Back in LA

After the longest time I have ever been in one job position and the longest time I have ever had from accepting a job and starting a job we are finally back in LA—Lower Alabama.

There were a lot of memorable things to write about and share but sometimes things happen at the speed of life and this was one of those times. Traveling during the corona time is challenging so we’ll start with that.

The itinerary changed more times than I care to remember, too. My normal München/Atlanta/Mobile flights were not running. There was a choice to fly from Nürnberg to Frankfurt (a flight that begins the descent before it finishes the ascent) to Houston to Mobile. Another option was Frankfurt to Atlanta to Mobile (which later changed to Houston vice Atlanta). Oddly, I would have had to leave earlier to drive the one hour to Nürnberg for the flight than if I were to drive the three hours to Frankfurt for the flight.

There were options to travel through Boston and San Francisco but the oddest option was to travel through Doha. Most of these included an overnight stay and had 30 hour travel times. I avoided all of those though. The best way ended up being to fly into Pensacola rather than Mobile, not because of price but time.

Even still, it was over twenty hours in airports and airplanes. Twenty plus hours in a mask stinks. Doubly so if you chew rather than eschew the chicken curry for the cheese and onion tortellini.

Eventually we arrived and the first thing I discovered is that despite the fact that I had thought it out, my estimate of the time needed to get things set up was off by at least a month. The guy who set up all my flight arrangements thought landing on Tuesday and starting work on Monday was a good idea. And as a point of reference, I’m wearing that guy’s underwear.

But this is where Serendipity rears her head again. The District here is in maximum telework still. But it isn’t mandatory. Maximum non-mandatory. I can say it all day long but I can’t really grasp how that oxymoron works. So day one I went in to fill out some paperwork and get my new mobile phone (my Mobile mobile). After calling to set it up I discovered that I cannot set up my email without getting an email. More oxymorons, right? I can’t get an email at all until I can log into my new laptop. So on to step two.

My new laptop was not ready until Tuesday. So I went in to pick it up, but I cannot log into it until I get a new CAC. That sounds easy, so I went downstairs to the CAC Office where I discovered that I can’t get a new CAC until I have a user ID. Guess how I find out about getting a user ID? Yep, an email.

For those keeping track, I need an email to be able to do some training to get a CAC to be able to log into my laptop to set up email so I can get an email that will allow me to be able to set up my Mobile mobile. After which time I’ll be able to telework.

All of which needs to be done during a time of maximum telework.

But not mandatory.

The saga continues. More to follow soon (I hope).

Gender

Earlier today my oldest daughter had a Facebook Live post where she had planned a gender-reveal party, a relatively recent sign of the times, for her friend. It was mostly properly social distant, a more recently added sign of the times. But the whole thing reminded me of my first (non-party) gender reveal—her.

Even before we were married we had agreed that while we might be able to find out the gender we wanted it to be a surprise. It was a very mutual agreement. Fast forward a few years and we were walking into the hospital for the ultrasound where we might be able to find out the baby’s sex. While Madigan Army Medical Center was a modern, then state of the art, facility the doors were not automatic and as I pulled one open Ginger said, “I want to know the sex.”

Now ordinarily posting a story like this could be taken as me trying to make her seem indecisive or less “smart” than me. But this was during pregnancy. Her ability to change her mind was an innate, indisputable prerogative that she and any woman in a similar state has. No representation is made that this was anything beside that. If a pregnant woman decides she wants something she has never before or since has wanted it is her right even if you do have to drive all the way to the other side of town to get it.

Side note, do not even think about not going to the other side of town to get it for her or you WILL regret it for the rest of your life.

Back on point, through the whole walk to the appointment we went back and forth with me (stupidly) reminding her of our previous agreement. This discussion continued as we went in for the procedure. At the point of the ultrasound where we could find out the technician asked us if we were discussing if we wanted to know. When I told her the whole story—because that’s what I do—she commented that it didn’t matter because the baby had its legs crossed.

To this I replied, “We’re Southern Baptists, it’s a girl!” And the rest is accurate history.

Faith and the Last Snow Day

What follows is the text of a story written by my youngest daughter. It is unedited and is just the way she wrote it. For context, we have been stuck in the house for two weeks already due to the coronavirus. Bavaria instituted controls before the rest of the country, and then began a (well-enforced) lockdown procedure also before the rest of Germany. In addition to me starting telework, Faith’s school went into online version and one of her assignments was to start a journal. She also has typing practice and writing prompts but neither this piece nor the history of Toy Country (which may later be featured here, too) were a result of her school work. This was just her passing time.

Perhaps I should have expected an output such as this from her simply from seeing the title of her journal “The Day the World Went Home” but this story really grabbed me. I fear she may beat me to publication.

On 31 Mar 2020 it began to snow, It is probably the last time we’ll see snow this year. In our backyard are a swings, a treehouse, and a koi pond with a bridge over it. Most of our meals during lockdown are eaten in the living room where we try to watch a movie or show as a family and for the most part she sits with her plate on the hearth of the fireplace rather than her lap.

The snowflakes fall heavily in the afternoon, as I glance outside of my window, smiling at the sight of snow. The snow falls on the trees, and everything else that remains motionless. The trees start to shake with the wind blowing between their branches. They shake as if they do not like the snow. I sit in the swing, looking up at the sky. A snowflake lands on the lense [sic] of my glasses. It melts and makes a splotch. I frown. But, then, I remember one thing. The treehouse. I run on the cold, snowy grass and climb the ladder, swiftly. I go through the passageway in the treehouse, glancing outside. I pretend I am an eskimo, trying to stay warm in a small, elevated, shaggy, run-down house. I lay Mister Stork and Lamby down as I walk, barefooted, in my thin hoodie, to the tiny hallway, exposed to the open. I stare at the sky once more. I then hear my mother’s voice, “Dinner, dear!” She calls. I grab Lamby and the stork and jump down my ladder. I dash over not-so-green grass in my barefooted toes. I run across the brid[g]e and nearly fall in the koi pond. I run inside and slam the door, realizing I still have the splotch on my glasses sense [sic]. “Honey bun?” My mother asks. “Coming,” I reply, cooly. My mother and father sit on the couch. I sit at the fireplace hearth with mashed potatoes and roast beef. “Wait!” I exclaim. “What about the blessing?” So all the family (including the stork and lamb) say the blessing and get in on our delicious meal.

Tinfoil Hat 2

As I’ve mentioned before, if you’re going to wear a tinfoil hat, wear a big tinfoil hat. In that vein I offer the following potential situation:

My latest theory is that within the next 6 to 8 weeks a report will be leaked that reveals quaternary ammonia production is bad for the environment, increases greenhouse gas emissions, and has lost its innate ability to serve as an anti-microbial solution. In layman’s terms: hand sanitizing gel is bad for the climate and doesn’t kill germs.

In advance of this leaked report, at the end of last year the hand-sanitizing gel industry created the Coronavius Inert Deception 2019 or COVID-19. This was done in an effort to create mass panic and thereby cause a run on their products cleaning out the shelves of stores and increasing the street market value as currently being witnessed. Once they have eliminated the warehouses of stored product, the report will be “leaked” and the industry will collapse on itself. Then we can go back to worrying about the little things, like the flu.

There is a similar theory to this about facemarks but it’s just too whacko to mention.

Serendipitous Day

Serendipity takes me everywhere, and when I say everywhere I mean sometimes I want to check the lottery tickets kind of lucky. Today has been one of those days.

It started when I went to look for info about plane tickets that may or may not change due to coronavirus restrictions. While waiting I got an email that said I need a copy of my Dad’s death certificate to go with my request for reimbursement for my plane ticket home. I left the travel agency and went to the post office where the letter with the death certificate had arrived. Also a letter from my Aunt Maggie but more on that in a minute.

Then I traveled to the food court at the Exchange. Usually I pick my food choice on the shortest line but today (Serendipity) the lunch I wanted was the shortest line. I headed for the line and right before I got there two people walked up and got there before me. No problem, just took a little longer to order. But when I did order, the number they would call for me to pick up my food was my favorite single digit number, nine (I have favorite multi-digit numbers all the way up to 8 because who needs a favorite 9 digit number?). Kind of a weak point, but still a point.

Then, while eating, I got an email from someone about a meeting tomorrow. I try to avoid meetings whenever possible but this one in particular would involve two people I know will have difficulty communicating. Both will think they know what the other is trying to tell them and both will be wrong, so I’m particularly not looking forward to this. The only way to make this meeting worse would be if it were telephonic. The email said the party that has to travel would not be able to make it and asked if it were possible to make it a telephonic meeting. But here’s the silver lining, no matter if I try hard or not it might not happen, not trying too hard to make it work is an option. In a rare confluence of events I have the ability to answer with the Corps of Engineers motto: Essayons! Which is french for We Can Try! Ordinarily I would say that we can do sans french but in this case it just feels right.

Now a brief departure from today’s events as a way of explanation. Last week I had a passing thought that was one of those questions I would have normally asked my Dad. He isn’t here to answer, which makes me the keeper of useless knowledge, however, I can’t keep what I don’t know. The question I pondered was where his middle name, Douglas, came from? It isn’t a family name so where did it come from? This brings me back to Aunt Maggie’s letter.

I haven’t gotten a chance to read correspondence from Aunt Maggie since she got back from sailing around the world (approximately 1982-2003 and mostly just to Europe but that was ‘around the world’ to us Mississippi Coast residents). Excited I opened it up, it included a picture of her holding my Dad when he was just a few months old. She shared a few anecdotes of his younger years but then I flipped over to page two. There on the other side, in the middle of the other side, away from everything else on the other side (OK, not really but how often do I get to quote Alice’s Restaurant?) There she asked me if I knew where Dad’s middle name came from.

As much as I’m used to Serendipity taking me everywhere there are times She still floors me.

Post Script to the Blog:

It’s almost anti-climactic to say that Mama Byrd was a big fan of Douglas MacArthur and that’s where Dad’s middle name came from. And never mind the fact that it seems my luck ran out because I can’t find where I put Dad’s Lottery Ticket numbers when I got home to try and check them.

And just as anti-climatic but ever so important, the caveat explanation of redundant repetition: to me Serendipity, Coincidence, Luck, and Karma are all synonyms for Providence.

Tinfoil Hat

For most of my time with the Corps of Engineers I have missed the Chief Engineer’s visit. Either he arrived the week I was traveling or moved to a new location, any number of things. At times it felt like the Chief Engineer was avoiding me. But finally this past year I had an occasion to be in the same place as him.

There was a “Meet and Greet” followed by a brief speech in the lobby of our District Headquarters. I was able to meet the Chief, more on that in a minute, but later in the day the Chief was talking with my supervisor who mentioned being over Grafenwöhr. To which the Chief Engineer responded, in a carefully measured tone, “Oh. I met your Grafenwöhr Resident Engineer.”

As I walked into the lobby of the building, the first person I saw was LTG Semonite. Walking up to him I introduced myself and reminded him we had met before. He was the South Atlantic Division Commander at the time and I had been with the Corps about three weeks. When I told him I was sure he remembered me he laughed but he did actually remember the trip because we spoke about one of the projects he visited on that trip.

He asked me where I was and if we had any big projects coming up. I told him Grafenwöhr and about two of our big military construction projects that would be awarded soon. His followup question was a bit strange because he asked if I had heard anyone say that there were some MILCON projects that were serving as places to “park” money to shift quickly to Poland if those jobs materialized. “Well, sir,” I said, “If you’re going to wear a tinfoil hat, wear a big one.” Then proceeded to launch into my spiel.

In addition to hearing a rumor that there would be a parking of funds as he described I was also aware of the money that Poland had committed to the building of infrastructure in their country. For the purposes of this conversation I left out the tactical stupidity of such an investment but went on about funding. With the ability of the President to shift MILCON funding, I surmised that the projects were parking funds in Germany to shift to Poland where the Polish money would then be used as the projects were shifted to construct the border wall with Mexico. Which would mean that we would get a wall and POLAND would pay for it.

Now, I’m not saying I hit the nail on the head but the man would not look me in the eyes after that.

What I Thought I'd Be Doing

The month of February started out with a bang. At the end of January, I took a quick trip back to LA (that’s Lower Alabama) to work on my house and get it on the market, arriving back home on my 28th wedding anniversary. Then, the next day was the Super Bowl. I haven’t missed watching a Super Bowl since XV (though I had to tape one or two to watch later). This devotion to the game made getting baptized on Super Bowl Sunday hard (it was one of the taped games) except of course that was during the Bills years—and the same week I got married.

In the airport on the way home I worked on a post for a friend and author who has a monthly Guest Author Spotlight. I rushed to get it in on 31 Jan since it was a short month albeit one extra day this year. So what I thought I’d be posting on this month was this. In honor of Carnival season on the Gulf Coast, or Fasching as it’s known in Germany where I’ve been living, I used for a profile picture my Mardi Gras shot from Kandahar Airfield. You may not be able to see them but I have my Snidely Whiplash handlebars waxed and curled while wearing my Whiskey Tango Foxtrot t-shirt and a float-load of first thrown in Fairhope beads. I had intended to get a slightly more on point shrimp boat or schooner picture before the excerpt from my Prohibition Era piece The Seafood Capital of the World.

Monica, the author of the website, is also the author of The Highland Spirits series. The first two books have been published with the third being worked on. I highly recommend them even though they aren’t my normal genre to read. The books mix Scottish legend with modern love, loss and intrigue. There are ghosts and kilts galore woven beautifully together into a page turning book experience.

The 3rd of February sent my world into a bit of a tailspin, as you can see from my previous two posts this month. It has also resulted in my jet-lag awakening at 2 am but since my world is going to get back on track, so should my life. So with no further ado, here is what I thought I’d be doing this month. Proudly showing my Author Spotlight and plugging my author friend’s work. Check them both out, you won’t be disappointed.

https://mmackinnonwriter.com/guest-author-spotlight-2/

And of course if you’re interested in The Seafood Capital of the World, there is a link below to both the current draft and to subscribe to my blog.

Dad Gets One More

My father had a weekly lunch with two of his brothers on Fridays. I’m not sure when they started doing this but it was some time after their other two brothers passed. If I was in town when they did it I attended and more than once they shifted the date so I could attend. I’ve even blogged about attending before, in particular I recall a time that my Dad sat just listening to his older brother talk. Yet another moment to learn from him.

Dad talked about their lunches often. They rotated paying for each other, but were notoriously bad about leaving wallets or forgetting whose turn it was. Dad especially loved to share how one of the brothers complained when someone else bought Dad always got a more expensive meal. More than once they tricked one another into being the one that paid. All good-natured ribbing from the brothers of the same mother.

The last day before leaving town after my father’s service was a Friday, a Byrd Boy Lunch day. I called Uncle Pat and got myself invited. Uncle Laurence picked him up then swung by to get me. Quite a few years ago I saw a shirt in a catalog Dad had (which my wife purchased for me) that said “Dangerously Overeducated.” I was wearing this shirt when they picked me up. They both laughed and for the third time since the services someone said, “I thought we lost Johnny but he’s still here.” I take all three comments as a compliment.

When I called to invite myself I contemplated making a joke about how Dad would be upset if I missed an opportunity for his brothers to buy his lunch one more time but instead I waited. Sometimes a joke, like a story, needs a little work to get just right. There would be time at the restaurant so I let it marinate for the short ride down the road. Once we arrived we waited our turn to order and continued the expected reminiscing and discussing that had been going on in the car. They nodded for me to go first so I order my (expensive) oyster po-boy, then noticed that the guy wrote their (less expensive) orders on the same pad. So my uncles had out-maneuvered me. As I took the slip to the cashier to pay I was told, “Oh, by the way, it was your Daddy’s turn to pick up the tab.”

As I pulled out my wallet I smiled and showed them Dad’s debit card as I told them both, “I know, and he is.”

They laughed, I laughed, we laughed, we ate. And in Heaven, I imagine, a soul stopped declaring the glory and enjoyed once more getting one over on his brothers.

Stupid Practice

There are many words that bother me. Irregardless is one. It has now been used so often that dictionaries include is as an actual word. Regardless, I still cringe when I hear it.

Octopi is another. But again, it has been used so much that the dictionary now says that it is an acceptable variation of the plural of octopus. Its use is a misappropriation of Latin rules but there are several grammar rules that do the same. Regardless, I still use octopuses.

Forte is another one. Now this one is strange because it’s the pronunciation that bugs me. But now it has been mispronounced so much that the dictionaries say that fort-ta is an acceptable alternate pronunciation. Regardless, using octopuses is my forte.

Deconflict is one that really, really grates my nerves. It seems to be a military specialty. Some time back for fun I tried to Google deconflict and the Google suggestion for deconfliction came up before deconflict. That was weird. There’s no cute ‘regardless’ sentence here. Deconflict just stinks as a word.

Along similar lines, I cannot count the number of times that I have heard that the definition of stupid is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. In fact, I’ve heard it so much that I think some people have forgotten the literal definition of the word.

This definition now pains me so much that whenever I hear it I quickly interrupt to point out that it is also the definition of practice. There’s a whole tangent here about how practice doesn’t make perfect but rather perfect practice makes perfect but that’s not where I’m headed.

Persistence can also be defined by a similar phrase. In persistence we keep trying until we succeed. Granted we don’t have to persist by trying the same action, but oftentimes it is. And continuing to do the same thing over and over again until we do get different results is usually described as rewarding. Persistence pays off.

So stupidity is persistence and persistence pays off? When does persistence stop being stupidity and become good? Or when does stupidity stop being dumb and pay off as persistence?

In case you wondered, no, the dictionary does not define stupidity this way. And I really don’t want to wait for it to change to do so. All I really want to know is:

How do we know whether what we are doing is stupidity (bad) or persistence (good)?

Rules of the Salmon

What I call the Rules of the Salmon are a set of guidelines from an unfinished yet still published work by arguably one of the greatest authors of all times. He also happened to write many of the greatest episodes of the greatest science fiction show of all time, but don’t hold either against him they are still poignant rules.

There are five authors to whom I credit (blame) a huge influence on my thinking and writing style. In no particular order: C.S. Lewis, Arthur C. Clarke, James Michener, Clive Cussler, and Douglas Adams. Clearly the first two are iso listed so you understand that my path in life has been partially blazed by Lewis and Clarke. Chief among the writing style influence category has to be Douglas Adams.

In The Salmon of Dobut he poses a set of three rules that govern the situation in the world:

1. Anything that is in the world when you’re born is normal and ordinary and is just a natural part of the way the world works.
2. Anything that's invented between when you’re fifteen and thirty-five is new and exciting and revolutionary and you can probably get a career in it.
3. Anything invented after you're thirty-five is against the natural order of things.

This makes a lot of sense when I consider the world in general and the United States in particular. One could easily see how the younger folks take the niceties of life for granted since they were born with reliable cars, computers that while crashing often because they ran Windows still made it so they never had to worry about how to center a title or make footnotes in a term paper, the internet, multiple 24 hour a day news channels, more than 4 television channels they could watch on multiple televisions without ever knowing the pain of either black and white screens or “being” the remote control, never had to scrounge for a quarter (or worse a dime) while scouring the streets to find a working pay telephone, and never had to use a map thanks to the GPS or map app on their smartphone. I could easily turn this into a political post explaining that never having to fight for or earn these improvements is a reason they might believe in something more closely resembling the socialism we grew up hating, but I don’t want to go there.

The real reason these rules seem to hit home so hard on a day like today is because of rule number three. Anything invented after the age of 35 is against the natural order. And this is why I remain one of the only people over the age of 40 who has adapted to use only one space after a period..