Tired but happy

Fran and I have been traveling almost non-stop for a month now. We've visited family, had high school reunions and met for historical investigations. Having time to do laundry and repack before hurrying off to someplace else we want to go is tiring. When we returned home last night, we piled into bed without unpacking and slept for 12 hours straight.
Today, the lawn needed mowing and there were lots of weeds that needed to be pulled in the garden. We did some, but not all. Tomorrow, I have to start preparing for another trip.
Now, don't get me wrong. I like to travel and each one of these voyages has been voluntary. Coming so close together has been trying. Hopefully, when I return from this next drive, I'll be able to rest for a few weeks before we head out again.
If you're reading this to say, "Poor me, poor me, poor me." You're right.

Jukebox

Every morning I can remember, there has been a tune running through my head. It's not the same tune every morning (how boring). The song is usually prompted by something I hear that morning or heard the night before.
While it's there, playing in my mind, I can sing the words if I know them, or whistle it through most of the day. It varies, as I said. Some mornings, there will be a theme from a classical piece, others a bit of country-western, rock and roll, or Latin music.
I love all these metiers. The happy, peppy Samba, the brooding, romantic tango, the wailing country-western, all of these get me singing. My first musical passion was classical. The enormous, creative variations on simple themes kept me engaged through the piece. Something as rich as Rachmoninoff's Variations on a Theme by Pagininni, I can play over and over, hearing something new each time I listen.
The tune will determing my mood for the day. Of course, I can change moods as the situation warrants, but I usually go back to where I started in the morning. My mind is a self choosing jukebox.
Ah, some of my younger readers might not know what a jukebox is. Ask your parents or grandparents.

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I'm in New Mexico today. Fran and I are visiting our daughter and granchildren. Grandson is playing JV football Monday night.
Weather is different here. It was hot and humid in Little Rock when we left. Up here, chamisa and mountain asters are blooming. The air is dry and we have a fire in the grate tonight. When I finish this, I'll join my son-in-law in watching football on TV.
Our children and grandchildren are sources of both great pride and casual disappointment to me. On the one hand, they work hard, have good lives and are, in the main, content. On the other, their domestic lives are chaotic. Thus, as a father, I worry that the contentment will not last.
I've said this to others. Children don't have less or more problems when they grow up. The problems just become more "interesting" (read more complex and harder to solve.) I suspect that most parents want to solve their children's problems for them, or at least give them good advice on how to deal with things.
I've given my share of advice, some of it even good. Sometimes, the kids follow my suggestions. All in all, not a bad track record.

Time for football!

Vietnam

In my talking about me, I mentioned that I was a Vietnam vet. It's important because my time there matured me and made some changes in the way I view the world.
My Army component was combat engineers. I was a demolition specialist. That meant that I got to disarm unfriendly ordnance as well as blow stuff up. I liked the latter and hated the former. Some memories of that duty were published in Soldier of Fortune back around 1990.
What brought this period to mind is an e-mail I received recently. A friend and another veteran sent me a notice that someone had defaced the Vietnam Wall. I do not understand. While America was in Vietnam, people transferred their anger at the administration to the soldiers who served there. Most of them had been drafted and no more wanted to fight in a foreign country than they wanted to eat dirt.
Angry peace protesters threw rocks at soldiers. They screamed epithets at them and treated them like criminals. The pain of that has lasted all these intervening years. Many of us still greet each other with the words we didn't hear then, "Welcome home."
Why were we there? As I said most were drafted. Some were professional soldiers who went where they were ordered and did what they had to in order to stay alive. I was a volunteer. The theory then was that Communism (you may have to Google that) would spread if not opposed. Twenty years had shown us that this economic/political philosophy did not move where it was actively, militarily opposed. So I guess I wanted to save the world.
While I was in Vietnam, I helped build bridges and schools, clear roads, install drainage systems and shot at people who shot at me. There were some beautiful parts and there were some scary, ugly parts. I may post some memories later. This post is to continue my introduction about me.
When I returned, I was a quieter person. My father guessed that it was because I was listening for someone who might try to kill me. Maybe that was part of it. But the major reason was that I had less to say. I didn't think that my every thought was worth telling. I still don't.
I have a world view that has been annealed by seeing people die, losing friends, being frightened for a solid year. Those events were hard to recover from. I had nightmares and flashbacks for several years after. Marrying the love of my life definitely improved the way I dealt with the memories, so did taking a degree in psychology. The latter was more self-help than learning a new profession.
The fighting in Iraq and Afghanistan is viewed by people who are just as dedicated to peace. But this time, they have separated the folks who take orders from those making policy.
If you're an old person, like me, who went to Vietnam, I conclude this with only one thing.

Welcome home, and thank you.

dialect

Last Saturday, I headed to the Farmer's Market in downtown Little Rock. There are a number of farmers who sell there whose roots are in southeast Asia. They're good farmers and their produce is first rate.

Until last Saturday, I had dealt with the children of my friend's farm. Raised in Arkansas, they sounded local. But school had started. The kids who weren't away at college were home doing schoolwork. So I dealt with the father. He spoke good English, but as he had learned it here, with a definite Arkansas accent. His lignuistic background came through never-the-less. Now, gentle readers, contemplate if you will, a rural southern accent with a Vietnamese accent superimposed. Awsome.

That incident reminded me of happy days in business. Our Japanese joint venture had an employee who visited regularly. K liked America and he liked Americans. But his special weakness was Mexican mariachi music. He had hundreds of disks at home, played them in the office and visited Mexican restaurants whenever he could.

One night, he and I were entertaining some customers ala 'Japan, Incorporated'. That is, we ate, drank and sang. For everyone but K, it was their first Mexican meal. Knowing that tastes differ, I asked the waitress (I'll get back to her) to bring each of us a Margarita, a tequila sunrise and a bottle of Dos Equis. While the Japanese are great drinkers, especially of beer, the sweet drinks were new and delightful. Soon they were trying to sing the lyrics of the recorded music. Of course, K succeeded belting out Spanish lyrics with a heavy Japanese accent. Several of the cooks left the kitchen to regard him with awe.

Now, as for that waitress; She was a truly beautiful woman, tall, long black hair and a fully developed bossom. She wore a colorful Mexican skirt and a low cut peasant blouse. There was sufficient tequila in the air that I don't remember if she wore anything under that blouse. But it didn't matter. This was thirty years ago. Our Japanese customers stared at her as she passed our table, serving to others. Their eyes followed every bounce or jiggle under that blouse. I can not recall ever seeing such yearning in so many eyes at the same time.

I speak some French and I am not immune to the superimposed accents. I learned my French in a small village in the Alcase Lorraigne area. The local accent is quite heavy. So now my French is laden with that local accent with American superimposed. The French give me looks that I have been unable to translate so far. Perhaps they are admiring, or just shocked to hear what I do l'Academie's language.

For me, however, the best place to go for accents is the British Isles. Most of you will know the broad ones, Scots, Irish, Cockney. But in the country, those accents can become impenetrable. I suspect that they are mixed with words that predate both the Norman and Saxon invasions. If you want to hear some of the above, rent "Cold Comfort Farm". It's a British comedy that was made in 1995 by BBC/Thames.

That's it for now. I'll have a book review for you later.

2 OCT 07

Little Rock, where I live, has its share of bad drivers.
We have the cell phone user who S_L_O_W_L_Y moves away from a traffic light, then weaves all over the road. What the heck? He pays taxes. It is, after all, His road.
Then we have the amazing 'blue hair'. This is usually a woman, but not always. She drags along the Interstate at about 25 miles per hour slower than the speed limit. When she hits the city streets, she gooses what she's driving and sort of averages it all out.
But the thing that annoyed me more than most of the others was the driver who would wait and wait after the light was green. Usually, this left time for two cars, three at the most, to get through the light. Last night, I realized that this was a survival tool. Our local drivers usually ignore or don't see traffic signs and signals. That means that moving smartly away from a stop when the light is green could get you broadsided by someone who didn't see or ignored the red light.
My patience just got a shot in the arm. I'm back to where I was when I left the Army. Now I can wait with equanimity while the drivers ahead of me check for oncoming juggernauts. I even look for lines to wait in.