Horsh-resh!

I know I'm a bit late in posting this, but if you can't make the festivities in Collinsville this year, be sure put it on your calendar for next year.





Be be forewarned: A banana split with a sprinkling of horseradish --- not the best.

Greenberries

Joyce and I have three sons (Andy, James and Ben). If I hadn't been there myself, I'd never believe they were all drawn from the same womb. Their differences are best explained with a pithy story.

During the summer of 2000, we visited the farm (the home of Joyce's mother's family in central Illinois since the 1870s). One morning Ben (12 years old at that time) and I went for a bicycle ride down to the grain elevator, about a mile away. Once we'd absorbed all the wonders the Galesville elevator has to offer, Ben and I pedaled back to Grandpa's, where we found Andy (18) and James (13) in the front yard mystifyingly facing a large bush.

So Ben inquired, "Wucha doin?"

Andy matter-of-factly explained, "Pickin greenberries."

James innocently corrected, "No, we're picking the black ones!"

Ben eyeballed Andy and sarcastically intoned, "Nice try."

Like Christmas Morning

James is home! Home is no longer our back bedroom where the Legos and toy trains were once stored. Home is now where his beloved wife Amber has been waiting so anxiously. And his arrival wasn't just a wonderful reunion, it was a huge relief. Ever since Amber's visit with her doctor three weeks ago (when she first heard the words "dilated" and "effaced"), she's had reason to be concerned about the baby's arriving before James returned. But now that James is home, the vigil's over. If the baby doesn't arrive sooner, the doctor will be inducing labor this Friday, a week before James's mid-deployment leave ends.

But simply saying that James is home in time for the birth of their first son doesn't tell the story. His plane landed at DFW Airport at 7:30 on Friday morning, a full hour ahead of schedule -- but more importantly, almost seven hours before his departing flight was scheduled to leave DFW. Long before James left Afghanistan, Joyce and I had offered free taxi service from DFW to Fort Sill, but he insisted that he'd prefer to fly into Lawton so he could also fly out of Lawton.

But when we met James at Terminal D, the first words from his lips were: "Can you give two of my buddies a lift to Fort Sill?" Well, of course we could. In fact, anticipating that James might just have a change of heart, Joyce and I had driven to the airport in separate cars. So I piled three soldiers and their gear into the Toyota and headed to the north airport exit, onward toward Oklahoma -- Joyce took the Plymouth and headed south, back to the house.

As the band of brothers and I pulled onto State Hwy 114, I handed James the cell phone and told him to have his guys call their wives and let them know I'd be dropping them off at their doorsteps two hours before their flight was even scheduled to leave DFW. I assured everyone that the prepaid phone had plenty of time left on it. What I hadn't anticipated was James's spending nearly the entire trip explaining to some brain-dead government bureaucrat that he and his two buddies would not be flying into Lawton that afternoon, but they would need to fly out of Lawton two weeks later.

As we were nearing Fort Sill I asked the guys where they lived. Just to make things interesting, PFC Smith volunteered that his wife and kids had moved on-post since he'd deployed, so he wasn't entirely sure where his house was. SGT Smith knew where PFC Smith's neighborhood was, so we at least had some idea that we should be headed to the housing area south of the hospital. James handed PFC Smith the cell phone with instructions to have his wife give us directions to the house. Just as Smith had said his obligatory I-love-you-and-can't-wait-to-see-yous and was on the verge of obtaining the operational instructions, Virgin Mobile decided we'd had just about all the conversation we needed, at least until we fed some more dimes into its corporate maw.

Luckily, we found Smith's street without making any wrong turns and within a minute of the phone's betrayal, we pulled into the driveway of a house with a picture window full of toddlers' hands and faces. The front door burst open and emitted a beaming blond who immediately attached herself to PFC Smith. We dropped a bag out of the back of the Swagger Wagon and by the time the happy couple were across the threshold, we remaining travelers were off again, bound for SGT Smith's abode.

The route to SGT Smith's took us past the grade school. As we drove by the school, James asked the sergeant, "How old are your kids?" SGT Smith replied, "I have two girls, ages six and three. The six-year-old is in first grade and the three-year-old is at home with my wife." As we passed the playground full of scurrying youngsters, SGT Smith added, "I'm gonna try to surprise my first-grader at school today." Two blocks farther on we came to his house with two SUVs in the driveway, but no other evidence of anyone at home. We unloaded SGT Smith's bags from the back of the car and I returned to the driver's side. Sergeant Smith set his bags down in the yard on the passenger side and walked around the front of the car to shake my hand and thank me for the ride. I was a bit taken aback that someone who has sacrificed so much would be thanking me for such a small gesture, and I told him so, "No, thank you for your service."

James and I both got in the car and, as I back out of the driveway, it occurred to me that SGT Smith had no key to the house and was apparently locked out. He was standing with the screen door open, knocking on the solid wood door. My mind was searching for the proper way to handle the situation (I sure didn't want to just drive away and leave him sitting in his front yard), when suddenly the front door swung inward and the good sergeant was nearly knocked backward by a woman who leaped into his arms.

As we pulled away, I told James, "Delivering soldiers to their wives is even better than watching kids opening presents on Christmas morning."

Then we drove over to James and Amber's house, where I can truthfully report I saved the best present for last.

This Will Be Awesome!

I understand you can see this trailer in 3D in some theaters where Toy Story 3 is showing.

Airport Chit-Chat

We were at the airport at 5:00 AM, 45 minutes before the flight was going to land. Joyce commented as a young couple walked by...

Joyce: Newlyweds!

Bob: Okay, how do you know that?

Joyce: It's obvious.

Bob: They're just walking down the concourse. Why is it obvious that they're newly married.

Joyce: Well, for one thing they're talking to each other and smiling -- being very tender toward each other...

Bob: So people who've been married a while can't be loving...

Joyce: I didn't say that. But you didn't let me finish.

Bob: Sorry, so what are the other clues.

Joyce: They're talking and smiling, and ... he's wearing plaid and stripes.

Bob: So?

Joyce: She'll break him of that before too long.

Bob: But I dress funny, so then I guess we must still be newlyweds too.

Joyce: When was the last time you bought yourself a shirt?

Bob: Uhhh, welllll. ... Yeah, I guess I am housebroke. Hey, James and Amber's plane should be on the ground by now. I'd better call and tell him we're at baggage claim.

(I got James's voicemail, so I left a cheery message informing him where we were. Then after a few minutes my phone rang ...)

Dad: Hi, James! You guys must be about to walk up -- I see folks coming into the baggage claim area now.

James: Uh, Dad. We're not at DFW. Our flight leaves today. We arrive tomorrow morning.

Dad: Oh -- Well, uhhh, then I guess we'll see you tomorrow.

Joyce: They aren't here?

Bob: Nope, let's go to Cracker Barrel for breakfast.

Parting Shot

Here's my last view of Anchorage:


The clip is only five seconds, so you may have to freeze-frame to see the following features. The view is looking southward. At the beginning of the video you can see a peninsula in the upper right. That's the area around Anchorage International Airport from where the plane took off. At the end of the video the cross runways of Elmendorf AFB are just slightly right of center.

And here's the last thing I saw in Alaska:


Again, the view is looking southward with the setting sun behind the plane.

Signing Off from Alaska

The news from Alaska is that Andy and Lauren are moving into their new home tomorrow. And amazingly, their household goods are being delivered on the very same day the quarters have become available. This is nothing short of miraculous -- perfectly timed PCS move-ins just don't happen in the service. Someone out there has been praying and whoever that is apparently has a direct line to heaven's throne room.

This evening I fly back to Texas. That's all my news from our northern adventure. So I'm signing off from beautiful Alaska, and with that I leave you one last clip of the world's cutest toddler.

Doings at Elmendorf (north of Isengard)

I should have posted something before this, but things are still a bit unsettled here in Anchorage. Lauren and Abby have arrived and are settled into the Temporary Living Facility until they find a house. We should know on Monday if the only family ahead of them on the waiting list for on-base housing will be taking the house or not. Things look promising because the housing office reports that they apparently moved out of the Temporary Living Facility (TLF), so it's reasonable to assume they've moved to a permanent off-base home. Anyway, the housing office will be trying to contact them on Monday, so by the end of business Monday Andy and Lauren should know if they have a place to stay. Do pray they get a call on Monday asking, "Are you ready to look over your new home?"

Just as a back-up, this afternoon (just as soon as Abby awakes from her nap) we're going to check out housing between here and Palmer.

Day before yesterday, we spotted a moose and her baby walking across the road near Gate 3 (close to the base golf course). I didn't have my camera with me, so sorry I can't show you a picture, but instead I can offer this picture we took between Fort Nelson and Haines Junction, Yukon.

We Made It!

Emma was less than thrilled about the roller-coaster roads in the Yukon, but she managed. Here's a clip of her on the last leg of the journey from Tok (pronounced Toke) to Anchorage.

Day Twelve of My Captivity...

Help!!! I've been catnapped! The woman put me in a box and took me to this place where I was caged and I heard dogs baying incessantly. Three and a half days later the man came for me. At first I was overjoyed at the thought of being rescued from the evil place the woman had put me. But when he transferred me from my cage back to the very same box the woman had used in my abduction, my hopes of freedom were dashed. "Oh no! The man and the woman are in on this together.

I loudly protested my reincarceration, so the man let out of the box, but still he held me prisoner in his car. Since then I've been permitted only short nighttime releases from my traveling cell. The man is now accompanied by an old man, whom I now believe is the mastermind of this ever-increasing cruelty. Though how the old man managed to turn my servants against me remains a mystery.

Since the man and the old man took custody of me, they've fed me nothing but cat food and water (and an occasional handful of Greenies) -- nearly nine days now. They've forced me to return to the cruel box whenever I have to relieve myself. They use me to thoroughly search the motel rooms where we spend our nights. (I hear hospitals get paid handsomely for their "cat scans", but I -- like a slave -- work without any compensation.)



As if all this weren't indignity enough, this morning I discovered they'd reshuffled the luggage in my mobile prison and crammed my normal place of repose tight against the ceiling of the car. It took my wandering across their laps, clawing their legs and shoulders, swiping my tail across their noses, crawling between the brake and accelerator pedals and walking on the dashboard in front of the driver (while we were traveling mountain roads at high speed) before they'd stop the vehicle and put the luggage right. I know all this stress must have caused me to lose at least two pounds of fur -- most of which my captors have greedily inhaled. (I hope they come down with "cat lung" disease.)



But only slowly have I come to realize the real horror of their diabolical schemes. At first I didn't know what was happening, but as time has gone by I've realized that the days have grown longer and longer and the nights (my fleeting moments to roam freely) have dwindled down to seeming minutes. It appears these non-nocturnal creatures are taking me to a nightmare world where ... {shutter} ... there is no night.

Oh, the humanity!

Not In Kansas Anymore

Today we traveled through British Columbia and (despite the smoke-filled skies) the view was awesome. The camera doesn't capture the grandeur of this land, but maybe these snapshots give a hint.





































We're now in Watson Lake, Yukon Territory ... where the world-famous sign forest is located.

Dawson Creek: More Than a TV Show

We got off to an unhurried start, knowing that we'd end the day one time zone farther west (and thus, we had an extra hour to burn). After tanking up in Grand Prairie, we proceeded to Dawson Creek, the start point of the Alaska Highway (built by the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers in 1942 in just eight months), where we stopped at a museum.









In Fort St John we somehow resisted the temptation to eat lunch at Tim Horton's.



We saw a several bikers headed south (perhaps going to Sturgis), and this guy headed north (apparently pedaling his way to Fairbanks).



And we saw lots of flowers (some sort of pink lupin).



But most significantly, we saw something we hadn't seen anywhere along the first 2000 miles of the trip ...




Ahhh ... for this old El Paso boy, it feels good to be in the mountains.

Day Five - Alberta!!!

I know what y'all are thinking, "What a boring trip -- nothing but prairie and farm." Well, I won't argue that point, but I must immediately add, "Yesterday things got pretty exciting."

Early on we passed an important intersection. How do I know it was important? Easy ... it said it was.



To be honest, I didn't see the real importance of the intersection -- thinking to myself, "This intersection just feels a bit self-important, if you ask me." But then Andy pointed out the real significance of its being the turn-off to Saint Wahlberg: "Oh Lord, Canada has canonized Marky Mark ... the patron saint of short bad actors, I suppose."

Our entry into Alberta was momentous. We actually (I kid you not) passed through Loydminster, the only city in Canada that's in two provinces -- a distinction they've honored by putting up four tall red steel thingees along the provincial boundary. I took a picture of two of the big thingees. I think Andy got a shot of the other two out his window.



Now how was the rest of Alberta going to top this?

Not to worry, within just a few hours we found ourselves at ... at railroad crossing!



With a train rolling past!!



And a truck parked next to us carrying limestome rocks!!!





Actually, we did have a bit of a heart-stopper in Valleyview. Without enough fuel to finish the day, we pulled up to a couple of filling stations only to find one sold out of all but diesel and the other closed. We did find an open station (with a line of cars) and thus were able to push on to our stop for the night: a place known as "Grand Prairie". (So what else would it be called?)

North By Northwest

Joyce and I arrived back from visiting the grandchild (and her charming parents) last Tuesday night. I played hooky from work on Wednesday and then returned on Thursday. I'd scheduled vacation through Friday but I reasoned: By returning a couple of days early I'll be able to catch up and be ahead of the game on Monday. Of course, I re-discovered that old truism: "Work expands to fill the time available." My boss quickly figured out that I was available to attend meetings that he'd rather miss and to do (what seems to me) other pointless busywork, so now I'm farther behind than I was when I returned on Thursday.

That's okay, I'll get caught up in July and August by taking an extended vacation to help Andy make the move from Ohio to Alaska (Wright-Patterson AFB to Elmendorf AFB, to be precise). I've volunteered to drive one of their two vehicles. On Friday July 24th, Andy and Lauren will be flying here for James and Amber's wedding the next day. Then on Sunday, Andy and I will fly back to Ohio, spend the night at Wright-Patt and (after Andy has finished signing out) we'll begin our northwestward trek sometime before noon on Monday, July 27th. Meanwhile Lauren and the grandchild will be catching up on visits with friends and relatives back here in Texas.

Just this evening I got an email from Andy confirming that he's reserved motel rooms along the entire 4000+ mile route. (Damn those Canucks for making it so hard to figure out the mileage! I mean, is there even such a word as kilometerage?) Taking the most efficient route (i.e., avoiding Chicago by way of Joyce's family's farm in Illinois), we'll be departing on July 27th and arriving on August 5th.

Here's a view of the route captured from Google Earth.

And here's an even more striking view, showing Anchorage as the midpoint of the route from Dayton to Yokohama.

This should be an interesting adventure. It might even provide a little fodder for Ye Ol' Blog. I can't promise I'll chronicle the trip each day -- I hear Internet connections can be a bit spotty in the Yukon -- but who knows, we may actually see some of those moose Canada is so famous for.

Which reminds me of a joke --
Question: "How do you spell Canada?"
Answer: "C - eh? - N - eh? - D - eh?"

Which also reminds me what Andy told me I should not say when the Canadian border agent asks if I have any weapons in the car --
"Nuthin you'd be able to find, eh?"

Twenty-Two Words

My brother-in-law Jerry has found an interesting challenge: "Tell a children's story in just 22 words."

So here, as a retelling of this ancient tale, is my submission:

Terrycloth caped Superboy leapt from the second-floor window and pancaked into the ligustrum, but not before being seen by Lex Luthor (Dad).

Story Behind an Odd Picture

This odd picture (which I saw at Mrs Who's place) reminded me of an even odder story.


Matt, a young man who used to be in a Sunday school class I taught, was a member of the 3rd Infantry Division during the initial invasion of Iraq (spring of 2003). After he returned, he told us a few stories about his adventures in the Middle East -- one story in particular gave some insight into the quirky sense of humor our troops are prone to.

It seems one of the interrogators had a Beanie Baby named "Hero" (a bear with an American flag on its chest) that came in handy when they were questioning prisoners. "Hero" was set in a sitting position on the interrogator's shoulder, held in place by his epaulet. Before the interrogator would ask a question, he'd whisper to the doll seated on his shoulder. Then, turning to the interpreter, he'd pose the question. The 'terp would then relay the question to the prisoner who would answer the 'terp. The 'terp would then relayed the answer back to the interrogator who'd then whispered it to "Hero". "Hero" (being no fool) then informed the interrogator that the prisoner was lying. So the the interrogator then informed the 'terp that "Hero" was becoming angry over Hajji's lying to him. The interrogation grew angrier as it became increasingly clear that the prisoner was lying (as evidenced by his refusal to maintain eye contact with "Hero"). Before very long, the prisoner would have his eyes fix on the beanie baby, swearing by all that's sacred that he was telling the complete truth.

I asked Matt if he thought "Hero" improved the quality of the answers they got from prisoners. He said, "Not sure, but it sure got them talking. We couldn't use much physical violence, but once they realized they were dealing with people who took their orders from beanie babies, they figured we were just liable to do anything."

Now It Makes Sense

The Feds are giving CitiCorp a $200-billion bailout, and I was wondering where all of that bailout money was coming from -- when suddenly the obvious struck me: "aftershave!"

Please understand, I don't begrudge the TSA for confiscating my over-four-ounce containers that weren't in quart-sized baggies. Heck, I know that the contents of my shaving kit are dangerous, especially those shaving-cream aerosols. Shux, Mike Boneto and I figured that out on our own, after school one afternoon way back in the fifth grade. We'd tossed a can of spray paint into the incinerator at Rusk Elementary and had just given up on standing at the mouth of the furnace watching it not explode. We were half-way across the playground, when all of a sudden the loudest explosion I'd ever heard spun us both around just in time to see all those sawdust floor-sweepings and Big-Chief-tablet remnants erupt -- spewing sparks and smoke half-way across the courtyard as far as the drinking fountain. Long before the janitor similarly exploded from his lair, we were a block away, (though leaving a conspicuous road-runner-esque cloud of dust that Wiley Coyote would have no problem following).

So sure, I understand why it was necessary to make sure my carry-on was purged of terror weapons, but still I always wondered what became of my half-used treasures that the TSA (an acronym for "Takes Stuff Away") absconded with. Now it all makes sense. They've held a big garage sale and raked in hundreds of billions from all he goodies that I and my similarly hapless travelers have donated. So whenever the world manages to pull out of this financial tailspin, I'll have the satisfaction of knowing -- I've done my part.

Don't thank me -- I'm a giver.

The Un-Pitted Pit

I wrote recently about the perfect pour, the flawless concrete septic tank at the Water Canyon campsite in New Mexico. In that story I mentioned that Dad, Roy and I were very pleasantly surprised to discover that the honey pit was not honey-combed. Well, Joyce and I have just finished roaming New Mexico and Colorado, and I can confirm that, when it comes to smooth concrete pours beneath outhouses, the Water Canyon job has almost no competition ... with one exception. The walls of the doodie depository atop the Monarch Pass tramway are like glass.

Don't thank me. I'm a giver.

Mandeville Shores

Almost two years ago in the wake of Hurricane Katrina, the church my brother Roy attends in far north Dallas sent construction materials and work crews to Louisiana. I went with Roy's crew to Mandeville where we did repairs to a flooded church. The main chapel sits on piers, so it was mostly spared, but the annex (which sits on a concrete slab) was filled with muck, so everything four feet and below had to be gutted. Before we returned to finish the job a few weeks later, Roy decided to send out a flier inviting people to join us. He asked for suggestions on how to word the invitation, so I submitted the following:

Mandeville Shores Resort Hotel is located in the heart of Mandeville, Louisiana - just a leisurely stroll from the placid shore of rainbow-surfaced Lake Pontchartrain. Yet it's only a short ten-to-twelve-hour drive from the shops and restaurants of Frisco, Texas. You'll find a vacation at Mandeville Shores the ideal therapy for those who just want to get away from it all!

Resort guests can expect a subtropical climate, trees laden with Spanish moss and storm debris, and all the ambience this petrochemical-rich region has to offer. Mandeville Shores is a favorite among blue-collar vacationers and is renowned for its atmosphere filled with minerals and natural fiber (gypsum grit and sawdust). Your delectable meals will be filling (and occasionally even warm) -- the finest cuisine Sam's Club has to offer, prepared as only a RadarRange can.

During your activity-filled days, you'll feel absolutely liberated from those frivolous resort diversions such as scuba diving, snorkeling, sailing, fishing and guided eco-tour excursions. Rather, you'll be engaged in productive activities that are sure to aid you in achieving that trim figure you've always wanted. For the skillful, there's on-the-job training on the proper use of power tools. For the semi-skilled, hand-tool practice and weight-lifting. For the arthritic, therapeutic exercise. For the cerebral ... uh ... a well-deserved break from mental exertion.

After your activity-filled day, at nightfall you'll retreat to your spacious semi-private suite where you'll be serenaded by the stentorian pulmonations of your fellow vacationers. Your abode of worshipful repose will be elegantly simple -- unencumbered by extravagances such as a kitchenette, dining area, shower, cable television, telephone, Internet connection or bed. You and your Christian brothers will sleep in a quaint chapel (that was flooded only as high as the baseboards), and slumber on a cloud of air (if you remember to bring your air mattress and a pump). And this lovely stained-glass-windowed sanctuary is just a short nature walk from the nearest hygiene facilities.

Come join your fellow laborers in the Lord's field - "the fields are white unto harvest" (well, at least white unto drywall dust).


I have no idea whether Roy actually used my travel brochure (but I kinda doubt it).

High Drama

James and I are back from west Texas -- me slightly worse for the wear (now sporting a good case of bronchitis). James, the hearty young buck, seems to have survived the chill wind quite well.

Our decision to delay our assault on Texas' highest point proved wise. If we'd ventured forth on Monday night, we'd have been camped at 8000 feet in the middle of a blizzard. But by Tuesday afternoon the weather was beautiful, clear with a high near sixty. Only the occasional patch of slushy snow on the trail testified of the previous night's inclemency. The only mitigation to our fair weather was west Texas' pervasive springtime wind (and consequent dust) which increased as the evening progressed. On Wednesday morning we were folding our tent in a 50-mph gale. The main problem with wind in the mountains was that it seemed to be from every direction at once. Now for some, an instantaneous shift from a 30-mph tailwind to a 50-mph headwind might not prove such an insurmountable problem, but for me (one from among the prostate challenged) abruptly recalibrating the windage setting on the old gun really spiced up the morning ritual.

Anyway, enough with the chitchat. Here are a couple of photos of James. This first shot is a view from behind El Capitan (the 1000-foot sheer cliff I featured in the previous post).

This second picture is of James at the summit of Guadalupe Peak.