donna's dish.)

Pad Kra-Prow
I am traditionally not one to order soupy dishes with broth, but I am getting better after this. It was superb in every way. The Jasmine rice, soaking up the warm flavors of the broth, was heaven. 

Ten months have passed since we last ate at this gem of a restaurant in Littleton. I realized that I had thought many times about how I did not order the Massaman Curry. It was a weight on me. Maybe even an old wound. We returned to the area in late August and early September of this year. As the week went by, I waited with great anticipation for the day when we would return to Taste the Thai and Sushi House. This is when I noticed something. The idea that I was steering around what CNN called the best dish in the world was disgraceful, or at least that is how I felt.

It made me feel babyish. For a kid who hated EVERYTHING in food, I eat everything now, except the ever-evil potato. This, to me, was a weakness. I struggle with weakness when it comes to myself. I have no tolerance for such insolent behavior. I have beaten the vices of my younger self with a fierceness that seemed to stop at this starchy threshold. Was I going to let this stop me from trying the #1 dish in the world? This question was burning me inside. I needed to do research.

First, what about this claim, made on the restaurant's menu about CNN? An exaggeration, perhaps? No, in fact, it was worse than that. CNN had been doing this since 2011. In 2017, Massaman Curry took the #1 spot. Through 2021, this dish held the top spot. In 2022, it shared it with 2 others and currently shares this seat with the Indonesian dish Beef Rendang (remind me to find that one!) OK, so it's not an exaggeration.

I turned to the authority on authentic Thai cooking, Thai-born Canadian Chef Pailin Chongchitnant. She is well-known for her YouTube channel, "Hot Thai Kitchen." Pailin is a factual and authentic authority on all things Thai food. I watched her make Massaman Curry, and I knew what I had to do. I needed to order it, and if I really liked it, I could make it myself in the future. I paced and deliberated internally, as one does when about to undertake a perilous mission. Potatoes were on the menu, and I had to have the full experience. No shortcuts. No substitutions. When something is labelled the best dish in the world, you do it.

When we arrived at The Taste of Thai and Sushi House, there was no sign of Judy. Tenish months had passed. Perhaps it wasn't her shift, perhaps she had moved on; we didn't know. This did not stop the restaurant from serving up the same warm, interactive experience as it had both times previously. The waiter, whose name I unfortunately did not get (something I try to avoid), was extremely helpful. I knew I was going for the Massaman Curry, and I was relying on him to make the choices for the best experience possible. 

There were options with this dish, and I wanted the most authentic. I asked what protein highlights the experience the most. Our waiter recommended the chicken. Excellent. He did not pick seafood just because it was the most expensive protein. Had he recommended it, however, I would have trusted him and accepted it. There was a three-dollar add avocado option. I asked what that does for the dish and whether that heightens its overall composition. He said no, it just causes you to taste avocado, but does not add to the Massaman Curry experience. So, again, I followed his recommendation.

I knew I could do this. After all, as a child, I had been forced to eat potatoes at everything just shy of gunpoint. I ordered, and there was no turning back. I was going to eat the best meal in the world.

When it arrived, Donna could not help but video me eating a potato, as others would not have believed her if she told them. 

All I can say is that Massaman Curry is a beautiful dish and absolutely my favorite curry out of all the ones I have tried so far. I love them all, of course. I could write an article about each one, respectively. This dish is like a warm blanket, with the right heat, silky, and designed to play the very notes of your senses.  
Massaman Curry

The dish here definitely had differences from Pailin's dish on YouTube. This one, had I chosen beef, had thinly sliced beef strips. Convenient for a restaurant. Pailin's beef was thicker, browned, and braised, and looked quite tender after gently braising. The potatoes here were not cooked thoroughly. Pailin's were cooked more for sure. The flavor was exquisite. Yes. I need to make this. I, of course, will be making Pailin's as I will be able to virtually cook it right along with her.

Like anything that I make, eventually I will make it "my way." I know what you are thinking: Will I omit or substitute the potato?  I could see myself doing it. However, this experience is making me look at things in a different light. It is not just about me. The adolescent, low-key, tantrum-like refusal to eat something or include it just because I don't like it is starting to lose its form. Maturity is settling in, and perhaps, for my family, friends, and diners, I can put aside my petty, self-absorbed phobias and make this meal the right way.



Friday, September 26, 2025

Evening: The Sunset

 The clarity of the sky as the last ray of the sun disappears over the horizon brings clarity in my mind. The questions asked, the struggles fought, all come into focus without the static that daylight causes. Were the answers there all along, and I just couldn't hear them, or was I just not ready for the answer, and time had to wait?


When I arrived at the courtyard, I was welcomed as though I was expected. I always felt that I landed on the floor as if dropped from the sky, in a fog, like I was hungover. In my mind, I got to my feet and brushed off my clothes, immediately sharing the message that I was commissioned to carry.

The reality is that my fragmented existence is not seen as pieces in other lands. Better for me, better for them, yeah, but I grow tired of holding that vessel together. I recognize that my special gift is taking a path that did not exist. I get down, dirty, and torn along the way. Is it good? I still don't know.

Nine years ago this month, I embarked on a quest to bring it all together. Sometimes I feel that I have accomplished a great deal. Other days, I feel like my foot slipped from its hold in the rockface, and I fell thousands of feet to the bottom. 

As I lay there, the sky was a symphony of strange signs we can now see. There are visitors from other galaxies, and radio waves are sending signals that we do not understand. Neighboring planets are birthing moons by the hour, and yes, life did exist on Mars. I contemplate this advancement, and in comparison to all of creation, it does not even move the needle. The result, I feel small. I am moved by the fact that my voice can still be heard in the vastness of it all.

Soundless shadows grow, then disappear, allowing me to see everything in a way that I could not before. The great scapegoats of the day, like those shadows, disappear quietly, giving no fight as they are put away and into the place that they belong, nowhere.

I cannot lament all of the excuses of the past; they are shown to be nothing and not unique. "Mister, can you tell me, please, who I am? Do you think I stand out? Or am I just a face in the crowd?"  I know the answer. Even the noise in my head cannot be used. I set the baggage on the path, not looking back, and stepping forward. Evening has earned its place today. 

I never realized that Evening started on Tuesday afternoon. Sweet denial, you can be such a cunning host. You have stirred me up, and I have performed just as you wanted. You pulled the strings, and I have obeyed to a fault. It is a virus, and I have walked in its thoughts as if anyone cared. We all perform to some degree, always knowing we are nothing more than the person we feel we are while lying in bed at three o'clock in the morning during the most significant thunderstorm we have ever seen. 

I guess I am most surprised by the wonder with which I welcome the evening. I have worked hard in futility to get here, and hopefully towards something worthwhile too. I don't want to go back, that much I know. I brace myself, getting up off the ground, and walk on the trail at sunset. Evening has certainly earned its place today. I am good with that. 



Wednesday, September 24, 2025

(Evening) Time to Get Away

 I was digging my heels into the dirt. The unstoppable police bodily pulling me anyway, steadily, as though my efforts had no effect. Of course, they didn't. No one wins here at this club. I kept telling the patrons around me that I did not belong there. They said nothing, probably because they knew I was wrong. They did it too, or will in their own way. 

With anger and bitterness, I want to show them. Deep down, I know that I am no match. I internally slap myself for even letting myself think about worthless things. Grow up, really, and a lot. Who am I? I'm 24, running the ups and downs of Winter Street on a crisp and frosty October Saturday morning. I got this. But to show the impervious nature of how I roll, I slam myself down on the hood of that one 1980 Datsun 310GX. The message was missed; however, they made it about me, not the car. Oh well. I still have a thousand years.

Years later, I run the two miles at Morningside, again defiantly lighting a cigarette during the last half mile. There are no rules about this. This does nothing but say how foolish I am. The older men know that my time is going to come, and no matter what, I cannot outrun it. No one does.

I have defied the setting sun and the turning of seasons with great enthusiasm, but there is strength in the wisdom of understanding what is immovable. I, of all people, should know this. From the Thursday nights up on the hill all the way back in 1988 to this day, the physics are the same. I am exchanging my cards, staying in the game, and not leaving the table.

Forgive me for my oversight. I kept singing "Forever Tuesday" and perhaps even "Peak Hour." Oddly, when I was there, I smiled and shook my head, acknowledged, and then did not care. The waste, oh the waste with which I have lived. Youth could be many things, but shackles are not what I saw.

Evening falls, and echoes of the day begin their translation. Some of them are bold, while others are not. Realizing that you've won, but winning doesn't feel like a win when you have been fighting yourself. I have cried under the efforts of my toiling and for the things that others said I should have.

Seeing where I am really does no damage because, of course, the damage is done. Just live, and just do, because the evening is advancing and there is nowhere to run. I want those in my house to thrive, so I advise and intervene, and it never has the intended outcome, and I should remember why. I lift my glass, declare with deep introspection, "Here is to all of you, who will not hear me. Here are the most important things I can never repeat. Here is to the vacuum, and its twisted game. I want to say something irreverent because I feel fairly certain that it will transcend the boundaries of time itself.

It is a time of great change this evening, the time to get away. The evening feels like surrender when I always thought it would feel like justice. I was just floating on my little leaf, thinking it was so much more. I brought amusement, but not much else, to the party as I distracted the masses in their respective electric chairs.

There is a lot of time devoted to evening and its companions, and I should be good with that. Something stated but not spoken, but real for those of us who made it to this side of the canyon. I can have nothing but respect for all of it. The good old days were often mixed in with very obscure places in the earlier part of the day. I always expected to be told that this is what they were, but it turns out there is no such tour guide. The conclusion came about through storms. It was then that I knew where all of the gems were.

Evening time, you have been the most crafty part of the day so far, but I have a feeling that I have not seen anything yet. 


Tuesday, September 23, 2025

The Bravery in Out of Range, Part Four: The Early Missions

 As we got used to living on our little spot on Mars, we were there to do a job. We actually started missions about a week before the rest of the unit arrived at TAA Henry. Toxic, diesel-filled kerosene heaters, stand-to cold showers, and T-Rations were all easy to leave behind and head out onto the roads. This allowed us to actually do things, see things, and avoid having to stay behind to burn trash and human waste. There was no downside to this.

I was paired up with Dan, a staff sergeant who was a good guy but known for having a short fuse. But he was easy to ride with, and we hit the road for our first real mission. We never knew exactly what we were doing for the mission; we were simply given orders on how many trucks to use, where to drive, and when to be on site. We would then be loaded, told where to take the cargo, offload, and then return to TAA Henry at night, where we could freeze to death under the clear desert sky while pulling overnight guard duty. The next morning, we'd be out on the berm for Stand To.

We were summoned to Log Base Alpha. It was an established freight point that was south of Hafar Al Batin. 3 trucks were requested. We met up with a Chief Warrant Officer there, who said that they would have 21 more 3-truck missions. They loaded our trucks with 40-foot shipping containers after a couple of hours. They told us where we were going to take them, which was in the direction of TAA Henry, so that was convenient.

The Chief Warrant Officer was a robust and generous man, very friendly and talkative. You could tell he always got what he wanted, as his presence was larger than life, but he treated others as his peers rather than riding a power trip that some in his position are so famous for. We thanked him, assured him we would be on our way, and asked him not to worry; his cargo was in good hands.

"Wait! Where are you boys going? It's late." He held up his wrist, looking at his watch. "1430. The day is just about over." That is 2:30 PM. We didn't really see that as the end of the day. But this man was not having it. He told us to park the trucks and pointed to three different tents. "First, you boys head over there. Sergeant Reyes is our resident gourmet; he is making stuffed pork chops tonight. That tent over there offers hot, pressurized showers. When you are done there, that tent is for the helicopter pilots; they have VCR movies, and you all can sleep in my tent." Needless to say, we NEVER wanted to leave.

Sergeant Reyes was an artist. He had a small GP tent, complete with an old log-burning wood stove. It was still cold in the desert at night, so cooking in the tent was fine. He used this stove in ways I have never seen anyone use one. He managed the fire just right, cooking with the door open in a pizza oven style. He was making stuffed pork chops. They were amazing. I like to think of this moment as a foreshadowing of my culinary future. At this point, I could do Durkee Rib over cooking bags, Shake 'n Bake pork chops, and Hamburger Helpless, but there was something here that caused the needle to jump in appreciation for food prepared with skill. This would not be the only time this would happen to me in Saudi Arabia, either.

This poor guy had so little light in that tent that he was just about cooking by the light of the fire itself. We went out to our three trucks, stole a dome light from each, obtained some wire, and strung the lights across the ceiling of his tent on the wire, hooking them to the battery of his Humvee outside the tent. Light was now not a problem. We reasoned that this misappropriation of government property involved stealing dome lights from the totalled trucks when we were next at the port of Dharan.

When you haven't seen a hot, pressurized shower since Fort Devens back in the States, it gives you a strange perspective on how spoiled Americans are. Standing in a crowded GP Medium tent with steam all around you, washing the last few weeks of desert off you, is a strange definition of paradise, but it ranked high on the scale.

After what was probably the best shower of my life, we retreated to the helicopter pilot's tent. These individuals appeared to have been here for a long time. They most likely were called up last August when Saddam first invaded Kuwait. They had developed a living space that not only offered numerous comforts, such as delicious food, television, VHS movies, stoves, and other electronics, but they had also devised very clever methods of maximizing the use of their tools. One super clever thing I noticed was their toaster. They had a Chinese cook stove, which I would eventually have too. They connected some 550 cord to a small wire rack and hung it from a metal crossbeam of the tent. When they wanted to make toast, they took the rack down from the beam, where it then hung suspended just above the Chinese cook stove. They would then light the stove, place a piece of bread on the rack, and gently pull it to one side before releasing it. This caused the rack to swing slowly back and forth over the flame, like a pendulum in a grandfather clock, toasting the bread without burning it. I have created a few of these over the years in honor of this simple yet ingenious idea.

As we were watching a movie, a couple of the pilots came in. They announced that they had taken some enemy fire up on the border. The way they spoke of it was not laced with adrenaline, but with familiarity. It happened all of the time. It was just another night.

As we approached the Chief Warrant Officer's heated tent, we were informed that with our three trucks, they had enough containers to keep us working for the next 21 days. We were fine with that, and it wouldn't have hurt my feelings if we had just stayed in our unit, which was freezing and choking on diesel fuel from the kerosene heaters, with its T-rats and that stupid Stand To. This was home. As transportation experts, it was our job to transport goods, and as far as I was concerned, by gosh, that is what we were going to do. Yes, my little, pathetic, lowly PFC, E-3 rank said so.

The following day, we were off and running, and the containers were delivered in the morning. I wanted to go again, but my voice held no responsibility when it came to taking the heat for things that we did. So we went back to the unit. TAA Henry was just as terrible as ever: Bad food, low morale, no backbone to stand up to the Battalion and tell them to leave us alone with their stupid rules. 

We received orders the next day to move some cargo, but it was not for our favorite Chief Warrant Officer at Log Base Alpha. Dan and I picked up a trailer somewhere and moved it to another location. We were headed back to Henry when I could hear air escaping from the right front steer tire on the tractor. He had been driving hard and fast through the desert, and a sharp rock had cut the side wall. We stopped. I pulled the jack out from under my seat, and we managed to get it under the I-beam axle before there was no room left to fit the bottle jack underneath, as the clearance was closing up as the tire deflated. I suggested that we get the jack under the truck before it got too low, before loosening all the lug nuts.

Changing one of these tires is no picnic; there are like 100 lugnuts torqued to what seems like three thousand foot pounds. The tire and spare tire themselves weigh slightly more than a Volkswagen and have to be winched on and off to the catwalk behind the truck's cab. As strong as Dan was, it took both of us to break the lugnuts and to torque them back on afterwards.

Why am I talking about changing a tire? That's boring. It is how Dan's telling of this mundane event in the years that followed that is so noteworthy. At first, the story would be told as it happened. As the years passed, however, Dan became a maverick star. A hero taking decisive action in dramatic ways to save the day. By the time this story had its complete upgrade, Dan would tell it like this.

"We were speeding through the desert on our way back to Henry when I heard this hissing noise. I pulled the airbrakes on the tractor, jumped out, and ran around the truck, flung Jackson's door open, tore open the toolbox, and grabbed the bottle jack. I leaped under the truck just in time before the tire was too low for the jack to fit under. Jackson did not know what I was even doing. He was like, 'WHAT???'" 

This story got more action-packed as the years passed. So to poke a little fun at the exaggerations, I would say back to Dan things like, "Gee, Dan, I really do not recall the snipers shooting at us." Or, "I don't recall the part about the artillery rounds."

Just when it looked like Dan and I were a permanent truck team, it changed. The following day, I was paired up with Bob, our assistant platoon sergeant. It was always fun to ride with him. He was a state legislator at the time. In fact, thirteen months from now, I would meet the president, George HW Bush, with him. 

Bob and I had the task of picking up medical supplies for a CASH (Combat Army Surgical Hospital) unit that was not too far from our own company area. We picked up the supplies down at LBA and headed back up MSR Dodge, then west on MSR Sullivan. There was a giant Saudi Arabian military installation called KKMC (King Kalid Military City). It would be a detour off our path. I needed smokes. I had exhausted all the books I had, and we were passing around reading material, but most of it wasn't appealing to me. The last good book I had read was The Beans of Egypt, Maine by Carolyn Chute. 

Bob, being the assistant platoon sergeant, always had more responsibility on his shoulders than the rest of us. We, the people of New Hampshire, saw a sign pointing south to KKMC, expecting to see it within a couple of minutes. Still, it was actually about 15 miles off the route, meaning we added 30 miles to the mission and had not delivered the medical supplies. We had no radios and no way to communicate with the other trucks behind us, except through hand signals and pulling over, which was not always easy in the desert. 

The whole way out to KKMC, I kept my foot to the floor, trying to pacify the guilt that Bob had for making the decision to allow us this detour. It seemed to take forever to reach our destination, and Bob kept lamenting, "I think this was a very bad call." He said this a lot. I did feel bad for him as I was feeling the weight of it too, but he did outrank me by double, so if anyone was going to take the hit for this, it was him. I also needed cigarettes. It was a critical deviation.

When we arrived at KKMC, a giant PX was set up. Everyone in our group was able to restock on personal items, whatever those were. I picked up a couple of cartons of Newports. I was smoking menthols back then, eeeew! Newport was the Lucky Strikes of the menthol world. A harsh punch of a flavor reserved for those who are probably criminals or assassins.

I also found a book written by Tom Bodet called "End of the Road." Tom was well-known at the time for being the Motel 6 "we'll leave the light on for you" guy. He had an innocent humor to him that would not be seen as sophisticated. But his perspective was lovable in a two-dimensional Mayberry sort of way. Let's face it, when you are in a war, you need all of the Mayberry you can get! Mister Bodet's characters were people that I wanted to know. A story of the quaint residents of a small, unknown town deep in Alaska called End of the Road, the folks were painted with emotional primary colors. They bore a small likeness to the folks from Cicely, Alaska, whom I met this summer during the Thursday night 10:00 PM hiatus of Knots Landing. Although Northern Exposure and End of the Road were written about mismatched people in a remote Alaska town, they did have similarities in how they made you want to come back to them. They were like a warm, soft blanket in a barren wasteland all around us.

On the way back, I got to see the power of this book. Whenever there was a sandstorm coming, you could see it far off. Once it was upon you, you stopped moving, set the brakes on the truck, and just waited as little shapes of sand pyramided on the dashboard by the windshield. As the sand blasted the outside of the truck, I read. What a feeling it was reading about how Kristy Storbock should look around for her Chevy Blazer a little more since the last snowstorm. The chief at the public works department explained that they have passed a few Subarus through that giant highway snowblower, but he thought the guys would notice if it picked up a Blazer. Yeah, these End of the Road people were transporting me thirteen thousand miles away to a land where things were not so heavy. I needed this.

KKMC and the sandstorm made us late, so we decided to pull into TAA Henry and get supper before continuing onto the CASH unit with their medical supplies. You could almost see the CASH unit as somewhat of a speck on the horizon,  so what could possibly go wrong? 

After a tragic dinner, Bob and I got back into the truck with our friend Kenny, who was driving one of the company's Chevy Blazers to lead us to the CASH. Because he could alledgedly see the unit, we drove diagonally accross the desert to that unit. We did not follow the colored barrell roads that would have been 2 and a half times the distance of the way we went. 

We left the trailer and headed back to home base. Now it was dark. For all of the civillians reading this (if you exist), you cannot just turn headlights on in a war. So we were in the desert, in Blackout Drive, a second set of lights all military vehicles have that are almost subliminal pinpoints of light, that disappear in numbers the further you get away from them. This clever method actually allows convoys to follow each other in total darkness while maintaining an exact distance between vehicles at all times. For all of the stupid ideas I have seen in the military, this invention really makes up for most of them.

We wandered around for what seemed like an eternity. At one point, Kenny stopped. For a second, he turned on the headlights, and there in front of him was a 4 foot drop off. That would have been a disaster had he driven off it. As for the headlights getting turned on, let's just say thankfully the Iraquis had no superiority in the air. 

Bob was smart, he had signed out a portable radio when we left and we established contact with the guard post at our unit. They were able to guide us in eventually. The lesson we learned was, those barrel roads were there for a reason, and now we knew.

It was clear to me that life was changing. Honestly, I would have been much happier permanently on truck missions, sleeping where ever as opposed to going home every night. The one thing that needed fine tuning was actually my partner. I had now had 3 driving partners in Saudi Arabia and one in New Hampshire. That needed some work to really feel like home. I did not know it, but that was about to happen.



Monday, September 22, 2025

The Miserable Occupation

 Tied up in knots. Standing on the wall that was just ten feet from the land ten minutes ago, I looked up and realized I was more than ten miles out. There is no time before the storm comes. I'm unsure what effort could yield an outcome where I am not completely overwhelmed. Indeed, something to keep me occupied.

The time of reckoning has arrived. What was, is now, not. What do you value? What do you know? What you value is not needed, and what you know means nothing. So, where do you go from here? Sweet denial rises in the east, and it will do so again tomorrow. Then it becomes clear that the names change, but there is nothing new; that is the reality. Deal with it.


This may be the last day of our acquaintance, of this year of this decade, but many more have come before me and many more will be after me. It makes me wonder how people in my youth could not be absolutely depressed when they saw that old man vs baby thing at the dawn of every new year. The very act of being entertained by it is stealing time. It takes and never gives back. Someday, we'll figure it out, and the days when you could do something will have passed. Although there are things we can do, our feet will be stuck in the crevice of the things we cannot do. The second attack arrives.

Although the principles remain the same, the laws of physics that we invent change with every new day. What was important yesterday may need to be jettisoned the following morning. You cannot look back. There is the strength, embracing the futility of that which is futile and knowing what cannot be melted away. 

There comes a day when the beach is endless, but I am small. One billion miles away, the real call for payment comes; it should take forever to catch up, and yet it already did, one hundred years before I was born. To see clearly is all I should ever ask for, need, and want. Everything else is distraction, futility, and diversion. 

Just chill out man,

Just chill out...




Sunday, September 14, 2025

And that's The Peter Panda Dance

 When you're down and low, lower than the floor, and you're thinking you ain't got a chance:

Maybe you don't. When the resistance has weakened, you might look victorious. Perhaps you win by proxy, or others' disqualification, or preoccupation. It may not be a win if you are the last one standing. How can you really feel good when you have fought for nothing?

Photo by Amine Mouas on Unsplash

Letting the timer run out so that you're the one standing in the winner's circle is hardly earning anything. All they know is that you arrived. Is comparing low to other lows even worthwhile? Little internal lies to avoid sinking just below the surface is probably the lesser path than simply doing nothing. In the end, that is what was done, but when you just try to call it something else, I don't have a name for that.

There is no dimension to the emptiness of pacification. It is weakness and provides no warmth. Stuck in the mud of disrepair, I am unable to calculate the numbers to provide the escape. I just want to lay my head down on the ground and not think about who I thought I was. There comes a time when you find comfort at the bottom, knowing you cannot possibly fall any further. 

I have been so sure that the parts I am installing can be made to work. I have researched, reasoned, and modified them in ways previously unthought of, and yet, I take a drive and find that I was only fooling myself. These physics are something that cannot be changed, or in this case, misunderstood.

It is a sobering thought to understand that in some ways, we never grow up. There is a part of us that is perpetually fifteen years old, and it cannot be changed. To live and jump onto the train that is speeding by. There comes a time when conflict brings the ugliness of all decisions to light. Looking at the ground, I find that I am in Paris in 1871. Every step taken led me here, why am I surprised.

I have no rest, just the noise of the war. It rages on and it never stops. Like the noise in my head, it persists and I cannot make it stop. Those watching this parade are standing on the sides and keeping the screws of distraction tightened. I have no say. I hear them shouting at each other over my head. They do not make much sense to me and for that I can find hope.  

It is a familiar feeling, this low, low feeling, because when you're down and low, lower than the floor and you're thinking you ain't got a chance. And that is the Peter Panda Dance.

Saturday, September 6, 2025

Harvest

It is unimaginable and seems impossible. Life changes in a moment. One moment, we were sitting in our assigned chairs. That place I thought would be my home forever was suddenly empty - no chair, no home, no one there. Everything that was is no more. Saddness sets in when I struggle to recall how things used to be.

Through the eyes of youth, we can see just what we did not give in to. We were not swept away by the sweet obsession of something that truly made us feel content. Too late? I don't think so. 


Loneliness makes them do something lighthearted and funny, then you find it is not funny. He was young and running the jungles of Southeast Asia. He was strong and impossible to break. Today, it does not give him much of a grip. He is there for them, and that is what counts. I watch silently, and I know.

I have always wondered what the world would be like if there were a late harvest, because my youth was going to last forever, and there was a time when it really seemed like it was going to. There were festivals and celebrations to attend, and there was more there than there seemed to be at the time.

The late harvest actually did come. In every way, I got to see it grow. Now I stare at the fields and sometimes, in the corner of my eye, I see those like me who don't see things my way. I foolishly let them pull at my sleeves. Not a chance that I am going with them. Sometimes I perceive they see me as a fool, sometimes I think they envy me.

There are signs on the trail every day telling me that I am right. That should be enough for me, but like the sweet serenade of addiction, the pull to be sedentary is real, and gravity is heavier in these hours of the day. I have attributed rage to my survival for the last two decades, but I am beginning to realize it is not really rage, for that is a fool's solution. It is destructive, directionless, and does not build. What I have done is work wrathfully, in directions that brought light and good. I showed appreciation and commendation. Is that truly rage?

After we said all we could today, I sat on the porch, and the sun refused to show itself. Rain will come, and it needs to. The realities of the world rush in, and I contemplate air to breathe as the room fills up. I know there is a way, because there always has been.

I spread out all the clues to the puzzle on the table. Time is passing, and there needs to be an answer. I know where the journey is going. We just needed to stop so that the sound of our feet touching the ground could go silent, so we could hear what was around us. The rest is up to us. 

I sat here with one more cup of coffee, looking at the green leaves of the tree right in front of me, and that is good. It is the one behind it that concerns me; it is more yellow and orange now than it is green, and I know that is the reality. It is time to get up and make every moment count, as if it were five. 

When we gather, some of the greatest men I know are casually mentioned. They made me, and I hope to keep them by showing I remember them in conduct and honor. I hear the sound of something outside, or is it in my head? It's hard to tell the difference now, but I don't care. It will not stop me from being everything that I need to be. Somewhere in this mess, I hope to inspire my children. The whole world is asleep at the wheel, just falling into the groove that others make. I just want to walk along here in the mud. What is wrong with that?

Friday, September 5, 2025

Late Summer Nebula

 I heard it in the night. The season sings its lullaby. It has been here for its allotted time, and now, it must make its journey into the past. Every day, the hills and mountains are painted with more color, leaving me to wonder, How did things get so out of control? How did I not accomplish most of what needed to get done? 


I always thought it would get better as I got older, but instead the ride gets more wild and brakes really seem to be a thing of the past. I see my challenges and those I care about. In futility, I know that I cannot solve even a few at times. I am tied to the table as I watch everything play out.

Panic season is on the threshold, and the time has come to make everything happen that should have happened this year. But it is more than this; it is so much bigger.

I am hanging on. Spinning so fast, I don't even know how I don't fly off into space. It is a rough ride, and I'm struggling to catch my breath. Relationships so trivial, and created for entertainment, become significant tsunamis of emotion, of meaning, of storms of symbiotic importance. Tearing hard at our hearts, we realized how fast and powerful it all was. What is, secretly, a matter of heist, this minute, right here and right now.

You were here, and then you were not. I live in moments in which I can literally see the torn wallpaper and the grain in the hardwood floors. I smell the air of the industrial age and all of our naivety. I see your picture, there are so few. I feel that day too. I did not know. Someone tried to tell me, and the mere thought of it coming to light gave me chills. I knew then, and pushed it down, because I knew it was the truest of everything.

The stealer is taking every moment, every day. How much can I leave on the trail to give you something that I wish I had? Without audible words, can you hear me? One moment, I am aware, but the next, distracted. It is a taunting and a misleading. I am up and down, like a yo-yo. 

The Captain said he thought of time as a companion who journeys with us. What a joke. That is just as valid as the other one telling us he feels young. "Yeah, that's how it starts, 'ooh, ahh', then there's the running and the screaming." Next thing you know, you give anything to get it all back, to say all that you wanted to say.

In a sublime dream, I wander around looking for clues. The morning comes, and the reality of the sun filters in with more questions than answers. I am relieved by the discovery of unpleasant fiction. It dissipates in the rising sunlight.

The floor tilts, and I slide this way and that as the tide rises and falls from the news coming in. We get to choose these days. Yesterday, we just had to watch. The helicopters, the smoke, the broken-hearted. I don't even know if they still live.

There was a blowtorch in the western nighttime sky that I could "see" across over 400 miles. It taught me about many things. A strong and powerful voice that began in 1926 was still formidable in 76 and yet swept away by 88. How long will we remember until it is just no longer important?

How long before I forget? How long before you also forget? In all of these seasonal, personally assigned anxieties, how many of them really matter? How do we know the difference?

Thursday, September 4, 2025

H2O

 The captors set out on their mission, and I was so small. They hunted, I hid, and I ran. Through the years with great agility, I shook them off my trail, but they would soon return, because they always knew where I would turn up. They had the advantage of remembering the attack that I would never recall, but only feel.

Summer days, the water glistening like diamonds in my eyes, the laughter and sounds of a world not at war. Nothing mattered when you came down the old hill, the maple trees and the Wildcat keeping watch as we approached. She sat there since arriving in 1927, her watch faithful and true. We stode past her watchful eye on the way to the beach.

If someone could hear my thoughts, they would know how hard I tried. It was 1973, and transistor radios sat on the beach as Jim sang about the rise and fall of Leroy Brown, and Wings marked a change with Live and Let Die. I could hear the carousel music as I sat in the sand, and I could see and feel its movements even though I was not looking. I stood in the water, and it pulled on me, wanting to do terrible things. I tried to relate and understand, but the predator would not relent.

There were many personal days in which I got up early and embarked on missions that I believed there was no coming back from. But I was determined, the beast would be hunted and taken down, and it would be slung over my shoulder by day's end as I walked back into the village at dusk.

In my controlled simulations, I could never find the upper hand. I knew that I could only prove myself in the rage of battle. As sure as the immovable things are in all the earth, this was something that I could not move. It was the one thing that could truly set me free and also be my end.

The antagonist found me again yesterday. It was like saying the words "old friend" as we each had rifles aimed at each other. Still strong and formidable, I yielded because I had not seen such intensity in so many years. But I could not let it rest. That is not who I am. My scars run deep, and I have fought so hard for so long. I defiantly came back to the table, squared off with the dealer of this reign of terror, and told him, I am not done yet.

Young or old, I have this belief that this could be the key to untying so many knots. Perhaps I am as much of a menace to the hunter. I fear I will never know. Because our encounters are so spread out over the years, all progress disappears into the fading of time, and I am that kid on the shore of Compounce again, trying to beat something that I don't understand. 

Wednesday, September 3, 2025

It's Where You Shine

 A little bit of salt takes something unseen and makes it an experience. The complexities of contemporary cooking lie in the mentality of recipes, the absence of recipes, cookware, kitchen appliances, tools, and attitude. It is a little about any of the above and more about the need. 


Need has brought the spice to life in the last thousand years. Once those crusaders of the sea and land got a taste of these things, they risked everything to taste once again. But even more so, the real creativity came from people having very few ingredients. Short growing seasons, famine, wars, and scarcity of ingredients forced people to make what was known as poor people's food. From these, culinarily significant dishes were born. Nothing has taken food to a higher level than the so-called "lower decks."

Wouldn't it be fun to take a journey, trying and making these foods that have shaped the culinary world? Braising of tough meats, brining of poultry that would otherwise present dry, fermentation that harnesses nature and gives birth to health, flavor, and preservation. All of these seem like magic that flips the compass in the opposite direction that it was pointing. Knowing how these can be used will never leave you hungry and, even better, richly satisfy the palate.

Last night I set out to make Joshua Weissman's fish tacos from "An Unapologetic Cookbook". I am currently not home, so my Asian kitchen staples are not with me. That alone gave me an idea that I have tried many times and was not all that successful, and now I have figured out how to have those in my cooking toolbox. Literally, a toolbox.


I did shop for this recipe, but being at a camp, I was not going to re-buy every staple I have at home just to hit the mark. So with lots of improvising, I would ask myself at each juncture when faced with some ingredient deficit, "What am I trying to achieve here for flavor?" Sorting through the camp supplies, I solved each problem, and in the end, I did indeed have fried fish tacos, with cabbage, carrot, and onion slaw, a spicy crema, and pickled jalapenos.

The point to this is, I have heard people say, and I have told myself, I cannot make this because I don't have everything the recipe requires." That is simply not true. Something can happen; sometimes it is good, and sometimes it's not. Last night my crema was over salted (you have to be so careful when not working with your specific salt and the form it comes in.) But the food was great!  Need makes it happen. 

I got two things from this fish taco dinner. First, it was a great dinner. Second, I've come up with a simple way to carry my staples on a tiny scale, requiring no effort and creating no waste.

The next time you think there isn't enough to make something happen, don't let that stop you. I don't care if the meal comes out nothing like the one that you had in mind to begin with. Remember that having a need is not where you fail, but it's where you shine.



Tuesday, September 2, 2025

The Bravery in out of Range Part Three: Advanced Party

 We boarded the 5 Ton cargo truck and headed for the Port of Dharan, just as we had when we had to pull overnight guard duty on the demolished trucks. This time, we had all of our personal gear. Things were changing, and just like it had been since last November (and that could really be extended all the way back to September), uncertainty reigned. Where would we sleep tonight? Where would we be in a month? How long would this war last? Of course, the ultimate question is, would we all eventually get to go home?

Much of our company's equipment had still not been seen since we dropped it off at the Port of Bayonne, New Jersey, back in December. Our tents to live in, heaters, kitchen, and all the equipment that kept us alive were nowhere to be found. Trucks and trailers were showing up in small numbers. We were loaned a GP medium tent with no liner, a couple of home-style kerosene heaters to set up our company area. We were headed for a tactical site named Henry.

I was paired with John, a senior member of the unit who had approximately 18 years of experience at this point. He was a big, burly New Hampshire boy from the north. He laughed often and loudly. He was easy to get to know. He was pointing out everything that we did not see in the United States. 

The highway, at first, seemed just like any inner city interstate highway system for the most part. Trucks and cars were different, of course. The culture certainly bled through in visual ways. It was tainted by the military multinational coalition occupation, which was there to kick Saddam Hussein out of Kuwait.

As we drove north, the highway soon shrank down to a simple two-way strip of asphalt cutting through the desert. Under normal circumstances, it would have been sufficient, but during the largest military buildup since World War II, it was ridiculous. The military designates military supply routes with names; this one, the major route of transport from the Southeastern Saudi Arabian cities to the staging areas just south of Kuwait, was called MSR (military supply route) Dodge. 

We were warned about MSR Dodge before embarking on this move up into the desert. Because Dodge was a minimal 2-lane, two-way road with no shoulder whatsoever, military equipment often did not fit well. If we thought we could ride a little off the pavement on the sand, we would be mistaken. Dropping the right front tire off the asphalt would result in that tire sinking into the sand, sucking the truck into the sand, and ultimately rolling it over. We had to keep it on the black top; life depended on it. That was not so easy. 

The HETs owned this road. Heavy Equipment Transports were massive trucks that made our M915A1 22-wheel tractor-trailers look like toys. Upon those HETs always sat a whole M1 Abrams tank. These took more than their share of the road. Jim, who was in the country before us, advised us in the safety briefing that the driver's mirror could not be left out because the HETs often had camouflage netting covering the tank, which was blowing in the wind. The nets frequently would catch your driver's side mirror as they passed, and you could end up with a face full of mirror glass in the combined 110-mile-per-hour tug of war between the two trucks traveling at 55 miles per hour in opposite directions. The mirror frame, which usually stuck way out, had to be pulled in, and the tall mirror pivoted out so you could see down the side of your truck.

It was going to be a long ride out to Tactical Site Henry. John drove first. Once out of the city, and, well, even inside the cities, seeing lots of camels and sheep was a very regular thing. I really thought I would die before making camp because for some reason, everytime John saw a camel or sheep, he would call it out, and not keeping his eyes on the road, would allow that right front tire to drop off the asphault causing the truck to get squirrely and start violently wagging left and right as he fought the very large steering wheel to right the truck without crossing over into the on coming lane's domain. It happened over and over again. I would have thought that after a few sightings of sheep and camels, we would be good, but no!  "John!" I screamed, "Will you just let ME look at the wildlife and you keep the truck on the road?" We survived until the halfway mark, and at that time, I got to drive, thank goodness.

The US military implemented this by establishing fuel stops at which drivers were not allowed to pass. Everyone stopped at an oasis of 10,000-gallon tanker trucks parked together, and fuel was pumped into our tanks to keep us going. There was candy, MREs, Coffee, and water at these. This was the first place I saw beefaroni and soups in rip-top little bowls, floating in hot water for grab-and-go hot food.




After not seeing civilization for some time, we came into the town of Hafar al-Batin. There, we left MSR Dodge and headed west on MSR Sullivan. This road would lead to both KKMC (King Kalid Military City) and the city of Riyadh. The ride out Sullivan was not as long as the one on MSR Dodge had been. We turned off onto the Green Barrel Road. Because military posts were established all over the barren desert, far from established roads, the military designated roads by marking them with steel 55-gallon barrels painted a specific color to identify each particular route. We were on Green Barrel Road, which was a green barrel placed approximately every 10th of a mile through the desert.

It was a very long and rough ride out there. Sandstorms were normal out there, and when they happened, you just stopped. Navigation was not possible at those times. The sand in Saudi Arabia was so fine that it felt like baby powder in some places. During a storm, you could literally sit there and watch a sand pyramid build on the dashboard inside the truck, from veins of air coming through the window and door gaskets, transporting grains of sand too small to see with the naked eye.

It was late in the afternoon when we arrived at TAA Henry; it was nothing more than a giant circle in the sand on the seemingly surface of the planet of Mars. Front-end loaders had scooped up a berm 5 feet high of sand all the way around in a giant circle, which was the perimeter of our company area. That berm, we would all become intimate with soon enough.

We set up the tents, latrines, and hygiene stations before dark. We ate T-rats, which are shelf-stable entrees in trays that opened with an old-fashioned, Spam-can-like key. It was a change of pace from the parking garage and MRE food we had been eating. 

The sun fell, and we were tired. We were expected to pull guard duty at the berm. How special. That was only the beginning. The first maintenance battalion, which had claimed ownership of our company, decided that in the morning, before sunrise, EVERYONE in the whole company had to get up and lie on the berm looking out over the desert. This is an old military tradition known as BRAIN DAMAGE....Well, that is wrong (although it does describe it well). It is an old military tradition called, Stand To. Traditionally, armies invade at dawn, so Stand To puts the whole company in a defensive posture, watching the front, waiting for the opposing forces to invade. I thought about this, why not mix it up, and invade at lunchtime?  Catch them off guard.

Anyway, Stand To did not get received very well. I had many colorful synonyms for it, and I complained intensely like Hawkeye on MASH would over any ultimate military stupidity. This was the 1st Maintenance Battalion's idea, and they were not winning any popularity contests with us. I actually wondered if they were engaging in Stand To, or if they were just making us do it and laughing about it. I met very few from the Battalion, but I painted a pretty harsh picture of people who gave us orders and became the proverbial "THEM" to us in the 744th.

The kerosene heaters they provided barely worked, and we spent the night choking on diesel fumes. We were also freezing on the berm under a giant, cold sky. I could not tell what was going to happen next. We just went with the flow, complaining every single minute, but somehow, that constant complaining gave me the strength to move forward.

In the days that followed, we procured more tents and set them up for the rest of the company, who were coming any day. The whole unit was going to live with us at TAA Henry. The latrines were small, box-like sheds with benches inside. There were 3 toilet seat holes cut into the bench, with toilet seats attached. Under the bench was a 1/3 tall bottom of a steel 55-gallon drum for the waste. Every day, the drums were pulled out and away from the latrine, filled with diesel fuel, and set on fire; they burned until everything was gone. They were left to cool and then placed back under the benches in the latrines. You never had to be lonely, as you could have two people sitting right next to you, also taking care of business, and the top of the latrines from waist high up were just a mesh screen, so you could greet and have conversations with people walking by. How convenient.

I will never forget the rest of the company arriving at TAA Henry when they moved up from Khobar. Bob, the assistant platoon sergeant, told them that Stand To happened in the morning. Old man Jack (who I am now MUCH older than now...<Sigh>) said, "What! Stand To???? Tomorrow morning, I say we open fire on the 1st Maintenance Battalion and give those ##%^%^&!s something to Stand To about!!! I loved Jack. He would show me things in the weeks ahead I could never have imagined.




Childhood Summer Perspective

 It is an unexpected joy, and an unforeseen traveller, almost unrecognized until she crossed my path. The air was sweet and full of pressureless anticipation. The oyster of a world lies a few steps from slumber. Children were playing, people were singing, and the sun shone brighter than it does today.


I took my first steps onto the porch overlooking the lake. The smell of wood, leaves, and grass lifted me off my feet, transporting me fifty years back. It was just another summer day when my father came to me. He and a friend were setting up some new land in western Vermont. They were in a '65 Comet pulling an old late '50s travel trailer. 

We drove up to the rolling western farmlands of Vermont, the green so intense. Farm silos every mile because in those days, agriculture ruled. There was slate all over along the side of the road because this area was so abundant with it.

Forty-nine years ago, we lived on Main St in Torrington. Once that summer vacation happened, it was terrific. The path to the Housatonic River was peppered with crabapple trees and berry bushes. So much to do and take in. If I could give my children the best day ever, it would be to gift them a summer day in my 1970s childhood. To let them have the freedom to not worry about the heaviness of the rotting present times. 

I know that I cannot do that; we can only feel this in memory, and perhaps the finest writers in the world who lived it can bring the reader along. This would be like passing a house through the eye of a needle. I know that some can do it; isn't that right, Mr Steinbeck, as you sit on your porch in the eternal library?

Just for a little while, the air that existed in my childhood summers came to visit me. It was sweet and it was sad at the same time. As I stood there in awe, I heard Neil Young gently singing After the Gold Rush. It was a moment in time that I could never make happen, no matter how I tried. I pause and remember, this is why I live here. I have what I always wanted, and days like this could never happen if I lived where I came from.

It is a cruel joke that life in this system makes you forget about these things. The air numbs us and clouds our vision, preventing us from seeing the beauty around us and the wonderful people we have to their fullest. I don't want to go out in the rain...I don't want to go out in the rain...I don't want to go out in the rain.



Monday, September 1, 2025

Never Surrender

 Okay! How much more can we heap onto the pile? 2025 has proven to be a year of multiple tasks like I have never seen before. I am not speaking recreationally either.

Granted, I saw myself taking on the necessary home and car maintenance projects that had been building up for years. What I did not see coming was that some of my solutions to address those issues created even more work, making it so that I was not gaining at all.

This shifting of a laundry list of tasks from one object to another has created a spectacular gridlock. I was born in the 1960s, but all of this was enough to snap anyone into an ADHD seizure-like state of being, so paralyzed you don’t know where to start.

This is robbery, of course, because on the lighter side, I wanted to get some of those things done so I could do, what I really love. Every time I go out to eat, I find things to appreciate, and I also discover areas where I can contribute to the culinary world. I wanted to be a voice in that forest. Still, it turns out I am buried under the rubble of backfired projects, fatigue, and unforeseen events so incredible that I could not have possibly imagined them. 

Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate everything I have in my life. And I would not ever trade it. I think I really have something to offer in so many places, and yet, there is a backlash of trying to get ahead of me over and over again. I am not looking for pity, because I am not alone. In this world, everyone has something. 


I recently learned that I can sell food at a New Hampshire farmers' market without a food license, as long as I do not exceed 4 days within a 30-day period. Let me tell you, I am all over this! In Vermont, I would need a Temporary Food Stand License at least. Of course, I would need to apply for the New Hampshire meals and rooms tax ID, as they expect their monthly cut.

How can I fit that in when everything wants a piece of me? I believe the answer lies in the past. I remember being any age, be it 28, 32, 35, or 45. The days of youth were so taken for granted. Worrying about broken cars, maintenance on the house, or the demands of work. You get the idea, just like the income-to-debt ratio in the world, it is a loop of causality, self-inflicted, ruthless, and suffocating. The answer is, do it now. I have to. Waiting for there to be a segment of this winding road to pass the vehicle in front of me is not coming. Do it now, because I would rather live knowing I tried than playing it safe. Sometimes, safe is death. It depends on what it is.

There is this thought experiment presented by Elle Cordova on Instagram. She asks if you are sitting there, rotting inside your house, just lying in your bed, or sitting on your couch. Scrolling, doing nothing, feeling nothing. Imagine time speeding up, the days speeding by, the sun coming up and going down, faster and faster. The Earth is flying around the sun with you on it. Major life events are happening, births, deaths, the seasons are going so fast it just looks like the earth is respirating with them, and then, BAM! You arrive at your destination, the last day of your life. You have lived a long life, and here you are. It is the future, and technology exists to hook your consciousness into a simulation in which you can be placed in any random day in the past. The simulation puts you into this day, this random, rotting day that you are having, in which you are doing nothing.

Here you are again, everything is exactly the same as it was. What do you do? Go outside and feel the sun on your newly young-again skin? Do you call some people who are now miraculously alive again? Do you taste your favorite foods? What does today mean to you now? The crazy thing about this thought experiment is that from everything we know about how we perceive the passage of time as we age, it ends up feeling a lot like this. The older we get, the more time seems to speed up as we age. And if you do have the privilege of getting that old, it will feel like it happened in the blink of an eye. Knowing how desperately short human life is and how incomprehensibly fast you will be flung into that final moment, what a gift it is to be able to luxuriate in today.

That says it all, doesn't it? So, why not demand more from today? Why not insist that I show up? That evening, surrendering to the recliner in front of the television looks so different now. Like the great prophet Don Henley said, "I will not lie down....I will not go quietly." I also glean this from my boys. I have watched them over the last few years pull incredible determination and tenacity from within and push forward completely on their own to achieve the things they wish to accomplish. They have staked claims in ways I would not have thought of, and their individuality is so fantastic to watch.

So why not trade it in? The worthless for the worthwhile? That chance to fight for it and make things happen. I dare say that even in the days beyond me, it will produce beautiful fruit. For today, if I continue doing the things I have been doing, I will get the results I have been getting. That is stagnation too, isn't it?

Of all the craziness of my unplanned life. All of the jumping in the dark without ever knowing there was a place to land, how can I just surrender to comfort and safety? It is wrong. It is nothing. 

As I sit here on the porch of camp at Shadow Lake on the first of September, Tom Petty croons that he is all mixed up in 1987. The quietness is broken by the sound of a screaming boat. Boats are holes in the water that you throw money into, but so. They disrupted their lives to feel this way. Yeah, it means work, but who cares? Texture, heat, cold, so many sensations, all the things that can't be captured on a screen, can happen, but only if we push. We have to fight and then persist. We have to be angry when it is kept from us, loving when it needs nurturing, and patient. 

All I can say, is when it comes to being subdued, let me up, I've had enough. 




Saturday, August 30, 2025

Lonely Road

 What qualifies me to take inventory of the encounter, the journey, or the storm? They are the faces that never seem to change; only the heart beats and matures, and ultimately discerns. The news is the same, yet it is different. That is why, when I haven't seen my friend for years, it feels as though no time has passed when we meet. Sometimes that is good, other times it is terrible.

I can't hide from the clock or the calendar as the sun flashes like a yellow light at a lone abandoned intersection. I find myself so emotionally busy trying to absorb and adjust that it all seems like wasted time, then and now.

Simple is good. Joy is found there, then I find the floor is soft and I step, I fall, and away into complex problems that could never be solved. The answers are not required, the building blocks cannot create structures, and yet, I try over and over. I notice from time to time. Moments in time that I find clarity, and then suddenly, it is getting dark, on a lonely road, and I have no light or provisions. I cannot go back and make better choices, and now I have to deal with the consequences of the night. It can be a lifetime long.

Anyone along the lonely road is not capable of offering help, warmth, comfort, or rescue. They, too, are lost. In a vacuum, we all exist, and there is no way to break it. It took just a minute on this journey to stop for fuel, and the decision led to uncertainty about how to get back onto the highway.

Ironically, pirates steal all that I have and leave me on the ground without the strength to get back up. In my heart, I think I will get back up. No fuel, no food, nothing but regret for wasted time. Somebody, somewhere, in the vastness of this night, there is an answer. I know there is a way off this lonely road of futility.


Wednesday, August 6, 2025

Island Time: I miss you

 Guitars and drums belting out well-loved compositions at the hands of small ones who, at one time, we could have never gotten to know. A facade of friendship is everywhere in our cloudlike bubble. We think we know when we cannot possibly know a thing. Alone in that sea of friends, we look for morsels on the ground as we lie in our bed, unable to move our legs and arms. 

A life once lived in a distant memory. Formidable, warm, and influential, and now irrelevant. Why? I recall her smiling blue eyes. The marriage of those incredible desk clerks whose paths crossed mine in smokey rooms where ceiling fans did what they could do, and no one ever complained.

How do we sleep, or hold on, not falling out of bed? The ground beneath our feet trembles, and we just go on because we are used to it, we have acclimated to the unfolding descent. The gravity well is pulling us down, and we lower our heads, faces lit by a hopeless little screen, looking for electronic stimuli in which all of the people have been exterminated. Still, the machinery deceives the watcher into thinking he is not alone.

I feel obligated to pay tribute to the people who were somehow not captured by the lens of the camera. I worry that after I am gone, they will not come to mind. Somehow, they need to live on, here on this page, in the words of a song, but never in artificial intelligence. Sifting through the dusty microfiche attics, I find a simple mention of you. It is just a moment in time, years before our paths crossed. I could write a story of a day when that was the now, and I would be ok with that.

What is time? Is it but a unit of measure, kindly giving us coherence and breaking our hearts? Does it all happen at once? Does everything come to rest in velocity, and then does real life begin? The mechanics are nothing but speculation. Everything is really happening at the same time, even though that is not how we see it.

The bedsitter looks back, and it was just a day. Just one fleeting day. There was so much more to do, and yet, time's up. I can still feel the air coming through the screens at Beach Street Pub. I hear that a '74 Plymouth pulls in, and the taste of the pickle chips. The smells, the sounds, and my youth. Here and now, here and now. Perfect as it gets. 

Nightfalls. It is Friday. We walk into the old bar room. Joe walks over to the jukebox, and within seconds, the room is filled with the expert guitar of Mr. BB King. "The Thrill is Gone" wafts through the smoke, accompanied by the sounds of talking and beer bottles clanking. Life is wonderful.

As I sit there, I have no idea how perfect this time is. I look across the bar, ask Sylvia for another, and she obliges. One dollar and twenty-five cents. Just right. The darts gleam in the dusty bar room, the floor creaks, and so does the screen door at the entrance. Could be good, could be bad, but no matter what it is, it all gets sorted out.

Photo courtesy of Frimufilms.com

Upon waking, it is hot and sticky. The sound of music playing on MTV, Chicago singing Stay the Night. Fans are grinding away in multiple tones all over the cottage. Seagulls. I need coffee, although I can make it here. I will go to 7-Eleven to get some. I step on the floor to head to the bathroom. I feel the sand and salt grit on the linoleum. It's just another day.

It never rains here. The windows don't go up in the Chrysler. Even when there is a 90% chance, it doesn't rain. The southeast gulf breeze holds the front just inland. Sinton and Taft endure 6 inches of rain in less than an hour. The weather is relative. I am told that the winters are different. When they say, "If you don't like the weather, wait five minutes, " in South Texas, they are not joking. A wintertime front can drop the temperature forty degrees in five minutes. It is really something to see.

I love my car and my life. I can't believe it is true. Of course, I think something is missing, but if I could go back 41 years now, I would tell myself that I was crazy for thinking so. A day in the life is spent, and I meet Andrew Jackson at the dinner hour, but we do not keep company for long. Lone Star and pickle chips await. Dirty screens, loud cars, and Charlie, Mike, Rick, Matt, Tom, Joe, and me. A stop at the Family Center to get food, or when I am lazy, Whataburger.

Some of the people I went to school with went on to college. Aggressive in plotting a life to live in the state in which we grew up. There, they would chase a dream, most likely that of their parents. People who live in denial and conformity until they drink themselves into obscurity and infidelity. One day, maybe some pulled the pin on the grenade, and others found contentment and comfort.

I was different. I teleported to this quaint little island in the Gulf Stream, spending every day with people I will never regret knowing. I had fathers and brothers and uncles and aunts in this bohemian paradise, where misfits all converged and lived wonderfully unique lives. It was a refugee camp of the strangest kind. I wish I could go back and savor how special it was.

My life has been like the movie Gravity, where the protagonist keeps jumping from module to ship to ship, just as things disintegrate under her. It has been a wild ride. I know in my heart that my wild life is not why I cannot return to these perfect places and times, even though at the time, they felt far from it. It is just the way the world is. I just did things more colorfully.





Wednesday, July 30, 2025

The Bravery In Out of Range: Part 2 - Chicken ala King, Bulletproof Cotton, and Agoraphobia

 We found accommodations on the 6th floor of one of the Kohbar Towers. Our entire platoon occupied one, four-bedroom, three-bath apartment. Most of our equipment was MIA, and that meant the brand-new cots that we were issued at Devens were among the missing. The floors were made of marble and had a thin layer of indoor/outdoor carpet on them. Then, other than our sleeping bags, that was it. I dare say, my joints have paid for that hard floor for the rest of my life. 

I was in the smallest room with 5 others. It was strange to arrive in this unfamiliar part of the world and spend the day lying on your sleeping bag. Upon climbing the stairs to our apartment dozens of times, as the elevators seemed to always be full and overloaded, we all collapsed on our sleeping bags, which had a thin piece of foam, about the thickness of a cardboard box, between them and the carpeting. Outside, the bridge stretched over the water of the Persian Gulf to Bahrain.

Photo by Aaron Beh on Unsplash

Back at Devens, we had three members of the unit transferred over to our platoon from Detachment 1. One of them, who was about 20 years older than I, was having difficulty with the heat and carrying things up the stairs. After some heat injury treatment, he was quickly whisked away to medical and finally ended up back in CONUS at Fort Devens. 

The irony was that he had put incredible effort and money into having a flight jacket specially made with an eagle and "Operation Desert Shield" embroidered on the back. He boasted constantly about the design of the jacket he was having made. Right after the jacket was done and he got it, the air war began, and the President announced that Desert Shield had just become Desert Storm. In a way, the fact that he put all that effort into a Desert Shield jacket and went home after carrying duffel bags up the stairs made the Desert Shield jacket make sense.

There was a rotation of guard duty to oversee the trucks that had been demolished during the ship's ride to the Middle East. That consisted of getting fully geared up and packing enough for an overnight stay. Meal choices were MRE or MRE. Transportation accommodations were courtesy of the back of an open 5-ton truck. This place was definitely different. We had heard that when a Saudi male reaches the age of 18, he is given a vehicle by the government. Looking around me on the ride out to the port, that vehicle would be a white Datsun pickup truck. They were everywhere. Their driving demeanor could only be described as fearless.

As the sun set in the port, my two others and I performed our guard duty rotation. We slept under the tarp of one of the trailers, so getting in and out was a challenge since our cover was four feet high and the cots were 2.5 feet high. There was a schedule where we would guard for 2 hours and then sleep for 2 hours, and we followed this pattern on and off over 12 hours. 

At the end of one of my shifts in the middle of the night, I looked forward to climbing up into my rack and putting in my headphones and drifting off to sleep. A nice guy from Detachment 1 was just starting.  He kept talking to me as he began to his watch. Politely, I kept my headphones off my ears as he spoke. He went on and on about the bag that he was carrying. When I thought there could not possibly be more to say, he then described the entire contents of the bag right down to the toothbrush. Finally, after about 22 minutes, my sleep time was up, and silence came.Well, as much as there can be at a port where the whole world was shipping weapons, tanks, trucks, and food to supply the war effort.

Other than pulling guard duty down at the port on our smashed-up trucks, there was nothing to do. The day started with getting up, getting into full gear, and heading down to one of the many underground parking garages, where a catering company contracted by the US government was serving us. A Styrofoam tray, and the usual line-style choices: overcooked scrambled eggs, a dried-up sausage patty, chipped beef (allegedly), and gravy (possibly a form of glue) over toast. This was the first time I had ever seen shelf-stable milk. I had no idea what to think about that.

I did not expect the food to be great, and at this point in my life, how food tasted was not as important as it would become to me in later decades. Thank goodness for that because things were pretty awful. I could deal with the food because, as I saw it, I had no choice. What happened to me was something I did not see coming.

The morning meal was served at the underground parking garage, as was the evening meal. Lunch was an MRE. So, for lunch, I didn't have to gear up in 70 pounds of Kevlar, neoprene, and gunmetal. I did not mind gearing up, it was what happened frequently when I was outside getting breakfast or dinner that was aggravating. Obtaining food in the garage and then coming out to the street to sit on the curb and eat it was difficult enough, but then Scud missiles would be headed their way. Air raid sirens would sound, followed by the helpful MPs on the Humvee, "SCUD LAUNCH!" over the bullhorn. The six-second dash, drop the food on the ground, put on a protective mask, then MOPP4. Tearing out all the heavy protective clothing from the butt pack and putting it on.

It would seem like an eternity, and then the sound of missiles coming in would happen. That is a very unique sound because you know they are intended to harm. Just as their sound became louder, the 4 to 8 loud explosive sounds of Patriot missiles taking off, and then the final series of explosions happened, taking the Scud to the ground. NBC testers would then test the air near the detonation to determine if any chemicals were present in the warhead. When the test came back negative, three short blasts of the siren would signal the "All Clear." I would then take off the mask and protective gear. Of course, I was sweating from being so wrapped up in material that was not allowed to breathe. Putting away all the gear, I looked at my food, in its pathetic Styrofoam tray, now dirt-encrusted on top, cold and hard. Into the trash it went. There had to be a better way.

Every day, there were a few in the apartment who were absolutely fed up with the MREs. There were 12 complete meals to each case: Ham slice, beef patty, pork patty, chili mac, lasagna, chicken and rice, tuna noodles, chicken stew, beef stew, stroganoff, spaghetti, and finally, the proverbial bullet in the chamber: chicken la king. None of this stuff was all that bad tasting. This lot of MREs was manufactured in the latter part of the 1980s, but a small percentage of the Chicken la King was found by testers to be spoiled. If one of these were spoiled, it would be obvious to the senses. If a package were cut open and was not offensive, it would be okay to eat. Unfortunately, that is not how it worked, though. You can tell everyone that the Army had zeroed in on the lot number with the spoiled chicken Ă  la king, and removed them from circulation, but that did not make the issuing of MREs any less like a game of Russian Roulette. Out of 12 people, someone was not getting fed a full meal. Call it PTSD, or whatever you will, chicken Ă  la king has been ruined for me forever.

The sky rained SCUD missiles day and night. As it did, I lacked the desire to put on all my gear on; Kevlar helmet, Kevlar flack vest, LBE with ammo pouches, first aid kit, and canteen, protective mask, full MOPP gear, and M16, then go stand in line inside an underground parking garage to procure a styrofoam tray of badly cooked food and shelf stable milk, only to have it end in the vulnerable task of throwing it on the dirty ground and suit up for a chemical style attack that harkened back to nearly 70 years ago during the 1st World War. The end result was that I always came back sweaty, still hungry, and a mess who simply wished I had stayed upstairs and hung out on my sleeping roll reading. The couple of roommates who rejected the daily lunch MRE suddenly became my refuge. I accepted those MREs and was able to remain in the apartment all day. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner all came out of a box of shelf-stable food, which I didn't have to don a hundred pounds of gear to enjoy.

When it came to gear, there was one very pronounced oddity that I could not comprehend. Eighty thousand US troops were staying at Kohbar Towers. It was a regulation that the full protective gear was worn at all times when leaving a building. The very heavy vest could protect your torso from the shrapnel of a grenade blast, just as the helmet protected your head. The MOPP gear on your back was at the ready so that when a SCUD hit, you could put that gear on 10 seconds into the masking-up procedure to save your life. As I said, required. Unless you were wearing your light gray, cotton Army PT (physical training) sweatpants and sweatshirt. Then, you just had to have your protective mask in its carrier, strapped to your left hip. 

It was fascinating to me that the military would spend so much money on all of this very expensive gear, when this mysterious gray cotton could deflect shrapnel, bullets, and create a forcefield around your body in which deadly chemicals could not penetrate! Why did we just not make our protective gear, trucks, and tanks out of this invincible cotton fabric?

As the days went on, I began to notice something. If I could not secure enough MREs to get me through the day and I needed to go down to the parking garage to eat, I had a fear of going outside. It had snuck up on me without my knowledge. It worried me because, historically, most wars are fought outdoors.  I recognized that I had some challenges to face, and although I shared a room, and even a whole apartment with many others, I dealt with this little-known secret alone.

Sleeping on the floor was brutal. Marble turned out to be even harder than they say it is. The rest was very ragged. I would get up a couple of times to go out onto our little balcony to smoke during the night, look over the great sprawling city on the shores of the Persian Gulf. Prayer echoed out of loudspeakers over the city every night. 

On January 28th, I woke up early in the morning. Armed Forces Radio played in my headphones. It was Super Bowl 25. Coincidentally, the Super Bowl number is always equal to my age at the time the game is being held. I am not, nor have a I ever been a sports fan, but listening to the last quarter of the game was like a little slice of home anyway. The New York Giants were playing the Buffalo Bills and won 20-19. This comfort in a football game was one of those weird moments in my life that would never be duplicated, sort of like eating a serving of potatoes once in my life that, strangely, tasted good to me.

The following Saturday, we got to see how high-paid, supposedly intelligent, ranking military masters could totally screw up so bad that there was no way to measure the potential disaster and stupidity of the idea. Military intelligence at its best at play, someone with authority decided that the eighty thousand of us staying at Khobar towers were all mixed up. Why not put all of the medical staff in one set of buildings together, transportation in another, engineers in another section, and military police in yet another? There could be no logic to a move like this. Patriot missiles were exceptional at taking down SCUDs, but sometimes, even that technology missed, and a missile would hit the target. I could only determine that with this move, one stray missile could wipe out an entire profession of people who just trained for the last 3-5 months. This would cripple American forces and give Iraq a temporary advantage, allowing Saddam to strike and possibly do some real damage, not to mention destabilize the area, by provoking Israel as he had been trying.

Day after day, night after night, the sirens would go off. Armed Forces Radio was the only source of English-speaking media we had, and of course, it was used just the way they wanted to use it to keep us thinking exactly as they would have us thinking. Kudos to the planners of this format, really. It was a mix of music, AP Network news highlights, and anecdotal snippets of military tradition, dramatized with just the right dosage of salt to make it mainstream. When a SCUD missile was launched, however, Armed Forces Radio would play the Saudi Arabian national emergency alert broadcast repeatedly. It was like an oracle that would begin with a dual-horn blast-like tone, followed by the emergency message in Arabic, followed by the same message in English. It was hypnotizing. The whole time it played, we sat in our gas masks, listening, waiting for the sound of the missile approaching, hoping that the Patriots would be successful in stopping it from hitting the 80,000 of us in the Towers.

"Civil Defense in the Eastern Province has sounded the Danger Alarm Siren. Please proceed as follows. Put on your gas mask. Stay in a safe place. Stay tuned to channel three television, or to 91.4 or 101.4 FM on the radio."

Over, and over, and over it went. First, the tone, then the Arabic version, followed by the English version, until after the missile came down, then the All-Clear would be broadcast in the same manner.

I did not tell anyone about my reluctance to going outside. I had no idea what to do about it. I was transported ten thousand miles to fight a war, chances are, sooner or later, I might need to leave the apartment to do that. I just took it one day at a time, by which I mean, I casually tried to procure the two extra MREs per day that would allow me the 3 squares I needed.

Another Saturday arrived, and we were informed that our unit's turn for roving guard duty had come. This rotation required each soldier to walk OUTSIDE on rooftops, sidewalks, and the perimeter of the complex where Kohbar Towers sat. We were assigned a post. Then for 24 hours, you would alternate every 2 hours. 2 hours walking guard duty, two hours in a little room with a couple of cots, back outside for two, then the cot room again, etc.

I was determined that I would absolutely not disclose what was happening with me, and I reluctantly reported for this duty and carried it out. Miraculously, I was cured. It felt amazing to be outside again! I loved the feeling of the sun on me! What was an occasional missile, now and then? I learned a lot from this experience, and I continue to glean lessons from this even decades later.

I started going to the parking garage again for hot meals, but I quickly learned from friends that if we walked about a quarter mile away to another garage, the cooks over there were actually good. This became a regular thing, and I could say that at this point in my life, this was food that I would pay for in a diner and not be disappointed. It is little things like this that can really brighten the day. After all, I had no idea how long I would be living here in the Towers.

It turns out, it wasn't that much longer. I was out smoking on the balcony one night, and my squad leader came up to me and asked me if I wanted to go up into the desert Advanced Party to set up the company area ahead of the unit. I immediately accepted. SCUD missiles were constantly being fired at us down here in the city, but up in the desert, closer to Kuwait and Iraq, everything was quiet. This was appealing to me.  The next morning, a group of us were taken to the port, saddled up in our trucks with whatever equipment we could find, even though 90% of the company's equipment still could not be found, and headed north into the desert.

Kohbar Towers was behind me. We affectionately referred to it as Kohbar Targets because of the large number of us and all the missiles. Unfortunately, in June of 1996, five years after the war ended, a real terrorist attack happened at the Towers. I always thought that the measures they were having us take were sufficient, but that was wrong. Some never got to go home that day.

 






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