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.

The Un-fun Corona

Today the defecation hit the oscillation rotator.

Recap: telework sucks. I start working earlier and finish working later with fewer breaks for non-important things like breakfast, lunch, coffee, or fun conversations with others. I live in Bavaria which locked down restrictions before the rest of Germany and then went on total lockdown before the rest of Germany, too. Only essential stores open (grocery, butcher shops, bakeries, drugstores, and doctor offices). You can go to work or an essential store but that’s it. Exercise outside alone or with members of your household is allowed but no more. No meetings of more then 2 people. Violators are subject to up to a 25.000 € fine. That’s nearly $30,000 to those of us that don’t call Euros Monopoly money. Side note, Germans obey the law.

So this morning, first thing I got hit with was that a guy that is regularly on my job sites and in meetings with me and my staff passed away over the weekend. He tested positive for COVID-19. By the end of the morning I found out he went to the ER with an illness and passed the same day. Then they tested his blood and found antibodies (antikörpers in Deutsch) of corona though they did not classify his death as corona-related. I had one guy who was in a room with the deceased but it was brief and despite the fact that they needed to connect that day they did not. My guy is home on leave (unrelated to the pandemic) and has a head cold after working in the forest for two days. The highs here have been in the mid to low 40s recently.

Sobering day to say the least.

Another friend was supposed to fly back to Germany today but one or more of her flights was cancelled. I got a rescheduled flight for her that is a booger-bear of a flight: Mobile to Atlanta to New York to Amsterdam to München. Only 35 minutes in Atlanta (it’s just the busiest airport in the world) then 55 minutes in Schipol (greatest airport on the planet bar none). She’s going to kill me when she gets here, but she’ll do it in person—after the curfew, she’s German.

Then we’ll top it off with getting a notice about a friend. I know him from Scouts, Junior High, High School, and my gosh the trouble we got into in band. Anyway a year ago he was diagnosed with Stage 4 colon cancer that had metastasized into his liver. He’s been in treatment and needs a new liver. Today I saw a notice that said he and his wife need extra prayers. I stopped praying for a few other people to make sure their prayers went through.

Writing is cathartic. It’s painful when it’s fiction and for fun, but the rest of the time it’s cathartic. Well maybe I’m trying to will it to be. I have found that in life whether you expect the best or expect the worst out of any situation more than likely you get exactly what you expect. I’m so optimistic I’m amazed my blood type isn’t B Positive. I still think John McCain has a shot at President and I refuse to update that joke just because he’s dead. But sometimes life tries really hard to get you down. Having said all of that there is truly only one way to end this post:

Other than that Mrs. Lincoln, how’d you like the play?

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.

John Byrd: What He Was

Earlier today (8 Feb) we had the ceremony celebrating the life of my father, John Byrd. He passed away unexpectedly Monday 3 Feb falling asleep in Biloxi and awaking in heaven. As you might imagine it has thrown our family into a whirlwind of activity.

Having just returned to Germany on the first, I unpacked, then repacked, my suitcase as well as one for Ginger and Faith then we headed off for a flight experience from the depths of travel hell. An abandoned bag made for security woes, missed flight, paying the same as an additional ticket for a different flight later in the day, and never having time to stop between ports of call until arriving at the airport in Biloxi.

Somewhere along the way my brain began to formulate the eulogy given below. In typical fashion it was completed shortly before walking out the door to head for the church. After the service I was told that the two Episcopal ministers behind me hastily flipped through their Books of Common Prayer to find the spot which I quoted. That tickles me to no end. Almost as much as when Father Roberts, who provided the homily after me, opened with, “I thought John was gone, but he’s still here.”

This was much harder that I thought it would be, but it did end up being as cathartic to my soul as I hoped. So at the request of several cousins, aunts, and other relatives, here in its entirety are the words I spoke. I apologize in advance for the inside joke at the end but I promise the belly laughs when it happened matched the scene it referred to.

I consider this church to be the church of my childhood. I began life here, spent considerable time in the fluky church, and then found my home in Christ as a Southern Baptist. While I may currently be in a huge backslide I thank God literally that I am not a Methodist. They can backslide all the way to hell but as a Baptist we fall short. 

My cousins and sister know that the church of our childhood consisted of sitting in the pews with Mama Byrd using slips of the bulletin to mark pages in the Hymnal and Book of Prayer to more easily find the spots during the service. Afterwords, we would file across the street to DeMiller Hall where we had canned biscuits and bought a chance on a cake. I don’t think we ever won one, but we came back every week. 

To speak today in my childhood church is an honor, but today I speak because the Byrd who normally would be unable to resist such a platform is no longer able. And while he has spent time with my sister and I at Baptist services his services of choice were Episcopalian which tend to be less seat of the pants as the majority of my discussion will be. However, in his honor I will read from the Book of Common Prayer, albeit a mere note page 507. 

The liturgy is characterized by joy, in the certainty that “neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

This joy, however, does not make human grief unchristian. The very love we have for each other in Christ brings deep sorrow when we are parted by death. Jesus himself wept at the grave of his friend. So, while we rejoice that one we love has entered into the nearer presence of our Lord, we sorrow in sympathy with those who mourn. 

My appearance today may not appear to be someone in mourning because I am not here to mourn a loss. I am here to celebrate the life of my father and second, after my wife, best friend.

I am a proud fifth generation Biloxi Byrd Boy and I want to tell you about the man we are here to celebrate today and the many roles he has played in his 76 years. 

Before anything else he was a son. A son to Mama Byrd and Daddy Byrd, born the day before his brother’s birthday, meaning we know when not to knock on the door of the master bedroom at 604 Iroquois. 

Once they brought him home he became a brother. He started as the youngest of four but ended up as the middle of seven. 

Next he became a student, a scout, a friend, a nerd, an avid book lover, an astronomy aficionado, and a scientist. He made a telescope and took it to the national science fair and also made a trip to New York. His fourth furthest trip away from Biloxi. 

Along the way and at the same time he was a grandson, cousin, and eventually an uncle. Family was always big. The way we eat we always only got bigger. As it grew the family went from at least one meal a day together as a family (where Dad was known to cut deals for extra peas), to a meal together once a week.

Doubling down on his student role, he became a university student. Not far from home, Hattiesburg. Close to heaven—or as the rest of the world knows it, Biloxi. Then diploma in hand he entered his next lifetime role, teacher. 

He never dropped a role, only added them, but some defined him more than others and teacher was one of the biggest. He was always learning and always sharing what he learned with others. Whether it was in the classroom, at church, in the car driving, or working on a model B-17 with a bottle of Barq’s and a chunk of Desporte’s french Bread.

For a short while he stopped teaching for his day job and sold insurance but it was not long before he returned to teaching. Teaching, driving a school bus, cleaning the garbage and debris from the Santa Maria, and whatever else was needed to bring in money.

Then he returned to the formal role of student earning a Master’s of Education followed by a Graduate Certificate in Counseling. This allowed him to gain yet another role as Counselor. Even when he put up his “Do Not Disturb, Counseling” sign to take a nap he used his education to make others better.

He gained a role of grandfather and then father-in-law.

Then came the retirement role. Daddy Byrd and I both thought he would only stay retired for the three months of his normal summer break but we failed to realize the importance of his Grandfather Role. In his PawPaw role he was home to help with James but also to continue his other passions until he returned to the workforce as a teacher and later retired again.

Two roles I have left out of Dad’s chronology are of utmost importance to me. Somewhere around 1987 or 88 my father took on the role of idiot. I had never seen someone so clueless and free from the encumbrance of the thought process. Likewise a mere five or so years later he had transformed completely into the greatest genius in history to include Albert Einstein, Nikolai Tesla, and Stephen Hawking. Admittedly, the first of these roles may have only been in my adolescent, hormone addled mind, but the second role is the one that made him my best friend.

So here’s a piece of news that isn’t news to anyone in the family: Byrd Boys are drawn to Biloxi. The girls could get away but the boys stayed home. Dad took it a step further because not only did he not leave, he tried not to go too far from home either. The third farthest he’s ever been from Biloxi was when he came to see Ginger and I when we lived in Washington. The second farthest when he came to see us in Germany and we also went to the Czech Republic. That’s where I drug my Dad into the role of international traveller. Then finally last year I brought him to Vienna, the furthest he’s ever been from Biloxi.

Being as I have now been thrust prematurely into his role of family historian, archivist of anecdotes, and maintainer of useless information just before I close and in honor of Dad I will share the story of how the church of my childhood came to be such a place.

Sometime early in their family life Daddy Byrd asked Mama Byrd why they always went to the Church of the Redeemer. He said they should go to the Baptist church in which he was raised. Mama Byrd told him that was a wonderful idea and that next Sunday he should wake up, get the kids ready, and then take them to his church. There was never another discussion of where to go.

But that doesn’t explain it fully enough though. Mama Byrd went to Redeemer because John and Marguerite Welch attended. Neither history nor my Dad ever relayed where the Welches attended church in the Nebraskan town they founded prior to becoming permanent snowbirds, but once they alighted in Biloxi they were fixtures at Redeemer because everyone who was anyone in society of the Seafood Capital of the World went to Redeemer. This means quite literally that we are Episcopal at our core because of canned biscuits and cake raffles.

From the time I decided I would speak today the note I planned to close on was the scene in the anteroom of the old Church building on the beach at Daddy Byrd’s funeral. In a quiet moment of reflection before the door opened and the whole family walked out to face the crowd and ceremony that would follow, my Dad, in his best stage whisper, said “Mama and Daddy are looking down on us and he’s saying ‘Look what we started.’” We long wondered what the rest of the church thought when just before the solemn moment, raucous laughter erupted from where the family was sequestered. 

No doubt when Dad arrived he was met at the gates by Mama Byrd and Daddy Byrd as well as his two brothers. After that he pestered Saint Pete with enough questions to make Peter re-think the decision that it was Dad’s time, but then he looked down last night on the eleven of us standing around getting one last look. Tara, Ginger, Mom, James, Chuck, Emma, Lizi, Faith, Tim, and Anthony laughing when someone said ‘ogadebogadee.’ 

With a smile on his face Dad is watching the menagerie he started.

Spoken at the Church of the Redeemer

7 Feb 2020

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..