… And Some Gave All

Memorial Day. Most folks think of cookouts, beach trips, or home improvment projects.

I don’t. I think of those men and women who “gave their last full measure.” The ones who died on some God-forsaken island in the Pacific, or some nameless dustbowl village in the middle east. The ones who gave their lives so that the rest of us can live in freedom.

I think of those who have never been accounted for. Those prisoners of war and missing in action whose families live in the private little hell of not knowing. The ones that our government won’t pursue out of convenience or political expediency.

I think of those who come back with injuries who can’t get the care and support they need. I think of the ones, like my uncle, who starved to death while over medicated in a VA “hospital” because no one would really treat his seizures. And I think of the ones who just never really recovered from the horrors they experienced in the heat of battle.

I also think of our nations leaders, far too few of which have worn the uniforms of our armed forces. These people think of military action in a broad brush sense of the term, not as individual Soldiers, Sailors, Airmen, and Marines who will simply salute and march into battle, knowing full well they may never come home.

Finally, I think of all my fellow veterans. Whether cook, rifleman, clerk or pilot, each served their country.

To all who served, my greeting is simple: Thank you for your service!

To the families of those who didn’t come home, please know that your loved ones did not die in vain: They served in the finest tradition of their service, and America is grateful.

To our leaders: We are proud to serve, but do not abuse your power; know that when you give orders someone is likely to die. Just make damn sure it was worth it.

What’s In A Name?

We have a new doggie, and his name is “dog whose name was Oakley until we found out he doesn’t like his name.” That’s a mouthful. We’ll refer to him as DWNWOUWFOHDLHN for short.

We drove two and a half hours to pick him up last night. All the way to Grottoes, Virginia. I didn’t even know this place existed until I looked on a map.

Once we arrived and met our new rescue doggie, we were informed he doesn’t like his name, and we should change it. This after we had already ordered a new nametag ordered for “Oakley”. Now it’s not worth it’s value in scrap.

So, during the trip home we played, “Let’s name the dog”.

I wanted a name that had some connection to the dog, and preferably one with a hard consonant. We didn’t want one with an “-ey” sound, to avoid confusion with his old name and possibly trigger low doggie self esteem issues, and the Admiral was clear that she wanted an Irish name for him.

I wasn’t so sure about the Irish thing, so I suggested that since he had spots perhaps we should call him Measles. She didn’t like that, so I countered with Rubella and Chickenpox. The Admiral was not amused. Clearly, infectious disease names were out.

I suggested we wait until a name suggested itself, as we’ve done with some of the cats but the Admiral was intractable. An Irish name it must be.

I suggested Kyle, Kevin, Thomas, McFarland, McCullough, O’Shaunessy and others, to no avail. The Admiral countered with a few of her own: Ryan, McKenzie, Riley, Seamus, Shane. We almost agreed on McKenzie, but she still didn’t like it.

I asked what name she would choose if my opinion didn’t count (like it ever did in the first place!), and she responded with Ryan.

So now what spelling of Ryan? The “Book of Gaelic Baby Names” listed several. Would it be Rayan, Rhyan, Ryen, Ryne, or Ryon?

Rhyan. His name is Rhyan. Welcome to the family, Rhyan!

Unfinished Business

I’ve been busy lately. Too busy to write much, in fact. And that makes me sad, because I started about five different blog posts, but never finished them:

• Obama – The First 100 Flubs: Everything from a VP who seems to be making a career of eating his own feet, the Spendulus package, the miniscule $100 million spending “cut”, and Janet Napolitano.
• Homemade Sushi – Round 3: Pix and whatnot from our 3rd attempt at sushi at home.
• Theory: Liberalism Responsible For Murder-Suicide Rate Increase: I postulate that our modern educational system where everyone wins and no one fails is producing generations of adults ill-equipped to face the harsh realities of life. When thusly confronted with a job loss, for instance, they simply snap because they’ve never learned to cope.
• HOT Lanes For I-95/I-395 In Virginia – What Is VDOT Smoking? I take the Virginia Department of Transportation to task for wanting to mangle a perfectly good system of High Occupancy Vehicle (HOV) lanes and lease them to a private, profit motivated corporation to operate as variable toll lanes.
• Why Americans Need “Assault Weapons” – I make the case that without a strong Second Amendment, America will crumble and undergo a revolution.
• Northern Virginia – A lesbian cultural wasteland? There’s no lesbian life within 35 miles of my house!
• Volunteer Firefighters and EMTs – Have They Become Obsolete In Prince William County? In the wake of a recent death of an EMT, I wonder whether our country has outgrown a mostly volunteer Fire and Resuce operation.

So drop me a line if you find any of these topics intriguing, and I’ll (figuratively speaking) scribble away and tell you what I think.

Wax On, Wax Off

Though I told the tale, or at least part one of it (here), of moving our boat to a better sales location on Kent Island, the story isn’t over. The boat has to actually get sold, which is a lot more complicated than it might seem: You have to convince someone to pay the price equivalent of a small house for something that requires five times as much maintenance and that can only really be used for about seven months a year. No small task, that.

When we arrived at our destination with said boat we drove it directly into the boat lift. It was immediately pulled out of the water and moved to a distant corner of the boatyard and put on blocks. Where no one could see it. About three hundred feet from water and power. And stuffed behind two other boats. I’m not sure I understood this sales tactic.

It turns out that the boatyard is operated by different people than the boat brokerage, and therein lies the rub: The boatyard also performs maintenance and and provides winter and long-term storage, in addition to providing boat sales space for the brokerage. To make a long story short, it’s taken a month to get the boat moved to a sales location with access to water and power where it can be washed, waxed, and actually seen by potential buyers.

And washing and waxing is exactly what we did this weekend. We waxed about four hundred and forty square feet of hull, pressure washed the entire boat, and painted the bottom of the boat black. We transformed a tired, old, worn out looking boat into someone elses fantasy machine with about thirty hours of elbow grease, and found some great roadside barbecue in the process.

On day one of this mission the pressure washer (thank God for whoever invented these amazing machines!) took a tumble from the foredeck about nine feet to the ground. The quick release hose fitting was the casualty, having snapped cleanly off. After a couple of expletives, we decided to find a hardware store and get a part to fix it.

The local True Value was about two miles down the road, and as we parked Adeventure Truck out front, we noticed the marquee for Island Bar-B-Que across the lot. More on this in a moment.

Old time hardware stores are wonderful places because they are usually staffed with friendly, helpful and knowledgable folks, and this one was no exception. We were asked no fewer than three times if we needed help, and the plumbing guy spent ten minutes with us to find two three-dollar fittings. They will definitely get my business again.

Now back to Island Bar-B-Que: Parts in hand, we headed for the truck with visions of sweet, tangy pork now firmly implanted in our minds. We jumped in, drove across the lot, and discovered… an empty storefront. Bummer. Double bummer, in fact, for we now had The Jones for some pulled pig and couldn’t shake it.

So we drove up and down US 50, heading west towards the Bay Bridge at first, and then heading east towards Easton, looking for barbeque. As we got to the 301-50 split, we came to a large outlet mall and decided to try there. The mall was crowded and the parking lot was a serpentine monster designed to maximize sales by making it hard to leave. We eventually found our way to the other side and found… Auntie Annes Pretzels. Yuk.

I was ready to surrender when, from across US 50, I spotted smoke. The kind of smoke that just must come from a roadside barbeque stand. We dodged and wove our way through the parking lot from hell, remembering that line from Hotel California (“You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave”), and finally found the exit. Then I saw it: The bright red trailer, the gawdy graphics, and the black smoker. Big Red Bull Barbecue – Score!

Oh, and what fine ‘que it was! The pulled pork sandwich came on a kaiser roll, and was the perfect combination of sweet, tangy, and spicy, leaving a wonderful aftertaste that stuck with you. My side of onion rings were quite possibly the best I have ever had: thick and crunchy with a tasty batter coating, and not at all greasy – these folks know how to run a deep fryer!

It was soooo good we went back yesterday for seconds! Too bad this place isn’t closer to home.