The Go Burglar

 The Go Burglar, by William Pinckard, published in Go World, no. 15, Autumn, 1986

During the Edo period a go club, like a tea-ceremony room or a kyoka poetry meeting, was a place where rank, station, and sex were irrelevant: what amattered most was the skill of the participants. Such people came as close to forming a genuine meritocracy as was possible in classs-conscious Japan in those days, and this must have been a large part of go's appeal to new players.

The fact that go requires deep concentration over relatively long periods of time naturally leads to absent-mindedness in everything unrelated to the game at hand. The abset-minded go player is a stock-joke in Japan, like the absent-minded professor in the West. A fine example of this is the old story called Go Doro, 'the Go Burglar.' Several versions of which are preserved in the public story-telling tradition of the Edo and Meiji periods.

Two friends who were addicted to go and were pretty evenly matched used to play every night until very late, so wrapped up in their games that they were oblivious to everything around them. This was a great nuisance to their families, but the worst part of it was their habit of smoking, for they were always spilling hot ash and making holes in the tatami as they lit their pipes from the burning coal in the tobacco tray.

Their wives kept scolding them about this until finally they had to quit playing altogether. But they couldn't keep from thinking about go and wishing they could play again. One eveing they hit upon a plan.

"Let's just stop smoking while we play! Instead, we'll go out and have a pipe after each game!"

It's a splendid idea, but, of course, they forget all about it as soon as they get into their first game and start fiddling with their pipes. After a while one of them notices something.

"Oy!" he calls out. "There's no coal in the tobacco tray!"

The wife thinks to herself: "If I put a coal in the tray, they'll start burning holes in the tatami all over again. I'll find something read and bring that, instead."

So, from the kitchen she brings in a small read vegetable called a snake-gourd and carefully pokes it down into the ashes of the tobacco tray, where it looks just like a bit of burning coal. The men don't notice a thing, and after a while the wife goes to bed, satisfied that she has nothing more to worry about.

On and on the two friends play, frowing and muttering at the go board, sucking away at their pipes, and having a great old time.

My mom, and cancer.

My mom struggled with cancer. Three times. The last time it killed her. But she loved us. And the best time we had was when I stayed with her through chemo, and she did her sudoku and her news programs, and I sat across from her and worked on my computer and we looked up from whatever and smiled at each other, and she blessed me with her and I tried to bless her with me, and it was beautiful.

The work of a writer

#writerslife 

I'm going to tell you writers something you know.

NOBODY loves your story as you do. Not your editor. Not your readers. NOBODY.

So: you're editor will make your story readable? No. HELLS no. YOU will. It's _ALL_ on you, fam.

What does this mean?

That means any grammar or spelling or syntax errors?

You fix them the INSTANT you see them. If you don't then the error in the next print is YOUR FAULT.

And infelicity? You rewrite it. Throw out the whole d-mn chapter and start over if you have to.

Be ye perfect, writers.

Who reads your work the most? You do. Go in there with a red pen and circle, THEN FIX, RIGHT AT THAT SECOND, anything, ... ANYTHING, that doesn't work.

The #writerslife isn't easy. Don't pretend it is. Don't ignore your errors. Own up to them and fix them. NOW.

I read, then reread, a chapter I publish, 5-6-7 times THAT DAY. I fix every, single error I find, and republish or resubmit that chapter EVERY TIME I find and fix errors.

EVERY TIME, lovelies.

Every time.

How does this work?

"Not And Or," ch 8, published 2023-09-03. I reread that chapter today and saw an error on the first page.

I. was. furious.

I fixed that error and republished. NOW.

There have been 9 readers of this chapter.

All future readers will NEVER see this error.

Writing is more than spelling or punctuation.

But if those things are wrong, they are distracting, degrading your work, SIGNIFICANTLY.

Writers. Your writing is YOUR BABY. You, and only you, love your baby and are proud of her.

Your readers need your work.

Give them your best.

Peppermint Patty, My dad, and Remembering our Soldiers

Dear Dad, Happy Memorial Day, but is it happy that we remember the soldiers who died for … us? Or who died because they died, and that’s just sad.

I’m thinking of you, every breakfast I make. I made an olive bread/toast olive-cheese omelet sandwich and had bratwurst with that. But I remember your cinnamon-sugar bagels, and those are my favorite breakfasts, because they’re yummy and because they’re made by YOU! 😃 

Remember how Peppermint Patty would get angry with Charlie Brown, whom she would call ‘Chuck’, but then, when they reconciled they’d shake on it. But she wouldn’t let go of his hand. 🎼”You’re holding my hand, Chuck!” she’d sing gaily and she wouldn’t let go, watching him blush in embarrassment.

I think Peppermint Patty wanted to be loved, and I think she loved her ‘Chuck’ and wanted him to love her back, but she held all that inside her, this sadness, with a sly, winsome humor, joking with him, but still wanting to be loved.

I remember you here, looking out for me when I was sick, coughing during COVID, but you still took care of me, but then, I remember how home called you back. You were a visitor here, welcomed and loved, but still a visitor, not at home.

I hope you’re happy at home. Are you going to visit a Cemetery this weekend, and remember the soldiers? Connecticut is blessed in that you can walk down the road to a Cemetery and remember the dead. That’s what I do, when I visit a cemetery: I say their names and I pray for them. I pray that they are remembered and I pray for their peace in the next life.

Peppermint Patty: so good at sports, so cool, so confident … I think she’s the saddest Peanuts character: I think Charles Schulz knew that.

asdf

A man's a man for a' that

I 'love' it when women occasional post that men should be more sensitive, caring, thoughtful, socially-outgoing, ...

That men should be women.

Look. Why do men never post the opposite?

Because men love and respect women as they are.

Ladies, you love your man because he's a MAN.

And, sure, it'd be great if he crafted you a crème brulée and massaged your feet and lovey-dovied you to death.

But don't wish your man to be a woman: you'd eventually hate him for his effeminacy, and you got exactly what you wanted.

The reason that he's quiet around other people, that he doesn't plan out Mothers' Day, that he has work so you have to go to that function or take care of the family is because he's a man, and he's doing his job, as a man.

Pining for him to be a woman only brings resentment.

Instead of finding fault of what he's not, maybe, instead, recognize, to him, verbally, what he is.

Instead of noticing when he doesn't do something, maybe notice when he does: he's making an effort, for you, to please you, because he loves you.

Women: you have the power.

You can build your marriage and your family, or you can wreck it with just one word or just one look or just one tiktok.

And, yes, it's all on him, too, but as a man, not as a woman.

Think on these things, then thank God your man's a MAN.

Coffee Liqueur recipe

Guessssss who's gonna make dat 'coffee liquir'?

If you guessed the ol' el geophf, you guessed right(ly)! 😎 

From simplyrecipes.com.

Okay. 1 1/2 cups of ground coffee into a bourbon jar. How are we going to do that without spilling?

EASY-PEASIES!

Well, take 1, anyway.

Okay, NOW we've got the hang of it!

Pouring coffee grounds into a bourbon jar, taketh twoeth.

No disasters, DESPITE my daughter's snarky predictions. 😤

Coffee and rum, steeping. Now: we wait three weeks.

How do we KNOW when three weeks have elapsed?

#labeling #protip 

Status report

Day 0, and the coffee/rum has turned to clay.

I'm adding Rum to the mix and checking the seal is airtight.

I may need a lot more rum, which sounds like not-a-problem, right? ... until I serve 185-proof coffee liqueur, and everybody be like: 💀smh. 🙄

Irish Cream recipe

Okay. ('Ope' as my daughter, Li'l Iz, now says)

I'mma makin' di Irish Cream.

Stand back, people, and watch. #ProAtWork

Recipe from allrecipes.com.

My slight alteration: 

I’m using peppermint syrup instead of almond extract to make peppermint Irish cream.

3. Pour Irish cream into peach schnapps bottle. 

4. Wait for my cara spoza to make what she thinks is a fuzzy navel.
5. Run.
6. Hide. 😅
7. Have self-preservation kick in, and label the bottle correctly as “peppermint Irish cream.“

Why is there never scotch tape in the house? 😤 #TheRealQuestion.

The result kicks like a mule. I added coffee ice cubes and coffee, and that kicks like a mule too! #Whiskey.

The. End.

Drambuie recipe

HOW TO MAKE DRAMBUIE!

a recipe by geophf from seriouseats DIY

Step 1: 1/3 cup honey. 

... if the honey doesn't come out of the jar, run water continuously over it until the honey starts to flow.

Not that I had this problem ... 🙄

Narrator: He did. 

Step 2: 1/2 cup filtered water.

The better the quality of water, the better the drink. 

Step 3: 1 tsp ground or crushed fennel seeds.

Now, some use mortar and pestle, which is totally fine. I use my coffee grinder (after cleaning it thoroughly), which gets the same results: fennel seeds cracked open and powdery.

Step 4: 1 Tbsp fresh rosemarie leaves.

It turns out to be about one sprig's worth of leaves. 

Step 5: combine ingredients and heat until integrated into a syrup, swirling continuously.

This all happens pretty quickly: 5 or so minutes.

Step 6: pour everything into your bottle, don't filter anything, you want this all to steep. Add 3/4 cup Scotch or Whiskey, ... the cheap stuff is fine for this recipe, as the herbs really make their powerful presence felt in Drambuie.

Step 7: let steep for 3 days. Then: filter. Then: drink. Can be refrigerated for up to 6 months (???).

I don't refrigerate Drambuie, and my last bottle lasted for over a year in the liquor cabinet, but you store it however you like.

The. End.

Christopher Columbus and Fr. McGivney

Guy with the (PINK!) tie, wishing you a Happy and Blessed Columbus Day, 2022, says hi! 👋

Christopher Columbus

The story of Christopher Columbus is a funny one:

He failed.

He set of to round the world for a shorter route to India, and never made it there.

God said: "No. I have something better for you."

You don't get what you pray for, because God has something better for you.

The Rest of the Story

The story doesn't end there.

400 years later. FOUR HUNDRED YEARS LATER!

Fr. Michael J. McGivney, of blessed memory, said: "Men need a quest. Men need nobility." He created the Knights of Columbus.

It is the world's largest men's Catholic, and therefore, Christian, organization

The acts the Knights of Columbus have accomplished, by men, charitable, giving, caring, noble men, by the Grace of God, are staggering. They have raised BILLIONS of dollars. They have put food on tables. They have cared for and carried, even to the grave, the lost and lonely.

They are an 'insurance company,' but that's just a front: a front to help widows and orphans, a front to provide scholarships to kids so they can go to school and better their lives, and give hope to their families.

Men.

Caring men.

Men with a purpose.

Men, by the Grace of God.

Honor History; Make Mistakes

This all happened because why?

Because one guy, Christopher Columbus, finally, bravely, talked to a monarch would would listen, Queen Isabella I.

He missed the target, by half the world.

But he did it, and brought Catholicism to the New World.

1 BILLION people from 1 mistake.

I am a Maronite Catholic.

And I am a Knight of Columbus.

Don't be ashamed of your History. Be proud of it. I am.

Don't be afraid to make mistakes. Make mistakes: God works through them. God works through you.

From your mistakes, you learn.

From your mistakes, God creates New.

Diane's 35th birthday

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU!

Dearest Sweetie,

It's been a hard year. Time after time people come up to me and ask: "How is Diane?" and I tell them, and then they get these wonderful ideas, especially my dad, "Oh, did she try botox? Have they found a Cure?" and Beki: "what remedies is she trying?"

There are no easy answers.

But there's you. Every day I see you struggle, and every day, you don't always win, but you are always there, and you always get done what needs to be done, and you take care of yourself, and you take care of us.

It's not fair. You are an outgoing, witty, vivacious, expressive person, and this disease doesn't let you smile, or ask the screen: "Okay, what's happening here?"

But it does let you rely on us to buy the wine at Wegman's, and to buy you pizzas at Costco, and to buy you Banh mí at DC Sandwich shop, right next to Pho 75, and to buy you A&Js to assuage you when you pick me up from the airport on my return from Vermont.

This year hasn't been an easy year, but it's been a happy one, because you've united yourself with the Suffering Christ, and you have us, who love you, day after day after year after year.

Also, Elena Marie says she needs more hugs, and Li'l Iz is ready to take another turn about the parking lot. Our kids are all grown, and it's all thanks to your firm, loving, guiding hand.

Happy Birthday.

My Dad's speech at the Newport Vets Town Hall, 2021

Hello, my name is Rod Auclair. I'll be 82 two months from today, and I find that the real pleasure and treasure of being elderly are our memories. 

God knows, we don't have a lot of time left to make new ones. "Young men shall dream vision and old men shall dream dreams," it says somewhere in the Bible. And some of my best memories came from the beginning of my service in the U.S. Air Force in January, 1962 in enlisted men's basic training at Lockland AFB, San Antonio, to its end as a captain at Stewart AFB in Newburgh, NY in Dec, 1966. Four months before our son, Douglas, was born, his crib, a dresser drawer on a 3rd floor walking opposite the police station on 77 Ann St., Newsburgh.

I started as a weapons controller, better understood as a defense fighter aircraft interceptor director in a 4 story block house, two stories of which housed our giant IBM 2000 computer, no chips then, only very hot and very many glass radio tubes that were our 0101 on/off computing switches. And it worked and we watched those antique fighters (and their pilots) that you once could see lined up outside the gate of Vermont's ANG (Air National Guard) at Burlington, the tubby F-89 Scorpion, the Delta winged darts of the F-102 and F-106, the fantastic F-16. I was a gold bar 2nd Looey then, and learning to direct fighter pilots with no flight experience myself was stressful and scary, but I remember the smile and congratulations from a Korean War vet captain who patted me on the shoulder and said, "Congratulations, Auclair, you got your first [vulgar word deleted] when I and my younger airman ?/c guided a real fighter to attack a real mark inwards, probably a T-80 Korean war vintage Shooting Star.

The affirmation from that good-hearted captain, the lasting affect of what affirmation must mean to all of us. That we had worth, that we have done, and can do, well. This was something special that I found in my military service, for more than in civilian life. And I would find it so even more when I was puzzled to find I was assigned to a year's remote tour to Thule, Greenland, after I had asked for duty in West Germany. THULY? UltimaTule? which translates roughly to "the end of the world."

We were a special squadron, given the task of "bluesuiting" [militarizing] the operations control center of the Ballistic Missile Early Warning System, ironically acronymed "BMEWS"ed, which it wasn't. We would take over from very highly paid RCA contract people to run the monster radar arrays out there, away from the seaport airbase of Thule, formerly the home of Inuit Native Greenlanders who were moved across the icy bay, our whole base including us out in booneys, powered by generators and steam from a permanently moored WWII Liberty Ship.

But the magic was I served with officers and enlisted men who were WWII-Army Air Corps (brown shoe) vets called back to duty for the "Korean" police action of the fifties, who decided – what the hell! – might as well get my 20 [years of service] and retire, courtesy of Uncle Sam. And they (mostly) were a hoot! They had this perspective of "you gotta be kidding" to razing each other by making midnight phone calls (when it was our shift cycles) to their buddies asleep back in the BOQ as the 2th clk, GMT.

11:11 "TOOTHPICKS!" or 22:22 hrs "TRAIN TIME! [too-too:too-too!]" 

Your tax dollars at work.

But the most exciting moment was when Major Lynn F. Walker, Senior Space Surveillance Officer and I, his assistant officer on duty in Ops with our enlisted crew, headed by a very competent and calm Senior M. Sgt, picked up what looked like bogies [missile] coming in our only, huge scanning radar which was about 4 stories high and groaned like one of monster dinos from Jurassic Park. when it moved and locked onto a threat. Alarms went off from Greenland to North American Air Defense Command (NORAD) in Atom Bomb-proof control center mounted on giant springs in Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado Springs. The system console that controlled this radar (alarm lights flashing) to use that the lunar cancellation switch had not been thrown. We were tracking the moon! Sarge reached up and flicked the switch and all became quiet, except for the dripping sweat.

Major Walker and I remained friends for the few short years he lived after he retired. He was so often homesick for his wife at Thule. His wife was Catholic, and he became so also at Thule, and I, half his age, was honored to be his God Father.

My Mom's Letter to my Dad, ... on my Birthday

4/26

Dearest Rod,

Thank you so much for calling me at work this morning, at 9 a.m., the twenty-third anniversary (to the minute) of our son's birth. Giving birth – giving life – to Douglas was one of the finest things I ever did, and I couldn't have done it withoutyou.

That, by the way, goes for a lot of fine things I've done: I couldn't have done them without your cooperation, help, and support. Sometimes I try to imagine what my life would have been like w/o you and let me tell you, it's not a pretty picture I don't see anything I can admire. You know you were a turning point for me. I have never regretted finding you, chasig you mercilessly, marrying you.

Because, you know this – I admire you, my love.

me

The Military (Combined post)

Hi.

My name is Doug Auclair, and I served, Active Duty, as an officer in the United States Coast Guard from 1989 to 1995 after graduating from the US Coast Guard Academy.

When I told my wife that'd I'd be speaking here at the Newport Vets Town Hall 2021, ... IN VERMONT, she asked me: "Why? Are you special?"

And I'd like to think about that question, because I'm not special. And I'm sure many of you think something similar. I bet many of you think: "Hey, I served. I did my duty, and it was an honor to serve. I'm not special. I just did my job." Because it's hard, isn't it, when people say: "Thank you for your service." To just say: "You're welcome. It was an honor to serve." Because it's not something special. It's just something you and I did.

My sister challenged me, too, to be brave, maybe even to be fearless, sharing my experience here.

And, I'm sorry, Beki, but I don't know how to be brave. I just did my duty. That's all. 22-hour days, some days, continuously, too, in the Bearing Sea, north of Alaska, saved 150 lives, but ... it was just me, and everybody else aboard ship, just doing our job. And I got that from my Dad who served in the Air Force, stationed in Greenland and Turkey, watching the skies, day after day, year after year, why? So the people he, you, and I, love here, at home, were able to go to bed, knowing that we were ever vigilant in the execution of our duties. For my dad, it was the air, for me, it was the seas.

Coast Guard Fore'er: we go out to sea, but it doesn't mean we get come back. Some of us didn't. I did. Why?

Some of you feel that way, too. I bet. "Why did I get to come home when my ship-mates didn't? Why are you thanking me for my service, when I got to come back? Why can't we honor the ones who didn't?"

But maybe, we are special. 

And maybe we are brave. 

And maybe bravery comes easily and naturally for you, maybe bravery is a fire in your heart, and more than just doing your job. But maybe you just did your job, like me, ... but that's needful, too. The warfighter can't be brave, without the rest of us supporting the effort, all day, every day. There is bravery, and honor, in 'just doing your job.'

Because why? Because you did serve. You did do your duty. And you do honor your fellow service members, the ones who didn't come back, you honor them today with your memory of them and you honor them with your life, your example, and your witness.

One thing I learned in the Service is this: we are family. We have a shared experience that's ineffable. When, going through TSA at Reagan National Airport in Washington D.C. to get here, I met an Air Force Academy grad, class of '90. We had a connection, a bond, that none outside the service will ever have. Suddenly, and instantly, we were brothers, and he cared more for me, and I for him, more than anybody else at the airport, and we had each other's back, just like that. 

Because we served. 

I talk how the military is family, it's a way of life. And nothing gets you thinking about life more than death. I came up to Vermont because the headstone was laid for my mom just this week. And, I am at a point in my life where my friends are dying. It will be my turn someday, too. This past year, I went to the funeral of my best man, Mike Malovic, Master Sargent in the US Army Chorus, and I accompanied my dad's friend, Lt Commander, USN, to bury his friend, Captain Jim Mathews, USN, both at the Arlington National Cemetery in Washington, D.C. with full military honors. 

I didn't know Jim, but, he was family, because of a friend of my dad in the military. But I got to know Jim in how his son and daughter honored him, Irish wake-style, and through the stories his comrades-in-arms told about him as they served together through the Vietnam era.

And I wonder: how will we be remembered? Family. For some of us, our closest friends are in the military, and they, and you, hold the stories of our lives in those moments of hard work, hardship, and comradery. For us in the military, how we live is important, but also, how we are honored and remembered when we die. I saw so many young people in attendance at both those funerals, seeing, perhaps for the first time how the military honors its own, with dignity and respect. 

Are our young people today honored with dignity and respect? Some young people have to be asking themselves that question. Were we treated with dignity and respect in the military?

Hell no! We were worked hard, then, pulled out of the rack after two hours of sleep, and worked hard, again. Were we thanked? Hell no! We did our job and were upbraided if we didn't do it right, and were rewarded with even more work if we did.

But where else do you get that hard line? I had 300 fellow shipmates' lives in my hands every day as the engineering duty officer, and I had the US border to protect, laws to enforce, and lives to save. And I did all that. Where else in the world can you have a job where what you do matters? In the USA, there are less and less places that people can contribute in a meaningful way. In the military, you can drive a desk or clean the latrine, sure, but you can also put your life on the line, or you can support the warfighter or peacekeeper who does put their lives on the line. Their lives directly depend on you doing your job.

Where else can you say that? And, where else can you do that with your shipmates that will build friendships that will last the rest of your lives?

We are the American Fighting Men and Women. We serve in the forces that guard our Country, and our way of life. We were prepared to give our lives in their defense.

And that is something that we were given: a blessing, an honor, a burden, and a privilege. And I thank God for that honor and that privilege, and I thank God for you, my brothers and sisters, who served in our Armed Forces.

Thank you for your service.

Comrades-in-arms

The military is family, it's a way of life. And nothing gets you thinking about life more than death. I came up to Vermont because the headstone was laid for my mom just this week. And, I am at a point in my life where my friends are dying. It will be my turn someday, too. This past year, I went to the funeral of my best man, Mike Malovic, Master Sargent in the US Army Chorus, and I accompanied my dad's friend, Lt Commander, USN, to bury his friend, Captain Jim Mathews, USN, both at the Arlington National Cemetery in Washington, D.C. with full military honors. 

I didn't know Jim, but, he was family, because of a friend of my dad in the military. But I got to know Jim in how his son and daughter honored him, Irish wake-style, and through the stories his comrades-in-arms told about him as they served together through the Vietnam era.

And I wonder: how will we be remembered? Family. For some of us, our closest friends are in the military, and they, and you, hold the stories of our lives in those moments of hard work, hardship, and comradery. For us in the military, how we live is important, but also, how we are honored and remembered when we die. I saw so many young people in attendance at both those funerals, seeing, perhaps for the first time how the military honors its own, with dignity and respect. 

Are our young people today honored with dignity and respect? Some young people have to be asking themselves that question. Were we treated with dignity and respect in the military?

Hell no! We were worked hard, then, pulled out of the rack after two hours of sleep, and worked hard, again. Were we thanked? Hell no! We did our job and were upbraided if we didn't do it right, and were rewarded with even more work if we did.

But where else do you get that hard line? I had 300 fellow shipmates' lives in my hands every day as the engineering duty officer, and I had the US border to protect, laws to enforce, and lives to save. And I did all that. Where else in the world can you have a job where what you do matters? In the USA, there are less and less places that people can contribute in a meaningful way. In the military, you can drive a desk or clean the latrine, sure, but you can also put your life on the line, or you can support the warfighter or peacekeeper who does put their lives on the line. Their lives directly depend on you doing your job.

Where else can you say that? And, where else can you do that with your shipmates that will build friendships that will last the rest of your lives?

Thank you for your Service

Hi.

My name is Doug Auclair, and I served, Active Duty, as an officer in the United States Coast Guard from 1989 to 1995 after graduating from the US Coast Guard Academy.

When I told my wife that'd I'd be speaking here at the Newport Vets Town Hall 2021, ... IN VERMONT, she asked me: "Why? Are you special?"

And I'd like to think about that question, because I'm not special. And I'm sure many of you think something similar. I bet many of you think: "Hey, I served. I did my duty, and it was an honor to serve. I'm not special. I just did my job." Because it's hard, isn't it, when people say: "Thank you for your service." To just say: "You're welcome. It was an honor to serve." Because it's not something special. It's just something you and I did.

My sister challenged me, too, to be brave, maybe even to be fearless, sharing my experience here.

And, I'm sorry, Beki, but I don't know how to be brave. I just did my duty. That's all. 22-hour days, some days, continuously, too, in the Bearing Sea, north of Alaska, saved 150 lives, but ... it was just me, and everybody else aboard ship, just doing our job. And I got that from my Dad who served in the Air Force, stationed in Greenland and Turkey, watching the skies, day after day, year after year, why? So the people he, you, and I, love here, at home, were able to go to bed, knowing that we were ever vigilant in the execution of our duties. For my dad, it was the air, for me, it was the seas.

Coast Guard Fore'er: we go out to sea, but it doesn't mean we get come back. Some of us didn't. I did. Why?

Some of you feel that way, too. I bet. "Why did I get to come home when my ship-mates didn't? Why are you thanking me for my service, when I got to come back? Why can't we honor the ones who didn't?"

But maybe, we are special. 

And maybe we are brave. 

And maybe bravery comes easily and naturally for you, maybe bravery is a fire in your heart, and more than just doing your job. But maybe you just did your job, like me, ... but that's needful, too. The warfighter can't be brave, without the rest of us supporting the effort, all day, every day. There is bravery, and honor, in 'just doing your job.'

Because why? Because you did serve. You did do your duty. And you do honor your fellow service members, the ones who didn't come back, you honor them today with your memory of them and you honor them with your life, your example, and your witness.

One thing I learned in the Service is this: we are family. We have a shared experience that's ineffable. When, going through TSA at Reagan National Airport in Washington D.C. to get here, I met an Air Force Academy grad, class of '90. We had a connection, a bond, that none outside the service will ever have. Suddenly, and instantly, we were brothers, and he cared more for me, and I for him, more than anybody else at the airport, and we had each other's back, just like that. 

Because we served. 

We are the American Fighting Men and Women. We serve in the forces that guard our Country, and our way of life. We were prepared to give our lives in their defense.

And that is something that we were given: a blessing, an honor, a burden, and a privilege. And I thank God for that honor and that privilege, and I thank God for you, my brothers and sisters, who served in our Armed Forces.

Thank you for your service.

ἥρως

 

The ancient Greek word for 'a man' is 'ἥρως' ('hero').

And, ... men are heroic, stoic ones at that. (Although the ladies may argue that a man with a cold is nothing like a stoic hero). But we're also supposed to 'open up.' We're supposed to share our thoughts and feelings. Because that builds better relationships and happier families.

But does it? Where does this advice come from, because, it seems to me, that this is a modern invention, and not tested with ... well, not tested at all, by any measure, other than a 'well, that's what you're supposed to do.'

But are we?

I had a twinge today, over my heart.

So, the modern approach would be to share this with my family. But I know what would come from that: we would rush to the ER, the ER would rush me through tests, the doctor would review the tests and, like every other time (even when I had my heart attack), the doctor would see every single indicator in the nominal range, but, the doctor, being a doctor under modern liability constraints, would recommend I convalesce at the hospital under 24-hour observation.

A visit to the ER costs $2400 if I'm driven there (more if I'm escorted in an ambulance) (much more). An overnight stay at the hospital?

I don't even want to think about that cost.

So, instead of baring my heart and sharing my feelings, I went for a walk.

Yeah. Like a man, I decided to walk it off.

And that worked.

This time.

But what if it didn't?

Well, the first time I decided to run my heart attack off, that didn't work, and I almost died (twice) and was rushed to the ER, WHO FOUND ABSOLUTELY NOTHING WRONG WITH ME, until I ended up on the operating table with a stent.

Yay.

So, either way, walking it off worked. And, even when it didn't, I turned around, came back home, told my family, and we rushed to the hospital WHO SAID NOTHING WAS WRONG WITH ME because they're used to the modern man, who eats junk food, doesn't exercise, and dies in a very obvious way, not with a guy who exercises every day and whose body adjusts around bad genetics.

What does it profit my family that I share with them 'I have a twinge over my heart'?

The profit, actually, the cost, is that they worry unto death, all day, waiting, again, for a no-result from the hospital and a $2400 bill for the trouble.

Men, ... women, too: be a burden on your families, that's what God put you on this good, green Earth for, to help each other make your way through this day. You can't help, nor be a help, if you have to do everything all by yourself. If the world hinges on you, alone, then what, even, is every other person in your life for? Each person in your life is a gift from God. Thank God for these gifts by being there for them and allowing them to be there for you.

But don't be an unnecessary burden. Don't impose yourself onto people. Don't smother them, don't worry them, don't crush them out of the one-sided conversation you harangue them with. You are here for them which means if you have a plan or a problem, include them in helping to solve it, if you have a worry, share it, but only insofar as they can help you get over it.

Fine line?

Nope. You know when you're being a jerk.

Don't be a jerk to your family. Be their help, and be their hope.

"Anguish"

So, I've gotten my whole family to read Salinger's "For Esme: with Love and Squalor," so: my work here is done. Mission: accomplished. Life: complete. Dad level: shining star.

What is the point of "For Esme: with Love and Squalor"? And why is it Salinger's Magnum Opus? (No, not "Catcher in the Rye," that unfortunately generation-defining work.)

World War II changed us. Read Wilfred Owen's "Dulce Decorum Est." But it changed us in a more profound way than that. Sartre wrote "Nausea" in answer to the question: "What if there is no God, really?" And he got sick of it, the idea that there's nothing, is nothing, and when we die, will be nothing. World War II caused an Existential Crisis that not only we have not recovered from, but, looking at this generation, we continue to go down the spiral to Oblivion, screaming: "XANAX AND DOLLARS! XANAX AND DOLLARS!"

Nausea. We are sick, but we don't even know we are sick, because we're pretending that 'everything's fine' and 'I know what I'm doing' because 'there's got to be a point to all this, ... doesn't there?'

Doesn't there?

Salinger addresses this question, head on, in "For Esme: with Love and Squalor." What is the point? And he addresses it with us: the most unreliable narrator.

Take X. What does he say? ever? in this story? He does speak, but note how he does: "I told her that..." "I relayed my ..." "I felt that I should ..."

He addresses the other Platonian Shadows in this story not as himself, but as a narrator through himself.

The Narrator has crossed himself out of this story, and is using his own person as a shadow-puppet to redirect our attention away from him to ...

... to, well, anything and anybody else other than him.

He doesn't want to be seen.

Esme sees him.

Esme, bored Esme, hiding her yawn in the choir loft, sees that he sees her, and seeing her, sees her for exactly who she is. She is above all this 'normalcy' this ... SQUALOR of the Every Day, so far above it that she does these common-place things -- singing, asking: "what are you doing here?" -- at a level beyond the normal: she exists in a higher plane than everybody else, because, unlike them, these walking shadows, she does exist, she is alive, and vibrantly so. She sees our narrator, sees him seeing her, and in seeing him, gives him life, and hope, and joy, and meaning, and purpose, ...

... for one microsecond of his lifeless life.

Then he, before and after, descends right back into the Squalor of the Every Day, pretending to be normal, pretending to be 'fine,' and utterly failing to fool anybody, even and most particularly, himself.

So.

Where is the hope in this hopeless story?

"Seymour: an Introduction" tells us the answer.

"The Artist screams [crying out in Anguish] and when we run to him and ask him: 'What's wrong,' he can't say. He cannot speak it. But it is his EYES! It is his EYES that see the pain and the lost and the emptiness of this life, and cannot unsee it. And that is what kills the Artist. His EYES."

The hope, in "For Esme: with Love and Squalor," is that Esme sees the Narrator, just for that one second, and, in a totally free act of kindness, reaches her heart out to his heart, and says to him: "I see you. I see your weaknesses. I see your strengths. You are alive. I love you. I see you."

And being seen, before, during, and after, living in the squalor of the Normal he creates for himself, yes, but in that Squalor, he now has that. He was seen. He was real to someone. He brought Joy to her: happiness, delight, recognition, hope.

And that is what he will have to his dying day.

And that is something no one can take away from him.

Ever.

Not even himself.

Baited then switched: what to do? Grin and Bear it?

So, okay, you've been baited into a meeting under a pretense, then, BAM! they switcheroo'd on you. Now you in this ... 'meeting'? do I call it a 'meeting,' when really it's an inquisition. So, you're in this thing, and your back is against the wall.

What do you do?

Here's what you don't do.

What I did: I played along, played nice, and survived the 'meeting' with this or that platitude, as required.

That's the default, right? "Let me just survive this and get the hell out of here."

No.

Why survive a meeting? Why lick the boots of the bossman (and, in my case: bosswoman), cower, and snivel?

For a job? Really? Because you really need this job? Really?

Let me tell you about this job.

It's a job. You do your work, it's part of your life.

You are investing your life into your job.

You only have this life, and then: you are going to die.

And, you're not doing yourself any favors, sniveling and scraping, and you're also not doing your boss any favors, right? You know that, right?

If your boss is being a little tyrant, then that's all they are: little, and a tyrant. So why, even, are you there, if all you are is a yes-man?

I am four years into my second chance. I had two heart attacks – the second one almost killed me – each day, now, is a gift from God Almighty. Am I going to waste this gift in servitude?

I'm an expert in my field. I have 25 years of experience working with some good managers and some bad ones, but they are all human beings, like me (maybe). I don't need to kowtow to my boss. I need to work for my boss to get the job done.

And the job won't get done if I check out as a yes-man. And the job won't get done when the boss is a little tyrant, demanding everybody be afraid of him or her. How can you get your job done if you check out? How can your team get the job done if you're spending time playing mind-games, trying to make people agree with everything that falls out of your mouth?

You can't. They can't. Nobody can.

Try this.

If you don't agree with something, say that. If you get gamed, say that.

"Look, I'm not ready to discuss this now at this meeting. Can we set up another meeting to discuss this?"

That's all you need to do. If they start to wander into mind-games, you call them on it, and say you won't play, because you're here to get work done.

Aren't they?

You do it the right way, they'll appreciate the correction. You do it the wrong way, or the wrong person is your boss, you've made an enemy, and you lost your job.

No big deal. Count yourself blessed to have an enemy who is a little tyrant. Count yourself blessed that you got fired from a job that going to is pure hell. You got out of hell. Get a different job that's better!

But if you don't speak up, it's your fault that your job sucks. And if you do speak up, and your job does get better, then:

Then: your job is better. Not just for you, but for everybody on your team. Because of you.

Think about that before you decide to grin and bear it again.

Think about that.

Bait-and-Switch Meetings

This is the second 'Bait-and-switch'-meeting I've gone to, and I don't appreciate it. If, at the beginning of the meeting, you say: "Oh, and besides X, I also want to talk about you, and your Y," then you've just committed a bait-and-switch. The meeting's agenda is the meeting's agenda, and if you have different things you want to talk about, you set up a different meeting. 

Now, you may say: "Well, I didn't tell you, because I wanted your honest opinion." Three things here: 

1. You're saying I'm dishonest otherwise? 
2. You came prepared, but you're not giving me the courtesy of coming prepared? 
3. and who has the power in this conversation. Are you caught off guard? 

Let me ask you: if your management team called you in for a meeting to talk about administrative stuff, and then they turned it around and asked: "I hear your team is having personality issues, why are you screwing up?" How would you feel? Imposed upon. Look at it as feedback. If you're given feedback, unprepared, and it's hard-hitting, you're reeling from the blow, and don't have the frame of mind to absorb that feedback, much less respond to it with a level head. 

Bait-and-switch meetings are bad, and they come from cowardice. What they do is this: they destroy trust. I now no longer trust going into a meeting that the published agenda is not the actual one, and now I don't want to say anything anymore. You may 'win' your bait-and-switch, by throwing the recipient off-guard and asserting your position of authority, but you lose, big-time: you have now lost the participation of me, up-to-now, a contributing member of the team.

Keep up the good work.

My Friend, Mike, Died

 My friend, Mike Malovic, far left in the picture, just died. Cancer.

Mike was a good man. I moved to the Washington, D.C. area in 1992 and met Mike soon after at the St. Michael's choir. We were both military, so we connected in that way, and he asked me if I kept my options open for business opportunities. I did. So we talked, and I joined his organization in Amway.

Now, I'm sorry if you had a bad Amway-experience, or, more likely: you heard that your mother's second cousin's friend-from-work-sister's girfriend "lost all her money in Amway and had to go live in Topeka, Kansas with her mom."

But my experience with Amway wasn't like that, and nor was Mike's, and here's why.

Mike cared. Mike cared for his family, and he knew he wasn't going to make it in the Washington DC-area off a sergeant's salary, and he knew he definitely wasn't going to make it off a sergeant's pension. So he looked at starting a business. He started a few, was successful in a few, but they still couldn't provide. He put the same amount of work into Amway that he put into his job and his other businesses, and Amway worked for him. So he shared that message of success with others, including me.

And here's the thing. Amway didn't work for me, because I didn't work Amway like Mike did. I played at it, tried it out, but I didn't work it like a full-time job, like Mike did, so I didn't become an Amway millionaire. But here's what I did get out of Amway: respect for people who worked at it, or at their businesses, respect for my Country, respect for my God, and my lovely wife. Pinky, Mike's wife, introduced me to Diane: "You know, Doug, Diane's really smart and sweet. You should talk to her. Like: now."

So, yeah: I'm not an Amway millionaire, like Mike may be, but here's the thing about Mike.

Mike cares.

Mike is a man who cares about you more than he cares about himself. He always has a word of encouragement, he always asks after you and your family, he always looks you in the eye when he shakes your hand, and he always treated me as a friend, whether I made him rich in Amway, or whether I didn't.

Because I didn't make him rich in Amway.

But.

I made him rich in life.

Mike is a very private, quiet person, and, for him, talking with people is hard, and tiring, and scary.

But here's something I learned from Mike, too.

You can live your life lonely, and alone, or you can talk with other people, and they can hurt you, yes, but they can change you in how you see the world as they see the world, and they can care, and they can hope, and they can dream, and they can enrich your life when they share that care, that hope, and those dreams with you.

That's what I learned from Mike. Introversion isn't an excuse. It wasn't for him, and, because of his example, it isn't for me. I learned my life is better when I make somebody's life better.

Today.

I learned that God put me on this Earth, today, to make somebody else's life better, and I ask myself, everyday: "Who did I make smile today?" and I better have an answer, today, by God, because I bet you anything, God will ask me the same question when I am called to task, like Mike was called to task.

Today.

My last visit with Mike breaks my heart, because I came prepared. I read up on him. I was going to ask him all about his life and adventures. "Sure," he said, "I was born in England, but I moved to the States when I was one year old. How is your dad? Is he okay?"

And from there, the conversation went, him asking about this or that, and commenting on how proud he was of me to work with the Air Force, to have my girls raised so polite and proper, to ...

It breaks my heart, that, to his dying breath, he didn't want to talk about himself, at all, he wanted to talk about me, and how I was faring in this world. Mike, he was done with this world, and ready for the next.

Mike, I know you're an Army man, but from this Coast Guardsman, I wish you, dear friend: fair winds and following seas.

God bless you, and keep you in His care.