Washington's Birthday

I emailed this to my sister, and then remembered it's been several years since I posted anything like this on my blog, so maybe it's overdue.  

It's not President's Day! It's Washington's Birthday!!!!! President's Day is a sale, Washington's Birthday is a holiday. Congress named it Washington's Birthday and NEVER re-named it. We stopped celebrating Lincoln's Birthday when we picked up MLK's (which in itself is kind of funny) but it was never re-named.

It's important because we don't honor the other 43, just the first. If we honored the other 43 it would include the worst president of all times (Harding) as well as the second worst (Grant) and I could go on. It would be nice to celebrate the best (Roosevelt the first) followed by Reagan and that Lincoln guy, and I could go on from this side too. We don't celebrate Harrison (though we did name a county after his short presidency) and we don't celebrate Fillmore. We can laugh about Taft (laughy Taft-y?) and question Van Buren's heterosexuality, but we don't celebrate them.

In the typical fashion of celebrating idiocy, it is important to note that Congress designated not only the name of Washington's Birthday but the third Monday of February. Since George's Birthday is actually on the 22nd, that means that the Federal Holiday Washington's Birthday can never be celebrated on George's actual birthday.

Not to be outdone in stupidity, fellow residents of Alabama can celebrate the State Holiday rather than the Federal Holiday. It still isn't named after a sale, but the State of Alabama celebrates George Washington and Thomas Jefferson's Birthdays on the third Monday of February. Only reason I can figure that out is that TJ's bday (13 Apr) is too close to Confederate Memorial Day, in itself an ironic celebration since Memorial Day itself began to commemorate the dead from the War of Northern Aggression.

So, enjoy your day off if you have one. Buy yourself something at any one of the myriad President's Day Sales, but celebrate Washington's Birthday.

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NOT President's Day

Further Up, Further In

A funny thing happened on the way to Frankfurt. I think anyone that travels a lot gets into patterns. Mine as it relates to flying consist of sitting down, checking out the safety card, looking to see where the life vest is (even when flying in Afghanistan and they'd just about have to aim for a body of water to hit it), seeing where the oxygen masks would come from (real hard in a C-17), checking out the exits, and reading the flight magazine. I was dozing off while reading the magazine after boarding in Kuwait, so I put it away and waited. The seat next to mine was empty and I was hoping it'd stay that way. Not sure how long I was out, but I "woke up" and thought we were still on the ground. Felt like we were, nothing out the window. Then I noticed the beverage cart going down the aisle. I've never slept through takeoff before, but I can't say that any more. So, I stretched out and went back to sleep. A couple of times. Frankfurt is a neat looking city from the air and I love the layout of the airport. The terminal's all right, but the airport layout is neat. Later I would realize that it isn't incredibly functional from a "get into the air" point of view, but this was my opinion on landing.

Once inside I got racially profiled. The Polizei were at the end of the ramp, but they only wanted to see the passports of the Kuwaiti and Arabic-appearanced passengers from what I could see.

While standing at the Departures screens I saw a black man walk by and another Polizei stopped him and pulled him over to the side for some questions. Who would have guessed this was a good country to be a WASP in? Yeah, that's sarcasm and a half.

As an American who's only second language is to be able to talk like a Yankee I love that most of these people speak English here. I know it's a related tongue. I had a lady ask me if I speak German or English in German. But between that and saying I'm a jelly doughnut (thanks JFK!) I was out of German phrases I knew.

She asked me, in perfect unaccented English, to watch her stuff while she went to the restroom. When she came back we started talking. She lived in Wisconsin for twenty years before moving back to Frankfurt and is on her way to Seattle to help her son and daughter-in-law determine what course of action to take with her grandson who is ten and needs an aortic valve replacement. I just learned a lot about valve replacements.

At this point my coffee cup is long since empty, the shop is filling up, and I don't have anywhere to better to go. So I'll just look like a weird bearded dude typing on a MacBook in a coffee shop at the Frankfurt Airport. Go with what you're good at.

 

So eventually I was able to bored the plane. Where we sat. And sat. Then taxied, and taxied. Yeah, I meant to type bored.

I started watching a movie with Elaine Benes and Tony Soprano and in addition to watching half of it before we took off, it was kind of boring. I could see where the plot was going, it was like watching people on a first date, a real train wreck I couldn't take my eyes away from. Because there was nothing else to do. Lufthansa doesn't have the most up to date movies on their Airbuses. Among my choices were Amadeus, Cool Runnings, and Elysium. All movies I've seen, just different periods of time since I'd seem them.

Needless to say, the flight took off late because of the taxing issue, but we didn't land too far after we were supposed to. I was beginning to panic a little though because I had to get from the back of the plane to the front, through customs, get a new ticket, and find the right plane. And as Darth Stewie said in It's a Trap, ". . . we’re in a galaxy far, far away, and we still have to change in Atlanta."

If home is where the wifi automatically connects, I'm still not sure what that makes Hartsfield-Jackson Airport.

So, I ran. I wove through people, I paused, sprinted, squirted in between, and took stairs three and four at a time. I was doing good when I got ahead of almost everyone from my plane, but then I hit Customs.

Customs is huge, as it should be, and there was already a crowd. Not a big one, but I was about the 20th person in line. So I caught the lady controlling the line's eye and asked if she could help me make my next flight. She went to get someone else who escorted me through the lines and over to another agent. On the way he asked me how much time I had. It was then I realized, I actually had another hour because my clock, much like myself, was on an incorrect time zone still. I bought the watch because it has the ability to show 2 different time zones simultaneously, so that means, biologic, actual, and two different time zones are all out of sync. An impressively easy task.

Regardless, the agent still helped me break in the line, I got through, got the new ticket, and made it in time to buy an overpriced bottle of water and get to the gate about five minutes before they started seating people.

Here's the funny thing though. The guy I was sitting next to on this plane knew the people across the aisle from me and before we took off was talking with them. He revealed that their boss was two rows up from him and had a habit of running late even though this time he didn't. Had he been running late, the guy next to me was supposed to fake an illness to delay the plane taking off so the boss would get there. So I had coverage if I'd mistimed anything along the way.

From there it was all downhill sailing, I hoped off the plane and walked straight out the door, across the parking lot, into and across the field, and waited for my bride and youngest daughter at the end of the entrance to the Mobile Airport. American soil beneath my toes, green grass of Alabama all around and traffic that moved at faster than 20 kph everywhere.

Another successful trip home.

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The Overly Sensitive Stoic

So last week I began again traveling back to the states. The last few months have been an absolute blur. So much has happened, and yet, so little has been written. If it wasn't written down, did it happen? Some would argue it did not. The system to travel home on Rest and Recuperation leave is broken. There are ideal signs up that say from the time you land in Kuwait you'll be at the airport waiting on your flight in 6 hours. The reality is that six hours after landing we had only gotten to the second step of the process. But I've skipped ahead.

Before you can leave Kandahar, you have to show up for a 0900 brief. Except this happens at 0930, not that it was late, just that I had the time wrong. So I started trying at 9 on Saturday morning (about 7:30 pm Friday night in Alabama). By the time the 0930 brief rolled around I had done everything I needed to do before I left and was present with my bags in hand. You have to start at the Inbound Terminal, then travel to the Outbound, where you wait. Kind of like when you go to turn off your Windows based computer by clicking on Start. I waited about two hours before we got called in to be screened, after which we were told to go upstairs to the holding area until 1515.

At 1510 we were told to go back down to the check in point. This can't be good news, and it wasn't. The flight was canceled, but the show time for the next one was 5 minutes. So, we shuffled back upstairs and waited. Another 2 hours. Finally, we boarded, and waited. At 1815 we took off headed to Bagram. Flight crew said it was a 45 minute flight, so promptly at 1920, we landed. And waited.

There was a tanker truck on board with us which they unloaded, then proceeded to reload pallets for two hours. Promptly at 2130 we took off, twelve hours in and I'm finally off Afghanistan soil, still in the air space, but off the ground.

We leanded in Kuwait at straight up midnight.By this point I realize I haven't had anything to eat or drink since breakfast about 0700. After checking in at Ali Al Saleem, we headed for the dining facility. I've managed to run into a fellow travelling to just north of Eglin Air Force Base, practically LA like me. At 0530, only a half hour late, we start off for Camp Arifjan, an hour away. There they proceed to check us in and give us a brief that basically says come back at 1400.

So, browse the PX, get a great big cup of caramel macchiato from Starbucks, read the Stars and Stripes, peruse the makeshift bazaar set up, and then took a shower. Returning to the place we'd get our tickets, we've now killed 4 hours with 5 left to kill. A success.

So, at 1400 we get our itineraries and are told to show up at 1915 to sign up for a bus ride to the airport. Not sure why we couldn't sign up right then, but oh well. With nothing else to do, we went back to the PX. One of the Kuwaitis at the bazaar complemented my facial hair, "Nice beard," he said, "Now, show me the money!"

Finally, 1915 rolls around and we go through a quick briefing then a customs check. Not sure why, because we're an hour from the airport and this is US Customs. Promptly at 2040 they call us to load the bus that leaves at 2030 headed to the airport. Another hour away and finally we're done with Americans who just ask to check our CAC. The Common Access Card replaced the simple ID card and serves many purposes. One of which is to aggravate the stew out of me when people call it a CAC Card. This is made worse when they tell me to use my PIN Number for my CAC Card. From this point on, someone other than an American will look at my CAC, but it's a lot less frequent.

I'm not sure what it is about this airport, and I'm pretty sure it's a different kid, but every time I've been here there has been a five-year old kid wearing a skull costume.

On a different note, the security here is just plain weird. We walked in, passed a few stores, wove through a crowd then walked back outside to enter the first Screening Zone. Our bags go through a scanner and we a metal detector. A few bags get examined, but very few. Then on the other side we exit--into the crowd and stores we walked by at first. Turns out I was in the wrong zone, so I had to go through another screening. My bags went on the conveyor and I went through the scanner. It went off, I forgot to take out my cell phones. No one stops me. At the belt, the guy who's running it is on his cell phone loudly. I pick up my bags, no problem, so I leave  after setting off the alarm for bags and personal detection, and went to get a bite to eat.

Next comes the Departure screening, where the guy looks at your Boarding Pass and ID. This seems right, then I go to the next fellow who's giving some lady a hard time with her baby bags. While he weighs her bags and talks to her in an aggravated tone, his buddy waves me through with my oversized backpack and laptop bag. No weighing, no reviewing of my ticket, nothing. On to Passport Control.

At Passport Control I show a Kuwaiti lady my CAC and boarding pass and she stamps it and waves me on. So I do some duty-free shopping without buying anything. Mostly because I have no idea what a Kuwaiti Dollar fetches against American, but I know I paid 1.65 for a burger and fries. Must be strong. The first time I went to a foreign country (what am I talking aboot? I'm calling our 51st State a foreign country, a bit of a stretch, eh?) they gave me some Monopoly money for change. They even thought it was Monopoly money because they called the big coins Loonies. Now, in the age of electronic everything it's even stranger because they just run your debit card and you have no idea what you paid unless you know the exchange rate and are good with math.

Finally, after eating and finding my gate, which has another security checkpoint in it, I take off my shoes and get comfortable. I still have two hours until I can go through the gate.

One thing you may have missed in all of this, when did I sleep? There's a good reason I didn't mention it--I didn't do much of it.

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Ablution

The first time I stepped in to a restroom facility for one of the Corps sites we are constructing in Afghanistan I pointed and said, "What's that?" A low, tiled seat face some very low sinks. It looks like some old stadium urinals except for the seats in front of it. It is an ablution area where the Afghans go to wash their feet.  The only reason I can tell you how many restrooms we've turned over that were trashed within 2 weeks is because it's a subjective number rather than an objective number--all of them. The foot washing is a mess, even in the areas that aren't set up for it. And the most of the mess comes from the ablution process.

When I first got to Afghanistan I was in civilian clothes and the moon dust got all over my shoes. When I finally changed into my uniform, I washed my shoes thinking they were done getting dusty. Two days later I washed them again but didn't clean them again until I got to London in August. I'm slow, but trainable.

This time I came home was the same. There was a chance in Kuwait, but it does little good to wash Afghanistan off your shoes only to have it replaced immediately by Kuwaiti dust. So, in an incredibly symbolic manner, I entered the restroom in Frankfurt Airport and washed Afghanistan off my shoes.

I'm still unclear of whether there is a religious symbolism in ablution. I know it isn't absolution, that comes on Fridays when they go to church. But there is a cleansing feel to it.

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I did clean up the mess I made. Ablution will really mess a bathroom up. Also picked out the boogers, moon dust makes bad boogers.

The Bird that Didn't Fly South

A friend posted a link to an article describing some proposed changes to the way veterans file for disability. As a lover of efficiency I say this isn't all that bad an idea. Especially since it's dealing with federal civil servants. Except for one thing, the most helpful federal civil servants I have ever met (present company INCLUDED) were people who work for the Veteran's Administration.

As a lover of the American Military I say this isn't all that bad an idea. Our military forces deserve better service, faster service, and more efficient service especially from federal civil servants. Except for one thing, the most helpful federal civil servants I have ever met (present company INCLUDED) were people who work for the Veteran's Administration. 

As a veteran I say this isn't all that bad an idea but it could use some tweaking. There should still be an exception for people who are elderly, who can't read, who don't have access to a computer or the internet especially since they will have to deal with federal civil servants. Except for one thing, the most helpful federal civil servants I have ever met (present company INCLUDED) were people who work for the Veteran's Administration.

As a disabled veteran I say this isn't all that bad idea except that it could use some tweaking,. Chief among the tweaks would be that I volunteer to help any vet that needs help filing under this system or the use of a computer. In fact, I've talked several vets in to filing for disability. I have contemplated filing an appeal to increase my disability but would rather leave the small difference I could get for some other vet that needs it more than me. In fact, I'd venture a guess that there are many others like me who would willingly give of their time to help others file their disability claims with the VA. As an example, the most helpful federal civil servants I have ever met (present company INCLUDED) were people who work for the Veteran's Administration.

I suspect the greatest fear driving the push to keep things the way they are is just because it is change.

Change is not always bad, ask the bird that didn't fly south for the winter.

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Fifteen

My blog shift was intended to make this blog more of journal of The Big Trip, my Adventures in Asia, a story of Activities in Afghanistan, a record of what I saw both figuratively and literally on my journey on the other side of the world. Today, I am returning to the previous theme. A story from the perspective of The Hole on the End of the Bible Belt during A Year Without Wearing a Tie.

During my time in the military I became extremely disillusioned with Army Chaplains. So much so that I would fight vehemently for my soldiers to be able to attend services when we were in the field, but wouldn't darken the threshold of a tent where one was being held. If you have ever seen a Protestant service conducted by an Orthodox Priest you would have a glimpse of my dissatisfaction. No doubt I missed something in my boycott. I did attend church, including a Southern Baptist church in Tacoma that was the stereotypical Southern Baptist church to include multiple visits with cakes, pies, and gifts each Tuesday for several weeks after our visit. But not to any military services, with the sole exception being the funerals I attended (twice serving as pallbearer, once for a friend).

Several weeks ago my main right hand man was in my office talking when his wife came by and said they'd be late for church. I took this as my opportunity to eschew work and go to a service so I invited myself to join them. We have been a few times since, today being another. The message was not that memorable to me, but the thing that stands out the most was a guy who stood at the beginning and told of a praise during the prayer request portion.

This gentleman works with a man he described as a Saracen. His initials are A.M. or M.A. depending on where you consider his surname to fall. Apparently A.M./M.A. had a close aunt pass away recently, and despite the thorns around his heart concerning his being a Saracen has approached him clearly questioning about Jesus and this man's Christianity. Listening to him speak, I turned to John sitting next to me and posed the following question:

What if that is the reason for this whole thing?

Not, what if we are in Afghanistan to reach people like that. Not maybe we're here to reach Muslims and tell them of the love of God. No, what if this whole thing: twelve years of conflict; two thousand plus American military deaths; multiple billions of dollars of American taxpayer money spent on operations, construction, relief; contractors mobilized and working; the Corps of Engineers presence; and even our own physical sitting in  Fraise Chapel on Kandahar Airfield, what if it was intended JUST FOR THAT ONE MAN.

It may well be.

 

The real problem I have with writing in a literary style is that I want to go on. I want to support why I think it is. I want to explain. I don't want this to end leaving a sour taste on the mind of the reader as I'm sure it may.

Unless, you are the one person this very post was intended for.

I don't know who that reader is. But there is one. That one reader will read this and get the point. It is always about just one person. Leave the 99 in search of the one. Because it was all about the one.

It always will be.

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Safety

On the morning of 13 Sep I posted this to my Facebook account:

in case anyone wondered, despite the fact that I've been there twice, to include an in depth tour and videotaping the view from atop the building, I was NOT anywhere near the consulate in Herat this morning. I did wake up about 0530 hearing a loud explosion, louder than the normal controlled detonations. I'm still not sure what that was because I'm too far from the consulate for that to have been what I heard, but I am safe! — at Camp Stone.

When you live in a war zone conflict would seem to be inevitable. Yet living on the Afghanistan Riviera has been very low-keyed and laid back. The morning of 13 Sep changed that. I woke up wondering if I would go back to sleep or start worrying about work.

An unfortunate consequence of living 50 feet from your desk is that sometimes it's real hard to stay in bed. Within a minute of waking I heard a loud rumble. It sounded like a detonation.

For those that haven't been to a Forward Operating Base (FOB) in Afghanistan, there is an interruption we call The Voice, or sometimes The Big Voice. Now, this isn't a reality show with cute swiveling chairs and out of work singers, this Voice tells us sometimes important things. Such as, "The range is now hot." This lets us know that someone is on the range qualifying or just target practicing. Otherwise we may get concerned that the enemy was at the gates. Whenever there is a cache of stuff found, there are controlled detonations. Again, The Voice warns us so we don't crap our shorts thinking the end is near. The timing of the warning is often off, such as coming hours before or minutes after, but the warning is there.

There was no such warning on the morning of 13 Sep. I woke up and shortly after heard an explosion. Low, muffled, and far away.

If you want to know how lonely feels, wake up in a building where there are no people moving around. No sounds from the room next door, no flushing toilets, only the sound of air conditioning units, generators, and the low rumble of diesel engines. No movements, no human sounds. But a detonation. No one to ask, "What's that sound?" Not even someone to ask, "Are you okay?" Just the background noises that will be present after the rapture.

It is much more lonely to wake up at midnight, same situation, no human movement or noises, no one to call because it's midnight, but you hear the heightened pitch of helicopters for 45 minutes. Peeking carefully around the door you see rotor washed dirt streaming up in a huge plume behind the buildings in the next compound over. But that is a different story.

About an hour later I was told about the Consulate bombing in Herat. That was the sound I heard. From over 20 miles away. A place that I've been to and by multiple times. I toured the facility and recognized the angle of the pictures on new websites showing the aftermath. It was a reminder that I am in a war zone.

A lot of people who I talk with by phone, email, or Facebook comment about my safety. I constantly feel safe, Consulate bombing included.

On the way home from the Consulate I used my Roshan to call a guy in the other vehicle. Roshan is Dari for AT&T I think based on the quality (or lack of) cell service. The first time messed up, but I got through the second time. It was only when we stopped that I heard the security team being told to fix the cell phone jammers that are supposed to keep any remote detonated devices from exploding as we pass by. What's more important, safety? Or just feeling safe?

Fast forward to the night of 23 Sep. The Voice came on to tell us there was an exercise. This is where we train/act/whatever as if there were an actual event happening. So far, this is the only reason I have had to spend time in the bunkers at Camp Stone.So, about 2230 we all shuffled out to the bunker. We laughed, we joked, we complained about being in a bunker. And then I fell asleep.

I took a nap for an hour, during an exercise of what to do when the enemy crosses the wall. Safety? Or feeling safe? Which is more important?

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