...Home

I’m going home tomorrow, but it’s not the same home.  It’s a home minus someone who has always been there.  Minus Grandad. 

When I come home he’s always there, he will drive up to the front door in the morning to deliver the mail, to remind me that dinner will be ready at their house at noon, to tell me Gramma is excited to see me, to let me know he’s got some letters for me that are still being delivered to the house.  The beautiful thing is that it is typically junk mail from the UW Alumni Association but he always keeps them in a pile at the house to give to me when I get home.

He was always there.  He wasn’t outspoken, he wasn’t emotional, he wasn’t gregarious.  He was just there.  There with a smile and a story and some stability.  He was always there and he would always would be, there.   Academically I knew that couldn’t be the case; emotionally, I made myself believe it could be.

No, home will never be the same because he is no longer there.  Grandad is gone and it breaks my heart.  I’ll never again feel that all-encompassing bear hug.  Never again hear that deep chuckle.  Never again listen to those stories.  I’ll never sit in that cluttered, warm, comfortable house smelling slightly like bacon grease, on that worn couch covered in cat hair with the radio on in the corner and the walls and tables covered in pictures of the grandkids growing up surrounding a framed, faded Christmas Card from John and Jackie Kennedy, listening to stories about the weather and the crops and the old depot and how they met each other and the flood in 1947 and everything else that one collects in 80-some years.  I’ll never again have the opportunity to answer his questions about how life was overseas or out east or down south or wherever else I had been.  How was the food?  How was the weather?  How were the people?  You know, there were a couple Turks that worked on the railroad back in the day and they were really good people…and off we were on another fascinating story.  I would do a little bit of answering but a lot more listening on that couch covered in cat hair, completely enraptured, soaking in the beauty of Home.  But as of today, I’ll never walk back down that sidewalk late at night under the Montana sky marveling at how great it was to be able to come back to this.  To live a life at terminal velocity but to always know I had this to come Home to.

In March of 2012, I called to tell my Grandad that my Grandpa had passed.  I broke down in tears while on the phone with him trying to get the words out.  But still, he was there, comforting, saying “well Kris, I’m really sorry to hear that, but we’re all getting older and we all have to go at some time.  Give our love to your Grandma and let us know when the service is”.  It wasn’t cold, it wasn’t unfeeling, it was a man comfortable with where he was in life.  Knowing he wouldn’t always be there even though I refused to consider that possibility.

Because he would always be there, right?  He was going to be there forever, right?  He would always drive up, slowly get out of the car, pat the dog du jour on the head, make his way to the front door with the mail, give me a big hug, and tell me dinner would be ready at noon.  It would always be this way, right?

Wrong.  Early morning on 8 October he was no longer there.  Leave it to a farmer to leave the house before sun up.

Inevitability does not make things easier.  But if there’s anything to be thankful for its when the inevitable happens the way it should.  Jim Wood passed away in his home on Wood River Ranch with his wife of 70 years by his side…a Montana farmer till the end.  If you knew him you loved him and we’re all better for having him there in our lives, listening to his stories, and learning from his example of how to live right and take care of each other.  We’re all better that he was there and he was Home.

September 11th

Never forget, America.  But remember the facts. 

Never forget that shock you felt when you saw those planes crash in to our buildings.  The horror that closed your throat when you saw your neighbors throw themselves out of the towers.  The cry you uttered when the World Trade Center collapsed.   The tears that welled when you heard about the heroes on United 93.  The righteous anger you felt when you first saw the pictures of the hijackers…the righteous anger you still feel every time you see their faces.  Never forget that wellspring of pride when you stood in line with hundreds of your friends to give blood.  That pride when you heard of those running in to buildings as many were running out.  That pride every time you saw that flag flying.  Never forget that feeling of humanity and brotherhood when the French newspaper ran the headline “Today We Are All Americans”.  Our grandparents can tell you where they were when Pearl Harbor was attacked.  Our parents can tell you where they were when President Kennedy was killed.  You will forever remember where you were on September 11th, 2001 when you saw 3,000 of your brothers and sisters wiped out in an attack that can only be characterized as pure evil.

But remember the facts, America. Muslims did not attack us that day.  Muslims did not hijack four airliners and fly them into our buildings.  Muslims did not kill three thousand of the world’s citizens in cold blood.  No, Muslims died that day alongside Christians, Jews, Hindus, Buddhists, and atheists.  Muslims are not our enemy.  Arabs are not our enemy.  Islamists are not our enemy.  Our enemy is that disgusting category of human who would rather kill their fellow man in cold blood than sit down and engage in a rational conversation.  They do not deserve the title Muslim…hell, they do not deserve the title human.

Remember that day, America.  But never forget the facts. 

...Irony

What is irony?  Webster would do himself a service if he defined irony as sitting in a room as a blind man teaches you to read. 

That was me a few days ago, taking reading lessons from a blind dude.  Obviously not in a “See Jane Run” kind of read.  Not in a “sound it out” kind of read.  And definitely not in a “feel the words” kind of read.  I’m talking about graduate-level reading.  When you’ve got a few hundred pages each week to read you’re willing to entertain just about anyone who says they can help you keep your head above water.  So you find yourself in a packed room with your fellow graduate students listening to a blind man teach you Graduate Level Reading Skills.  Six Steps:  Read the titles; paraphrase the conclusion; ingest the introduction; skim the topic sentences; re-read the conclusion.  Read and Destroy.  Focus on the logic.  What are they missing.  How is it flawed.  A 30-page article should be consumed in 20 minutes.  An entire book?  Maybe an hour.  You’re a graduate student now, you’re not reading for content, you’re reading for argument. 

FYI - This is a hard concept to grasp for someone who grew up reading for content.  Who loved content.  Who consumed content. 

At the beginning of his workshop he joked, “hey, you may have noticed I’m blind, so if you have a question don’t raise your hand, it won’t do you much good”.  A couple times during his workshop I closed my eyes, you know, just to see what it was like.  Anxiety, negative adrenaline, overwhelming nervousness.  I don’t like not seeing.  None of us like not seeing.

The amazing thing was not that this blind guy was teaching me to read.  I got over that by minute two when I recognized I could learn a lot from this dude.  The amazing thing was what he represented. Here was a scholar blind from age 14 who made himself a recognized expert in his field.  Here was a man stripped of his primary sense who made his way easily through life with nothing but a cane.  Not even a dog...a cane.  Here was a man who recognized the irony of the situation, joked about it, then readily passed on his knowledge to others.

Here was an extraordinary individual, extraordinary in every sense of the word, who has overcome more adversity than most of us could ever imagine.  Here was Professor Zach Shore, the blind man who taught me to read.

...Things

I am required to take a writing class at Naval Post Grad.   I understand why they make this class mandatory but cmon, I know the proper use of the comma and the semi-colon, I don’t need remedial writing.  Yes, I know I’m both a snob and a nerd and I accept that.  On Day 1 the professor admitted that some in the class probably didn't need to be here and if she could test people out she would.  But she cant.  So I'm stuck.

Day 2 we did a writing assessment.  She gave us two prompts to choose from and two hours to write on it.  The first topic was to discuss a significant change you would make in the military, why and how.  The class is at 0800 in the morning, way too early to be writing on that stuff.  The second topic was to “discuss the idea that westerners are seen by critics to be owned by their possessions. Yet many people treasure objects or possessions for reasons that far transcend the objects’ actual material value.  Select and discuss one such object or possession that you personally value for reasons beyond its material worth.”  Ha.  Too Easy. 

Below is my writing assessment I submitted.  Based on the professor’s feedback, pretty sure I would be excused from this class if possible.  Arrogant?  Yes.  Legitimate arrogance?  I think so.  And don’t worry…I won’t be posting every paper I submit for NPS.  I’ll spare you from my “Are Nuclear Weapons Special?” paper.

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A very common, often heard criticism of western culture, especially American culture, is the focus on material goods.  While I would never debate that America is not a materialistic society, I would argue that Americans often place value in things that reach far above an items net worth.   To look at American society and generalize that we are more concerned about the latest model of vehicle we can purchase than spending time with our kids is a lazy, simplistic examination of our society.  One must delve in to the psyche of why an individual places value on certain items before they categorize that individual as materialistic; often times they will find that the value is not in the item itself, but what that item represents to the individual.

One can read various comparative analyses of eastern versus western cultures proving that Americans are more focused on money, possessions, “things” in general, then they are on the more abstract concepts of family, community, and religion.  There are many explanations for this, the fact that our society is based on capitalism, a paradigm that by its very nature makes a people focus on goods and possessions; the fact that the “American Dream” is considered by many to entail owning a home and providing for the family; even the fact that all parents want their children to have a better life than they had, which typically means more education, money and spending ability.  But focusing on the ownership and retention of material items does not, in and of itself, make an individual materialistic.

Lets take my favorite topic as an example...Me.  I have many things around my house.  It is not cluttered, but tastefully decorated with objects that I value.  Some may say I own a lot of “stuff” but I would disagree.  As soon as “stuff” stacks up in my house I take a trip to Goodwill.  I downsize.  I reduce.  I de-clutter.  I don’t like “stuff”.  I do, however, like to retain things that have personal meaning.  The value I place on items in my home is likely not readily apparent when someone walks in to my house.

I’ll admit though, sometimes that value reaches a level that flirts with irrational.  My jump wings are a prime example.  They’re small and insignificant to the naked eye.  I can’t wear them on my uniform, they’re not the right specifications.  They’re original pewter jump wings from World War II but that’s not what makes them special.  What makes them special is the personal significance I have placed in them, value that has nothing to do with monetary worth or materialistic usefulness.  They were given to me by my step-dad upon graduating Airborne.  They’ve been in my pocket for every jump since.  They were there when I made my first low-level night jump.  They were there when I got hung up in the trees.  They were there every time I schmoozed my way on to an aircraft line, effectively earning me the nickname Jay-Dub.  The pin almost gave me tetanus when it unsnapped during a rough Parachute Landing Fall and jabbed in to my thigh.  The pewter was nearly rubbed off as I was waiting to take the Jump Master Personnel Inspection to become a Jumpmaster. 

When I’m not jumping, those jump wings have a specific place in the house.  To a common visitor they look like nothing special.  Materially, they’re right.  But emotionally and psychologically, they’re wrong.  I treasure them and will make sure they are always in my possession, not because of their nature as a “thing”, but because of the abstract value I have placed in them. 

I haven’t, and won’t, jump out of an airplane without them.  And that is where the irrational part enters the equation.  Intellectually I understand that those wings in my pocket have absolutely nothing to do with the mechanics of a parachute opening and arresting the fall of a body that has reached terminal velocity.  But emotionally I know I wouldn’t be comfortable leaving that “perfectly good airplane” without them.  I’m not a superstitious person and it’s not superstition that makes me feel that way.  Instead, the comfort and value comes from something deeper.  Those wings are a physically manifestation of the connection I have with my step-dad and the love both of us feel for jumping.  It’s a token of remembrance to all those American soldiers, Airborne and Legs, who have fought and died for our country and the legacy they have charged us with carrying on.  And sure, it’s also a small security blanket, a reminder that I’ve jumped and survived many times before and this jump will be no different…because no matter how experienced you are, every jumper feels butterflies the second they’re in the door.

Owning “things” does not by default make an individual materialistic.  An item can mean many things that dive far deeper than simply material value or net worth.  Before one generalizes, look below the surface, because what is discovered is likely much deeper than what is seen at face value.

...A Conversation with My 17-Yr Old Self

This “conversation” took place after the first day of a Mathematical Modeling class that is required in Naval Post Graduate School.  I came here to learn about Irregular Warfare, Counter-Terrorist Policies, Dark Networks, Wicked Problems, Security Dilemmas.  And then to apply all that and more towards a thesis…probably something relating to building networks within the inter-agency to successfully counter international terrorism.  Or something equally intriguing (I usually input a heavy dose of sarcasm when I use the word “intriguing”…but not in this case, it actually is intriguing.) 

I came here to learn to surf.  I did not come here to learn Mathematical Modeling. 

So this is how the conversation went down with my 17-yr old self:

34-Yr Old Me:  Hey, pssst, 17-Yr Old Me…Gonna need your help here.  See I’m back in school and I have to take a couple math classes.  You were always really good at math so can you do me a solid here and help me out?

17-Yr Old Me:  You’re back in school?  In California?  Awesome!  And I love math so I’m here for ya!  What type of math are you doing?  Differential Calculus?  Computational Theory?  Oh geez you’re not in to Non-Linear Dynamics in Applied Mathematics, are you?  Because I’ll be no help there but I’d love to learn!

34 Yr Old Me:  Um…No.  More like “A train left Chicago…” type of math

17-Yr Old Me:  Haha.  Funny.  Seriously, what are you doing?  Propulsion Dynamics?  Chaos Theory in Relation to Orbital Physics?

34-Yr Old Me:  No, seriously.  “A boat travels with the current at 16 mph and against it at 7 mph.  How fast is the current?”  Help me out here, I can’t figure it out.

17-Yr Old Me:  Wow, you’re serious aren’t you?  Did you hit your head?  Get in a horrible accident?  What happened?  We were going to be an Aerospace Engineer, remember?  REMEMBER??!!

34-Yr Old Me:  Well, you see, what had happened was…you’re not an Aerospace Engineer…

17-Yr Old Me:  Electrical Engineer?  Mechanical Engineer?  C’mon, you didn’t drop all the way down to Civil Engineer did you?

34-Yr Old Me:  You’re not an engineer…

17-Yr Old Me:  WHAT?!  I’M NOT AN ENGINEER?!  WHAT THE HELL??!!  WHAT DID YOU DO??!!  I CAN’T LEAVE YOU ALONE FOR A MINUTE, CAN I, BEFORE YOU GO AND SCREW UP OUR WHOLE PLAN??!!

34-Yr Old Me:  Hold on there Molly McJudge-Me-A-Lot.  You have no idea where you’re going in the next 17 years so get your attitude in check.  

17-Yr Old Me:  OK fine, so where am I going?

34-Yr Old Me:  I’m not telling you, but trust me, it’s a helluavalot more interesting than being a stoopid Aerospace Engineer.  So there.

17-Yr Old Me:  You’re not going to tell me??  Fine.  Then I won’t help you with pre-algebra.  Good luck in remedial math, dummass.

34-Yr Old Me:  Ya, and good luck in Calculus.  Cause you're gonna need it...