... about service dogs working with Marines in Iraq and Afghanistan. Written by Maria Goodavage, copyright 2014, subtitled: 'The Story of Marine Hero Lucca'. Goodavage has written another book, in the same vein, titled "Soldier Dogs", which I assume is about Army working dogs.
this one, that I just finished was randomly picked up off the shelf at the library, and read while traveling in talking book form. I enjoyed this story so much, about a Staff Sargent and his dog, Lucca, I will request the other book to read as well.
SSgt. Chris Willingham trained Lucca, and spent two deployments with her, working to clear IEDs and searching for explosive materiel as well as finding many weapons caches and high value human targets. I heard/read that most of the dogs the military uses are bred in Europe and often shepherds or Belgian Malinois or a mix. Willingham eventually became a kennel master for USMC, turning Lucca over to another handler, Cpl. Rodriguez. Rod continued to work the dog, as they served with Special Forces and regular infantry on missions. Lucca was a well-loved, easily liked, even tempered canine, hard working member of patrols, with remarkable results, good finds, great protection for the teams she worked with.
There are heart-wrenching personal stories here: of dogs and Marines who came home in body bags. And beautiful uplifting tales of many occasions that the service canines did the jobs they were trained for, preserving and protecting our service men. Lucca was ultimately injured in Afghanistan, and retired. (During the Vietnam era, the dogs who served in southeast Asia were usually euthanized.) Chris kept informed about her, and after she was discharged, Lucca was adopted by the Willingham family.
Wednesday, December 21, 2016
Tuesday, December 20, 2016
while waiting in line...
...in the cold and dark of the parking lot in front of Best Buy this morning. I heard that people who had purchased that rare bit of frivolity earlier, were selling it on e-bay for quadruple the price. And a man stood outside the door, while we were awaiting our turn to enter one by one, waving cash in an effort to purchase the item.
The price at the register was $59.99 plus tax. Mr. Man, waving Thomas Jefferson's portrait at us was offering eighty bucks. I suggested to him he would have a better chance if he came back with Ben Franklin. He was still there, in the line, with his cash, hoping someone would take his offer of $80. Those fortunate thirty souls who were allowed to purchase the gaming device mostly waited to get the boxed goods rather than come back. We were told that if there were any left at 11:00, that people who had the lucky numbers failed to return to follow through on the purchase, they would be available on a first come-first serve basis.
So now, we are all curious? Wondering if the man who was willing to fork over the four Jeffersons was fortunate enough to get the game? Oddly enough, by the time we got in the store, I did not want mine any longer, but sold it for $55 (and a bowl of hot grits for breakfast) to the person who lured me out into the dark and cold at 5 a.m.
The price at the register was $59.99 plus tax. Mr. Man, waving Thomas Jefferson's portrait at us was offering eighty bucks. I suggested to him he would have a better chance if he came back with Ben Franklin. He was still there, in the line, with his cash, hoping someone would take his offer of $80. Those fortunate thirty souls who were allowed to purchase the gaming device mostly waited to get the boxed goods rather than come back. We were told that if there were any left at 11:00, that people who had the lucky numbers failed to return to follow through on the purchase, they would be available on a first come-first serve basis.
So now, we are all curious? Wondering if the man who was willing to fork over the four Jeffersons was fortunate enough to get the game? Oddly enough, by the time we got in the store, I did not want mine any longer, but sold it for $55 (and a bowl of hot grits for breakfast) to the person who lured me out into the dark and cold at 5 a.m.
MY little red hen story...
... consists of reporting the effort required to get the annual Christmas Letter in the mail. I am quite pleased with myself, having gotten it done and on its way in record time. Starting with addressing the envelopes in order to know how many copies of the letter I would need to print. When purchasing seasonal stationary in the past, I thought the pack came with one hundred sheets of paper. But last year, when at the office supply store, the shrink wrapped packages with cute holly borders or amusing strings of colorful lights only had eighty sheets. Is that crazy, or what? Yes.
Hoping to not need more than 80, I began address envelopes, long before the letter was actually composed. Finding that there were really fewer than that, so even the skimpy number was sufficient. I got the envelopes ready, stamped, adding return address, and amusing holiday decorations to each. Counted, and decided seventy would be enough (later going for the full eighty). Got them all in the mail last week, to be delivered by the USPS.
I was actually leaving the building at church (where I used the copier) last Wednesday, having folded, with help from a friend, inserted in envelopes and licked them shut. When the mail man came by with his daily delivery. I stood in the parking lot and raised my hand to demonstrate that the 'flag is up' on my invisible mailbox, and gave them directly to the mailman to speed them on their way. Then I thought of several more people who I wanted to inform, so put the last of them in the mail before the end of the week.
All this to say: I bought the envelopes, tediously hand-addressed each one, bought the holiday postage stamps (no licking required), bought the stationary, composed the letter, took it to be copied, paid for the copies, folded the eighty letters, put them in the envelopes, licked the flap, closed them up, handed them to the postman. I decided several years ago I would not send letters reporting on happenings of family members no longer present at my current location. Practicing saying: 'if you want news about them, you need to go to the source.'
After industriously providing all the information in the preceding paragraph, I do not feel compelled to allow the Man Who Lives Here a reading of the Christmas Letter. He can, if he wishes, compose and send out his own version of yearly activities. At some point, I expect he will receive some commentary/feedback from someone who has read The Letter, and wonder: ????
Hoping to not need more than 80, I began address envelopes, long before the letter was actually composed. Finding that there were really fewer than that, so even the skimpy number was sufficient. I got the envelopes ready, stamped, adding return address, and amusing holiday decorations to each. Counted, and decided seventy would be enough (later going for the full eighty). Got them all in the mail last week, to be delivered by the USPS.
I was actually leaving the building at church (where I used the copier) last Wednesday, having folded, with help from a friend, inserted in envelopes and licked them shut. When the mail man came by with his daily delivery. I stood in the parking lot and raised my hand to demonstrate that the 'flag is up' on my invisible mailbox, and gave them directly to the mailman to speed them on their way. Then I thought of several more people who I wanted to inform, so put the last of them in the mail before the end of the week.
All this to say: I bought the envelopes, tediously hand-addressed each one, bought the holiday postage stamps (no licking required), bought the stationary, composed the letter, took it to be copied, paid for the copies, folded the eighty letters, put them in the envelopes, licked the flap, closed them up, handed them to the postman. I decided several years ago I would not send letters reporting on happenings of family members no longer present at my current location. Practicing saying: 'if you want news about them, you need to go to the source.'
After industriously providing all the information in the preceding paragraph, I do not feel compelled to allow the Man Who Lives Here a reading of the Christmas Letter. He can, if he wishes, compose and send out his own version of yearly activities. At some point, I expect he will receive some commentary/feedback from someone who has read The Letter, and wonder: ????
little red hen story...
... that you may remember from reading in grade school. One of those tales, like Aesops' Fables, meant to be absorbed as wisdom for the ages. Intended to serve as instruction for the youthful, who, while they are mesmerized by hearing of talking animals, will hopefully, ultimately, come to grasp the 'moral' of industrious labor, versus being a lazy ner'-do-well.
If the basic premise escapes your memory: (I have not read it in fifty years, so no need to correct me if this is not 100%, as I am just thinking about the end and presuming to get the basics in order...) She planted, watered, weeded and harvested the grain to make a loaf of bread. All the laggards and lazybones that she encountered in the course of her efforts would not be persuaded to provide assistance. When she harvested her wheat to take it to the miller, they lounged and laughed. She went home to bake,and they all scoffed. When she was ready to eat her bread, they all showed up with their bibs tied around their neck, but she declined all their offers of help.
This tale and others, likely take many forms in folk tales around the world, as varied cultures will retell the basic story using native wildlife, adapting to different environments. Being told by the elders through the centuries as a way of passing along wisdom to the next generations, handed down over the years in traditional oral histories before people stored words in written form. And the idea behind the tales, teaching youth to value time spent listening, absorbing the wisdom, and developing character needed for mature living, still applies today.
If the basic premise escapes your memory: (I have not read it in fifty years, so no need to correct me if this is not 100%, as I am just thinking about the end and presuming to get the basics in order...) She planted, watered, weeded and harvested the grain to make a loaf of bread. All the laggards and lazybones that she encountered in the course of her efforts would not be persuaded to provide assistance. When she harvested her wheat to take it to the miller, they lounged and laughed. She went home to bake,and they all scoffed. When she was ready to eat her bread, they all showed up with their bibs tied around their neck, but she declined all their offers of help.
This tale and others, likely take many forms in folk tales around the world, as varied cultures will retell the basic story using native wildlife, adapting to different environments. Being told by the elders through the centuries as a way of passing along wisdom to the next generations, handed down over the years in traditional oral histories before people stored words in written form. And the idea behind the tales, teaching youth to value time spent listening, absorbing the wisdom, and developing character needed for mature living, still applies today.
up in the dark again....
...when I agreed to go to wait in the cold at Best Buy to get a bargain. On good authority, I understood that people who would stand for hours on the sidewalk for hours in the freezing temperatures for hours would be permitted to buy some silly piece of electronics for an amazing price. Not only was it a stupendous bargain, there is a Very Limited Supply, so you had to be there waiting, near the head of the line in order to the one of the Fortunate Few. Allowed to come into the warm toasty store and participate in the conspicuous consumerism that has become our national anthem.
The Original Plan was to get up early enough to be there at four a.m. Which is really not all that difficult for me, as there are days I set my alarm to get me into work at 5 o'clock. But in a sudden rush of wisdom, better judgment had us leaving the house shortly after five, wearing many layers, with blankets, warm beverages, prepared to wait. We had a folding chair, and set ourselves up on the side walk behind about two dozen other early arrivals. At some point, I overheard a mention of someone having waited in line since 2:00. So, putting this foolish behavior in perspective: we were not nearly as crazy as some, in the unlikely event there are Degrees of Crazy.
A number of people came along after we did, patiently waiting there in the cold wind, calmly que-ed up on the sidewalk, and out into the parking lot of the big box. So I guesstimate that there were maybe sixty people there when the store employee came out at 6:30, with a sheaf of papers in hand. She had numbered the copies of the sale circular she passed out, from 1 to 30, meaning that only thirty of this particular highly desirable item were shipped to this store. How fortuitous, that we were numbers 27 and 28.
We were told that we could come back later and with the 'golden ticket', could get the piece of engineered plastic for the wonderful low price after the store opened at 8 o'clock. So there was the option of going home to take a nap. Which was not really feasible for someone unaccustomed to drinking coffee and loaded with caffeine. Or we could go sit in the car and warm up, wait till store cashiers started arriving, when the lucky thirty early arrivals would be admitted one-by-one to make a single purchase.
The guy who was number 31 was overheard as saying:' I had been standing here a while, then went out to sit in my car and warm up. I looked up to see these other people (meaning us: # 27 and # 28, and the two guys behind us: 29 and 30) come up and get in line, and decided I better get back out there.' Can you even begin to imagine how sad, frustrated and p@**$d off that guy must be?
driving across georgia...
... in the dark yesterday. And on into SC to visit my pen pal and cousin who actually live in fairly close proximity. If you are a frequent reader, and keep up with my travels you know I try to go to SC once a month to visit that sweet, amusing 93 3/4 year old man in Greenville. He served with my dad in the Army during the Big War.
Got up at 4, and left home about 5:00 a.m., to try to get into the city before the millions of vehicles on the highways got so clumped together in a huge wad, that nothing was moving. I do dearly despise that awful traffic, and have told the people there that if not for folks I love who choose to live in that mess, I would never, ever go. I would like to believe my skills are getting better, but honestly, it is more likely that I am just a wee bit less intimidated and fearful due to proximity. In a perfect world, there would be a secret passageway, like the tunnel the drug smugglers use to get their evil product from Mexico into the States, or underground route for kingpins to mysteriously disappear from high security cells.
I picked up a passenger in Decatur, and started out for SC about 9. Had a nice visit with the guy who never met a stranger. It helps of course, that everywhere he goes he is wearing one of many baseball caps that have "WW II Veteran" embroidered on the front. It is such a delight to be out in public with him and have so many people walk up, thank him for service, and want to shake his hand, often telling about family members who are vets.
Went down to Simpsonville to visit the cousin, who met us for a meal and laughs. She'd been to visit her family in Montana, and enjoyed time with cute, funny little people. With photos on her phone (as does everyone on the planet except me) of peeps that live in the land of ice and snow. We got back on the road to return to the city around 6 p.m. One hundred miles in the dark from home to Decatur, 160 miles to Greenville and another 160 back into town. Not much worse than driving to south GA and back in one day, but then....
Sunday, December 18, 2016
letter from a friend...
...with a hilarious line worth repeating. You may not be as amused as I was, but I found it so spot on, I laughed out loud when I opened the 'Wilkes Christmas Letter 2016' and started reading. Where I found:
"Our family has enjoyed another excellent year - all are well, no one was admitted, committed or arrested this year!" Sounds to me like they are all happy, prosperous and not incarcerated.
It is so amusing, I am already planning my Christmas letter for next December. Starting off with being thankful that none have been: all the above as well as requiring a autopsy, provided of course, all those things are true.
"Our family has enjoyed another excellent year - all are well, no one was admitted, committed or arrested this year!" Sounds to me like they are all happy, prosperous and not incarcerated.
It is so amusing, I am already planning my Christmas letter for next December. Starting off with being thankful that none have been: all the above as well as requiring a autopsy, provided of course, all those things are true.
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