A new writer for [Geeks Are Sexy] who goes by JDO began a discussion about that one special geeky gift you remember from your childhood. When I was a kid back in the ’60s, we didn’t have all the cool gadgets that kids covet these days. A telescope, microscope, chemistry set, or walkie talkies were about as geeky as it got (all of which I received as gifts at one time or another). There was this one thing, though, that all my friends seemed to have when I was ten. It was so cool, and I really wanted one. But it was also quite expensive, and our family didn’t have much money. I didn’t dare ask for one, but I couldn’t help letting my desire for it be known.

My Dad always trained me to come when he called, without delay and without asking any questions. He drilled it into my head that if I hesitated and it turned out to be an emergency, someone could lose their life. The only legitimate response would be “Yes, sir!” uttered while complying. So one day when he said to me, “Come on, Son,” I followed him up the cinderblock steps from our house to our driveway at the top of the hill. He kept a large stack of lumber there, with which he had originally intended to fulfill my mother’s dream of a wrap-around deck for our house. But the deck never materialized. Instead, we stole pieces of this lumber for various projects over the years — a chicken coop here, rebuilding a staircase there — and I expected this day to begin with yet another such project.

As I reached the top of the stairs, I saw something in the driveway. Confusion and disbelief made it almost invisible — I had to blink twice to see it properly: a “Lil Indian” minibike, much like the one pictured at the bottom of this post. My face must have faithfully reproduced my shock and joy, because Dad laughed so hard that his cigarette fell out of his mouth.

I imagine that Dad got the bike for a good price. He knew everyone in our little town, and he knew how to call old favors to remembrance. But it meant a lot to me, much more than the bike itself, that Dad had gone to that trouble just to fulfill my wish.

Dad often supervised when my sister and I took turns riding the bike, especially at first. He’d take his turn, too. His 6’2″ lanky frame looked comical perched on the tiny bike, with his long legs sticking out on either side like a grasshopper. He’d reach underneath the seat and open the governor (a simple device on top of the engine that prevented the throttle from being opened past a certain point) so the little bike could exceed its usual top speed of about 40 MPH, and he taught us how to do the same. Dad seemed to enjoy this thwarting of authority. He despised all measures designed to protect people from their own behavior. Of course, we never wore a helmet or pads of any sort, and nobody got killed or even seriously maimed.

Our riding opportunities opened up when the Highway Department began building the US 29 bypass around the town of Gretna. The bypass began about a half mile before our house. They demolished the bridge and culvert over White Thorn Creek on the original highway just below our house, but they left about a quarter mile of pavement leading down to it intact for weeks before they began to lay the new grade. A couple of the neighbor kids would come over and we’d all take turns riding up and down that stretch.

The bridge demolition left so much debris that my sister and I could write things in it, and being pre-teens meant that we felt compelled to do so as impolitely as we dared. One day, I wrote something about my sister, then called her over to see. I planned to escape on the minibike as soon as her anger erupted. This seemed to work perfectly. She called out something offensive after me, and I looked over my shoulder to see her face while racing up the hill at full throttle. I hit a piece of debris in the old roadway and found myself under the bike. It wasn’t very heavy, but the muffler burned a nice patch on my thigh (I was wearing shorts), and a good chunk of meat was missing from my knee. I still have the scar on my knee, although it’s hard to make it out now forty years later. The Lil Indian sustained no damage.

After the Highway Department laid the grade and before they started paving, we could ride the minibike for miles on the grade all the way around Gretna and back. And after they built an access road for us, we could ride that for half a mile in each direction. I don’t remember in what manner we retired the Lil Indian from service. I only remember all the fun we had riding it, and that Dad enjoyed it as much as anyone.

Following are two emails I’ve been saving since September 22, 2001. Since Wally has passed away, I don’t see any reason not to share some of his unique insights with the rest of the world. At the time of the attacks of 9/11, Wally had already retired from the US Air Force as a Lt. Colonel, having risen from the lowest Airman rank. He was my father’s best friend, and like him he was former NSA. These emails really bothered me when I first read them, but they’ve haunted me periodically over the last ten years. Now they seem in many ways prophetic. I haven’t edited them at all, not even for spelling.

Let me offer you some things to think about. These have bothered me since the destruction of the World Trade Center and though I’d prefer to ignore them they keep coming back. I like things clear cut, simple and direct, and this situation isn’t. I think, in the final analysis, it is these paradoxes that define the problem, if not the solution to it.

First let’s establish some generally accepted facts:

Osama bin Laden is a fanatic, prepared to die for his so-called jihad, but he isn’t stupid. The attacks we know he has planned, or that someone close to him planned, worked and worked well. They showed estensive knowledge and understanding of our operations and remarkable care and simplicity in their planning and implementation.

Afghanistan is a primitive nation full of ignorant people cut off from the rest of the world. These same primitive people fought the armed might of Russia to a standstill while their villages were bombed to rubble and any social amenities or order they had was destroyed.

Afghanistan is governed, if you want to call it that, by the Taliban Militia, a collection of bloody fanatics who are determined to hold on to power by any means necessary, and who keep the whole agonized country virtually closed to the rest of the world to ensure the continuation of that domination.

It is generally accepted too that neither the Taliban Militia or the Afghani people had anything driectly to do with the WTC bombing. Their only sin seems to be their refusal to surrender ben Laden and perhaps their paranoid hatred of anything western that goes back centuries.

Another chilling fact is that it is becoming more obvious each day that we are preparing to go to war with Afghanistan using a military designed to fight another military machine, to destroy a civilized, industralized country’s productive capability and power grids, to sever communications and transportation lines, break up its government infrastructure and induce chaos as these systems fail. None of which exists to any degree in Afghanistan.

Now, lets ask and perhaps answer some questions:

Are we deliberately closing our eyes to the fact that the Afghanis are not our enemy? If so, why? They are gnorant, stupid, vicious fanatics, yes, but they’ve always been that. Why are they now, suddenly, our enemines? They just can’t bite that high up, not unless we go to them anyway. They’ve became the focus of our anger and frustration, the focus of our paranoid tunnel vision, only because bin Laden has saught and received sanctuary there.

You ever wonder why bin Laden picked this benighted country to hide in and why he remains there even today? Possibly because he fought there and feels welcome there, but perhaps for other reasons as well. You ever for one moment wonder if we are being sucker baited? The Afghanis will fight anyone, anytime who invades their country. They won’t even need the Taliban’s orders to do that. It is instinctive and has been since Alexander visited years ago. They have a collection of barren rocks that nobody wants, except as a possible land road to India, and they will fight to the death for each sun baked stone. That’s all they know. Afghanis remind me of hydophobic Apaches. They weren’t a very effective fighting force either until the US Cavalry made them one. The Afghanis were well taught by first the British, then the Russians.

The Pakistanis are our friends. Yeah? For how long? Sure they hate the Afghanis, and the Iranians hate the Iraqis, the Syrians hate the Egyptians too, but they all hate the infidel. The Saudis are totally dependent on us for survival, but they hate us too. Can it be that most Moslems actually distrust and generally dislike all westerners? Is it because our religions are diametrically opposed. The Quran teaches that the “people of the book” are to be tolerated. Then why? Perhaps because too long has the western world, which we represent, denied them their rightful place in history. We are the usurpers, the dirty, defiling, infidel pigs who pervert and profane everything we touch. We defile women and welter in pornography, poison our bodies and minds with alchohol and we seduce their youth to our ways. We brought the Jews back and support them against the children of Allah. Worst of all we deny the one true God, Allah, praise be his name. We are a dispicable, terrible people, children of evil who all just men must hate. What’s so hard to understand about this? If you can’t understand it then we should just accept it.

Christianity and Islam are the two great competing civilizations and religions of the earth. We won and they lost, but only for the time being because Allah put a joker in the deck and gave them the oil. Gradually the tide has begun to change. Neither side is at all happy with the situation. Osama bin Laden just wants the tide to flow faster, that’s all. Will destruction of Afghistan reverse the flow? I doubt it. In fact, the damage we incur “teaching the Afghanis a lesson” will undoubtedly accellerate the flow considerably.

But isn’t all Europe with us in this crusade against terrorism? When has Europe ever really been with us? Take a look at the last cursades in this area, against the same basic people. First, they failed. Second, they were disorganized messes, basically profit motivated, if managed by fanatical Christians. In fact the situation was virtually reversed with brutal Christain armies raping and pillaging across relatiely peaceful Moslem kingdoms. We don’t have the long term motivation the Crusaders had, guaranteed salvation and all the loot they could carry, but we may well achieve the same long term result. I believe our luke warm allies will comdemn us in the UN before for autrocities against the Afghani people within a year. I believe that long before any meaningful victory, if such a thing is possible, is achieved the enthusiasm of our staunchest allies will have faded away like the monring dew. How about the enthusiasm and bloodlust of the American people? President Bush says we are in it for the long haul. Well, it is going to be a long and brutal haul with our western allies dropping away and other Moslem nations weighing in on the side of the Afghanis. Are we ready to fight the whole Moslem world? If we do have to, are we ready to fight to win? They obviously don’t think so and neither do I. Do we, all by ourselves, have the testular fortitude to engage in a scorched earth, genocidal war with the Afghanis and their eventual allies? I doubt it. Our anger is fierce now, but how high will it burn a year or two from now as the body bags start to fill. Oh, yes, the flags fly now outside every house, but where will they be then, over the long haul. You see, I remember Vietnam. Most don’t, or don’t seem to, but I do.

Does anybody really expect Russia and China not to provide the opposition, no matter who, with weaponry? Wouldn’t we, under the same circumstances? We did. We poured weapons and aid into Afghaistan when the USSR invaded. I’m sure they’d just love to return the favor. How long do you think that the Afghanis can resist us with an inflow of Russian and Chinese weapons? They fought the Russians for ten years, and then they had something to lose. How long today with virtually nothing to loose?

Has it ever occurred to anyone why, with $5,000,000 on bin Laden’s head, there has been no takers, not even any attempts or offers? Ossama bin Laden is the santified bait. He is a willing sacrifice. He isn’t a patriot to these people, he’s a saint. Christ was bought for thirty pieces of silver, but we can’t buy bin Laden for five million. Think about it, people.

Do the people of the United States really think that the whole Moslem terrorist world is going to sit on its hands watching calmly while we hammer the Aghanis? What is going to happen back here, on the home front? Bush and the government have obviously considered it, but nobody in the suburbs has. What will happen to our freedoms? Travel will be restricted, and I don’t just mean air travel either, and perhaps firearms ownership. There will be military and police checkpoints on our streets, a national ID card and an economy as flat as stale beer. We may not exactly resemble wartime Britian under the blitz, but then again we might. Every day you and I will have to prove we are Americans and on ligitimate business. How about gas rationing? All the good things associated with fought a war fought here, on our own turf, will be ours. Oh, I know that the terrorists won’t equate to lions in the street, more like swarms of biting flies, but lions might be
easier to cope with.

This is my conclusion:

Afghanistan is a huge mouse trap found, if not built, by Osama bin Laden. He means to lure us into it using himself as bait. It is almost perfect for combat against a modern, industrialized nation. It has no real government, and no military, production, communication or supply systems to destroy. The whole population is capable of using most basic military hardware such as shoulder launched anti-tank and anti-aircraft missiles, and mines. Every Afghan male seems to come equiped with an AK-47. It will be a war of ambushes and traps, a war of unspeakable and sadistic brutality fought in a harsh, mountain desert environment. Words like autrocity and collateral damage will eventually lose their meanings and should be expurged before we even go in. If we are not prepared to conduct a genocidal war we’d better not invite ourselves to one.

I don’t know how the military intends to conduct the war in Afghistan, but if it is the same military that gave us Bosnia and Kosevo then we will probably suffer a pathetic rout Even the declaration of victory and followed by immediate retreat won’t save us this time. They’ll just follow us home, along with the numerous friends. This isn’t even the military that fought its heart out in Vietnam. This is the new, politically correct military and it will soon find it has little stomach for facing Afghani tribesmen and slaughtering Afghani women and children, but it could learn in time. Question is do we want it to.

I think the destruction of the WTC towers was a mistake for the terrorists. I think attacking Afghanistan will be a mistake for us, but I also think it could be a massive mistake for the rest of the world too. In the unlikely event we went into Afghanistan and stayed the course the monster that came out the other side might be something somewhat other than the terrorists and so-called neutral observers hoped for. I don’t think this country will be destroyed, but I think it could irreversably changed. God help us all.

Yes, I’d like to do something about the atrocity at the World Trade Center, but first I’d like to see this country accept partial responsiblity for the slaughter. If you go about on your hands and knees wearing a sign that says “Kick Me” you probably going to be treated with something less than respect, even if you are a 600 pound gorilla. Here we are, a country that can’t even secure its own borders, preparing to take on a bunch of hard core fanatics who just broke the only other military machine on the planet. Figure Afghnistan to be supported by the whole Moslem world, plus, under the table, China and perhaps Russia and us to have qualified support from perhaps England and Canada. You think you’ve seen terroism now? Think again. This is only the beginning. When the slaughter starts in Afghanistan it will start here. Kiss your freedoms goodbye. The United Sates will become an armed camp, under siege.

I’ve been expecting some other nightmare to be visited upon us anyway, a not so subtle nudge from Uncle Osama to keep us motivated, so that we don’t stop and think our way through this. If it is a trap then we need some more motivation.

Do I think we can pretend it is business as usual, that nothing happened in Manhattan? No, but I do think that men wiser than me had better sit down and think this one out before we make an emotional commitment to suicide. Would I use nukes? You damned right. We will be forced to eventually with our economy in ruins, or people disheartened and disorganized, our sons butchered in Afghanistan to no purpose and facing virtually the whole Moslem world with our so-called allies disclaiming all responsibility for our brutal acts. There’s probably nothing much to nuke in Afghanistan, but a few towering mushrooms straight off might give the rest of the world something to think about. Not everybody lives in caves and mud huts. Why not open the game by putting everything in the middle of the table? We’ll eventually be comdemned in the UN by the whole world anyway. Oh, they are great sympathizers now when we are doing the dying by the thousands, but when we start the killing they will only remember that we are the frightening Giant of the West.

Americans refuse to believe or understand the amount of envy they generate in even the nations of modern Europe just by being Americans. We want to be loved too much and can’t understand why we aren’t. This cannot and will not ever happen. Even in England, in 1943, we were often barely tolerated and sometimes outright disliked. Just another invading force, if by invitation. Not their sort, you know, but these were our closest friends and allies. In our perpetual persuit of international love we demand entirely too little respect. We are the most powerful nation on the Earth and we are spit on in public. In the absence of either love or respect we must settle for, even hope for, tolerant comtempt, or we can teach the world to fear us as a foundation for the respect it had better learn. If the Moslems knew that nuclear weapons were even a possibility they wouldn’t be jerking our chain now. Why do you think it was an airliner instead of a suitcase nuke? We have more and bigger ones, that’s why. Even bin Laden knows not to go there, or does he? Is that the next step, if we don’t lurch into attack mode on command?

So, now we are pointed directly at Afghistan, bombers in the air, fuses lit on our missiles. The Taliban Milita will not accomodate our demands. I doubt if they could if they wanted to. The confrontation is now, the result is inevitable. You see anything wrong with this scenario? Who benefits? Not the Afghanis and not us. They do the dying because that is the only thing they do well, that and killing. We are sucked into a timeless killing field where we can pour out our blood and energy in them barren mountains and deserts until we are empty. Someone, perhaps Osama bin Laden, perhaps not, has put us exactly where he wants us. All our blustering about “Now you’ve really made us mad,” is rediculous. That’s is exactly what this whole affair was intended to do. This wasn’t just an isolated exercise in escalating international terrorism. It was part of an overall plan, but do we have to follow their scenario? It seems, like a blind bull, that we do.

I’m getting old, an unavoidable circumstance. I’m getting tired too, tired of apology and weakness, and now tired of stupidity. These little people can’t destroy us, but they can give us an opportunity to destroy ourselves and goad us into accepting this gift of self destruction. I think that “Whom the gods would destroy they first make mad,” was a mistranslation. Better it reads, “Whom the gods would destroy they first permit to become stupid, or ignorant and apathetic.” End. Walt

This second email apparently follows some harsh criticism from other recipients:

Alright, so maybe I’m totally wrong, unfeeling, unpatriotic even. Then again maybe I’m not. At least my hypothesis makes sense and nothing else offered so far does. There is just too much emphasis plased on bin Laden, entirely too much, and most of it by bin Laden. Illogical for a man who is deadly logical. He wants us to come for him and he has a damned good reasons.

Permit me to be more specific, if possible:

I believe we’ve been suckered in. I believe we have walked into a trap. I believe we are utterly butt-fucked. I believe we are utterly outclassed and won’t admit it.

I hope I’m wrong. I hope that GW is just running with the bloodthirsty, idiot pack, actually leading it, until such a time as he can get enough data together in order to draw sound conclusions and formulate a good plan to do what has to be done. I hope and pray that at that time all the hysteria will stop and the American people will stand behind him for that “long haul.”. I hope the CIA is out there with the Moussad (?) pulling out all the stops, cutting throats, roasting balls, etc., in order to find out who, besides bin Laden, was behind this. I hope that then there is a overwhelming, deliberate and public effort to eliminate every person of any importance in all the governments of all the middle-eastern countries who knew and validated this atrocity on the USA. I’d suggest targeting each individual with a smart bomb and video the result, to hell with any collateral damage. I don’t care if he hides in an orphanage or hospital. I want payback big time, but I don’t want us tied up in a war of attrition with the vicious village idot of the Moslem world, namely Afghanistan. Hell, they aren’t even involved. Can you imagine any thinking terrorist trusting an Afghani to function in a plot this complex? We could be butchering them (and them butchering us) for another decade or two and they would enjoy the whole thing. Killing infidels gives purpose to their otherwise useless lives and dying in the process is probably the only way they’ll ever get out of Afghanistan. And go straight to heaven, yet? Can you believe it? They do. If it didn’t destroy us utterly it might make us stronger, but would you want to bet the future of our country on that? Look how much stronger Vietnam left us.

But I don’t think I am wrong. I expect the cruise missiles to start to fly any time, followed by the bombers. And what good will it do? None, absolutely none. And when the Army generals see that they’ll want to send in the elite ground troops, totally ignoring what happened to SPETSNAV forces there. Now if we retargeted and got rid of some of our old nuclear tipped ICBMs that would be another thing entirely, but we won’t. We don’t have the balls even if we still had the missiles. But if we did you’d hear assholes slam shut all over the middle east and, north, south and west. No, we are the masters of hesitation, of doing a job half way then quiting after declaring that it is finished, of premature ejectulation. We are going to be a full partner in a total disaster, we and the Afghanis, from which it may take years to extricate ouselves. Oh shit, oh dear. Vietnam didn’t teach us much, did it?

But we are dragging our feet somewhat and I think right now, in some major American city (Los Angeles comes to mind, probably wishful thinking) there is another well planned scenario playing out involving a weapon of mass destruction, possibly not another airliner, though they do work so well, but perhaps at a nuclear power generator or major hydro electrical dam. Something big and spashy (not a play on words). All the other strikes were flashy, attention getters and point makers. If they took two years to set up the WTC and the Pentagon, they had two years for Step Two, and don’t think there isn’t a Step Two and possibly Three unless the FBI has muddled their plans. They could have killed more people, but they wanted to make a point and they succeeded. This one will will have to be even bigger and better, made in Hollywood, and it will kick us the rest of the way up the chute like a prime steer and onto the killing floor of Afghanistan.

I really doubt they want to force us into anything nuclear. Like I said, we have more and bigger ones, but I still wouldn’t rule out a suitcase nuke of some sort. This one has to be big and dirty with heavy casualties to really get our attention and freeze what little reasoning power we have left. It has to send us charging over the edge screaming for blood. They can’t wait until we get past our rage and hysteria, and start to think. Bush is taking too long. He is talking hot and acting cool. A bad combination for the ragheads. He has to be pushed and it has to be now. Osama is playing his part and the Afghanis are playing theirs, only we hesitate in our frantic search for justification before we act. I think we might be just about to get that justification. The world’s TV eyes are on us. The play, as written by Osama bin Laden or his ghost writer, must go on. The curtain is going up. Allah wills it.

Hey, I got this great idea. We need to find somebody to produce about 500,000 little enameled crosses, Crusader crosses, and bumper stickers. “Join the Crusade for Justice” and “God Wills It” and “I’m a Crusader for Christ.” I think they would sell like hotcakes. Nothing too flashy. Just about 1″ by 1/2″, red enameled over gold fill plate, a clip in back. Maybe put some on rings or pegs for those with pierced noses, tongues, nipples, etc. I tell you there are thousands to be made there. Hit the market early before we get copied. You can’t copyright a crucifix you know. The guy who designed the sew on Crusader crosses, (Wasn’t his name Peter the Hermit?), you think he ever made a penny out of it? No, he let it get away from him or the Church go it all. Well, it was just a thought. Can’t you patriots take a joke? End. Walt

Well, I’m thankful that Wally’s prediction of another successful major attack hasn’t proven true. Yet.

A friend sent me one of those emails that are constantly making the rounds filled with old quotations complaining about ridiculously high prices that now seem ridiculously cheap. An example from 1955: “Did you hear the post office is thinking about charging 7 cents just to mail a letter?”

As it turns out, the 1955 postage rate was only 3 cents per ounce, and I can remember from my childhood in the sixties mailing letters for a nickel. These ruminations led to other memories of the days when pocket change counted for more than tiddlywinks.

Some Coca-Cola drink machines charged 10 cents for a large (12 ounce) bottle, or 6 cents for a small (6.5 ounce) bottle. I recall when most of them jumped to 15 cents for the large bottle, and I remember being shocked and appalled at having to pay 25 cents for a Coke at a summer camp I attended. It was a hot day — my thirst overcame my financial prudence and I ponied up a whole quarter, feeling completely ripped off and wondering what my mother would think of my profligacy.

In my first grade class, we were given the opportunity to buy ice cream at a specific period of each day: popsicles, ice cream sandwiches, Brown Mules, or (my favorite) Nutty Buddies for five cents each. I begged my parents to give me a nickel a day out of their budget for this frivolous expense. It was more about status and belonging than it was about sugar or calories, because during that period which was set aside for the consumption of dairy treats, those who partook not had nothing more to do than enviously observe those who did. My parents reluctantly agreed, and placed a nickel in my wallet each night for that purpose.

One day, for some reason I can no longer recall, I didn’t buy any ice cream. When my father discovered the nickel still in my wallet from the previous night, he added another nickel. The next morning he congratulated me on my self-discipline and frugality, which I accepted without revealing that fiscal virtue had played no part in my abstinence.

“Whenever I find the money still in your wallet,” Dad said, “I’ll reward you by adding the same amount to what’s there.”

Even at that tender age, my math skills were sharp enough to realize that I had struck a gold mine. Some of the other kids at school always seemed to have money, and now I would become one of those kids. I quit eating ice cream altogether.

At an interest rate of 100% per day, compounded daily, within a week my father (who only made $64 a week at that time) could no longer afford to keep his promise. I had to settle for a five dollar bill when I should have had $6.40. I kept that portrait of Mr. Lincoln in my wallet for weeks, and I walked the halls of the school feeling as if I owned the place.

I think my mother eventually convinced me to commit that five dollars to my savings account at the local bank, increasing my balance from $25 to $30. Several years later that balance had grown to around $125 through deposits of birthday gifts and compounded interest at 4.5%. I withdrew the original $25 with which my mother had opened the account, took it to the local jewelry store, and bought her a silver pitcher for Mother’s Day. She still has that pitcher.

The lady at the store had warned me. That big bunch of turnip greens I bought cooked down to only enough for two servings. But what should I do with all this wonderful pot liquor, filled with scraps of turnip greens, bacon, and onions? I know! It’s time for some No Recipe Stew.

That’s perfect for Father’s Day, because my father taught me how to make it. It’s not too difficult, you just throw everything you can think of consuming into the pot and cook it a good long while. That’s why it’s called “No recipe.”

I browned some ground beef, along with more onions, garlic, and jalapeno peppers, then I threw that into the pot, along with some diced turnips, carrots, broccoli, tomatoes, and romaine lettuce. I brought this to a boil then turned it down and added spices (just about every spice in the rack). I’ll let that simmer for a few hours and have it for dinner.

This is my first Father’s Day alone in many a year. I’ll sit down to my stew, crack open a beer, and commune with my father who art in heaven (if there is such a place that deserves the name). If there was a recipe for him, God tore it up after he saw what he’d made. Miss you, Dad.

Back when I was in high school and working part-time at the auto parts store that my Dad managed, the owners threw a big steak dinner for the employees of all the regional stores at a nice restaurant near Martinsville. We were instructed to wear a suit and tie, and encouraged to bring a date.

I didn’t have a girlfriend at the time. After miserably awkward failures to entice several subjects of my fantasies to accompany me — I suppose in retrospect that an invitation to a fancy company function might scare off a high school girl, especially one whom I had never had the courage to speak to before — I finally secured an acceptance from Dixie. I picked her up at her house in my old Chrysler, and we drove the long highway to Martinsville while Chopin played on my 8-track.

Mom and Dad brought Roger along with them. Roger hadn’t been able to convince his girlfriend’s parents that allowing their daughter, who was a couple of years younger, to accompany him so far from home would be prudent. Perhaps had they known the favors which she had already bestowed upon him, they might have considered a nice dinner the least he could do in return.

The five of us sat around one of the big, round tables that bore all manner of condiments, an open bottle of wine, and a basket of bread in the center. The chef must have confused our menu with the one for an NFL team: a huge Porterhouse steak, baked potato wrapped in foil, vegetables, and of course a dessert designed to produce instant sucrose shock. By Franklin Auto Parts standards, it was downright elegant.

Unsurprisingly, Dad had already partaken of alcohol on the way there, but he reached for the wine and began pouring. Roger and I were each eighteen, and at this private function nobody would bother us so Dad filled our glasses. Dixie refused, so I did my best to moderate my consumption. Roger, being the fifth wheel, drank more freely in order to have something to do with his hands.

Dixie, who was always quiet anyway, didn’t have much to say in this venue either. I couldn’t tell whether she was enjoying or enduring this event. The rest of us laughed and joked while we ate our dinner. Jack Martin, one of the owners, got up and gave a humorous speech — the question of whether or not it was intended to be humorous being a regular feature of his communications. Dad continued to pour the wine, draining a third bottle. I had to refuse a time or two, but he and Roger worked at it as if they were being paid by the glass.

After we had all finished eating, Dad glanced over at Roger’s plate, which was completely clean — not a scrap of food, not a smear of butter, not even the foil from the baked potato.

“Damn!” said Dad, “You weren’t hungry, were you?”

Roger cast a sly glance in my direction, then he leaned back in his chair and patted his belly. “That was a pretty good meal,” he said, “but the best part of all was that chrome potato.”

To this day I’m unsure whether or not my father believed that Roger had really consumed the foil. Roger had crumpled it up and tossed it among the sundries in the middle of the table while Dad wasn’t looking.

My Dad, Sterling W. Camden III, always cultivated a reputation for being a bad-ass, even when he was a 125-pound nineteen-year-old Airman Third Class stationed in Germany.  He got into so many fights that his commanding officer decided to teach him a lesson by making him room with Walter Dale Goss – a hulking six-foot four-inch Cherokee who hardly spoke to anyone and spent most of his spare time lying on his bunk staring at the ceiling.

Airman Camden discovered Goss in that pose when he burst through the door, dropped his duffel bag, and took out a piece of chalk.  He drew a line across the floor between their bunks, up the wall, across the ceiling, and down the opposite wall.

“All right, you big mother-fucking Indian,” says Camden.  “You cross that line and I’ll kill your ass.”

Goss turned his gaze from the point on the ceiling towards the scrawny but vehement form that stared death and destruction back in his direction.  He laughed.  “C’mon, I’ll buy you a beer,” Goss said.  And therewith began a lifelong friendship.  Camden found his new giant friend extremely useful, and Goss was happy to have a companion who believed that he possessed “potential.”  They became blood brothers, Camden making much of the fact that he, too, could claim Native American ancestry.

Goss was pretty disappointed to lose his roommate when Camden married my future mother while on leave in the States.   Not long afterwards, Goss left the Air Force to join the Hells Angels, vowing to my father that “you’ll never see me again.”

One evening a couple of years later, Dad was outside our student housing at Syracuse (where the Air Force had him taking Intermediate Russian).  My playpen had been left outside and Dad was struggling to disassemble it in the deepening darkness.  Suddenly a blinding light engulfed him, and behind the flashlight he could just make out a looming figure, from whom boomed a deep but familiar voice: “What the hell are you doing with a playpen, you idiot.”  It was Goss.  He had re-enlisted, and the Air Force had sent him to Syracuse in the Intermediate Russian class right behind Dad’s.

Ever afterwards he became the roving member of our family.  We called him Wally, though he was variously known by others as “Walt” or “Dale”.  He’d visit once a year or so, always with some new adventure under his belt.  Once he had driven to Alaska and back in his Austin-Healey convertible.  His idea of trip-planning was to draw a line across the map from his point of departure to his destination, using a ruler, and then follow it as closely as possible.  The Healey was covered with mud, and Dad asked, “Don’t you ever wash that thing?”  Wally replied, “I let God wash it.”

Dad wanted to drive the Austin-Healey.  Wally got in the passenger seat, and they took off down the Pittsville Road.  When they neared the sharp left curve at Jack Mason’s Garage, Dad glanced down at the speedometer: 80.  He cut to the inside of the turn just as a ‘57 Ford popped into view from the other direction.  Dad cut back to the outside, sliding through the gravel of Jack’s parking lot (sending Jack running for cover).  He skidded back onto the road and continued as if nothing had happened, except for the adrenalin shakes that kicked in along the next straightaway.  And for as long as Wally owned the Healey, it bore the imprint of Wally’s ten fingers in the passenger side of its padded dashboard.

When I was five, Wally visited on leave from the Viet Nam War.  He brought us gifts from Thailand.  Mine was a real Siamese sword with a blade almost two feet long.  Wally handed it to me and said, “Here, kid – go get your sister.”  So I unsheathed it and ran after Roanna, who screamed through the house while Dad and Wally lay on the ground laughing as hard as they could.  My mother finally stopped me.  I still have that sword.  I keep it in my office in case of Ninja attack.

My sister Roanna, who was four, had a crush on Wally.  She informed him that she would marry him one day.  “Forget it, kid.” he replied.  “By the time you’re grown, I’ll be old, fat, and bald.”  “But Wally,” said my sister, “you’re already old, fat, and bald” — at which point my father spewed his beer across the room.

One Thanksgiving, Wally arrived with a huge turkey.  Naturally, Dad made all the appropriate wisecracks about the Indian joining us pale-faces for Thanksgiving.  We had a huge feast, and for dessert Mom offered pie.  “Is it homemade?” asked Wally enthusiastically.  “Why, Yes!” responded Mom, as she began to cut a large slice for him.  “Oh, I don’t want any then” said Wally.  We all laughed, but Mom made sure that he didn’t get any.

I believe Wally was there the Christmas that Dad shot Santa.  Wally introduced me to Heinlein, his motorcycle, and his .357 magnum.  Dad always said there were two things about Wally that were never adequately explained: why the Air Force had always allowed him to carry that .357, and why they allowed him to fly while wearing contact lenses when he was legally blind in a number of states.

Dad and I drove to Texas to visit Wally when he became an officer.  It was a trip I’ll never forget.

Wally met his second wife in Crete – Geraldine Andrews, who is full-blooded Irish from Dublin.  She instantly became another member of our family.  She accompanied my mother and us kids to church once –Geraldine had never been to a Methodist church before (she being Catholic, of course), but she was warmly greeted by a congregation that was about 80% Andrews – many of their ancestors having emigrated from Scotland and Ireland centuries before.

I lost contact with Wally and Geraldine when I went to college, and didn’t see Wally again until my father died.  The next day, as my sister Roanna and I drove to the airport to pick up my sons for the funeral, Roanna suddenly asked me if I maybe thought that…

“.. that Wally helped Dad out?” I interrupted.

“Yes!” said Roanna.  “He didn’t tell me so, but you know that the agency trained them how to do it so you couldn’t tell.’”

“Last night Wally told me that he had come close to killing Dad back in 1972” (That was when Dad had set himself down to drink himself to death).  “I wondered at the time why he volunteered that information.  Well, if he did it, then I’m thankful.”

I never asked Wally about that.  We’ve corresponded by email over the years, but I’ve never seen him in person again since Dad’s funeral – and I never will.  I received a message this morning that Wally passed away.  He went peacefully, I heard – and for that, I’m thankful.

Today we take instant communications anywhere on the globe for granted.  I often chat in real time with Chad, who lives in Colorado.  Just 150 years ago or so, we’d be limited to sending an occasional letter that might take months to arrive — if we ever got the opportunity to know each other at all.  Even when I was a kid, you couldn’t dial a long-distance call yourself – you had to get an operator to connect you.  Depending on the distance, you might need several operators in between.  And those calls cost a lot of money back then.

Does anyone else remember party lines?  Our house was the eleventh on a ten-party line – the phone company treated our house as an extension of my great-grandparents’ house a half mile away.  When the phone rang, we’d both pick it up to see who it was for.  When we wanted to make a call, we might pick up the receiver to find one of our other neighbors talking on the phone.  We’d have to wait until they were done, and there was no visual indicator that the line was still in use – you just had to pick it up again and listen for a dial tone instead of some juicy bit of gossip fodder.

We didn’t have buttons on our phone, either — we had a dial.  That wasn’t too hard on the fingers, though, because phone numbers only had six digits.  There was no area code, never mind country code.  The only way into or out of our local phone company’s network was to dial 0 for the operator.

Just before direct-dial long distance became available in rural Virginia, my father was out of state and calling home frequently.  With his NSA training, he noticed something different about what the operators were telling each other as they made the connection home.  One operator was telling another to dial one and wait for a tone, then enter a series of numbers.  The call was connected immediately.   My Dad wrote down the numbers, the last six digits of which matched our local phone number.

The next time he wanted to call, he didn’t dial 0.  He entered a 1, and got another dial tone – then he entered the rest of the series, and got through!  The direct-dial system was already in place, though it had not yet been announced and was only being used by the operators.

There was a good reason for that – the billing for long distance in our area was not yet automated, so the call was free.  But my Dad managed to take advantage of this implementation gap only one time.

Today marks the midpoint of the year 2009.  January 1 through July 1 makes 182 days, and we have 182 more days to go after today to reach the end of 2009.  On leap years, the midpoint lies between July 1 and July 2, but on other years it’s in the middle of July 2.

The exact middle doesn’t come at noon, however.  Because the year begins and ends in Standard Time, the midpoint will be at 1PM Daylight Saving Time (for those who observe it) – and on leap years it would come at 1AM, July 2 DST.

It’s hard to believe that the year is already half gone.  Perhaps an optimist would say that it’s half unexperienced.  Each year seems to go by faster than the last one.  I’m not alone in that perception – that observation has become so common that it often serves as conversation filler.

My own theory for why time seems to pass more quickly the older you grow is that each segment of time (day, week, month, year) is a smaller percentage of your life so far.  When you were ten a year was 10% of your life, and it seemed to take forever to get through a grade at school.  Now that I’m approaching fifty (much like a cat approaching a bath), it takes the passage of five years to seem that long.

That also explains why older people often get confused over what decade they’re talking about.  “Back in ‘64 – no wait, it was ‘74”  heck, it all flies by so quickly you can’t keep it straight.  It doesn’t bode well for my experience of the rest of my life.  Will I just increasingly fast-forward this movie until it ends with a click?  It’s an old lesson, but one I need to learn again and again:  take time to experience Today.

Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring
The Winter Garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To fly–and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing.

– The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, Fitzgerald translation

Yesterday as I was driving to Costco I listened to A Prairie Home Companion on KUOW. The show featured Steve Martin on the banjo, but what really caught my ear was a countryish song by a performer I don’t recall.  Garrison Keillor sang tenor behind the beautiful female lead who put words to a tune that I instantly recognized:  the first 20 bars or so of Chopin’s Etude Opus 10, No. 3.

That melody continues to grip my emotions every time I’ve heard it since the very first time when I was five years old and my mother bought us an LP of The Great Composers – which included excerpts from works by Bach, Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, Mendelssohn, Chopin, Brahms, and Tchaikovsky combined with the stories of their lives (Disneyfied, naturally).  My sister and I wore the grooves out of that LP from playing it over and over again on an old Magnavox turntable, so every passage sparks an immediate recognition whenever I hear it again – but none of them affect me quite the same way as this little etude by Chopin.

Chopin himself said of this etude, "In all my life I have never again been able to find such a beautiful melody."

The melody appears deceptively simple – like much of Chopin’s work.  It starts out climbing the E scale a measure at a time, repeating the same basic pattern in each measure.  But it suddenly skips over the dominant to seize the sixth – and then drops back down to the tonic.  Next comes a little section that toys around with B minor, to dutifully end the second phrase in the dominant.  The first phrase is repeated, but then detours with growing intensity and angst through dissonance and accidentals that touch on at least four different keys, seeming to urgently ask some great question, before resolving into a glorious E major chord that suspends the melody high on the major third – either affirming or perhaps only wishing earnestly for some eternal answer, before taking its lyrical journey back down the E major mountain until it quietly reaches its tonic home.

When I hear this melody, I wonder if I’m really a Romantic at heart after all, despite my love of Nietzsche and my yawns at Brahms.  Chopin’s intense yearning, expressed with such unaffected genius, almost makes me want to believe in the eternity of love and the soul.  Almost.

“OK guys, today we’re going to choose up softball teams for the rest of the school year.”

Mr. Doss was my sixth grade homeroom teacher, but he also taught PE for the boys in our three-classroom rotation – enough boys for four teams of nine or ten boys each.

“We’ll keep track of team records, and declare a champion team at the end of the year.”

“It sure won’t be mine,” I thought.  I wasn’t very good at softball.  My eye condition made both hitting and catching difficult, and years of hearing the laughter at my comical performances had convinced me that’d I’d never be any good.  I knew I’d be picked near the end of a roster — but no matter where I came up in the batting order, it would be the wrong time to send old Chip to the plate.   PE was destined to be a torment for me for the rest of the year.

Sandy Witcher chose me seventh on a team of nine.  Not bad, I thought.  In fact, I felt downright complimented.  Even though the guys after me were pretty pathetic, the one just ahead of me was a decent hitter.  Sandy, the captain and lead-off hitter, was quite an athlete – and he was also a really nice guy.  He never made fun of anyone, and never felt like he had to show off his own talents.

The first game we played, Sandy stepped up to the plate and hit a home run on the first pitch.  Next came Glenn Dalton, who got on base with a single.  Tim Doss also got a hit and put Glenn on third.  Then Barry Dalton hit a home run.  Philip Keesee and Victor Franklin followed with a hit each.

Then I came to the plate.  Somehow I managed to hit the ball, but it dribbled on the ground out to the pitcher and I was thrown out at first.  I was dejected as I walked back to the bench, but Sandy said, “Great sacrifice, Chip!”  Not knowing much about the game, I thought at first he was being sarcastic, but he corrected my attitude.  “You drove in a run – that’s how we win the game!”  Philip came over and slapped me on the back, “Thanks for getting me home!”  All of a sudden, I felt a lot better.

The next two guys struck out to end the first half of the inning, but we were ahead 5-0.

I played in left field, but I never even had a chance to screw up – Sandy struck out the side.  After five innings we were ahead 24-0, and Mr. Doss (who was the umpire) called the game on the mercy rule.  I didn’t get a hit the whole game, but it hardly mattered.  My outs were almost a relief to my team, for otherwise the innings might never have ended.

Before the next game, Sandy told us not to get cocky.  The team we were to face looked strong — they had soundly beaten their previous opponent.  But we slaughtered them.  And I actually managed to get on base, with a fielder’s choice.  Not ideal, but it was only the first out and I was able to survive the next two batters.  Top of the order with two outs, Sandy took the bat and drove me home.  It was the first time I had ever crossed home plate in any game in my softball career.

The winning grew infectious.  Everyone on the team became better players, even we three at the end of the order.  Our opponents, on the other hand, were often defeated before the first pitch was thrown.  We won every game that season, and never by less than five runs.  I even started to get a hit every other game or so, as did the guys who came after me.  Once when our ninth batter Oscar (who had started out the year with a vertical axe-chopping downswing) hit the ball solidly, I thought “Wow! He’s really learned how to hit.  Hey, so have I!”

The last game of the year was more of a team celebration than a contest.  As each of our batters came up, we cheered him with memories of his past accomplishments and encouraged him to hit one more for old times’ sake.  When I stepped into the box in the top of the last inning, I heard the other guys all cheering me on, and thought about what a magical year it had been.  I had gained so much confidence in just a few months.  It struck me suddenly that that was the only difference between the loser I had been and the player I had become:  confidence.  We expected to win, and we did.  Unlike in the past, my teammates didn’t expect for me to lose the game for them – they expected me to do well, and I could!

The next pitch came before I could think about it, and I instinctively swung.  “Ping” went the aluminum bat, as I felt the full force of Newton’s Third Law in my wrists and arms.  The softball shrank away into the sky.  I watched in disbelief and heard my teammates’ voices rise in exhortations to “Run, Chip! Run!”

But there was no need to run.  The ball cleared the fence by no more than a whisper – a whispered “please” from deep within a boy who had never before hit a home run in his life.

The other team couldn’t understand the celebration – after all, we were already ahead by 12.  They didn’t know why the whole team ran out to tackle me at home plate as if I’d just hit a walk-off to win the game.

But we knew – we knew all about that we.  And we all knew that a far more important contest had just been won.