Goals and Milestones
July 2017
By: Garland Davis

“How Swift are the feet of the days of the years of youth”— Mark Twain

We each strive to achieve many goals as we move along life’s highway. The Navy and Chief Petty Officer come to mind. When the girl you have fallen in love with accepts your proposal. Earning a Bachelor’s Degree as a member of the Dean’s List. Being chosen as class Valedictorian although I would be at sea off the coast of Viet Nam when graduation was held. Being instrumental in winning the Edward F. Ney Award, not once but twice. Retiring from the Navy. There are many more that make up the entire list.

I will achieve a new milestone this month. A new personal best. I will have lived longer than ever before. I will have completed another year of life. I will become seventy-three years old on the 18th. July 19th, is also another important anniversary. I enlisted in the Navy fifty-six years ago in 1961.

Many people have lived longer and many others died much younger. I always thought I would be among the latter. I have ancestors that lived well into their nineties and, as it turned out, I may have lived that long under different circumstances. Hell, I may still make it but, the Parkinson’s disease will probably take me before I reach my nineties. I leave no progeny to carry on this line of the Davis clan. I am one of those branches of the tree that ceases to grow and drops off.

I cannot say that it has been an exceptional seventy-three years when compared with the lives and accomplishments of others. Some may think that I squandered opportunities or misused the potential to do much more. But as Sinatra said it in his song, “I Did It My Way.” I consider one of my great achievements something that is given to a very few when measured against the entirety of the population. I served for thirty years and became a Chief Petty Officer in the United States Navy. Life in the Navy and as a Chief Petty Officer showed me that two of the paramount achievements of humanity are the twin concepts of “loyalty” and “duty.”

The psychologists say that humans tend to remember successes, happiness, and pleasure. They conveniently forget or repress failures, sadness, and discomfort. Probably a good thing. It would, no doubt, drive me crazy if I only dwelt on the negatives of my life. Am I proud of all that I did during the past seventy-two years? No, I am not! Am I ashamed of some things that I did? Probably should be, but I just can’t find it. I’ve learned to not worry myself when I make a mistake. Just correct it as best I can and learn from it. Don’t lose any sleep over it. Never blame Garland Davis on anyone but Garland Davis!

I have spent my life reading. Fictions, biographies, histories, religious texts, comics, and comments on head bulkheads, the writings of storytellers, scientists, philosophers, clerics, funny page cartoonists, and disgruntled shit house humorists, I have found as much truth in “Calvin and Hobbes” as I did in Plato and Nietzsche. I believe that sin lies only in hurting another person unnecessarily. Other “sins” are invented bovine excrement. Hurting yourself isn’t sinful. It is stupid. In all my reading and discussions with others, I haven’t found any conclusive evidence of life after death, nor have I found evidence of any sort against it. I figure I will know soon enough. I can wait!

Having devoted a large part of the past seventy-three years to an avid interest in history, I have reached the conclusion that any generation which ignores history has no past. Nor does it have a future. College graduates today know less of history than I did as a third-grade student in a 1950’s rural North Carolina country school. It doesn’t bode well for this generation or the country. For some reason, the educational beauracracy equates government directed public schooling and large amounts of tax money lining their pockets as the be all and end all of learning. How’s that working out for the students?

When one reaches my age, that person is considered a wise senior whose advice and insights are valuable. Isn’t it amazing how closely “mature wisdom” resembles tired and lazy? I didn’t pay a lot of attention to the “Old Farts” when I was younger and I doubt today’s younger generation will listen to what I must say. But, what follows is some advice, some insights, and a few things I have learned.

I tell you, it is a great world because there are girls in it! Sex should be loving, warm and friendly. Otherwise, do it yourself. Masturbation is cheap, clean, convenient, and free of any possibility of wrongdoing–and you don’t have to go home in the cold and dark. But it is lonely as hell. I have found that it is better to copulate than not. Flowers sometimes work well as an aphrodisiac, but experience shows that money always works better. “I came, I saw, she conquered.” (The original Latin was garbled and misinterpreted). I have also learned that all men are not created equal.

Marry above yourself! It will motivate you to become a better man. Marry for love and strive to become the best friend of the girl/woman you take as a bride. For without friendship, love can easily become hate and you may reach my point in life as a bitter old man. The other great accomplishment of my life was marrying the woman I did fifty-one years ago (fifty-two next month). She is a good woman, my best friend—And I love her very much.

Get a dog or two! They will love you and in times of loss they can heal your heart and you will never be lonely. You can learn a lot from how dogs interact with people and other dogs. If you have children, remember the quote from Mr. Peabody, “Every dog should have a boy.” And I add “or a girl.” The time will come when the dog’s life must end. Be a man, hold it in your arms and tell it how great a dog it was when the time comes to send it onward. I have had seven dogs in my life and I am a better person for knowing them.

Watch as little TV as possible! It will rot your brain. The television networks spent a large part of the 1950’s developing the TV industry; pioneering programming ideas and techniques. The effluviant they offer today shows that they learned nothing and have actually regressed. “The Howdy Doody Show” was a better program than much of the crap they pass off as inspired television programming today. Television has replaced books and the art of reading and has contributed to the dumbing down of humanity. I treasure the years spent in the South China Sea and Asia away from the inane, brain numbing offerings of the American television industry.

Never say no to beer! Cold beer is always appropriate! The fastest method of chilling a case of beer is four gallons of water, fourteen pounds of ice and about five pounds of salt. Cover the beer with water and ice, stir in the salt and within six minutes you have some perfectly chilled beer. I spent many years as a cook and baker and, believe it or not, this is one of my favorite recipes!

Laugh whenever possible! Look for humor and embrace it. You feel better after a good laugh. The doctors say that laughter is healthy and Reader’s Digest claims that it is the best medicine. Who knows? You too may live to see seventy-three!

Do everything in excess! Take big bites. Drink from the large mug. Enjoy life. Moderation is for clerics, monks, nuns, and the faint of heart. Yield to temptations, you may not get the chance again. Avoid important decisions while tired or hungry. You may regret it.

And you know, in retrospect, my life is, and was, fun. If I had it to live over, I don’t think I would change one thing. Changing it would change me, making me a different person. A person I might not like as well as I do this one.

The Bible says in Psalm 90:10 “The days of our years are threescore years and ten.” Seventy years are all that is promised. I guess that puts the next seventy on me!

I’ll end this diatribe with a quote from another “wise senior” who is no longer with us. “Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away.” —George Carlin

How the Royal Navy Fed Its Sailors Over 200 Years Ago

An army marches on its stomach, and while a Navy sails on the sea, its sailors still need feeding. In the 1790s and early 1800s, the Royal Navy had to provide rations for over 100,000 men, with no refrigeration, modern preservatives, or packaging. This proved to be a difficult task, but one which the Victualling Board tackled head on, providing their sailors with a hearty, if not diverse diet.

To better understand how the sailing men ate at the time, let us take a single ship as a case study.

In 1800 HMS Arethusa and her 280 men were sailing out of Portsmouth and had full access to the Admiralty’s stores. As she was so close to home, her crew would likely have eaten by-the-book rations, with very little being substituted due to scarcity.

Of the 280 men, each of the ordinary sailors were formed into messes. This was the necessary administrative grouping of sailors, but functionally, it was with whom they ate. Each week a man from each mess would be made the mess cook. He would assist the ship’s cook, collect and prepare his mess’s rations. His day started early, to produce breakfast.

Each morning, the stoves would be warmed up. The breakfast ration, usually oatmeal, would have been soaking the night before, so it only required warming up. At 8 bells on the morning watch (8 AM) the oatmeal was dished out.

It was often sweetened with molasses, sugar, honey, or whatever else might be on board. Oatmeal was never unpopular, but the men preferred eggs or meat, if available. Oatmeal or whatever else, the men had 45 minutes to eat and then return to their working duties.

Immediately after breakfast, preparations for dinner, the noon meal, began. This usually consisted of meat, which brought its own problems. The only reliable method to preserve meat was heavily salting it. This allowed the meat rations to last for months at a time, but it was inedible straight out of the barrel.

Each man was allocated one pound of pork on Sunday, and Thursday; and two pounds of beef on Tuesday and Saturday. Each time this was to be served, though, it had to be carefully prepared.

Oak barrels like this would have been used to store everything from biskets to salt pork for long sea voyages. They could also be used as soaking vats to desalt their meat. Nillerdk – CC BY-SA 3.0

The meat was soaked in fresh water for hours, with the water being frequently changed. This got it to the point of being edible, but still somewhat salty. The meat would then be boiled, or if a ship’s cook was kind, lightly fried or grilled. It could also be made into a lobscouse, or stew, cooked with potatoes, onions, and anything else the crew could scrounge.

It was served with a pound of ship’s biscuit. Hard, ¼ pound disks of flour, baked 2 or 3 times until all moisture was completely gone. The men would soak these, usually breaking them into their stews, or letting them soak up the juices from their meat ration.

The meal would also be served with a tot (alcohol ration). On Arethusa, the tot was most likely beer, as being so close to home it was easily acquired. Each man was allowed a gallon per day, keeping them happy and full, if a little drunk!

Dinner was expected to last around 1.5 hours, enough time for the men to feel full, and ready to return to their arduous work.

Next came supper; usually a pudding, made of flour, suet or butter, and raisins. The men could add whatever fruit they may have bought in port, or any meat left over from their rations.

The puddings were shaped into balls and then placed in a linen or cotton bag to be boiled. This produced a soft, filling, and often sweet meal, which did not take much effort to make.

Like breakfast, supper would last 45 minutes, after which the men might return to work, or perhaps dance and skylark on the deck.

In all, Royal Navy sailors consumed an average of around 5,000 calories a day, well above today’s suggested average. At the time, their workload required such a high intake. Men were expected to work 12 hour days, including being on watch duty in the middle of the night.

An average day would consist of climbing the rigging to adjust sails, moving vast and heavy equipment around the deck, and long hours of gun drills. More than enough to burn all 5,000 calories.

What is more, the men had no reliable protection against the weather, burning many of the calories just to keep warm!

This diet lasted for most of the 19th century and did not drastically change until steam powered refrigeration allowed for more variety in meals onboard.

Independence Day 2018

Action of Second Continental Congress,

July 4, 1776.

The unanimous Declaration of the thirteen United States of America,

WHEN in the Course of human Events, it becomes necessary for one People to dissolve the Political Bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the Powers of the Earth, the separate and equal Station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature’s God entitle them, a decent Respect to the Opinions of Mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the Separation.

WE hold these Truths to be self-evident, that all Men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness—That to secure these Rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just Powers from the Consent of the Governed, that whenever any form of Government becomes destructive of these Ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its Foundation on such Principles, and organizing its Powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient Causes; and accordingly all Experience hath shewn, that Mankind are more disposed to suffer, while Evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long Train of Abuses and Usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object, evinces a Design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their Right, it is their Duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future Security. Such has been the patient Sufferance of these Colonies; and such is now the Necessity which constrains them to alter their former Systems of Government. The History of the present King of Great-Britain is a History of repeated Injuries and Usurpations, all having in direct Object the Establishment of an absolute Tyranny over these States. To prove this, let Facts be submitted to a candid World.

He has refused his Assent to Laws, the most wholesome and necessary for the public Good.

He has forbidden his Governors to pass Laws of immediate and pressing Importance, unless suspended in their Operation till his Assent should be obtained; and when so suspended, he has utterly neglected to attend to them.

He has refused to pass other Laws for the Accommodation of large Districts of People, unless those People would relinquish the Right of Representation in the Legislature, a Right inestimable to them, and formidable to Tyrants only.

He has called together Legislative Bodies at Places unusual, uncomfortable, and distant from the Depository of their public Records, for the sole Purpose of fatiguing them into Compliance with his Measures.

He has dissolved Representative Houses repeatedly, for opposing with manly Firmness his Invasions on the Rights of the People.

He has refused for a long Time, after such Dissolutions, to cause others to be elected; whereby the Legislative Powers, incapable of Annihilation, have returned to the People at large for their exercise; the State remaining in the mean time exposed to all the Dangers of Invasion from without, and Convulsions within.

He has endeavoured to prevent the Population of these States; for that Purpose obstructing the Laws for Naturalization of foreigners; refusing to pass others to encourage their Migrations hither, and raising the Conditions of new Appropriations of Lands.

He has obstructed the Administration of Justice, by refusing his assent to Laws for establishing Judiciary Powers.

He has made Judges dependent on his Will alone, for the Tenure of their Offices, and the Amount and Payment of their Salaries.

He has erected a Multitude of new Offices, and sent hither Swarms of Officers to harrass our People, and eat out their Substance.

He has kept among us, in Times of Peace, Standing Armies, without the consent of our Legislatures.

He has affected to render the Military independent of and superior to the Civil Power.

He has combined with others to subject us to a Jurisdiction foreign to our Constitution, and unacknowledged by our Laws; giving his Assent to their Acts of pretended Legislation:

For quartering large Bodies of Armed Troops among us:

For protecting them, by a mock Trial, from Punishment for any Murders which they should commit on the Inhabitants of these States:

For cutting off our Trade with all Parts of the World:

For imposing Taxes on us without our Consent:

For depriving us, in many Cases, of the Benefits of Trial by Jury:

For transporting us beyond Seas to be tried for pre-tended Offences:

For abolishing the free System of English Laws in a neighbouring Province, establishing therein an arbitrary Government and enlarging its Boundaries, so as to render it at once an Example and fit Instrument for introducing the same absolute Rule into these Colonies:

For taking away our Charters, abolishing our most valuable Laws, and altering fundamentally the forms of our Governments:

For suspending our own Legislatures, and declaring themselves invested with Power to legislate for us in all Cases whatsoever.

He has abdicated Government here, by declaring us out of his Protection and waging War against us.

He has plundered our Seas, ravaged our Coasts, burnt our Towns, and destroyed the Lives of our People.

He is, at this Time, transporting large Armies of foreign Mercenaries to compleat the Works of Death, Desolation, and Tyranny already begun with circumstances of Cruelty and Perfidy, scarcely paralleled in the most barbarous Ages, and totally unworthy of the Head of a civilized Nation.

He has constrained our fellow Citizens taken Captive on the high Seas to bear Arms against their Country, to become the Executioners of their friends and Brethren, or to fall themselves by their Hands.

He has excited domestic Insurrections amongst us, and has endeavoured to bring on the Inhabitants of our Frontiers, the merciless Indian Savages, whose known Rule of Warfare, is an undistinguished Destruction, of all Ages, Sexes and Conditions.

In every stage of these Oppressions we have Petitioned for Redress in the most humble Terms: Our repeated Petitions have been answered only by repeated Injury. A Prince, whose Character is thus marked by every act which may define a Tyrant, is unfit to be the Ruler of a free People.

Nor have we been wanting in Attentions to our British Brethren. We have warned them from Time to Time of Attempts by their Legislature to extend an unwarrantable jurisdiction over us. We have reminded them of the Circumstances of our Emigration and Settlement here. We have appealed to their native justice and Magnanimity, and we have conjured them by the Ties of our common Kindred to disavow these Usurpations, which, would inevitably interrupt our Connections and Correspondence. They too have been deaf to the Voice of Justice and of Consanguinity. We must, therefore, acquiesce in the Necessity, which denounces our Separation, and hold them, as we hold the rest of Mankind, Enemies in War, in Peace, Friends.

We, therefore, the Representatives of the UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, in General Congress, Assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the World for the Rectitude of our Intentions, do, in the Name, and by Authority of the good People of these Colonies, solemnly Publish and Declare, That these United Colonies are, and of Right ought to be, FREE AND INDEPENDENT STATES, that they are absolved from all Allegiance to the British Crown, and that all political Connection between them and the State of Great-Britain, is and ought to be totally dissolved; and that as FREE AND INDEPENDENT STATES, they have full Power to levy War, conclude Peace, contract Alliances, establish Commerce, and to do all other Acts and Things which INDEPENDENT STATES may of right do. And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm Reliance on the Protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our fortunes, and our sacred Honor.

An old Southern gospel song:

Thank God for the U.S.A.

By: Albert E. Brumley

In a world that is drifting and changing

When the faith of the people is torn

There’s a nation of hope and of freedom

Where the sons of courage are born

It’s the land of the Star Spangle Banner

Tis a nation as fair as the day

Thank God for the land born of freedom

Thank God for the U.S.A.

Thank God for the U.S.A.

Land of the brave and true

Thank God for the true American way

For the stars and the red white and blue

Thank God for the land we love

Life and our liberty

Thank God for the right to be an American

Thank God for the U.S.A.

To our almighty father in heaven

To the One who ranks higher than all

May He lead may He guide us and keep us

By His grace we never shall fall

For the stars and the stripes of Old Glory

Let us humbly earnestly pray

Thank God for the land born of freedom

Thank God for the U.S.A.

Thank God for the U.S.A.

Land of the brave and true

Thank God for the true American way

For the stars and the red white and blue

Thank God for the land we love

Life and our liberty

Thank God for the right to be an American

Thank God for the U.S.A.

Mehitabel

By Brion Boyles

Dad!”

“DAD!….COME HERE, QUICK!”

This was my youngest son, Mason, just about a month ago. The house we have moved into has a creek and about an acre’s distance behind us, separating our backyard from that of the next street. There is a steep drop of about 20 feet— from our yard to a flat but heavily wooded area on this side of the creek’s banks. Our large deck projects well out over this embankment, and it was to the edge of the deck that that I ran in answer to Mason’s frantic call. Mason has completely cleared out the flat area of this parcel… from the footings of the deck to the creek. He has weeded, sprayed anti-poison-ivy juice, seeded for grass, erected a hammock and engineered pulley contrivances to lower snacks to what I laughingly refer to as his “Field Of Dreams”. He also has several items of our household property commandeered into his possession, and I had sent him down to retrieve a plastic tub I wanted returned to use for storage. He had just gone down for it when he first called out….

“DAD! HURRY!”

I got to the deck railing, fully expecting my youngest to be slipping into quicksand or some other fitting end. I instead spied him standing in the clearing with the desired tub in hand, but pointing a finger to a muddy, leaf-and-stick camouflaged animal of some sort… galloping towards him, howling out a Hallelujah-like “THANK YOU, SWEET JESUS!” with a desperate “MAH-AHAHAHAH-OW! MAH-AHAHAH-OW!

A cat. A rather small, frantic, terrified and pathetically wrecked cat. Oh, no. Not another cat.

Now, I like people to think I am not a “cat person”. At least, that is the persona I like to display. We already have two cats…gained from a shelter, without my permission. Well, not really. Yes, my wife Andi and sons Cooper and Mason (then 14 and 13, resp.) had already adopted them from the shelter where my dear mother-in-law volunteers, and yes, they were kept at mother-in-law’s house for a few weeks until they could figure out how to get me to think it was all MY idea. Eventually, the secret was let out and by then the two felines were already well-immersed in Boyles’ waters, so, yes, I gave permission for them to darken the threshold of our home. It’s been two years, now.

We have “Shadow”, The Window Sphinx… jet black, very large and with all the characteristics and charm of the Egyptian version. She will make visitors nervous and check themselves for scorpions.

We also have “Willow”… a precocious, tortoise-shelled, long-haired beauty…with huge fuzzy feet that look like she has been mashing moths with them like Italian girls squashing grapes for wine. She also has the temperament of a teenage girl —showing Coyness and Affection when she wants something she cannot steal from you, and Disdain mixed with Contempt the remainder of the time. I have developed a tolerance for them, and have been known to pet… but as I said, I prefer to not show weakness for furballs that regard me as hired help. Nonetheless, here now was an animal in distress —and for a Real Man, grace towards wounded animals—even shooting a lame horse— is regarded as a required sentimental nod to masculinity, the absence of which is a clear window to the soul…

“DAD! I think it’s hurt! What do I do?

”

The poor thing was practically barrelling towards Mason…I said, “Well, try to lift it up into the bin and bring it up here…!” Mason simply laid the bin on its side near the poor refugee, and it promptly leapt inside, as if to say, “GET me the HELL out of HERE!”

All this ruckus brought Andi outdoors. When Cooper told her what was happening, she hollered out “OH NO YOU DON’T! KEEP IT AWAY”…

Now, dear Reader, one mustn’t be quick to judge this outburst. Our two cats are indoor cats. They have the minimum of shots and so forth, but not rabies or the sort of precautions meant for wildebeesties. She was horrified at the thought of an unwashed creature of the wild mixing it up with our more sanitary versions, and I understood that. All I wanted to do was to determine the depth of this one’s need and render bare first aid and rescue.

Boy, did this cat need it?

A cursory look revealed the following:

A youngish thing, maybe 6 months, overall black with white “Bobby-sox” on all fours, white chest, and chin. She (we determined that) also looked like she had been caught napping early in her 9th life…her right front “arm” half-stripped of fur and flesh as if it had been run thru a lawnmower, and her tail looked like a shark had been gnawing at the base of it…it hung limply from her narrow butt like the end of a stubby broomstick. All of the wounds were caked in a few days worth of dried mud, leaves and gore. She was VERY thin, her face gaunt and triangular. A real mess. All the while we examined her, she wailed, “Mah-ahahahah-ow!”

We brought her up and gently spilled her onto the deck. While Cooper ran to fetch an old towel as a blanket for the bin and some food/water, Andi kept on with her worry…”NO! Keep that cat away! Disease! Fleas! Who KNOWS what!” She was adamant that this new thing would be the death of her favorites…and when the boys fed her and said, “We shall name her “Socks”!

…oh. Man.

“NO! NO! NO! No naming! NO NAMING!” (Any parent will tell you that a name is the end of all argument. I found THAT out two years ago.)

“Well, Huuuh-ney…” I said, “let’s just give it a little food, water, and rest—and she can be on her way. We’ll leave her here on the deck, and go to dinner….she’ll probably be gone when we return”. And with that, we all headed thru the sliding door and off to dinner. I didn’t DARE tell her that “Socks” tried to follow me inside—I’d left her on the patio, at the foot of the door… where she promptly plopped down to wait.

My eldest son Allen (30) was home for a few days. A welcome visit. I had been in an incredible, unshakable funk for a number of weeks—my creative muse had become dusty and Allen has always managed to help me shake it. He buys red wine, and by the second bottle, we are in high spirits. As it so happened, the reason I needed the plastic bin from Mason was due to Allen. He had sensed my doldrums. Looking at all the claustrophobic disarray, with the stalagmites of trinkets, clutter, mementos and assorted junk in my shop, he had deduced that the place was too crowded to really breathe, much less work in. “You need room for what MATTERS in here, not all this “stuff” that doesn’t DO ANYTHING anymore.”…and he was right. I needed room for things that matter. Therefore, we had spent the day going thru it all: clearing out a lot of it and rearranging my shop into two distinct areas—one for work, one for play/relaxation. We were just finishing up when Mason had first called out.

So we went out to a buffet and were gone for about 3 hours….and when we returned, “Socks” was still at the back door. So much for Plan “A”. In fact, the cat soon joined Allen, myself and two bottles of red inside my newly redesigned shop.

“THAT CAT had better not be in your SHOP!”, came the warning from our open 2nd story bedroom window….

“NOOOoooOO….well….NOT REALLY”, said Allen and me.

“WELL, WASH YOUR HANDS before you come inside if you touch that thing!”

Meanwhile, the cat had leapt into my lap, dragging its limp tail behind it, and gingerly curled up for a nap. I was there about an hour.

The next morning, I had an appointment—a housecall— in Alexandria. I have been rewiring a small model railroad layout for a 93-year-old retired Air Force General, and I go one day every week, all day. As I gathered my tools, housecallit came as no real surprise the cat was still at the door to my shop. Before I left, I made a deal with The Missus: You call the Animal Shelter to come pick her up. They can take her IF 1) they are going to treat her wounds AND/OR 2) if they are NOT going to treat her wounds, they put her down immediately. I didn’t want her her lingering in pain for two weeks with little or no attention, only to be deemed “unwanted” and put down. Andi agreed, and I headed out the door. I had arranged the Manly Thing.

All the way to my house call, I couldn’t help but feel like Dr. Evil. Here, this cat looked upon me as her Savior, and I was going to be nice and comforting —until the Nice Man took her for a ride to her new home “in the country”. Ugh. I couldn’t stand it. Then, some weird anxiety began to come over me. Nothing distracted me from it…or the thought that I am a horrible Man….not even the irritation I usually felt when hearing a 93-year-old man peeing into a plastic jug a foot from my ear as I work under his railroad. I couldn’t finish the day’s work fast enough. All the way home, I was hoping I wasn’t too late.

When I got home, I went directly to the shop. Seeing the cat at my door, I went inside the house, where Andi told me, “They don’t make Pick-ups”

“Oh, darn”.

“Well, Hon… I’ll tell you what. Let’s just let her stay or go. She can live around the shop, or she can take off. I don’t really care—I just want to give her a fair shake.”

“Fine.” says my Honey.

So, later that night I mused… “You know, there have to be a couple thousand cats named “Socks”. No, we must do better.

“Mehitabel” . You are “Mehitabel”.”

(I pronouce it “mehta-bell”)

Mehitabel was the name of a she-cat in a long-running and popular newspaper column, written in New York City during the 19-teens by a man named Don Marquis. The column was the nightly dictation of the tales of Mehitabel; a very worldly, worn and rather shady cat on her 9th life. These stories were dutifully recorded using an old-fashioned manual typewriter, operated by her best friend…a cockroach named “Archy”. Archy, however, being of diminutive stature and weight, could only jump up and down on one typewriter key at a time—and could not engage the “shift’” key at ALL. Those of you familiar with these ancient machines know that in order to operate the “shift”, you had to use TWO fingers at once—something Archy couldn’t possibly do—so Archy’s submissions were completely bereft of capitalization or punctuation. No matter. “Toujours Gai, Archy, Toujours Gai…” (“Always merry!”)Mehitabel would constantly tell him. He got it all down: when she was Cleopatra in a former life; when she danced and dined with Dukes and Kings; when she slummed around with Bowery bums and bred their litters…There was even a Broadway musical based on this collection, with Carol Channing as Mehitabel… a spot-on actress for the role, to my mind… for those of you who remember who Carol Channing was. For those of you who don’t, try Fran Drescher (The Nanny), or maybe that is still going back too far. Try one of the Mob Housewives Of New Jersey or something. You get the idea. Bonus: Mehitabel’s markings in the book’s illustrations, to my joy, were exactly the same as the sample cat snoring at my feet.

“Mehitabel”…I thought. “Perfect.”

Over the following 2-3 weeks, I tried to clean her wounds, but she was better at it than me. In fact, I had to be careful not to hurt her even more, as she had taken to following me around like a puppy. EVERYWHERE, no matter what I was doing. In the shop, she’d sneak up under my feet (resting on the bar at the foot of my work stool), and I had stepped on her a couple of times. If I went to cross the room, she’d be under my feet again before I got there. I got used to it… Even Andi soon relented. After the first week, she bought Mehitabel a genuine, wrought-iron food/water stand, with stainless-steel cups. She even brought literature from PetCo, showing various discount veterinarian and vaccine services they offered a few days a week. We are perpetually living hand-to-mouth, paycheck to paycheck, so vet services were out of the question for her wounds, but with cleaning and a relative leaf and mud-free surrounding, her front leg healed entirely by the second week. By the 3rd week, she was lifting her tail, and this week she was climbing the deck railings and being very perky, waving her tail at me and lolling about when I got home from a house call…rolling on her back and exposing her white belly as if to say “I can’t believe I AM HERE…BUT…YOU KNOW I was CLEOPATRA, once….”.

All this, very annoying to a “non-cat person”, you understand….

With all this distraction, my work in the shop has taken a lesser degree of urgency or frustration. When I would become engrossed in some little detail on one of the models I am building, I would feel her eyes from some newly discovered nook she had crept up or into, to peer over my head. She stayed in the shop at nights but spent days surveying the backyard from one of the deck chairs—unless frightened back inside by the lawn mower. She didn’t mind the vacuum cleaner though when I’d run it in the shop to clean around the litter box I’d made out of one of my parts drawers and put on the floor

.

This morning, I dropped Andi off at her work extra early. She is a manager at a crab house on the Potomac River, and today they had a boating event that required a rare breakfast offering. She had worked until 3 AM the previous night, and had I stayed up until she got home–we were both up at 5. I got back to the house—very unmotivated and tired. I made the pot of coffee that I hadn’t had time for before taking Andi to work and grabbed a cup and a Camel to sit on the deck a minute and try to work up a head of steam. Mehitabel came running out of the shop as I made my way onto one of the deck chairs, and kicked my feet up onto the seat of another chair…and Mehitabel jumped up on the same chair to curl at my feet.

I don’t really know why, but my mind wandered and wondered….Mehitabel would probably live another 15 years—about what I expect for myself. Sitting in that glorious, dappled, early morning sunlight under the trees around the deck, I thought, ” I could be content to sit here with this cat for the next 15 years.” Well, it wasn’t 15 years…but it WAS 3 cups and 3 cigarettes before I finally broke it off to get on the road for another appointment at the General’s house.

When I got home tonight, I stowed my toolbag in the shop and went inside the house. We decided on ordering Chinese delivery for dinner, and I grabbed the menu and phone, heading out to the deck to sit and place my order. I was FAMISHED. As I sat waiting for the phone to be answered, I noticed….No Mehitabel. I hurriedly placed our order, then went into the shop. I checked the nooks. Crannies. Roof (She went up there once and freaked out). Then the yard. Deck. The Field Of Dreams. No Mehitabel.

My hunger gave way to a knot of a different sort.

I spent the next hour going up and down the creek, thru the vines, trees, and ivy in the growing dark. I stepped in a deep root hole and really did a number on my left shin. I went up and down the street, looking into neighbors yards from the sidewalk as I passed, shaking the Tupperware cat food container that usually brought her out of any slumber or mischief…and was bitten on the right ankle by a shitty little pug/Chihuahua mix that came tearing out of an open gate… Chinese food arrives. I loaded up a plateful of my favorites and went to sit out on the deck, making more noise than necessary for good measure. I watched and listened, but no Mehitabel. Chinese food tastes like old Corn Flakes.

I quit and went into the shop to look again… My cramped and crowded shop looked full of meaningless junk again But very empty.

I wrote the notes to this by candlelight on the deck…amongst the half-empty Chinese food, and I am hungry again.

‘Toujours Gai, Brion….Toujours Gai”

I may not claim to be a “cat-person”

But I was no match for Mehitabel.

Hangar Quail

By Robert ‘Okie Bob’ Layton

VT-26 Beeville Texas 1983

Some say they should be in parks. Some say rooftops.  Some even say on a dinner plate, but one thing for sure; Pigeons have no business around my frigging airplanes.

Senior Chief Willingham (Willie) called me from the line shack. “Okie, South,” he says “we got a problem”

“What’s going on” I reply.

He starts to explain as only a country boy SouthAlabama can. “Okie it’s those goddamn pigeons they are roosting up in the rafters here in the hangar at night and every morning my men have to clean the bird shit up and I’m just about getting tired of it!”

Staying in the southern vernacular I answer back, “BY GOD we can’t have that! —- put those sumbitches on report.”

“Okie”, Willie says “This is no shit.”

Still being irreverent toward his plight I decided to give him one more jab. “You say this is no shit Willie, then you got no problem!”

I had pushed the proud southerner too far “click” goes the phone.

I step outside of my office located in the center of the hanger and look down the length of the hangar bay toward the direction of the line shack.

Completely predictable—- out pops Willie from his office, just a cutting a rug toward me, and as I might add looking somewhat cartoon like AKA (Popeye).

I greet him with a wide smile and a what’s the matter naïve attitude.

“Willie I know about them birds I’ll see if I can get someone to handle the problem for you”.

“Aye Aye master chief ” came his reply.

I could tell he had not gotten over my perceived indifference for he had switched from the Bubba to the military mannerisms

“Carry on senior chief” I jokingly replied and returned to my office and called public works; the civilian side responsible for pest control.I explained our problem to the secretary taking the call. She tells me there should be someone out today.

A few hours later a scruffy looking Texan comes in my door. “Are you mMaster Chief Layton?” he asks

“Yes sir” I replied

“I’m here for the pigeon problem ”

“Good let me show you what we got”

We take a walk out the hangar bay and survey the “bird strikes”

“As you can see we got a problem with these pigeons,” I said. Although it was the middle of the day there was still about 10-15 birds up in the overhead of the hanger bay

“How are you going to get rid of them?” I asked.

The Texan looked skyward and mumbled something.

“Are you going to poison them? ” I asked.

He just looked down. Not being in the Texas mode and impatience during his pause

I say, “Are ya going to shoot them”

Finally, he responds “Noooo—–can’t do that”

Still, three questions ahead of his answers I respond “Can’t do what?”

“Kill’em” he sneered.

“Oh, Ok then what is it you’re going to do?”

“I plan on feeding them some grain that has been soaked in hallucinatory drug, you know something like that LSD”

“What’s that going to do overdose them and kill ’em?”

I was all for capital punishment for pigeons shitting on my airplanes.

“No No,” he said “that there drug will make em lose their way and they won’t find their way back at the end of the day”

“Are you sure it will work?”

“Oh, yeah!” He said

“Well sir, I’m going back over to my shop to get my truck, I’ll be back after while.” So off he goes and comes back with a big ass bucket truck.

While he was gone I go get Willie. “Hey Willie there is going to be a civilian down here in a little bit to take care of your pigeons”

“Good, kill ’em, ” he says “do I need to move the aircraft out of the hanger so he can shoot them?”

“I’m not sure”, I prevaricated, for I was anticipating the entertainment I knew Willie and the Texan were about to provide me. We both greeted the Texas civilian.

“Hey what ya got going on?” Willie asked him.

No answer.

“Are ya going to climb up in the rafters and wring their little fucking necks?” He asked.

“Nooo—can’t do that”

Willie gets up close to the Texans face, cocks his head, looks the guy in the eyeball. “Wel, what are ya going to do then?”

Tex reaches in a small cloth sack he is carrying opens up his hand.”I’m going to give them this here grain”

Willie says “Oh you’re going to poison them?”

By this time the lone Texan was getting a little bent by our rapid fire questioning. “I told you fellers we can’t kill ’em .”

“Well hell mister what’s the grain for?

“I’m going to feed it to ’em.”

“The hell you say?”

“Yep”

Willie goes off—- much to my delight. “You dumb-ass we want to get rid of them not raise-em”

I’m loving the failure to communicate that is playing out before me.

Tex, “This will do the trick.”

Willie, “Damn boy don’t you know nothing!”

Tex “Hey I’m the goddamn pest control officer on this base, I know what I’m doing”

Willie as he stomped off, fired one last parting shot, “Fucking sand crab!”

The Texan proceeds to arrange his truck so as to get the bucket in the rafters and spreads the grain around, climbs back down, and announces, “That ought to take care of your problem.”

“Thanks, how long before we see results?”

“Oooh about 10 to 12 days,” he replied.

Later that evening, at the Chief’s club, we all had a good laugh as I began to explain to the rest of the chiefs what had happened with the pest control officer and Willie. The jokes were just a flowing about them drugged-up, tripped out pigeons cohabitating in my hanger.

And as the days passed my amusement of the pigeon shit problem had evolved into the running joke of the base I was often asked, “Hey Okie have those doper birds flown off yet?”

To which I would reply, “A few of them have taken off toward Haight Ashbury in San Francisco”

After about 2-3 weeks it was apparent the pigeons were not going to fly off. In fact, it even looked like the numbers had increased!

It was time for a little action. So I Mustered Willie, Mo, Hughie, Penny, and myself at the Chiefs Club about 1600. I had left orders for the fire watches to empty the hanger of aircraft and to wait till after dark (once the birds had gone to roost) and then close all the hangar bay doors.

After a few beers, it was decided that we would all get some BB guns and go to town on those birds.

Well by the time darkness arrived (2100) we were all lit but ready to go. We called over to the hangar and talked to the duty section leader making sure that all officers and waves had secured for the weekend, and that the hangar doors were closed and the birds trapped inside

Pulling up to the hanger in Willies’ pick-up were three drunken Chiefs in the bed armed with Daisy’s finest, ready for action.

Well, those birds never knew what hit em. It was so easy, and believe it or not, we had no collateral damage from the BB guns

By the time the slaughter was over we had a 55-gallon barrel full of dead birds.

Willie said he wanted the breast off the pigeons.So in the back of willies truck went the barrel & birds. We pulled back off the line and retreated to the Chiefs club for a post mission brief and beer.

The following week my CO was down in the hanger and asked me, “Master Chief I see you got rid of them birds, how did you do it, shoot em?”

“No skipper we couldn’t do that we are not suppose to Kill-em.” For a moment I thought our deed was discovered. So I tell him about the Texas pest control officer and the Bird seed laced in LSD. Which was (one) true event, what I didn’t tell him was the evening raid and the great Beeville pigeon shootout. The C.O. was impressed by the story of the LSD grain and how humanely the birds were treated and wanted to know more about the pest control officer.

To my horror He wanted to send the guy a letter of appreciation!

I quickly volunteered to take care of it “Don’t worry skipper I’ll make sure he gets it.” Well I did wind up writing the guy a letter of appreciation and had the skipper sign it. The C.O. wanted to present it to him at Quarters but we talked him out of it by having a little impromptu ceremony/barbecue in the back of the Chiefs Club.

Old Tex was certainly full of himself that day. He keep saying “See I told ya so, I told ya that special seed would work”.

Yea, yea, we all sang his praises, “You want another piece of ‘quail breast'” We asked.

“Sure, ” he says, “these are really good.”

Willie remarked, “Yeah we shot them birds on My Turf; most of them were Special Grain fed!”

Old Tex really enjoyed that “Hanger Quail”

Yakitori story

By Brion Boyles

When I first returned to Sasebo, Japan on reenlistment leave in the early 1980’s and proposed to my girl Hitomi, she and Okasan (her mother and mamasan of the “BLUE MOON BAR AND GRILL”) spared no expense in catering to my desire to learn all things Japanese. This effort, naturally, centered on food—the shortest way to a man’s heart and all that. Mamasan was constantly throwing another bowl of this or that my way, and my cavernous appetite never disappointed her. Hitomi took a little more mischievous approach…she was always looking for something to throw me off….some strange food that a Gaijin (“foreigner”) would shrink from.

One day she took me to a Yakitori grill in the entertainment section of town. A very traditional sort of place…a fancy, “faux ancient” affair; dark timbered, shoji doors, with kimono’d waitresses, live koto and shakuhachi music, pictures of the Emperor…obviously targeting the Samurai-loving sect. As this was to be as much an educational as gastronomic experience, I let Hitomi do all the ordering so I wouldn’t spend the evening in my traditional chicken/onion rut. She explained to the grill master that ol’ Gaijin here was meaning to expand his horizons, and quickly listed a cornucopia (or the Japanese equivalent thereof) of ancient and traditional yakitori treats.

I fancy myself a man of worldly tastes, with a sailor’s penchant for adventure; a combination that has rarely let me down. This time was no exception—a veritable feast of grilled tasties that would have brought a groan from the lips of Emperor Meiji himself. After an hour or so, Hitomi said there was one more for me to try. She got the grill master’s attention and said, “O-Suzume onegaishimasu!” (“Please make Suzume!”). The grill master’s eyebrows raised a little higher in quizzical disbelief…”HONTO?!?!” (“REALLY?!?”), to which she nodded firmly in the affirmative. A few minutes passed by, during which I mused at what the exquisite thing might be that she had saved for last…until the master placed before us another small plate with what looked like two small sparrows that had suffered the misfortune of having wooden spears shoved up their asses before being smashed flat with a croquet mallet, dipped in tar and scorched with a blowtorch. Little talons splayed wide, little yellow beaks smushed asunder in a gruesome Death-grin, little blackened clumps of feathers poking out like iron filings on a rusty magnet…

I made a pleasantly surprised face, trying to keep my cool…noticing the grillmaster eyeballing me from the corners of his eyes while he continued at his grill, Hitomi’s broad grin….I picked up one of the sticks of avian char-broiled corpse and brought it to my mouth. Just as I had made up my mind to bite off the head and moved to do so, Hitomi let out her girlish, Japanese laugh and said, “No….it’s OK. You no hafta eat. I buy for dog at home.”

With a skillfully concealed sigh of relief, I returned the Suzume to the plate and she had it bagged for the trip back to the BLUE MOON and “Kojiro”, her Yorkie pup.

Our engagement lasted over two years, during which time I was mostly absent on a supply ship (USS WHITE PLAINS), scurrying across the Indian Ocean to refortify this aircraft carrier battle group or that…and a well-off Lieutenant from a destroyer wooed my Hitomi away with an engagement ring the size of an ashtray. A member of a wealthy Texas oil-family, he found his Japanese “Suzy Wong” and carted her off to Dallas, but I heard thru the grapevine that she was miserable… her Japanese roots buried deep in cowboy hats, Frederick Remington prints and bad leather furniture, and longed to come home to Sasebo.

To this day I wish I’d taken a bite.