The New American Digest

The morning after …

It may be that I’m “camping” right about here as you read this. Probably not – but maybe …
First time back in these parts in at least a decade.

I grew up in lake country … or maybe it was better described as patches of high ground in a big swamp. Warm ice filled depressions left behind after Global Warming melted all the glaciers hereabouts.

This was one of those lakes. Lots of them around here.
Had a name but who knew it? Who cared? It was the place …
“… out where the road tees off by Grass Lake. Turn right, take the next left – about ½ mile down on the right“

One of the places where the ghosts of my past make themselves known. Parties on the “beach” – beach being where the undergrowth along the shore had been trampled down to sand. Someone may have brought a keg. Or two. Someone’s field got raided again for fresh sweet corn. Hand-rolled somethings by the campfire – bottle being passed around. Maybe a game of poker played on a stump. Skinny-dipping in the midnight waters.

Giggles in the night.

Must have built immunity up from the mosquitoes …

Then it was getting light again …

17 was a good age …

I was ready to make a career out of the army before I got home from Viet Nam and saw the peace-time army start ginning up.  They were throwing out NCO’s left and right who were good enough to get shot at and shot up, but who also had a hiccup here and there on their record and so weren’t judged good enough for the “new” army. 

One example was my platoon sergeant. He’d done three tours in Viet Nam, got shot up several times, had spent months in the hospital recuperating, and was Ranger, Pathfinder and a Master Parachutist and wore the Combat Infantryman’s Badge with one star because before Viet Nam, he had been to the Dominican Republic and got shot at there as well. God knows what all other awards, in addition to being the best troop leader I knew in the service. But he and another young paratrooper had gotten in trouble for fighting in 1960, and despite all that blood and good work afterwards, did not make the cut to be retained in the post-Viet Nam army. His replacement couldn’t lead a hamburger into a paper bag.

I was young and dumb and had made sergeant before my nineteenth birthday, and took all this personally, and decided I wasn’t gonna invest another ten or fifteen years of my life only to get tossed out with all retirement benefits cancelled, like his were. So, I got out and never really looked back, or so I thought. I was proud to have served but wanted no more of it. Fini Veet Nom, fini army, and good riddance, as far as I was concerned. 

Then one day in October 1983, I got home from work, popped open a beer, flopped down on the couch, turned on the TV and started clicking through the channels.  CNN came up and was going berserk because Regan had invaded Grenada.  I leapt up off the couch and screamed “I’VE BEEN LEFT BEHIND!”

Where in the hell did THAT come from? 

I have no idea.

“The journey is the destination“
“Slow down, stop and smell the roses“

Yep – I know all that … but
sometimes the destination is the journey.

When I head cross-country, I’m usually running a tight schedule. Just because I don’t fly doesn’t mean I’m lollygaggling along. I’m finding my ability to drive straight through 30+ hours has diminished somewhat so I need to stop occasionally and take a nap.

Road trips are less of an adventure these days, and more of an endurance test.
But I don’t really want to stop and find a motel and pay upwards of $100 or more for essentially a short nap.

So I find a nice exit ramp in the middle of nowhere, pull off, slip between the truckers on the on ramps, and do whatever needs to be done.

Then – at first light – do what needs to be done next.

And this is probably what I’m doing as you read this …