Sign Me Up: m r ducks

Translation (for the un-southern):

Them are ducks.

Them are not.

Oh yes they are.

Well I'll be!

Them ARE ducks.

=0=0=0=

Happy Thursday

Their memory is one of wondrous beauty

 Let civilian voices argue the merits or demerits of our processes of government. Whether our strength is being sapped by deficit financing indulged in too long, by federal paternalism grown too mighty, by power groups grown too arrogant, by politics grown too corrupt, by crime grown too rampant, by morals grown too low, by taxes grown too high, by extremists grown too violent; whether our personal liberties are as firm and complete as they should be.

These great national problems are not for your professional participation or military solution. Your guidepost stands out like a tenfold beacon in the night: Duty, Honor, Country. 

 You are the leaven which binds together the entire fabric of our national system of defense. From your ranks come the great captains who hold the Nation's destiny in their hands the moment the war tocsin sounds.

The long gray line has never failed us. Were you to do so, a million ghosts in olive drab, in brown khaki, in blue and gray, would rise from their white crosses, thundering those magic words: Duty, Honor, Country.

 This does not mean that you are warmongers. On the contrary, the soldier above all other people prays for peace, for he must suffer and bear the deepest wounds and scars of war. But always in our ears ring the ominous words of Plato, that wisest of all philosophers: Only the dead have seen the end of war.

The shadows are lengthening for me. The twilight is here. My days of old have vanished -- tone and tints. They have gone glimmering through the dreams of things that were. Their memory is one of wondrous beauty, watered by tears and coaxed and caressed by the smiles of yesterday. I listen then, but with thirsty ear, for the witching melody of faint bugles blowing reveille, of far drums beating the long roll. 

 In my dreams I hear again the crash of guns, the rattle of musketry, the strange, mournful mutter of the battlefield. But in the evening of my memory I come back to West Point. Always there echoes and re-echoes: Duty, Honor, Country.

Today marks my final roll call with you. But I want you to know that when I cross the river, my last conscious thoughts will be of the Corps, and the Corps, and the Corps.

I bid you farewell.

= General Douglas MacArthur =

Excerpted from his speech at West Point ~ May 12, 1962

=0=0=0=

Happy Monday ~ Happy Memorial Day ~ Happy Week

=0=0=0=

Photos :: Memphis National Cemetery, Memphis, Tennessee

SkyWatch Friday: Blue on the Ridge

One day last week my daughter and I tooled up and over to the tiny but charming Town of Ridgeway, in Fairfield County.

From Columbia, you hie onto I-77 North, pretend you're going all the way to Charlotte (or beyond), then veer off when you see the sign for Highway 34.

You take that road due east, think one or two happy thoughts, and voilà, you are in the stomping grounds of Pig on the Ridge and other succulent and quasi-bucolic delights.

In other words: America ... the beautiful, the quintessential.

There is Laura's Tea Room, a/k/a The Thomas Company, LLC, housed in an exquisite vintage building with an original Philco sign decorating the front.

There, we enjoyed sandwiches that were pretty good although I must say two things to the proprietors:

If you're going to theme your menu after a BBC megahit as popular as Downton Abbey (note the conspicuous "e" in Abbey) -- going so far as to name menu items after its characters -- learn to spell the names correctly.

Why else do we have an Internet? Heaven knows it's good for little else than research.

Well ... except, of course, with the exception of access to this exceptional blog. I will thank you not to snicker.

While you're at it, look up what a Monte Cristo sandwich actually is. As in, how it must be prepared in order to legitimately bear the name of that particular delicacy.

I don't mind paying eight ninety-five for a Monte Cristo provided that is truly what's provided. Even with two paltry sides.

Hint: It involves dredging said sammie through beaten egg and frying in a pan, like French toast.

However, I hasten to add that the Mr. Carson's Cuban was pretty good. Kudos on the Cuban.

My daughter and I shared. Can you tell? Don't be jeal.

But I digress.

After lunch my girl and I stroll-moseyed up and down Palmer Street -- comprising what remains of downtown Ridgeway -- enjoying the fine day, taking pictures of gloriously ordinary things, and shopping at Over the Top.

I tried on several hats -- you know I'm a sucker for millinery -- but did not consider buying one.

Our efforts did yield a dress for me and a necklace for her. And we made a new friend, who packaged our purchases so adorably, it was like a gift.

Quitting that fashion emporium, we window-shopped the rest of the way.

We chuckled at the whimsical Old Police Station (1940-1990), where I imagine even one as physically insubstantial as Barney Fife would have room enough to just barely turn around and (carefully) make one ill-fated decision at a time.

No room for Andy and a desk. Forget the jail cells.

Even so, Barney would most certainly be obliged to go outside in order to change his mind.

The whole thing doesn't offer much more square footage than the phone booth (remember those?) stationed beside the new Ridgeway Police Department building a few dozen yards away.

Which itself is not exactly spacious. I have seen larger walk-in closets.

But I don't imagine there's a great deal of crime in Ridgeway.

Still on foot, we cruised past Cotton Yard Market, a consignment and antique shop so crammed with treasure, the trove spills onto the sidewalk.

As a result of our brief wanderings and watchings, free for nothing, we gleaned that rare pleasure that comes from the feeling that one has succeeded in placing at least a pinky-toe backwards in time.

You know: Where Things Were Better. Simpler. Slower. Less Complicated. More Innocent.

Like when you contemplate the old-fashioned Tin Man-esque water tower.

I love those from every angle.

I'll take that light reminiscent touch, although I know full well it is a mirage, a thin veil beyond which timeless reality is in staunch residence, resolute as ever.

Even on a brief sojourn in a town like Ridgeway, one feels it at the edges if not at the very core.

A peeling black-clad angel, planted just beyond a low retaining wall, met our glance on the way back to Highway 34, the Interstate, and Columbia.

Naturally we stopped and I took her picture, and listened to what she had to say.

I was prettier once. It was better once. Everything was prettier and better once ... she seemed to whisper.

And that's how I remember it too.

But even if I didn't, on an almost-summer day in a drowsy sun-drenched southern town thirty-five miles northeast of home, you can buy into it without even trying.

The friendly people, the sweet air, the plentiful flowers, and the soaring blue of the sky certainly help.

And that is all for now.

God bless America.

=0=0=0=

Happy Friday ~ Happy Memorial Day Weekend

=0=0=0=

Sign Me Up :: *crickets*

We Worms Sell and Crickets

If you say so.

=0=0=0=

Happy Wednesday

SkyWatch Friday: Blue Angels Bliss

My son, Airman Andrew, USAF, serves as a Boom Operator (In-Flight Refueling Technician) for the Tennessee Air National Guard.

That means that nearly every day, he is in the air over the United States (usually in the Southeast, at least so far), manning the boom of a KC-135 Stratotanker, filling up everything from F-16 fighters to C-17 transports.

It's like a flying filling station. Andrew is the fuel pump jockey.

On Wednesday this week, Andrew refueled a bevy of gorgeous blue Boeing F/A-18 Hornets being flown by the Blue Angels, the U.S. Navy Flight Demonstration Squadron.

Somewhere in the airspace between Columbia (Andrew often flies to South Carolina from McGhee Tyson Air National Guard Base in Knoxville and circles over our heads, working) and Washington DC, he took this picture:

How's that for some wild blue yonder?

The Angels were en route to an air show in Rhode Island.

After the six thirsty birds were full, they put on a mini show for the stratotanker flight crew.

Brought to you courtesy of Airman Andrew and the 134th Air Refueling Wing, Tennessee Air National Guard.

God Bless America

=0=0=0=

Happy Friday