A Tad Chilly in Little Rhody

Sunny, not warm. Definitely not warm.

As I write this upon a Saturday evening the temperature stands at a brisk 9°. At least it's above zero, there are a number of places in New England where the temps are on the other side of that number. Brrrr.

The opening photo is what it looked like Friday afternoon after the neighbor lad had shoveled the driveway. Spacing that task, wisely, over the entire day as temps, with wind chill, felt like well below zero. Shovel a bit, retreat inside a bit. Tough to stay warm on a day like that. Though the neighbor lad is in his twenties and a strong lad indeed, that was quite a job. Officially Bristol received 9" of snow. Not sure where they take the "official" reading but we got a lot more than that. Ballpark guess from this old New Englander? A foot or more in our neighborhood.

Of course, a lot of that may have been blown in from other neighborhoods. During the storm the wind was around running 15 to 20 mph, with gusts probably up to 35. It was a true blizzard, the visibility at the height of the storm (from the Chez Sarge viewpoint) was about 50 yards. Tops.

Around our humble abode the snow cover varied from about a half inch directly behind the house, to about a foot and a half over the pond. Drifting was pretty strong and no, I'm not talking about driving.

Looks like a wave, doesn't it?

As Uncle Skip likes to point out, when in doubt about what to post, talk about the weather. (But not with Algore, that putz.) Saturday afternoon, I must confess, I was goofing off, listening to music (Foo Fighters are a favorite at the moment), reading OPBs...

What's an OPB? Uh, sorry, "Other Peoples' Blogs." I try to play catch up on the weekends and "binge read" posts from those folks over there on the sidebar. So music and reading. I did go out and shovel one of the walks, bad ankle notwithstanding, had my boots laced up very tight. The Missus Herself was concerned that I might have a heart attack, I assured her that I would avoid that. Which I did.

While it was bitter cold outside, with a lot of wind, I didn't really feel it, shoveling snow keeps you warm. Really.

I also decided to watch football. While there has been much controversy surrounding the NFL this year, I still love the game. I didn't watch much during the regular season but I did follow my favorite teams (I have more than one) and stay abreast of the standings throughout the year. While I can't agree with much of what transpired this year, all the kneeling and what-have-you, I do support the right of my fellow Americans to express their opinions.

First Amendment and all that, dontcha know?

Anyhoo.

Weather. Always a bit "exciting" in the winter in these parts.

Looks pretty doesn't it?
(Pretty bloody cold that is.)

Panzer 413 - Death From Above

(Source)

Captain Horace Miller of the 513th Fighter Squadron had his cockpit heat on full blast. After growing up in Florida, attending college at Georgia Tech, and then training to fly in the heat of the Arizona desert, he just couldn't tolerate cold weather. Sure, he'd been stationed in wet, rainy England, then France, but that cold was nothing like what he was experiencing on this cold December day in Belgium.

Christmas had brought the welcome present of clear skies over the rolling hills of the Ardennes. Now he and his flight of four P-47 Thunderbolts were out hunting after a long week of frustration at the fog, snow, and freezing rain and, more importantly, the reports of American units falling back before the Germans. Reports of atrocities as well. The Krauts had come boiling out of their defenses with a taste for blood on the 16th of December.

Now it was payback time!

Google Maps

MSgt Dixon's engineers had planted mines on the road outside Brisy, right past a curve in the road. The hope was that a big German tank would hit a mine and shed a track leaving it broadside to Mac Peterson's Sherman. To top things off, Dixon had a bazooka team in a small stand of trees near the road. Dangerously near.

Near Brisy, Belgium
Google Street View

The newest addition to the platoon, Kurt Müller's Tiger 421, was about to round the curve in the road when Willi heard the bang. He reflexively ducked down in his turret as he saw dirt and pavement jump into the air, and 421's left track slither off the road wheels.

Before he could think even further, a streak from his left front slammed into the turret of Müller's tank, right at the turret ring. He saw Müller crumple just as a flash blew open all the hatches on 421. Moments later the driver and bow gunner tried to climb out of their hatches. Only the bow gunner made it.

They couldn't go forward, just as he turned to signal 414 to back up, thinking they'd try to cut across the fields, his bow gunner barked over the intercom -

"Infantry 11 o'clock!"
Followed by the ripping roar of Panzerschütze Peter Schmidt's MG-34. Still crouching in his turret, Willi's eyes followed the tracer rounds spitting from Schmidt's MG. There! Men trying to get back up the hill.

Willi saw the long tube carried by one man swing towards his own tank, realizing at the last second that it was an Ami anti-tank weapon. At the same moment Schmidt's MG tracers went through the man, leaving him to crumple to the snowy ground. The other two men managed to make their escape.

"SHIT!" MSgt Dixon screamed as he saw the German tank open up on his guys. He saw Sal, the man with the bazooka, go down hard. Billy and Sam were running hard to get back up the hill.

Mac's tank turret cranked over to take the second Tiger under fire. Just as the gun was about to be laid on target, the big Kraut tank backed around the corner. Turning to Dixon he screamed -

"Sar'nt Dixon! Get your guys moving, we'll wait for what's left of your bazooka team, but you guys gotta hightail it out of here! We'll be right behind you!"

As Mac climbed out of his turret to man his .50 caliber machine gun, he kept his eyes riveted to where he figured the Germans would move. If it was him he head up the hill into the fields to his left, the Krauts' right, but those Tigers are slow. He'll probably head to his left, down the slope.

As he watched, the two survivors of the bazooka team scrambled aboard Tennessee Whiskey.

One of them, Corporal Billy Estes, said, "Climb back in Sarge, I'll man the fifty. Those Kraut bastards killed Sal!"

Mac climbed back in and ordered Louis to start backing up the hill, when they got to the top they'd face front and run like crazy!

Willi's tank ground off the road to the left, into the fields. At that moment he heard a loud pulsating roar coming from ahead of him. As he ducked and looked up, two Ami Jabos* blew past them, very low, and very fast.

Captain Miller saw the lone Sherman backing up the hill as fast as it would go as his element flew up the road to Brisy. At the last minute he saw a smoking vehicle at the bend in the road, gotta be German, he thought as he pulled his stick back, easing in rudder to pull a graceful climbing turn to go back around.

When they were in position, he radioed his wingman, Jack Curtis, to keep his eyes peeled, he was betting there were Krauts in the fields near the road.

"Copy." his wingman responded, then, "Tanks. Two o'clock low!"

"Got them! Watch my six!" Miller's big aircraft smoothly lowered its nose as its pilot lined up on the burning tank in the road. There, in the field, TWO EFFING TIGERS!

"Scheiße!" Willi yelled as he closed his hatch. He heard and felt the enemy rounds smack into his turret as the Jabo walked his fire across Willi's tank and no doubt onto Schäfer's 414 just behind them.

413 suffered nothing more than some scratched paint and a few gouges in the tough Krupp steel of the turret roof. Schäfer wasn't as lucky. Through the rear vision blocks in his turret cupola, Willi could see that the Jabo had damaged Schäfer's tank, smoke was starting to issue from the back deck of 414, just above the engine.

On the radio, Willi screamed "Hans! Get out, your engine's on fire!"

As he watched Schäfer's crew bail out of their crippled tank, Willi wondered what to do next. Two more dead Tigers, the sky was clear, the Amis were airborne, and the roads just weren't safe.

What else could go wrong?

(Source)

SS-Hauptsturmführer Kurt Langanke was lying by a roadside somewhere northwest of  Rettigny. His legs were badly burned but he was lucky to be alive, as far as he knew, the rest of his crew were dead.

The attack by rocket firing Jabos had been quick and deadly, his column of Panthers, halftracks loaded with Panzergrenadiers**, and a single platoon of older Panzerkampfwagen IVs had been caught in the open.

Two flights of what had to be British Typhoons had attacked at their leisure. Langanke's sole Flakpanzer had been damaged two miles to the rear and he had nothing else to protect his column from air attack.

Painfully he sat up, he could see his own tank burning furiously, he must have been blown out of the turret when the ammunition cooked off, behind his tank was a second Panther, minus its turret. The rest of his column was nowhere in sight.

Turning painfully, he guessed the rest of his boys had made it into the trees ahead. He couldn't see them, on the other hand he saw no more Allied aircraft either. Looking back towards the farm they had passed moments ago, he saw two figures walking down the road towards him.

Thank God, Langanke thought, maybe they can help me.

(Source)

Pierre Dumont and his son René saw the German sitting in the road. He appeared to be badly hurt, the legs of his trousers were still smoldering, and there was a lot of blood on the man's face.

In French, the man asked for help, could they perhaps treat his wounds, he asked. Pierre turned to his son and told him to bring something to bind the man's wounds, winking as he did so.

Pierre found a discarded canteen near one of the burned out halftracks, there were dead Germans all around it. He also found a German pistol, checked that it was loaded, then he chambered a round, then pocketed the heavy Walther. Pierre remembered his service in the Belgian Army in the Great War, he knew how to use a pistol.

Walking back to the German, he handed the man the canteen. Turning towards his farm, he could see René returning.

Langanke drank the water gratefully, he used some of it to clean his face, noting that his hand came away bloody. He must have hit his head when he was thrown from the tank, he didn't remember. Looking back towards the forest, he didn't see any of his men. He wondered if perhaps they thought him dead.

Speaking rapidly in the local dialect, René told his father -

"Papa, Monsieur Gervais is at the house. He says the Germans are shooting people all through Belgium. It's terrible, isn't it Papa?"

Nodding slowly, Pierre agreed that it was indeed terrible. He knew that it was probably those SS bastards. The Boche in World War I had been bad enough, now these SS people, truly monsters.

"Go back to the house, boy. I'll be along shortly."

As he watched his son run back to the house, Pierre had noticed the uniform under the wounded German's white snow jacket. An SS man!

Langanke used the old, stained linen which the farmer had handed to him to bind up his head wound, causing his jacket to fall open. He pulled his collar closed for two reasons - it was cold and he didn't wish to advertise that he was in the SS. Especially as he was alone with this Belgian peasant.

"Do you have anything to eat old man?" Langanke asked the farmer in his German-accented French.

"No, I do not, you filthy Boche bastard. But I do have this..."

Langanke couldn't believe this man's arrogance and stupidity, who did he think he was dealing with? But the barrel of the Walther P-38 was steady, and aimed at his face.

"Now look here old fellow, just run along, my men will be returning soon. Oh, and give me that pistol, it is the property of the Third Reich!"

Pausing only momentarily, Pierre lowered the pistol from the man's face. Then pulled the trigger, firing a single round into the SS man's chest. The man blinked, then tried to reach for his own pistol.

So Pierre shot him again.

Langanke was cold, colder than he had ever been before, colder than in Russia. He felt like he'd had the wind knocked out of him. He was trying very hard to take a breath, the stupid Belgian peasant had actually shot him.

As he toppled onto his side, still conscious, he saw the Belgian walking away, pausing only to throw the pistol off into the snow in the field by the road. Langanke was tired, perhaps...

No, I need to stay awake, I need...

SS-Hauptsturmführer Kurt Langanke lay quivering, but just for a moment, then he went still forever. The war never returned to this small corner of Belgium, the remainder of Langanke's unit were destroyed in early January, only 15 men survived the war out of the nearly 500 that had crossed into Belgium on the morning of the 16th of December, 1944.

Langanke's body was found in the spring of 1945. When the Americans had plowed the roads, his body had been shoved into a drift beside the road to Brisy. His death was but a small payment for the many Belgian civilians murdered by the SS during Hitler's last offensive in the West. Not to mention the many prisoners of war they murdered as well.

A small payment indeed.

Belgian civilians killed by German units during the Ardennes offensive.
(Source)

* Jabo - German acronym for Jagdbomber, fighter bomber.
** Panzergrenadier, literally armored infantry. The infantry component of a German armored division.

In the Grip of Old Man Winter

As I write this, the snow seems to have stopped and the wind has increased. Why I say "seems" is that the wind is blowing the snow around so that it appears to be snowing. But as visibility is much better than it was earlier, my guess is that the frozen precipitation is done, for now.

So far it's been rather a colder winter than I'm used to in these parts, though very similar to where I grew up. In truth, it's warmer than where I grew up as it's been in the 20s for the better part of a fortnight, though the last few days it has hovered close to, but not below, zero. (That's Fahrenheit, I don't buy into that French Revolutionary metric nonsense. And it truly is nonsense in my book.)

The tree in the southeastern corner of the backyard in summer.

The same tree on Thursday.

When I arose Thursday morning at around 0730 local (to attend to a call of nature, TMI yes, but it's what I do, I share) I noted that the snow had yet to begin. What I heard and thought to be the wind at that time, was actually an airliner lifting out of T.F. Green (the local air patch). So, back to bed I went (dinna judge me, I'm on vacation).

When the feline staff came to awaken me at 0930 (for the math-challenged, that would be two hours later than when I first arose) I could hear the wind howling and looking outside I half expected to see polar bears frolicking in the street.

Nope, no polar bears, just snow.

So yesterday was a day to hunker down, to drink two cups of java (for the warmth that was in it), to read, and to discover something new to watch on Amazon. What I found has been entertaining so far. For the HBO series Gunpowder is about the Gunpowder Plot (think Guy Fawkes) which was an attempt by English Catholics to kill King James I of England and the whole Parliament with him.

Before ye begin to disparage and berate the "Papists" think on this, in those days the English were very keen to eradicate Catholicism from England. Torture, beheading, drawing and quartering, hanging, burning were all used to suppress the Catholic Church in England. (At the same time in Catholic Spain, the same was being done to Protestants and Jews. Religion can be a very dicey proposition in the wrong hands. For "the wrong hands" read "The State." Our Founding Fathers had good reason to include the Separation Clause in the Constitution. And no, it was not meant to be used by atheists who don't like manger scenes or menorahs on public property.)

Anyhoo, the program drags a bit at times but so far (aside from the usual tendency to "jazz up" a perfectly good historical tale) seems fairly historical. Though I do need to read up on this period in English history again as I'm a bit rusty on that time. (Though I do know a couple of things about the period, such as "Penny for the Guy?")

And yes, King James I (who had also been King James VI of Scotland until the Union of 24 March 1603) is known mostly to we in the West as the chap who sponsored the King James Version of the Bible. Thought you'd like to know that.

Speaking of religion...

One fellow I've been reading a lot of lately is David Warren, who had this most interesting offering on the 30th of December. I've been digging through his archives and I will say this, the chap writes very well. Psst, don't tell my fellow Baptists that I've been reading a lot of "Catholic stuff" lately.

Anyhoo. Winter is here, for a bit. We're expecting temperatures in the 40s next week.

In other news, The Nuke is now a homeowner. (Now all of the progeny own homes. Wow.) She also told me that the Potomac, 'round about the 14th Street bridges, is frozen. With snow on top.

Egads.

Looking east from the ramparts at Chez Sarge.

The Christmas cactus in early December.

What a difference a month makes.

'Twas an excellent day for Zuppa Toscana...

...and a superb day to stay inside.

See you soon.



And yes, I am working on the next installment of Panzer 413. Just so you know.

In the Grip of Melancholia

Happens every year around this time, I see my first discarded Christmas tree.

'Tis always a sight which depresses me. While I understand that having a (formerly) live tree in the house when it has become dry and brittle is a fire hazard, that's the practical me, the guy who has to live in the real world like everyone else.

But that is no balm to my inner child.

That little guy wants it to be Christmas the year 'round. Who wants people to live in peace and harmony with one another. That little guy is obviously not a realist.

I wrote about the annual discarding of the Christmas tree last year, which you can read here, if you have a mind to (and you should, for I thought it a very good piece of writing, if'n you don't mind me saying so).

Now that little tree in the opening photo is the tree we celebrated Christmas around on our trip down to Virginia. It wasn't there when we arrived early on Saturday morning, no, it was part of The Nuke's plan to have the parental units along to select the tree, do the Christmas dinner grocery shopping, and a number of other things which needed to be accomplished before Christmas.

After a trip to the Marine Corps Exchange on what the modern military insists on calling "Joint Base Myer," but which to me shall always be Fort Myer, and a quick stop at the The Vineyard for to purchase beverages of an adult nature, it was off to find a tree.

The distaff members of the tribe were eyeing trees in the four to six foot range and bemoaning the fact that they were so expensive, relatively speaking I guess. We haven't purchased a live tree since 1982, so what did I know? That's when my eye fell upon the little guy in the opening photo (and I'm not assuming its gender one way or the other, I tend to use the word "guy" in a unisexual way, much to the frustration of a number of females of my acquaintance) standing along with a number of other hobbit-sized trees. (All from two to three feet in height.)

The Nuke immediately concurred with my desire to have this little tree, pronouncing it perfectly shaped and didn't she know exactly where to put it in her apartment. The Missus Herself thought the asking price a bit much as, "Christmas is two days from now, you'd think they'd have a sale or something," but no, they did not.

As the place was a gardening center (or whatever they're called) it wasn't like they'd all be out of work the day after Christmas, I thought at first. Though after further reflection, many of the employees on site probably were out of a job the day after Christmas, most gardening places I know of shut down the day after Christmas. No doubt after making a lot of money selling Christmas trees and wreathes. Or so one hopes. I often wonder what they do the rest of the winter, until spring when they reopen.

Anyhoo, thinking back on all this, as I do every year, leaves me a bit saddened for I do love Christmas so. While I personally don't consider Christmas over until Epiphany, everyone else around me consider it all said and done by New Year's Eve. I've seen Christmas trees out on the street or in dumpsters on Christmas afternoon! (Though these are probably folks who put the tree up around Thanksgiving.)

Before anyone starts suggesting remedies to this wee bout of post-holiday depression, from which many suffer - mine is a mild case, I assure you, dinna fash yersel' on my behalf. There are times I like to wallow in what I like to call "the sweet sadness," I can't really explain it, it just is. I always snap out of it, usually the first day back at work (which occurs on the 8th of January this year) as I walk to the front door of my place of employment.

Usually marveling at just how fast the vacation went by and trying to remember what the heck I was doing when the order to "down tools" was given back in December.

And so it goes...

Christmas tree made entirely of stacked poinsettias, Reagan National Airport, 29 December 2017. (I thought it delightful!)

'Tis a New Year, So I'm Told...

(Source)

I know what it looks like but sorry, this is not the latest installment in the Panzer 413 saga. (Saga may be a bit overblown for the 47 some odd pages that I have so far, but you know me, I tend to exaggerate at times.) While I have been writing about a battle which took place in the dead of winter back in 1944, right now we're living in the dead of winter, 2018.

I spent some time today going back through the archives, seeing what I had written in past years concerning the changing of the calendar, when one year becomes another. Wasn't much really, then again, this is only sixth time this event has occurred since the inception of The Chant. Odd that it feels like I've been doing this forever, but in reality it's been only five years and ten months. Okay, that's close enough to six years but the reason still hurts, so I don't dwell on it. Much.

But another calendar has come down to be replaced with a new one. We're not just flipping the page but opening a whole new book, so to speak. Will 2018 be any different from 2017? Who knows, I don't prognosticate, nor do I put much faith in the prognostications of others. The ability to see the future is a curse, not a gift. (The ability to pick the right lottery numbers notwithstanding.)

The memories of the just passed Christmas are still warm and fuzzy, the injury to my ankle on Boxing Day aside. It was quiet, it was non-stressful, and it was cozy. It was just Your Humble Scribe, The Missus Herself, The Nuke and her faithful dogs Bear and Kodi. We didn't even really do a fancy meal - "just" steak, asparagus, and baked potato. Fine by me, 'twas the company that was important, not the comestibles. (Though the food was delicious!)

That and eggnog liberally flavored with Maker's Mark. We all got a bit goofy, watched movies on the telly, and played board games, something of a family tradition that latter bit. Some of you might be wondering what games we played. Well, there was Catan and there was The Oregon Trail. Yes, that Oregon Trail, the game of "you've died of dysentery" fame. Which I did when I wasn't dying of snake bite. Twice. Little bastards went straight for the ankle.

No, we never made it to Oregon. Sorry PLQ.

Now Catan is one of those build/resource games, you have to build stuff by using resources, and the resources always seem to be scarce. We played that a lot. It was fun and The Nuke always seemed to win, at least it felt that way and well it is her game innit? I shouldn't brag, but I did win, once. The Missus Herself came close once or twice, but never actually won.

So that was Christmas Day. Of course, Boxing Day put the kibosh on any thoughts of doing any real touristy stuff while in the D.C. area. I wanted to go to the Marine Corps museum, Arlington Cemetery, drive past the White House to see the Christmas tree, go out to Udvar-Hazy where one of those "friends I've never met" was going to be. (Which he did visit, I've seen his photos on koobecaF. Maybe next time Ian.)

So it was hobbled I was for half the visit. Coming home I was wheel chaired down to the gate at Reagan, small jet so I swung from seat to seat to board the plane (seriously, well kind of). When we returned to T.F. Green the car started (of course, the temps were right balmy at that point, still in the 20s they were), and the trip home was uneventful (save for the encounter with the basilisk departing airport parking).

It was a nice, quiet time. Now I'm still on vacation, still bellowing at the neighbors (in my mind of course) to turn their Christmas lights back on, the Christmas season doesn't end until Epiphany! Nope, house by house the world returns to "normal."

Yes, my lights are still lit.

Recycling Resolutions

Not sure I believe in the whole New Year’s resolution effort, for me at least.  I’m sure some people use the occasion of a January post-holiday period to make a new start, for good reasons and hopefully to a good end, but not me.  I’ve either never made a habit of resolutions (making them or following through) or they’ve never worked for me.  Not sure if it’s because I set ones that are too tough to achieve, or I don’t see the value in it.  Probably a little of both, especially because when I do resolve something, it usually involves my weight.  And that’s a standing promise that make after almost every meal, including the ones on January first.  So it’s not a traditional New Year’s resolution, just a lofty goal.

It’s a good resolution nevertheless.  It probably is for a lot of people since as a society we tend to overeat, eat poorly, forgo exercise, or a combination of all three.  I exercise a couple times a week, and keep my fitbit happy on all the other days, but I guess it’s not enough to overcome the other vices. There’s some genetics there too which are also tough to outweigh, pun intended.   As I start writing this on Saturday, I just finished some Parmesan Pesto Gnocci which was delicious, although I realize that I’m full, which means I ate more than I should have.  That’s ok, the next rotation of that resolution doesn’t start until after New Years.

Yes, I'm writing in advance because Sarge gave me New Year's off.  As you can see by Monday's post, Juvat had to work.  It's nice to have seniority in our little union here at the Chant!   Now should that be Juvat had to work or has to work?  Not sure how to write this on Saturday for a Tuesday post).  But I digress.

Source

What else might I resolve in the new year?  How about some things I actually can accomplish?

Facebook.  I need to do less of that for sure.  I can scroll and comment for hours each night as I watch TV, which is fun, but it’s really a time sump.  I could be doing all sorts of more worthwhile activities, like just about anything.  In my defense, I’ve cut waaaaay back, especially on the political postings.  I knew before the election that I wasn’t changing anyone’s mind or vote with my posts, but I did it anyway, mainly as an outlet for my aversion to the leftist policies of the last administration.  Now?  I occasionally post stuff from the Daily Wire, Ben Shapiro mainly.  He's pretty durn smart for a young man of 32- plenty of common sense with his political punditry.

Reading the comments.  I will definitely do less of that.  News articles, blog posts, Facebook posts, etc., all have comments at the end.  The stuff spewed by idiotic leftists (not all lefties, just the idiotic ones), plus the trolls, can make for entertaining reading, but it's a waste of time and they'll tick you off if you let them.  One thing that sucked me into Facebook and political sites during the election cycle was a desire to counter some of these folks with my own fact-based common sense.  I did the same on Facebook with my political posts, spending a ton of energy debating and rebutting.  I found that that too was a waste of time, and totally useless.  Some folks are just too set in their ways and they don't want to learn about why their position might not be as solid as they think.  

Car and Driver.  It’s a magazine I’ve subscribed to pretty much regularly for over 25 years and I really enjoy reading it.  I’ve always been interested in cars and car-tech, and this mag helps whet my appetite for it.  It’s also hilariously well written.  I can tear though a whole issue on a single leg to the east coast, but I rarely travel anymore.  Due to being grounded and other distractions, I haven’t kept up with it as much as I want, so I have a not-so-short stack of them that I need to whittle away on.

Had I been keeping up on my C&D reading, I probably could have told Sarge that while the target market for his Big Girl was dudes 25 and under, he’s fits the current demographic for buyers to a tee.   I don’t know how long he’s had it, but in the long-term test (40K miles), theirs went through two sets of tires, but was thrifty in all other areas of automotive service.  Juvat’s truck?  Even better reviews, which makes it one of C&D’s 10 best.  If you were worried, the staff here at The Chant picks good vehicles.  We’ll see how my Mustang does at 40K miles.  It’ll be 2021 by the time I get there at my current usage though, thanks to my 10 mile commute.  Remind me to write about it.

Ok, I got way digressed there.  Back to my resolutions.

Television.  No, I don't necessarily want to watch less, but maybe better.  I really enjoyed Band Of Brothers and From the Earth to the Moon, and more like that would be good.  I have several shows I have wanted to see for years.  Tom Hanks' The Pacific is one.  I've actually never watched any of Ken Burns' documentaries, like Viet Nam in particular.  It's TV that is probably far better than the mindless entertainment on during prime time.  I've got time since I've dumped Football anyway.

Diet.  I could exercise more and eat a little less.  Did I say that already?  Back in 2013, about nine months before our 20^th anniversary cruise and trip to Italy, I resolved to do that very same thing.  Like I said, it’s always a valiant and worthwhile goal, even if it’s tough to reach.  I wanted to not only lose a little of the weight that I had gained post-retirement, but it also would have served to make room for the food I would eat on the cruise.

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How did it work out?  Kind of like it does every year.  As my cousin puts it, weight gain is a one-way trip.  Our 25^th is coming up later in 2018 and walking around Europe would be a little easier if I was a little lighter.  Not that I'm struggling with mobility, but lighter is better.  We’ll see how it goes.  It’s not going to happen if I keep doing what I’m doing.   Maybe I could get a prescription for a round of chemo.

In general, I don’t feel much of a need for resolutions.  I’m pretty satisfied with how things are going.   Bills are in check, health is good, wife is happy, plenty of friends, no enemies, conscience is clear.  I could do a little more for others on the charity side of things though.  That’s a good goal, and different from the self-improvement ones like weight loss.  The fraternal organization I belong to has a ton of old guys we don’t hear from very often.  Reaching out to them is a good start.  

Anyway, it's New Year's Eve now as I finish this post, so here’s to your resolutions.  May they be lofty, but easily accomplished.  Me?  I'm heading to the gym, but let me get something to eat first.  

Happy New Year to all the Chanters. 

Wishing You All A...

Sarge

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Tuna

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Juvat

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LUSH

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Yup, a New Year's Day Two-Fer.