Soldiers at Walter Reed, 1918

Knitting!

Courtesy of -- where else? -- Shorpy.

Scarf it

After reading on Left Face about Operation Gratitude’s push for warm woolies, I’ve put my Christmas knitting on hold long enough to crank out some scarves for deployed servicemembers’ holiday care packages. Why should family and friends be the only ones to suffer my ham-handed attempts with sticks and string?

Lest you think charity doesn’t begin at home, I’ve already made something for my own deployed sweetheart. I bought the yarn in Germany after midtour leave had ended, taking a flying guess on matching the color to the Army combat uniform. Then once I found a pattern I liked, I had to do a bunch of rejiggering to get it to work with the aforementioned yarn. It took a couple of starts (which is par for me), but I finally came up with something I’m happy to send.

The pattern says it’s a cowl, but I don’t think infantrymen wear cowls. I think they wear neckwarmers. It’s not exactly regulation, but as Sidney likes to say, “What are they going to do, shave my head and send me to Afghanistan?” Besides, it will look smart with his ACU kilt.

You’re going to have to quit doing that, you know

Because I may or may not have the sense of humor of a 12-year-old boy, this brief video never fails to brighten my day.

(Tip of the hat to the friend and co-worker who has the same highly evolved approach to what’s funny.)

Long and winding road

Because leaving a motorcycle in the garage on a sunny November day in the 70s is a grave sin, especially after the damn yard is finally mowed, I invented the need to visit a bookstore 20 miles away. I chose the long route, which includes 10 miles of twisting narrow two-lane. It’s not exactly Tail of the Dragon, but does take more concentration than the average Kansas road. I was looking forward to pushing myself a little.

The cautious driver in the Suburban ahead of me had other plans, though. He was weaving unsteadily along at 10 under the limit, so I hung back and took the time to enjoy the autumn leaves and grazing livestock.

I also thought about the first time I rode this road. I’d previously voiced my apprehension, so when Sidney and I were out together and he turned onto it, I was a little bit annoyed. But sometimes he knows my capabilities better than I do. He took the curves faster than I would have on my own, although not so fast as to lose me. About halfway through, I reached one of those perfect motorcycle moments, when it seems that you’re no longer doing anything physically to move the bike; it’s all being done with your mind. (I realize how woo-woo that sounds. I’m rolling my own eyes.)

I stayed right with him and found myself disappointed when the turnoff for the main highway came into view. I’d been having fun. Sidney looked over at me as we rolled up to the final stop sign and asked how I was doing, although he could already tell by my big dumb grin. I raised one fist in a Black Power-style victory salute and he broke out laughing.

That memory was vivid as I poked along behind the Suburban, and when I came to the stop sign this time, I realized my eyes were wet.

I browsed the bookstore, left empty-handed (told you I didn’t need anything), and took the short route home. The shadows were lengthening, getting closer to deer prime time. Best to stick to the four-lane straightaway.

The despair of a few months ago has subsided, and I’m mostly in the acceptance stage as far as this deployment goes. I’m still way more than ready for it to be over, though. I miss my riding buddy.

Rollin’ and tumblin’

I felt my foot slip and down I went, ass over appetite, the armful of recyclables flying. I lay for a moment at the bottom of the stairs, gathering up the wind that had been knocked out of me. The cats came to investigate the ruckus.

Once I got my breath back and realized neither bones nor glass had broken, I started laughing. Of all the ways to tumble off this mortal coil: Clad in flannel fuchsia leopard-print pajamas, surrounded by empty wine bottles, and nibbled by cats (well, my loyal Beanie would mourn, but Butch soon would have figured out the meal ticket had punched out and taken matters into his own paws).

A former boss of mine hated that I rode a motorcycle. In fact, if I was going anywhere on the bike at lunchtime, he’d insist that I call him as soon as I got back, so he could stop worrying. Really, he should have been more concerned about my living in a two-story home.

Except for some bruises, scrapes, and soreness, I’m fine. I think I might start wearing my helmet around the house, though.

Sunday morning on Soldier Road

Soldier Road, Bourbon County, Kansas.

Tainted love

From the AP wire:

A Louisiana justice of the peace said he refused to issue a marriage license to an interracial couple out of concern for any children the couple might have. Keith Bardwell, justice of the peace in Tangipahoa Parish, says it is his experience that most interracial marriages do not last long.

“I'm not a racist. I just don't believe in mixing the races that way,” Bardwell told the Associated Press on Thursday. “I have piles and piles of black friends. They come to my home, I marry them, they use my bathroom. I treat them just like everyone else.”

I would have expected his next sentence to be, “Why, we had the nicest little maid….”

His purported reason is that the offspring of such a coupling aren’t accepted, and he doesn’t want those innocent children to suffer.

Here’s a very quick and incomplete list of a few of those suffering children:

Tiger Woods
Jim Thorpe
Alicia Keys
Derek Jeter
Andre Watts
Bob Marley
Eartha Kitt
Halle Berry
Jimi Hendrix
August Wilson
Tina Turner
Frida Kahlo
Booker T. Washington
Norah Jones
Ben Kingsley
Barack Obama

Just think of what these people could have accomplished without the tragic taint of mixed blood. Maybe one of them could have grown up to be president.