Driving Methodically

I am contemplating a long road trip to the Front Range to attend a family funeral. It is the only time we get together these days, and worth it.

I do not want to book a flight, though, since they might put me on one of the new Dreamliners, sitting on top of the newly-enhanced battery compartment that contains, but does not prevent, sudden fires.

Nor have my junk inspected by our friends at the Transportation Security Agency.

I have enough junk to deal with as it is- some assorted family junk that came down through Raven, but probably has better provenance with the other branch of the family. So, by Panzer it is going to be, a voyage across the middle of America.

It should be a good change.

Driving methodically north and south to the farm, ferrying crap for storage while I try to sell the larger condo and downsize into a smaller one, I have been doing familiarization flights for the longer trip. I have not done the 800-miles to the Little Village by the Bay in northern Michigan in a while, but I think I can still do an extended drive.

Providing I can break it into bite-size chunks, that is.

A pal recommended the I-64/I-70 route, and if I plan a modest six hundred miles a day, then I could make Coydon, Indiana, on the Ohio River that first transported the Socotra clan down into the heartland before the Civil War.

My pal says it is a nice little town set in pretty farm country. The second day might find me somewhere near Abilene, which I vaguely recall from a War College case study as a destination where you arrive without ever having intended.

That would not be much of a change. Normally, the long drives in my life have been exercises in elapsed time, similar to the famed Cannonball Baker Sea-to-Shining Sea Memorial Trophy Dash. I am deliberately going to try to break that pattern, maybe take some Blue Highways, and look around on the way.

To that end, I should be route planning, but instead I wasted a fair amount of time this morning trying to deconstruct the nature of the carnival that passes for representative government this morning.

I had an interesting discourse on this morning’s change to the national security structure, with the disastrous Mr. Tom Donolin departing and the redoubtable- or doubtable, as the case may be- Susan Rice coming in behind him.

There was also a brisk discussion of the way the Agencies have been communicating internally through clandestine email addresses in a manner calculated to avoid disclosure via the FOIA process, which we used to take fairly seriously inside the Government bunker, and stuff like that.

In the end, I decided that it is entirely possible that the Government has become so vast that the tepid Obama defense of ignorance of his own Executive Branch’s activities might actually have some validity. At Willow the other night, John-with-an-H opined that the bureaucracy is now running itself, for itself.

Old Jim, a life-long Democrat, observed that it was the first time in his time at the bar that he agreed with John.

It is only of interest to people who care about the nature of their government. I am thinking a road trip is the perfect antidote, wouldn’t you think?

Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com

One for the Ages

It was a night for the ages at Willow, following a day of drama and emotion.

I don’t know if the battle at the Coral Sea was more significant than we commonly remember here. It was that tactical draw between the US Navy and the rampaging and unchecked Navy of the Empire of the Sun. The sacrifice and determination of the Americans deterred the next step for the Japanese: an attack on Port Moresby and the advance on Australia. As the featured speaker observed at the Office of Naval Intelligence observed, it set the stage for the most dramatic victory in the long annals of naval warfare.

The Battle at Midway may have changed the center of gravity of post-war history as well, as the victory permitted FDR to throw the main effort of the war against Germany, and prevented the Nazis from having the time to develop The Bomb.

But as usual, I am getting ahead of myself. The anniversary of the Midway fight was being commemorated at the Office of Naval Intelligence. It is important to remember our history, and the Command is also taking the opportunity to honor our pal Mac Showers by naming the OPINTEL watch floor in his honor.

It is only appropriate: Mac and the team of which he was part invented the whole idea of all-source intelligence fusion, after all, which is still our bread and butter. Mac was the last surviving officer of the team that unlocked the secrets of the Japanese, and permitted the bold Chester Nimitz to concentrate his total force on the place where it counted.

It is an honor beyond price to have been Mac’s friend.

But of course it was a frantic morning to get across the Potomac and the Anacostia rivers, and disconcerting- Pennsylvania Ave is closed from the freeway construction, my old route, and I wound up on the Suitland Parkway to enter the complex over my the Census Department side of the Federal Complex.

New security rules, my IC badge and retired ID didn’t work to gain access. I was minutes away from being late, and I realized that I had two objects in the car- one in my briefcase I have to keep with me with the Bulgarian workmen in the house, and the other in my go-bag in the trunk with a couple MREs, two bottles of water and a dozen real silver dollars that I really did not want to share with either the Maryland Patrol, the Federal Protective Service or the ONI Police. But it was fine.

Thankfully the gate security staff was as incompetent as you would expect, the ONI ones at the inner gate to the Sanctum were most professional.

I made it with minutes to spare. But great ceremony- including the somewhat offhand comment on the current budget environment from Admiral Sam, which was that this is all cyclical, and it changes only when people die.

But it was appropriate in the context of the Midway observation coupled with the tribute and dedication to Mac.

I probably would have been at Willow anyway, after putting out a few fires at the office. It was great- the Showers Clan was there along with the usual suspects at the bar, and there was a moment of high personal drama that opens up all sorts of opportunities. I will share that with you when I can, but will leave that moment alone for now.

So, this morning we move on to the actual day of the battle long ago. The ceremony was exceptional, and the tokens erected at ONI in memory of Mac are truly moving, as were the words of Admiral Sam Cox.

A day to remember, all around, with the actual moment of the of decisive action in the Mid-Pacific 71 years ago coming up later this morning, Pacific Time. Remember, if you would, when the fate of a world rested on the racing propellers of bold and courageous men, and the secrets they knew.

Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com

Hating Ourselves

(Animation Domination cartoon master Seth Macfraland. Photo Fox)

So, the monsoon came after I got back to the Beltway from the farm. So far, so good.

I made the best of things in the pre-dawn and listened to the rain and reviewed the continuing crisis in Syria, which has now spread full-blown to quasi-Europe and our erstwhile ally, Turkey.

I have the start of an assessment on that, and a musing about the horrific murder of Trooper Lee Rigby. But between the volume of news to digest, the ceremony honoring our pal Mac Showers this morning, and the unease I feel after watching television last night, I am going to put it aside for the morning and bother you with it tomorrow.

I had to go bucolic on the story yesterday- the political stuff is just so painfully toxic. I may take an essay this morning on the Cross of St. George and the murder of Trooper Rigby, nasty as that is. But with little to divert me left in the apartment at Big Pink, I watched some television of the big screen last night.

What I saw on the Animation Domination line-up on Fox (I do- or did- enjoy the Simpsons) put things in context. The Simpson’s writing staff (which has included luminaries such as Conan O’Brian) and has always been edgy and fun, and I love sense of the absurd.

Joining that venerable animated show are some others, manufactured by an irreverent young fellow named Seth McFarland. Targets of his satire are Christians, the American family, massive and crude references to homosexual activity, disparaging ethnic people, that sort of stuff.

To cap it off, I watched the interesting account of Liberace and his love affair with a young man at the height of his career- with macho Michael Douglas and Dan Damon as the gay lovers. I heard enthusiastic reviews, but found it hard not to turn it off.

I am favor of a progressive social agenda, equal rights, same-sex marriage, legal pot and all that long progressive list of things that are not the government’s business. But this was so overwhelming in content and message that it left me queasy.

No wonder Trooper Rigby had his head cut off. We in the West no longer value our own society, our history or our traditions. We are doing this to ourselves. No wonder the young men who adopt the Prophet feel so emboldened. Anything- anything- in these relentless attacks on our own society, transposed to references to Islam, would have produced global rioting.

That video trailer about the Prophet? Shoot, nothing in comparison.

This is a Western society that hates itself. At least part of it, anyway.

Sorry, we will have to get to that tomorrow. I have to get moving.

(Michael Douglas and Matt Damon in the new HBO film “Behind the Candelabra. Photo HBO>)

Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com

Sasha and the Cicadas

It is hot, sultry and sunny, filled with the roar of the cicadas and the mirth of 7-year-old Sasha, the Russian Princess.
But let me get to that in a minute. It was a relief to get away from the traffic and commotion of the Imperial City. It was jammed at the usual place, the Beltway to the Rt. 50 junction, and the car was filled with more crap.

The day was fine and sultry, a foretaste of the summer to come, and I felt buoyed by a good swim and the successful diminution of debris from the back closet and the pantry. I wanted to avoid any rash motion that would set the assorted items of dry food and artwork into violent motion, so avoiding the two cases of road rage I saw were important factors in preventing the contents of the Panzer from becoming flying missiles.

Both idiots were drivers of late-model vehicles, white, one male and young, the other old and female and both real menaces to navigation. I chose to get out of their way with less vehicular belligerence than I might normally have displayed, and the two aggressors roared off into more traffic with the Panzer unscathed.

I rolled down the window after I got off the interstate and started the downhill half of the trip. The roar of the cicadas was impressive. There is not much activity in Arlington, or at least not in the two or three places I frequent, but each grove of trees was singing as I headed south.

By the time I reached the farm it was a steady and compelling roar. I unbuttoned the house and adjusted the thermostat from winter to summer, and realized we are almost at the point where the windows stay closed and the air conditioner comes on.

I compromised between a modicum of fresh air and a limited attempt to cool Culpeper County with the trusty Carrier HVAC unit in the side yard.

I was pretty sure it was going to be an early night. I had some local produce from Croftburn Farms that I judged would not make it into a nice local salad due to sloth. The consequences of multiple trips to the garage basement at Big Pink to dispose of true crap and move less-true crap into the back of the Panzer had taken their toll.

That, and the news that registered on the way down. Enough, I thought. I can’t worry about unrest in Turkey or murdered Guardsmen in London now. There may be plenty of time for that.

I made a stuff drink and clanged the ship’s bell in two “ding-dings” to announce that I was in residence. I checked the email, looked at the salad stuff and decided to pay a call on the Russians before the evening got away form me.

It is ridiculous to drive next door, but I did. For the fiftieth time I made a note to cut a gate in the fence between the properties to shorten the distance, and pulled into the gravel drive in front of the cinderblock garage.

Natasha stuck her head out the kitchen door and told me to go down and see Mattski, Biscuit the Wonder Spaniel and Sasha who were watching bees and cicadas, respectively.

Sasha is seven, and a living doll. I had not seen her since the fall, and she has grown measurably. She is a delightful example of diminutive Russian beauty. Her mother, Natasha’s daughter, is a lovely woman in the middle of two others, and was off attending some conference or another, leaving the Princess with Grandma.

She was having a ball. I sat down next to Mattski in one of the plastic Adirondack chairs where he was observing his hive with binoculars.

“I checked earlier,” he said. “The queen is doing well, so we have one healthy hive out of two. I had hoped for more, but I guess this will have to do.”

“You could have done worse,” I said. “As it is, you have an immense garden with just about everything under the sun that grows, your grapes are in, and you generally make me feel like a slug.”

Mattski shrugged his muscular shoulders modestly as Sasha waved for me to come to her. “She wants to show you something,” said he said, picking up his binoculars to inspect the arrival of a gaggle of workers at the hive. “It is better to do as she says, in my experience.”

I rose from the chair and winced with the weight on my damaged leg. I was game, though, and walked down the meadow behind here to the tree where Sasha was standing, her face screwed up in excitement. As I approached, she beckoned me closer, her hands held cupped together.

When I was close enough to bend over her, she opened her hands and gave out a shriek as eight or nine mature cicadas exploded in excitement, all noise and wing, hitting me in the face and chest in their escape.

(Cicada in the tree. Photo The Lovely Bea).

I laughed, amazed at the experience. Biscuit the Wonder Spaniel leaped up on my leg in excitement at the motion, and Sasha fed her a tasty bug. She then turned studious, and showed me where they had climbed up the tree after their seventeen year slumber, and the husks of the larvae shells they had left behind

It was quite a tutorial in her barely accented English, and I marveled at her boldness and curiosity. She is a remarkable little girl, an Alice in this Culpeper Wonderland of swarming noise and insects.

Eventually there was a call from Natasha up at the farmhouse, and we trudged up the meadow, past the extensive vegetable garden with the extra-high electric deer fencing and assembled on the front porch. Matt got a bottle of Old House red and Natasha poured some white and we luxuriated in the wonder of warmth of the late afternoon sun, the occasional rumble of a pick-up truck coming from Rosemary’s place up the road, and the steady thrum of the cicadas.

Sasha showed me her journal, in which she has documented each day of her young life in careful Cyrillic and English. She was very grave as she turned the pages, and then disappeared into the house. I sipped the remains of my drink and we compared notes on the next project.

Matski’s are much more ambitious than mine, which was to unload the Panzer at some point and maybe cook some dinner. That reminded him that he had a family to feed, and he started to pile some charcoal into the grill.

Sasha reappeared and handed me a page from her journal. “For you,” she said, her blue eyes twinkling. I looked at the image she had drawn. It was a half cat named Simon, carefully noted in excellent penmanship, confronting two sets of stairs. Grandmother and granddaughter slipped effortlessly between English and Russian, depending on the context.

The destinations were identified in Cyrillic, and I asked what they were.

“Czar Simon can rise to heavens,” she said.

“And where does the other go?” I asked.

“To hell,” she said.

Natasha laughed. “Of course. My granddaughter is Russian, you know.”

I thanked her profusely, and told her that this art was significant and merited a special spot on my refrigerator. It was getting to the bottom of the cocktail hour, and Mattski was going to put on some hotdogs, and Sasha began an elaborate process of layering American cheese on a bun in preparation. I said I had things I needed to get done, which was true.

I walked back to the Panzer and waved as I rumbled down the gravel drive to turn down the County road back to refuge farm. I needed to make a fresh drink, and sit out on the back deck and listen to the cicadas.

The day was a success. I met a real принцесса, and I made it to the bed, and did not fall asleep on the couch. Life in the country is pretty damn good.

Jon-Without, The Lovely Bea, and Liz-S were coming by in the morning to transport some surplus crap back up north, but I will have to tell you about that tomorrow.

Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com

Large and Small

(Jon-without, Jerry the Barrister, Vic and Heather’s hand. That is Tracey O’Grady’s special in the foreground- a very large sandwich. Photo Jamie)

It was the last Friday of the month, and people flocked to Willow as soon as they could get away from their offices. Tracey was doing her Buffalo Wild Wings Theme special of the month, and it was a raucous crowd, excited about the warmth and thankful we did not live in Tornedo Alley, where they were getting the crap knocked out of them again.

Heather-the-Executive-Special-Planning-Event-Coordinator for Willow did not have to work the wrong side of the serving lane, and was surveying a Bocce Ball cocktail and thinking large, doing detailed planning on her cell phone for clubbing activities later.

I was thinking small, limiting myself to consideration of a refreshing swim under the watchful eye of Milos the Polish Lifeguard, and knowing that the Large Object Truck was coming in the morning, I should have been somewhere else, cleaning out trash, large and small.

But it was fun sitting with my simulated family of usual suspects: Old Jim and Chanteuse Mary and The Lovely Bea and Placid Jamie, who bushwhacked me with a candid and bemused photo.

“Gotcha, Vic!” she said, shooting over her Beef on Weck sandwich and the Bocce Ball cocktail. “It is about time someone got you!”

I had to agree that was true. Tex and Jamie and Brett and that new guy whose name I can’t recall were behind the bar, and they kept things moving

I was antsy, though, and did not stay long. It is a big weekend of change and movement at Big Pink. The Building has scheduled the annual big ‘clean out’ thing for Saturday morning. I guess the principal is that if we don’t periodically purge, the building might capsize and go under like the Costa Concordia.

But now I have arrived in the moment- it is happening this morning and it is a great opportunity to dump the bilges on the unit. Too good to pass up. “Bring your objects, large and small, to the back door and they will take the crap away,” Rhonda informed me with authority. “You could get rid of those gigantic plants, too.”

I wound up in the pool as darkness came on, and I put that all out of my mind fairly successfully, at least until my eyes flashed open at four-thirty. Crap!

I am going to be hauling shit this morning- down and up with my little cart. But first it had to be marshaled, and that was where I screwed up.

I went to go get a cup of coffee and screwed up- I looked in the pantry closet and realized I could throw out everything in there, including he laundry stuff I could actually use where I do laundry- down at the farm.

Cross out another hour of the morning- Christ, I walked away from this for an hour, and now I am back here and have not looked at the storage locker for crap to go straight to the curb.

This is an unprecedented opportunity- maybe the farm trip will have to wait to later in the afternoon….why am I boring you with this…ack, moving, getting one’s shit together…all this crap.

I am looking forward to just putting this life- large and small- out to the curb….

(The first load to go. Photo Socotra).

Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com