If only I were a Darwinist ...
One of my friends has been shot.

He is alive, and coherent, and able to speak. This is good, because he has a LOT of explaining to do.

It seems that he was supposed to be in a convoy of vehicles, so that he could go do some necessary work. The convoy, for various reasons, fell through, so he decided to drive alone.

He didn't get far.

He was ambushed. He was pursued. His tires were shot out. He took a bullet in the foot.

He managed to keep driving until he found a nearby military unit, who was kind enough to return fire on my friend's behalf. He was loaded into a helicopter and transported to a Combat Support Hospital, where they were able to put him right.

Unfortunately, his vehicle is impounded, along with several thousand dollars of equipment.

He could have been killed.

He ought to be fired.

He should at least be sent home. A war zone is no place to get the idea that you are vastly more intelligent than either the enemy or the local command.

In the next few days, I will be writing, "The Ballad of Norman Nine-Toes". But first, I am going to take a nap.

The Chicken In the Army, They Say It's Mighty Fine ...
NOTE: Time has gotten out of hand again, as the mission has gone into overtime. Therefore, I am sharing another entry from my personal journal. This is from mid-November.


So, what did you have for dinner?

It has been said that man does not live by bread alone, but it never even occurred to anyone that they might need to mention that man does, indeed, need bread. So, what was for dinner? Who did you eat with? Did you grab something on the run? Was dinner a family event, or perhaps a business meeting? Did you microwave a TV dinner or heat up a frozen pizza and sit in front of the news?

Meals are an event here. Meals are scheduled to be served at the same times every day, so events can be planned around meals. Now and then, someone has a package from home that gives them the flexibility to eat something different, and eat it whenever they want, but generally life here revolves around the set of prefab trailers affectionately known as the Chow Hall.

Ask any servicemember here, from any nation, about the best part of their day, and there will be three answers. The first will generally be mail call. Think about how much you enjoy getting a letter or a box from the postman, and then try to imagine how much more it would mean to you eight thousand miles and 11 months away from the people you love, and you will start to get the idea.

The second will usually be shift change. Working 12 hours a day, 7 days a week for a year, with two weeks off, makes quitting time a sweet thought. Now, add in the uncertainty of the shift change, since an event could trigger a delay, factor in the hoops through which one must jump to schedule that two-week break, and sprinkle in surprise tasks, equipment failures, and a thousand other people facing the same troubles as you, and you understand how the time away from the desk can be precious.

The third, more often than not, is mealtime. Meals are a brief break from the efforts of the day. You can usually choose with whom you will have your meal, and you can talk about anything, even work, if you must.

Another reason mealtime is so popular is that everyone has a menu entry that they consider to be the best item out here. When that item pops up on the little white sign in front of the door, it is a time of celebration, one of those brief, happy moments in life that get you through the others. It can be a double-edged sword, however. There have been those moments when the little white sign has told little white lies, and a brief moment of elation is turned into just another choice between the lesser of two evils.

In Baghdad, chicken is for dinner. Chicken is served in every way imaginable.
With so many different nations represented, chicken seems to be the Esperanto of ingredients. Chicken here gets baked, boiled, fried, sauced, broiled, steamed, roasted, spiced, coated, smothered, pressed, dunked, and occasionally nuggetted. It has been served in soups, stews, casseroles, salads, pies, and in the standalone configuration. When they are too small to have been let outside alone, they are called Cornish Hens. If the truck hit a pothole, it is stew.

Of course, no one really minds having a lot of chicken. There are some out here that don?t even have that much comfort. Everyone learns to make due with what they have on hand, even if it gets a bit monotonous. The alternative, of course, is the MRE.

The Meal, Ready to Eat, in its khaki plastic pouch, is the stuff of legend. The contents are reassuringly consistent: Entree, some form of cracker or bread, hot sauce, salt, pepper, brown plastic spoon, beverage powder, and a small folded parcel of toilet tissue. The accoutrements vary from one to the next, but Meal #10 will always contain ChiliMac, Cheese Spread, Wheat Bread, and Cocoa Powder. Everyone has their favorite, not so much for the main item as much as the accessories. But you would be hard pressed to find more than a half of a handful of people that would prefer their favorite MRE to a hot meal at the Chow Hall.

When you sit down with your family tonight, or pull up a chair next to a business associate, think for a minute about the event in which you are participating. Even if you are just grabbing something at the drive-through on your way to wherever it is you need to go, take a moment to think about the ritual of food, it?s surprises and comforts. We remember it here, and it has taken on a whole new meaning.

Heroes, stories, and the guy with 3 hearts
If someone were to ask me to suggest a likely candidate for the title of War Hero, I would have to say you couldn't make a much better choice than a man with three hearts.

Inside Battery A, hunkered on a site beneath the skeletal beginnings of the unfinished Great Mosque, it?s easy to find a soldier who has taken shrapnel.


?To date, we?ve had 26 attacks,? says 1st Sgt. Stephen Smith. Three were ambushes.

The troops trained at close combat in the Kuwaiti desert in the spring, but the soldiers are still surprised their artillery battery wound up here, patrolling a wasp?s nest.

?It?s just a fluke,? Smith says.

At the risk of practically giving away a sure-fire Pultzer by putting this in the hands of the blogosphere, may I direct your attention to the following?

At the risk of sounding like Glen Reynolds, I would ask you to read the article in its entirety.

This may end up all over the internet by tomorrow. If so, then I have done my part. This is a story that deserves to be told, and one that a lot of people need to hear.

I need to caveat what I am about to say. It is not my intention or desire to belittle anyone, or to reduce the significance of their experience in this conflict. I am in no position to judge anyone's courage or valour, nor, quite frankly, are you. Courage is a very personal matter, perhaps even more so than any religious or other moral conviction.

Having said that, I have followed the reporting of events in this war in several of the Coalition nations. At present, the only heroes the public has seen from this war are a group of people who were put in a bad position because they failed to take care of their own equipment, and whom the adversary did not kill when they had the chance.

?It?s crazy around here, sir,? says Cpl. Wayne Santos, pulling guard duty out front. He pulls back his Kevlar collar to expose a bulging lozenge of a scar. ?I was lucky, because I?ve got a 1?-inch hole that goes through the back of my neck.?

The Soldiers of 4/27 Field Artillery, the subject of the article linked above, could not have reasonably expected to be thrust into the level of conflict in which they find themselves. Artillerymen don't generally engage the enemy at close range in this fashion. But because they are well trained in the basic skills required by any soldier, because they respect themselves and their commerades, and because the leadership of that battery was unwilling to accept anything less than a full effort, they are not POWs. They are standing toe to toe with the adversary in the most active kill zone in this sector (under 25 Kilometers or so from where I sit now), and they are not backing down.

[PFC Jonathan] Mayberry was restricted from normal duty for one month after his second attack, but he?s still in Iraq. Soldiers typically leave a theater after attack injuries, but Mayberry says his unit is too small and sees too much action for that.

?I wish it were that way,? Mayberry says. Then he pauses. ?But I don?t know. I?m serving my country ... maybe if I got some leave.?

He says he?d be too worried about his fellow soldiers to stay back in Germany while they fought. He says he couldn?t even stand being on restriction.

PFC Jonathan Mayberry has received the Purple Heart, probably the most famous of America's awards for Vaolur in the face of combat, twice since his arrival out here. According to the US Air Force, it is an award the American military bestows in recognition of wounds or death as result of an act of any opposing Armed Force, as a result of an international terrorist attack or as a result of military operations while serving as part of a peacekeeping force. PFC Mayberry didn't sign on for this mission to get a Purple Heart. Of the people I know that have received that award, none had made it a goal. And I would be willing to bet a month's pay that he didn't say to himself, "This is cool! Let's see if I can get another one!" As far as I have been able to determine, he hasn't called any attention to himself. But that is generally the way heroes operate. He was uninterested in leaving his team behind, even after being wounded twice.

It isn't the two Purple Hearts that makes him a hero, but the one that he brought with him to the conflict.

Almost Paradise
My current weird schedule, I have opportunity to vary my experience a bit. Today I had a pleasant walk from the tent to the office, tucked away in a room that, I am told, was once a kitchen. The wind was light and cool, and the sky was just going into a deep blue, with copper on the fringes of the horizon.

Its ironic to consider, if you take Biblical geography seriously, that this place is as physcally close to Paradise as it gets. I am about equidistant from the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers. Somewhere in the neighborhood, so the story goes, is Eden and the Tree of Knowledge. Babylon, where people first tried to reach the sky, and where the variety of languages are reported to have originated, is about a relaxed Sunday drive from here.

So near, and yet so far.

The word on the street is that the local populace is getting tired of the attacks. For the last few months, more Iraqi people have been killed in these blasts than Coalition forces. They are starting to prefer the new Dinar over the American Dollar, and some shops will not anything but the local currency. The local police and protection forces are growing. The first class of women graduated from the training program this month, and will take their place alongside the men in the struggle to return this land to peace.

So near, and yet so far.

The violence continues. Not far from where I am, in a place I have walked through on occasion, another explosive took another 20 lives, mostly innocent local bystanders. Rumors continue to be spread, and conversation over a shisha pipe or a coffee often carries more weight than statements through a microphone or a television camera. In the British sector, they would rather have the Americans. In the American sector, they would rather have the British. In the Italian sector, they would rather not have anyone. There is talk of civil war on the horizon. The Shia are preparing for the Sunni to attack. The Sunni are preparing for the Shia to attack.So near, and yet so far.

But is it really so different than anywhere else in the world? Sixteen were killed and twenty wounded here last night. But how many were killed in Los Angeles, or Cairo? People are upset that prices are rising here. But who isn't upset that prices are rising? Today, thousands protested here because they want free elections to be held earlier. Students protested in Haiti against the current government, and in Seattle thousands more protest the lack of affordable housing.

So, Iraq is close to Paradise, but still far away. And yet aren't we all? We have those who love and nurture us near at hand, and others cry out in pain, or injustice, or fear, or simple frustration. Just go out your front door and listen.

A turning point is approaching here, I believe. Ordinary people are preparing for change in this area, and it is change for the good. I'm not saying that the work here is over, but I am saying that I can see that the wind is changing, and things could be getting better here sooner, rather than later.

More to follow.

A brief experiment, and somewhat of a change of heart
Yesterday I wore local clothing.

Ordinarily, that wouldn't be a big deal. When you find yourself in a place that is not much like your usual location, it is often a good idea to take a hint from the locals regarding dress, maintenance of equipment, behaviour, and other activities. For example, cleaning a rifle in the Middle East is different than cleaning a rifle in Greenland. A local will know which parts should be oiled, and which parts should be wiped with an oiled cloth, and which parts you just spit on and wipe down. That is because they are used to the debris and dust of their particular environment.

However, I wasn't cleaning a rifle. As I have mentioned before, I am unarmed here. I did nothing more complicated than put on a dshdasha, which is sort of like a heavy, long nightshirt, and a shemaugh, which is a scarf that is tied up on the head. Think turban, but with a red checkered tablecloth from an italian resteraunt.

The clothing caused me no trouble, as far as clothing goes. I keep it for travel purposes, and it is rather comfortable. I also rather enjoyed the idea of going to work without pants.

My problems, actually, came from the Americans.

It is significant to note that I have no issues with America, or Americans. Fine people, Americans. Inovative, driven, outgoing, friendly people, generally speaking. A lot of the world's progress in the last 220 or so years either comes directly out of America, or as a result of trying to compete with America. Additionally, with all due respect to the other nations of the world, nobody, and I do mean nobody, fights a war like Americans. It is almost as if each servicemember takes it as a deep insult that another military would dare oppose them. When Americans go to war, they make it personal.

The reaction to my outfit, though, was a bit troubling. I can sum it up in one sentence.

"Dammit, you're gonna get yourself shot walking around like that!"

I heard it a lot, but I didn't hear it from the British, or the Australians, or the Koreans, or the Polish, or the Italians, or the Spaniards, or the Mongols, or, for that matter any other nation's representatives. Just the Americans.

So what dies it mean, that the Americans showed a genuine concern that someone would open fire on me, or joked about doing it themselves. Is there any significance? I think so. I think that the American servicemembers here do not trust the local populace.

E.?

Yes?

That is, without a doubt, the stupidest thing you have ever written here. Of course the American servicemember doesn't trust the local populace! The local populace, if you recall EVERY NIGHT FOR THE LAST SIX MONTHS, is trying to KILL the American servicemember, not to mention you.

Yes, I know. But it isn't the entire populace. It's a few disgruntled extremists, with a few Al Qaeda and some guys trying to turn a fast buck mixed in. Now may I continue?

Of course! Don't mind me. Please, do go on.

As I was saying, the American servicemembers, or at least quite a few of them where I was that day, do not appear to trust the locals. It is these same American servicemembers who are now training these same untrusted locals to be the new Iraqi security force. It is these same servicemembers who run the checkpoints, and search for the terrorists, and hunt for the weapons of mass destruction.

Now, I will grant that it wasn't every American. I will grant that it may have been just an off day, except that I have experienced this sort of thing before, when I have worn my "traveling suit". However, it is somewhat disturbing to think that I could be judged by the cut of my shirt, rather than the content of my character.

I am not ready to say that the US should turn this operation over to the United Nations. I have seen how the United Nations handles situations such as this, and they quite frankly would bollocks up the works if they took the reigns now.

I will say, though, that perhaps the Coalition should discuss the option of a more equitable disbursement of responsibilities. I am suggesting that Australia, and the UK, and Spain, and Poland might take the wheel for a few miles on this trip, and see if we can get there without hitting quite so many potholes.

In which we take a deep breath
Well!

It has been an interesting week. Let me drop a few things out, stream-of-consciousness style, in hopes that my disjointed brain will give you enough detail that you get an idea, but not so much that I receive a visit from the Men in the Dark Sunglasses.

We had a project. A directive, actually. It was a daunting task, and we had 48 hours to get it done. Everyone worked until they just about couldn't stand, grabbed a quick nap, and jumped back into the fight. I had my doubts at times, as I was dividing my time between fixing errors and making sure things ran smoothly in the absence of all the people working the project. In the end, though, the project was completed on time, and successfully.

I was, at one point this week, in an area in which an explosive device could have been planted. Working dogs were brought in to ensure that this was not the case. Naturally, I had nothing to fear from dogs who were trained to sniff out explosives. I have no weapons here, so I have no gunpowder residue. I hadn't been near any blasting recently, nor had I handled volatile substances.

It is unfortunate, though, that this should be the one day, out of the last half-year, that I had beef jerky in my pocket.

I have, in addition, been doing long-distance consultation for people in Hawaii, Afghanistan, Kuwait, and Germany. My particular vocation makes me the target of a lot of questions, and this week seemed to provide me with more inquisitive people that usual. As they say, "When it rains, it pours."

The worst part of this week, however, has been trying to catch up on corespondence. I have four inboxes filled with messages. For some reason, the one associated with this site attracts advertisements from people that sell anti-depressants and psychotropic pharmicuticals pharmisuticals pharme chemicals. This bothers me a bit. I thought I needed meditation, not medication.

And so, if you have not heard from me in a week, please don't take it personally. I am digging as fast as I can.

The war before The War
Well, I once again find myself with enough time on my hands to do some writing. I hope to knock out a little poetry later today, and maybe start a short story. In the interim, though, I have some 'splainin' to do.

A couple of days ago, I mentioned an conversation I anticipate having with my grandchildren, should I manage to get out of this one alive. My expectation is that one day some little sprout will be on my knee asking me, "Grandaddy E., were you in The War?" My response, as you may recall, was, "No, I wasn't in The War, but I was in the war before The War."

Now this may not be entirely true. It may be that I will also participate in The War. There may be a war between this one and The War. But there are two things of which I am certain: We, as a world, are drawing to a point in history in which a conflict is inevitible, and this current collection of conflicts is not it.

I am almost certain that there will be another chapter in this Global War on Terror. I think that history will look at this conflict, the war in Afghanistan, and the next one or two, as different phases of the same war.

Unfortunately, The War will not, I fear, be over a cause so noble as eliminating terrorism from the world. The lines are currently forming two distinct groups. On one hand, there is Western Society. On the other is Non-Western Society.

Western Society is enamoured with a particular concept of civilisation. It involves a particular code of ethics, and a particular mode of behaviour. There are things which Western Society will tolerate, and things which it will not. It has a code of justice that has a heavy emphasis on making sure innocent people are not wrongly prosecuted. It shows, and expects, a great deal of mercy. It is, for the most part, monotheistic. It consumes a majority of the world's resources, but produces a majority of the world's advancements.

Non-Western Society is a kalidescope of ethos and behaviours. It has a variety of beliefs and dogmas. it is monotheistic, polytheistic, and non-theistic. However, it generally has a code of justice that has a heavy emphasis on non-recidivism. It produces a majority of the world's products, but consumes a lesser amount of resources. And as varied as Non-Western Society is, it has one common bond. It does NOT want to conform to Western standards.

Al Qaeda, Tupac Amaru, Aum Shinrikyo, and a host of other organizations have their various agendas, but none of them are particularly compatible with Western Society. Additionally, the amount of groups is growing.

I'm sure this sounds alarmist, but I believe that hostilities are eventually going to be touched off by one side or the other. And, as unlikely as this may sound, it will probably be the current quest for Peace in the Middle East that gives us the required spark.

There are those in the West who believe that Peace in the Middle East can only come through Democratization of the Arab World. Iraq provides an excellent opportunity for the West to get its foot in the door, in a manner of speaking. Once other copuntries see that Democratization is a good thing, they will begin clamouring for more of it in their own countries. And there you have it, the Road to Jerusalem, paved by Babylon.

Some will see this as Zionist. Others will see it as Imperialist. Few will see it as altruistic. The West tends to overlook the flaws in Democracy, because we believe that the strengths outwiegh the weaknesses. We tend to forget that the Non-West does the same with their various systems.

It will not require any super-charismatic leader to rise from some downtrodden country, uniting the various factions into one massive Army of Doom. No one has to be particularly united at all, or even coordinated, to start off. As a matter of fact, the more diverse and disjointed they are, the harder it will be for the West to defend against it. All it takes is a number of organizations, or nations, deciding that the sting of a thousand hornets can be as deadly as one spear.

And then we will see The War. One faction or the other in this conflict will strike heavily enough to encourage cooperation among the non-Western nations. The impetus could be a successful assault by some smaller nation, or it could be a devastating attack on the host nation of some organisation. It seems likely that the Communist nations (what is left of them), will side against the West. I can't even begin to predict the outcome. I can't even begin to predict the date, although logic indicates that it is likely to be in the next 50 years. I am, of course, open to debate, and perfectly willing to be wrong, so if you have another, more palatable course of events, let me know. I am ever the optimist.

Notes From The Field
NOTE: Very little going on that I can discuss right now. Let's just say I have had a busy day, and leave it at that. However, I realized today that I haven't shared much from my Baghdad journal as of late, and so I offer you this entry, which is titled, "The Truth, and Then Some"


Everything you have heard about this situation is probably true. However, that doesn't mean you have the whole story.

It is true that there are soldiers that want to go home. I think I mentioned that earlier. Actually, that is an understatement. I can say, without reservation, that there is no one I have spoken to so far that has said they would like to stay here.

"What kind of a stupid question is that?" one says when I bring up the topic. "Why would you even ask that?"
"There is no way in Hell I would stay here myself, much less bring my family," says another. "Even if I had my own oil well, I wouldn't stay here."

"I would."

Everyone looks at the one dissenting voice like he just implied that the Pope was a cross-dresser.
"If I had my own oil well? Sure I'd stay here! For about a week out of every year, just to check on my oil well."

Officer, enlisted, civilian, regardless of background or nationality or mission, everyone wants to go back to where they belong. It hums in the background like a generator. It sticks in the back of your thoughts like some kind of radio jingle. It's the 500-pound gorilla. It's DeBergerac's nose. Some people can't help but dwell on it, others avoid the topic, but everyone is aware of it. It is the common thread of life here. And when someone finds out when they are leaving, everyone is glad for them.

Yes, it's true that they are ready to go home.

But there are other things that are true, also. There are people here that turn down the chance to get away for a few days because their team is short handed. There are people that delay their return in order to accomplish the current project. There is even one American soldier that has received two (2) Purple Hearts, awarded to those wounded in combat, in his tour of duty here, but hasn't left because his team is important to him.

Everyone has their own ways of making the situation easier. It's not always something heroic. Sometimes there is a box from home, and everyone has good coffee or Grandmother's cookies. DVD's make the rounds to anyone that has a laptop. People share what they can, keep each other informed of what's going on back home, and try to understand when a buddy gets Tent Fever.

Sometimes the measures are a little more extreme. The Army band tours this country, giving concerts to whomever they can gather. Sometimes they ride in the back of a cargo truck, and the opportunistic naps get interrupted by the holes in the roads. Sometimes they ride in a helicopter, and the naps are interrupted by a door gunner occasionally firing at things they can't see in the night. They play fun music, and try to lighten the load of a few, but even the lighter moments have their edge. It's one thing to hear Darryl Worley sing "Have You Forgotten" over the radio, and another thing entirely to sing it along with these troops after reading a list of this week's killed and wounded.

So there is truth in what you hear, but you don't have the whole story. No one does. The whole story is written on the hearts and minds of the ones who are here, both native and visitor.

It's true that there are soldiers dying here. Every day, we here the news of some attack. Someone threw a rock. Someone threw a grenade. Someone fired a shot. Someone fired a rocket. We got one of them. They got one of us.

There is violence in just about every major district of this country. Sometimes it's against the Americans. Sometimes it's against the British. Sometimes it's against the locals. The reasons are numerous. They want the electricity on. They want the water to work. They want the Americans to go away. They want the things that are in that store over there. They want to take that fuel and sell it across the border. They want you to shut up.
There are a wide variety of reasons to kill people. Not a lot of good reasons, though. And every day, the gains and losses in the battle to restore some semblance of order move across the television screens of the world, and the people in front of the televisions of the world decide that it is unfortunate.

Yes, it's true that people are being killed here.

But there are other things that are true, also. Progress is being made. It isn't as fast as anyone would like, but progress, always either a tortoise or a hare, never gets made at a comfortable speed. Water starts flowing in one area, but not in another until later, but it is beginning to flow. Lights are available in some, but not all, areas of a city, but the darkness is being pushed back. Hospitals are opening up again, after replacing the supplies that were looted and the windows that were broken. Stores are opening. Police are starting to stop criminals. And here, in Baghdad, there are people who will sit in front of their televisions tonight and hear about someone shooting or robbing someone in YOUR city, and they will decide that it is unfortunate.


More to follow

E.

A Yeti, a wallflower, and Mrs. E. Poet
The Playa From the Himalaya, The Yeti, records his observation of a first date. He has a remarkable eye for detail when it comes to human interaction. I sometimes wonder if he has ever considered pursuing a career in the interesting and lucrative world of counter-intelligence, and, if so, would he mind terribly if I hope that he chooses to work for my side.

His future in espionage and snappy prose style aside, I was struck by my first though upon finishing his observations.

Man, I wouldn't be single again for anything.

When I say this, I don't wish to insult my unmarried friends, or my friends that are not in a committed long-term relationship of some other kind. I am only saying that the years of my life before marriage are not ones I look back upon with whistful memories or nostalgia.

I am pretty sure that Mrs. E. Poet would concur, and would be inclined to feel a modicum of relief at my saying so. She, though, is in a better position than anyone to know why I am not good at being single. A large part of it is my particular brain chemistry (for an explanation of that, you have to go waaaaaaaaaay back to the early days of the journal).

Another large protion of the equation is that, as surprising as this may sound coming from an anonymous writer, I am a rather shy person. Performance is different than social or personal interaction, which is why I never had trouble taking the stage as a musician. Cast into a social event, I am like a bottle cast into the sea. There is something interesting on the inside, but you have to retrieve it and get it out. I am not one of those people that has a fear of solitude, and I generally prefer to take meals alone when I am not with my family. Consequently, should I not have been discovered and brought out of my shell at a strategic moment, I would likely be not just unmarried, but the stereotypical bachelor, eating Spam directly from the tin whilst standing at the kitchen sink in my black socks and unmentionables.

Fortunately, though, this is not the case. I am conjoined, spiritually, emotionally, and contractually, to someone whom I admire more than any other person I know. She has many qualities that I wish I could emulate more myself, and the simple fact that she has not only kept hearth and home intact in my absense (6 months now, give or take a few days), but has handled our finances and a few additional difficulties, of which the details are not germaine to this discussion, more effectively than I would have myself.

My particular line of work requires a great deal of patience from her. Suppose your spouse, partner, or other significant person came home from work every night, and they were unable to tell you any details about their workday. Now suppose that this went on for years. She asks how my day was, and I tell her it was fine, or it was frustrating, or it was uneventful. She asks a few questions, and I answer her with a completely unrelated observation, such as, "The day was unseasonably warm for this time of year." She knows that this is an indication that it is time to shift the topic to something else. Would you find this frustrating? She does, too, and yet she accepts it as the nature of my work. It was not, for the record, the line of work I was in before marriage, so it is something she has had to adjust to after years of open communication.

I have a personal custom. When I see people out here that could use a lift, I share some things I keep in my "private collection" of things from home; some particular sweets, or books, or such things that seem to cheer people up. Generally speaking, it lifts my spirits as well. When I am feeling low myself, I talk about Mrs. E. Poet, and our poetlings. When I do, I am reminded of just how fine my life really is.

It's been a long day ...
Today has been one of those frustrating days.

I have spent a month training a small, elite group of skilled people in a rather important task. Today was the day of testing, before I give them my final approval and release them to save the world alongside me. When it came time to demonstrate their newfound skills, they were, to put it mildly, unimpressive.

I have seen them operate, individually and as a team, and I am convinced that they can handle the mission. But they have to get past this one hurdle, this one final exam, before I can let them go with confidence. It was rather like teaching a friend or child to drive, painstakingly instructing them and sitting through all the close calls and slipping clutches until you finally see them reach a point of control. Just before licencing day approaches, you take them to a nice, empty parking lot for one final go at it, on their own, and they immediately throw the bugger in reverse while looking forward, squash the neighbor's cat, and blow a tire.

I have a saying that I use in my line of work to describe people's inattention. There are times when you can't start your car because someone has put sugar in your petrol. There are other times when you can't start your car because you have left the lights on and the battery is dead. And then there are times you can't start your car because you are using your #$%^&^&%#@!*& HOUSE KEYS !!!
Today, however, was the first time I saw someone try to start their car with a cheese sandwich. Of course, what I was training these people in is much more serious than driving a car, and so I am understandably discouraged.

I think I am going to take some asprin and have a nap.