Ma Vie Militaire (Part IV or "A Lieutenant of Marines")

Emblem of the United States Marine Corps

When we left this thrilling, heart-pounding saga (okay, it's neither thrilling nor heart-pounding, I'm exercising a bit of "artistic" license here) I had just finished United States Air Force Basic Training. I was no longer a raggedy-a$$ civilian (so our instructors assured me) and was now a highly-disciplined and trained member of the U.S. Air Force. I was officially an Airman Basic (E-1), one each.

While I might have been highly-disciplined, my training to this point mainly consisted of how to stand at attention (and parade rest, and "at ease", and - oh, I think you get the point) and how to march in step with a bunch of other brand new airman. I also knew how to respond with precision and alacrity to drill commands as barked by my instructors. And learned that I would catch holy hell if I turned the wrong way, pivoted on the wrong foot and did not salute anything that moved!

Oh, I was also highly trained in how to fold my underwear and display my uniforms properly in my locker. All this in just six weeks! But in order for me to become a useful member of my beloved Air Force, I would need further training. For that I would be dispatched to Lowry AFB, Colorado. Which was located in Denver. Alas, Lowry no longer exists. It was given back to the city of Denver and now (IIRC) is used for low income housing (the old housing area) and they also built a golf course upon the premises.

Oddly enough, it was the only Air Force Base I was ever stationed at which did not have a golf course. They built the golf course after the base was, shall we say, decommissioned. Normally my Service would build the golf course, the Officer's Club, the Consolidated Base Personnel Office (CBPO), staff it with various administrative types, then bring in the aircraft, pilots, maintainers and security personnel to protect the golf course and all those administrative types. (At least that's what the admin wienies at CBPO acted like every time you asked them to actually do their jobs. That, in my memories, is what it seemed like anyway.)

But I digress. There we were, still at Lackland AFB in Texas, awaiting transport. There I learned another key lesson which every military man (or woman) learns eventually. How to "hurry up and wait". We were marched out to an area with very little shade, during the early Texas summer, carrying our duffle bags (which held all of our earthly possessions) and told to "wait here for the buses to take you to the airport".

We waited. It got hotter. We waited some more. It got hotter still. And finally the buses arrived, must have been a two to three hour wait. But it was an important lesson, so I've been told. Honestly, it did prepare me for the many times later in my career when we would arrive (as ordered) at our marshaling area (normally well before the sun rose) and wait.

Usually we were waiting for an aircraft to take us some place where we would work on other aircraft. Normally the time betwixt reporting for movement and actually feeling the aircraft leave Mother Earth was anywhere from three to five hours. There was an exception to that on one occasion that I recall. Remind me to relate that tale later on down the road. But it involved the actual possibility of going to a real shooting war. For exercises there was normally no big rush. When things looked serious, I was always amazed at just how fast the USAF could get people and flying machines "down range".

Eventually our bunch which was headed to Lowry, arrived at Lowry. We expected more yelling and screaming, being marched hither and yon and (again) being treated like low-life scum. In reality we were greeted as fellow human beings by the staff at my new squadron, bedded down for the night and told to report in the morning for an initial briefing. Said briefing was to take place on Saturday morning (we'd left Lackland on a Friday).

We figured, "That's when they'll start yelling at us!"

Nope, again we were well treated and well-briefed as to what to expect at Tech School. Actual training would commence on Monday and we were told to have a nice weekend.

Huh? Really? We were free to do as we pleased? Cool.

Part of the briefing involved places which were "Off Limits" to military personnel. We also received a bus schedule. So we trooped back to our rooms, changed into civvies and headed to the bus stop. Our goal was to find a place which sold adult beverages involving barley and hops. But we were pretty clueless as to where these places were. We were also not very well flush with cash either, so the place had to be cheap. (Airmen did NOT make a lot of money in those days, probably still don't.)

Much to our surprise, while on the bus a rather tall, lanky chap (with hair down to his waist) asked us if we were "brand new airmen". The question was pro forma really, we all had that shaved head look common to new recruits and the gawking out the window at "the big city" pretty much identified us as being from out of town.

We admitted to being brand new airmen, rather cautiously as this guy looked exactly like the type of person we'd been told to avoid. It was at that point that the fellow informed us that he was a retired Marine First Lieutenant. Honestly he didn't look old enough to be a retired Marine. We figured him to be in his late twenties, early thirties. Also, though we were rookies, we knew what a First Lieutenant was and normally people don't retire at that rank.

But the fellow produced an Honest-to-God official US government retired military ID. Which indicated that he was indeed a retired lieutenant of Marines. To our quizzical looks he explained that he'd been medically retired due to wounds received while serving in Vietnam. Bear in mind this was 1975, so his story was plausible.

So we got off the bus with this Marine, in a fairly decent part of town, and went into a bar which apparently was very popular with veterans! Lucky stroke we all thought. And we were correct. We bought nary a beverage the whole time we were there (which was considerable) and were feted and congratulated by the denizens of this particular establishment. We heard many war (and sea) stories and received much advice on how to make it in the military. Much of which none of us could remember the next day as we all had gotten rather, shall we say, three sheets into the wind. Inebriated. Blasted. Intoxicated. Etc.

But, the lieutenant of Marines escorted us back to the bus stop, rode the bus with us back to the base (as he had a retired ID he could get on the base), kept us quiet and fairly well-behaved, and deposited us safely back at our barracks. We had a great time and learned another valuable lesson, perhaps the most valuable lesson we ever learned, perhaps the only thing we would remember from this Marine and his buddies at the bar.

GIs, whether active duty, retired or just one-hitch veterans, stick together and watch each others backs. Though our uniforms differed from one Service to another, we all served under the same flag and swore the same oath: "To support and defend the Constitution..."

Not doing so was to "break the faith" and would make us unworthy in the eyes of our fellow GIs.

So while I learned a lot during my military service, the most important lesson I learned was back when I was still a young, wet behind the ears, brand new airman.

"Keep the faith, always have your buddy's back. Respect and honor the veterans who went before."

And I learned this from a Lieutenant of Marines.

Semper Fi

Ooorah!!!

I Got Nothing...

I am so lazy tonight, it should be against the law. But I got a couple of things I wanted to share.

And poking fun at my old Service, courtesy of The JOPA over on Facebook.

USAF Tactical Hand Signals

That's all I got tonight. Old AF Sarge is Bingo Ideas and is RTB at this time.

Update

If you haven't checked out Look! A Baby Wolf!, you should. This is one extremely funny lady. Prime example (which I "borrowed" from her blog):

But Everyone Else is Doing It!

Really? 13% with OBummer?
And I do have major issues with the dude.
Oh, that's not what that meant? Okay. Got it.

Okay, okay, okay. Everybody settle down and take your seats.

Seen this thing on a couple of blogs which I enjoy, so I figured "What the hell?"

Anyway there it is. Wanted to put in a few of my "own stances" but didn't want to confuse the software behind this. So I went with the "stock" answers. Not really surprised here.

Note that I am most definitely NOT marching in step with my fellow Rhode Islanders. Course they seem to be out of step with most American voters. No surprise there.

But there it is. For the sake of full disclosure and all that.

(For others who can't resist, clicketh thee here: http://www.isidewith.com/.)

Goals & Accomplishments

My Goal
(Not Accomplished Yet...)

Once upon a time, my company, for whatever reason, decided that we had to have goals. So we, the workers, were directed to sit down and write up our goals.

Having recently retired from the Air Force, I was not familiar with this stuff. But I figured I would play along and see what this was all about. So I put down my goal as something like this: "Make a crap-ton of money and retire while I'm still young enough to enjoy it."

Ehhhhhhh! Wrong answer.

Seems that my goals had to "align" with the company's goals. So I wrote down the company's goals inserting the appropriate name and personal pronouns so that my goals were, essentially, exactly the same as the company's goals.

Ehhhhhhh! Wrong answer. (Again.)

Hhhmm, if this was Family Feud, I only had one more shot. So I asked a colleague what he had. He e-mailed me his goals. As we were on the same project and were at the same level, I took his, modified them and submitted them. The company was pleased. For the time being.

Now this week I get an e-mail from my Section Manager, asking me to update my goals and accomplishments (G&A) for to prepare for my mid-year review. I replied (for the second time, last week I had the same e-mail) that I had updated this stuff a week ago. The reply indicated that I had not yet "acknowledged" these self-same goals and accomplishments.

So I navigated to the appropriate website and noted that I had updated my G&A the week before. Hhhmm, going one level deeper I noted a little check box for the employee (moi) to "acknowledge" the good ole G&A. Wonderful, I thought. I fill out the little blocks of text, the computer notes that it's me doing it and when I save my G&A, the computer also logs the date and time. So why do I need a freaking acknowledgement of what I just did? Some pencil-necked software geek no doubt thought it was a good idea to have this little check box on the form. (As I am technically a software guy I can say things like this. I say technically because I have not written a line of code in years. Not that I didn't want to, but the company had other things it wanted me to do.)

I suppose someone else could hack into my account and give me some G&A that I might not agree with. So they put a little check box in. Why couldn't the same hacker also check the little box? Don't know, don't care. I'll just play the corporate game and pretend like I actually give a crap. (I do care deeply about the job I do, it's the corporate games I don't give a crap about. Just sayin'...)

In reality, my team lead gives me a set of tasks to perform. I'm also given dates for when these tasks need to be accomplished. Then I go forth and do those tasks, to the best of my ability. So why not write down what tasks I'm given and the dates they need to be accomplished? The tasks would be my "goals", the dates these tasks were completed would be a measure of effectiveness, i.e. my accomplishments.

Unfortunately my taskings change based on the needs of the project. My tasking at 0730 might be completely different from what my tasking is at 1330. Not that the first task was completed, just that a different task has taken on a higher priority. To give a military aviation example: If given the task of intercepting incoming attack aircraft, I will focus on that task. Unless I have some enemy fighter jock at my six, then shaking that guy, getting the advantage on him and blowing his Gomer a$$ out of the sky becomes a higher priority task. When Gomer is dispatched, then I can refocus on the first task.

Not that my job is that exciting. But I needed desperately to talk about something aviation-related for a moment. Also it sounds cool.

So I could update the old G&A every time these things change. But then one of my goals would be to update my goals and I would spend more time doing that than actual work. (Incidentally, that was once a MANDATORY goal for all of us worker bees. Yup, it was a goal to update one's goals. I kid you not.)

Now in previous posts I sometimes gave the impression that I didn't like flying. I love flying and I think I cleared that misunderstanding up nicely. Now if I'm giving you the impression that I have a deep loathing of "all things corporate", that is intentional. I absolutely loathe the corporate world. It is nothing more than a (sometimes necessary) layer between the customer and the builder/producer of things a customer wants/needs.

The corporate world also has their own language. They don't do things every day, they do things "on a daily basis". They don't have plans, they have "a way ahead". They don't have lessons learned, they have "take aways". They don't re-use things, they "leverage" them. They don't have instructors, they have "facilitators". And my real favorite: they don't have good processes, they have "best practices". Oh yes, I do loathe the bastards in their dark blue blazers, light blue shirts, grey slacks and be-tasseled loafers. But no tie, heaven forbid do not wear a tie. We want the worker bees to think that we're all "regular guys who don't like wearing ties." Harrumph.

I had it explained to me once that the whole idea behind having goals was to help me "grow" as an employee. Whatever made them think that I wanted to "grow" as an employee? I want to do my job, learn new stuff if it's applicable to my job, get paid every two weeks and eventually retire (again). With enough money to allow me to live "comfortably", however one defines that. I know for sure that the Missus and I have two totally different views on how one defines "comfortable".

Personally I think we're doing very well compared to most Americans. To hear the Missus tell it, we might as well live in Appalachia, learn how to play the banjo and let all of our teeth fall out. My word, we might as well live in a double-wide for all my company appreciates me. (I have gone overalls and straw hat shopping, the Missus says "we are not amused". She might also ask: "What are all those tubs, jars and copper tubing for?" Me: "Why heck-fire darlin' I's fixin' to build ma-self a still. Then we can sell 'shine and make a few bucks. Just watch out for them thar revenooers." Again, she is not amused. With apologies to actual hill folk and moonshiners. I have a deep and abiding respect for your way of life. It's just that the Missus views that as a living nightmare. It's all for entertainment purposes... No really, come on now Jed, put down the shotgun and I'll leave real quiet like.)

So goals, yes I have goals. Like maybe have a Guinness after work, maybe get out an extra post this week. If I "grow" as an employee, it's due to my efforts, it's not based on "the way ahead" of some corporate baboon. Oooh, another goal, fly under the radar and hope the corporate types leave me alone long enough to get product out the door. Without having to go to a meeting to do so.

Oh yeah, I forgot, another goal...

...is...

...to cut the damn grass.

Oh, The Joys of Commuting

This is not I-495 Between "Up North" and "Down South"
(But it sure felt like it Monday afternoon!)

I have the distinct feeling that today's post is going to be all over the place. It's just one of those days. Your first clue is that the title of the post apparently has nothing to do with the opening photo. The two may or may not link up during the course of the next few paragraphs. It's my blog and I'll cry if I want to write what my muse commands me to write.

Spent Monday at Forward Operating Location (FOL) North (which is where I've been exiled working for the past 2 and a half years - for you newcomers and forgetful types, check out The Penguins, that post provides the background) The trip home was, shall we say, less than amusing.

There are two major routes to get from FOL North to Chez Sarge. One leads through the Boston metro area and is really a crap shoot as regards the time to travel that way. I also have a vow in place to never again travel within the Boston metro area unless dire necessity dictates otherwise. (Dire necessity is usually in the form of one of the progeny coming home for a visit with the phrase "But Dad, the tickets into Logan were $100 cheaper." Sigh...) Interstate 495 defines the boundaries of what I call the Boston metro area. Right or wrong, it's my blog, etc., etc.

The other route is approximately ten miles longer and is mostly a rather bucolic setting. Normally it is not encumbered with too much traffic and normally flows very smoothly from my point of view. (My point of view is that if I can average 50 mph, that's smooth.)

Monday afternoon there were at least two traffic accidents on my way home which brought traffic to nearly a screaming halt (i.e., anything less than an average speed of 50 mph). Now I'm not saying that I-95 southbound looked like the photo above, but it certainly brought that situation to mind as I crawled along wondering why the idiot in front of me felt the need to leave ten car lengths between her and the driver in front of her. While the needle on the trusty speedometer in Big Girl scarcely moved off the bottom peg for what seemed like millennia.

Hey, whaddaya know, the title and the photo did link up. Of course, as I was writing this I did change the title. Decided to go with one rant versus another. Rather than rewrite the first paragraph, I changed the title of the post. Ah, the power of artistic license. (Right, like this is "art"! Harrummphh!)

So, where was I? Oh yeah, the lady in the vehicle in front of me and the speedometer seeming to not register any form of forward movement. Now before anyone gets their knickers in a twist, I'm not admonishing the female drivers out there. I've seen males of the species perform way stupider acts on the highway than any member of the gentler sex ever has. It's just that the vehicle in front of me was being operated by a woman. It could have been a guy, that doesn't really matter. I identify the driver as female simply in the interests of truth and accurate reporting. (Oh dear, I've drifted off my point again.)

So traffic was backed up from horizon to horizon. A very long line of glittering steel and plastic stretched before me and behind me. I longed for a decent cross country vehicle with cool weapon systems mounted there upon. Maybe a Bradley or some other cool looking Armored Personnel Carrier (APC). Something with which I could "shoot and scoot" with a certain amount of style and panache. But no, I'm stuck in traffic. While Big Girl has a fairly decent cross-country capability, the local constabulary and property owners frown  upon vehicles leaving the roadway.

As we crawled along (by the way, the weather was gorgeous, any traffic delays ahead of me were not due to inclement weather) I speculated as to the cause of this glitch in an otherwise nice drive. Perhaps it's road construction - it is that time of year. Perhaps it's a traffic accident - people in this area tend to drive like complete freaking loons. I pondered this as we would move approximately 3 car lengths every five minutes. And the lady ahead of me let more and more cars pull in front of her. What was she thinking? Hhhmm, if I let people pull in front of me, I'll get home faster. If I let people pull in front of me, some fabulously wealthy individual will note my kindness and give me a bazillion dollars for being so thoughtful. Who knows?

Eventually I did move far enough to discover the cause of this annoying delay in my efforts to return to Chez Sarge before sundown. It was a traffic accident. There were two cars stopped in the far left lane with another pulled onto the right shoulder. And a few chaps standing around looking thoughtful. Everyone had their emergency flashers activated. No doubt a good idea to prevent someone traveling at the nose-bleed velocity of 5 miles an hour plowing into their stopped vehicles.

As I managed to slide out of the blocked lane and crawl past the scene of the crime I noted something. First of all, there was minimal damage to either stopped vehicle. It looked like a minor bumper to bumper contact. No parts strewn about the roadway, no bodies sprawled on the verge. Just a very minor fender bender. The sort of thing that in kinder gentler days would have led to a swapping of insurance information and mutual apologies. Not anymore. I'm sure the two, ahem, "gentlemen" involved were awaiting the arrival of investigators and lawyers. At least no one was holding their neck and hollering "whip lash".

Eventually, after what felt like weeks, the scene of the "accident" was cleared and traffic returned to a more comfortable pace. Until I'd gone about two miles. There to join another traffic queue, which stretched (again) to the far horizon.

Another accident had occurred. But this one looked far more serious at least in terms of damage. There were no ambulances on scene. There were a number of state troopers at the scene, looking for all the world like they were at a loss in trying to determine what had taken place.

For there was a lot of debris scattered along the shoulder, like a small truck had decided to eject all of its cargo. There also was extensive damage to the guard rail. But there was no vehicle which had impacted said guard rail and ejected the contents of the vehicle along the road side. I realized that the vehicle and its occupant(s) had been removed from the scene. I'm guessing that the vehicle had already been towed/hauled away and any occupants had also been taken to the hospital. But what a mess.

Once that accident scene was cleared it was smooth sailing the rest of the way. The traffic delays had been sufficient to allow rush hour traffic in Providence to subside so that hurdle was readily cleared.

Eventually I arrived at Chez Sarge to the cheers and acclamation of my two feline friends (who were noting that the dinner hour had long passed.) Yup, I was home, safe and sound. After a trip which took 3 and a half hours. A trip which normally takes 2 hours. Ah yes, the joys of commuting!

On Hamsters (Seriously?)

Oh no! More Hamsters? Really?

In an attempt to somehow get my head around what is apparently my most widely read post, I have decided to revisit the whole "hamster" topic. The popularity of this particular post is something which boggles my mind. Using a totally non-scientific approach to understanding what is going on here, the WSO and I formed a "fact finding" committee of two (me and her). Our committee meetings typically take place over the phone when we've run out of other things to talk about.

The post in question is Uncle Smitty's Hamsters which was posted on 04 May 2012. Let me put the numbers up so you can see this international phenomenon in the making.

For the week of 14 to 21 July I show the following page views:

As you can see, Uncle Smitty's Hamsters tops the chart with 26 page views. The all time stats? See for yourself:

Again, this post tops the chart at 284 page views. Way more than the second most popular, The First Step, which was my very first post and which was probably read mostly by my fellow Lexicans.

The WSO and I have competing theories as to the popularity of this post. Her theory is simple and to the point, "Dad, people are Googling 'hamster sex' and your post shows up in the list. It's that simple. People are weird and for some, the idea of hamsters having carnal relations is a big turn on."

My "most likely" theory is that hamsters are popular as pets. People are searching on line to discover hamster emporiums and when they see the listing for Uncle Smitty's Hamsters, they think that perhaps it's a pet store (run by a fellow named Uncle Smitty) which specializes in hamsters.

When these folks arrive at my blog, this is probably what they say:

"What the heck is this? This isn't a website for a hamster emporium. This is just some goofball old guy's blog. Harriet, get me the phone book. I told you that going online was a stupid idea. Uncle Smitty indeed, what a bunch of crap."

Or something like that.

Of course, I'd like to believe that the post is witty and absolutely hysterical. People read it (however they got there in the first place) and then tell their friends, "Hey, you've got to read this. This guy is funny. Ha ha ha. Uncle Smitty's Hamsters, what a laugh-riot."

The WSO tells me to sit down and take a deep breath every time I put forward this particular theory. Then she tells me, "Yeah Dad. You're a funny guy. But you're not that funny. Otherwise you'd be getting lots of hits on some of your other posts. Not just this one. I tell ya, it's all about hamster sex. There's gotta be a huge audience out there. You need to ride that wave. Start putting the word "hamster" in all of your post titles. Better yet, change your online name to Old AF Hamster. The blog title should be "Chant d'Hamster" you'd get tons of page views. Statistically speaking you'd be amongst the widest read blogs on the planet."

Uh, right. I'm sure that's it.

But that's all I've got today. Thought I'd go for a lighter tone than the past couple of posts. I was being a bit of a "gloomy Gus" as my grandma used to put it. So the sun is shining and I'm feeling light hearted today. So it's all fun and games here at Chez Sarge so...

Ah crap.

I just remembered I have to cut the grass.

Bah.

Humbug.

So much for the positive vibes. See you next time. And remember:

There's strong. And then there's hamster strong...

On Death and Loss

Soldiers Mourning the Death of a Friend
Korean War 1950-1953

You may wonder what sent me down this path. Oddly enough it started with a post by Buck over at Exile in Portales, a post, oddly enough, that was about Facebook. But the topic of Neptunus Lex was raised and that kinda sent me spinning wildly out of control. I've recovered control of my mental aircraft and am again flying straight and level. All systems are in the green, normal flight has been resumed.

But it got me to thinking about certain things. Things I do not like to think about. Nevertheless, I do think about these things from time to time. So bear with me.

Death is a fact of life, we all must face it someday. But premature death, death before one's time? That gets to me.

That shooting spree out in Aurora, Colorado? That's senseless, absolutely senseless. And senseless death gets to me most of all. Why, oh why do these things happen?

In my 24 years in the Air Force I only experienced the death of a buddy on one occasion. That was enough for me and I thank God it only happened once.

This was while I was stationed at NATO Air Base Geilenkirchen, in Germany. It was on a weekend, I remember it clearly, like it was yesterday. The phone rang, it was a fellow sergeant. His first words were, "I think you might want to sit down before I go any further." The alarms go off, you know, you just know that something bad has happened.

Yup, a buddy had been on his way home to visit his parents. He was in a traffic accident. He was dead.

Stefan was a sweet kid, smart as a whip and a good comrade. Also something of a minor celebrity in our outfit. And at this point I have to clarify that this was a NATO unit. NATO, or the North Atlantic Treaty Organization is an international organization and our outfit, the Mission Support Wing, part of the NATO Airborne Early Warning & Control Force E-3A Component, was truly international.

The wing was made up of military personnel from the US, Germany, the Netherlands, Belgium, Denmark, Norway, Greece, Italy and Turkey. We also had a number of civilians from the UK.

Stefan's celebrity was due to the fact that he was an Ossie. That is, he was born and raised in East Germany. The former Deutsche Demokratische Republik (DDR), you know, those folks who were the Bad Guys during the Cold War. Of course, I was in Germany after Reunification. It was all one Germany then, but Stefan was the first to be assigned to us from the East. Hence his minor celebrity status.

When he finally arrived, we discovered that he didn't have two heads, he didn't look any different from the rest of us. He was just a guy. A really good guy.

And then he was gone, dead, never again would we see him, hear him or interact with him. It was over and there were no do-overs. Can't we go back in time and undo this? No, we can't.

Now I'm a Christian, an actual real-live practicing Christian. Go to church most every Sunday. Heck, I'm a Deacon in my American Baptist Church. My faith tells me that death is not the end. It's only a transition. But I have to tell you, it still hurts like hell when it happens to someone you know. For me it hurts when it happens to people I don't know, but care about. You know, like those brave men and women of our Armed Forces who go out there and put it all on the line for us. For you and me. Cops and fire-fighters fall into that category for me as well. They put it on the line for us, to protect us from criminals and fires. Who can forget those first responders who lost their lives on 9/11? I can't.

At the end of 2009, my company informed me that I would be loaned out to a different part of the company. I would be living and working away from home for most of each week. Damn, I thought I was done with that stuff when I retired from the Air Force! Apparently not.

It kind of sucked but I got used to it. After all, I did get to go home every weekend. A much better deal than the kids out at sea or deployed to Iraq and Afghanistan get. So it was tolerable.

Then the second month of my stint "up north", my Dad got sick, really sick. The very last time I was able to talk with my Dad was from my hotel room. He sounded sick but had hopes of getting better. Within a week he was in the hospital. Before I could get up to New Hampshire to see him, his pain was so bad that the doctor's kept him sedated. He was in that twilight world where many wind up as the medical profession tries desperately to make them well again.

I went home and went back to work. Hoping against hope that somehow he would get better and that again we would be able to have a beer together and share a laugh.

A week after I had visited him, on a Sunday after church, my Mom called. Things were not good, things were really bad and could I come up to New Hampshire as soon as possible? Of course Mom, I'll get there as fast as I can.

Apparently the medical staff were planning to take my Dad off the respirator and were waiting for me to get there before doing so. There was no more hope.

I arrived. My Mom was there, my two brothers and my oldest kid brother's wife were there. The medical staff came in after a while. Seems there had been another emergency elsewhere in the ICU which had kept them busy.

They did their thing, took my Dad off the respirator. They also, for the most part, had shut down the monitors attached to my Dad. Except for the heart rate monitor. I guess they figured that none of us would be paying any attention to that. Sound was off, but the trace was still running.

Shortly after they had disconnected my Dad, he opened his eyes for a brief moment. His eyes looked foggy, that look people get when they have so much morphine in them that they are conscious, but not really all there.

Things got really quiet. I looked up at the heart monitor, the trace was flat, no activity. The label next to the trace read "asystole". Dad was gone. No one else in the room knew it at that precise moment. But I knew that my Dad, the guy who taught me how to throw a baseball, the guy who took me hunting and fishing, the guy who made sure I had a roof over my head and plenty to eat, was gone. My Dad was dead.

That was the 28th of February, 2010. It sucked and it hurt. As time went by though, I started to realize that my Dad had lived a full life. A good life. We would miss him. But he had lived to 81 years old. Not everyone gets that many years. And my Dad had made the most of those years.

Fast forward to two years and a week later. March 7th, 2012.

I get to my cubicle at work and fire up my computer. As I always did, I went to Neptunus Lex. Best blog evah!

What's this? Why is Whisper posting today? Lex didn't mention anything about that. Why is there a picture of a missing man formation?

Ah shit.

It was like getting punched in the gut. All the air went out of me. Lex is dead?

Unexpected and premature. That describes the loss of my friend and blogging mentor Carroll "Lex" LeFon. And at about the same time of year that my Dad had died. Two years before. That hit me hard, real hard.

So yeah, Death sucks. But it comes to us all, it affects us all in one way or another. We need to deal with it as best we can.

I know this is way different from the stuff I normally post. But I needed to do this, it's been cathartic for me. Thanks for bearing with me, thanks for sticking with it to the end.

And now, apropos of nothing, a link to a video that I like. Yesterday I watched a video on somebody's blog about a helicopter dropping another helicopter (wish I could remember where, guess I'm having a "senior moment"). At any rate, I really liked the music used for the video. I listened to the lyrics and, through the magic of Google, discovered that it was a tune by Metallica. Though I'm not a big fan, I like some of their stuff. I really liked this song. It's not a happy song, but I like it and it matches my mood today. Check it out.

Metallica - The Day That Never Comes [Official Music Video] - YouTube