General Order 11

The 30th day of May, 1868, is designated for the purpose of strewing with flowers or otherwise decorating the graves of comrades who died in defense of their country during the late rebellion, and whose bodies now lie in almost every city, village, and hamlet church-yard in the land. In this observance no form of ceremony is prescribed, but posts and comrades will in their own way arrange such fitting services and testimonials of respect as circumstances may permit.

We are organized, comrades, as our regulations tell us, for the purpose among other things, "of preserving and strengthening those kind and fraternal feelings which have bound together the soldiers, sailors, and marines who united to suppress the late rebellion." What can aid more to assure this result than cherishing tenderly the memory of our heroic dead, who made their breasts a barricade between our country and its foes? Their soldier lives were the reveille of freedom to a race in chains, and their deaths the tattoo of rebellious tyranny in arms. We should guard their graves with sacred vigilance. All that the consecrated wealth and taste of the nation can add to their adornment and security is but a fitting tribute to the memory of her slain defenders. Let no wanton foot tread rudely on such hallowed grounds. Let pleasant paths invite the coming and going of reverent visitors and fond mourners. Let no vandalism of avarice or neglect, no ravages of time testify to the present or to the coming generations that we have forgotten as a people the cost of a free and undivided republic.

If other eyes grow dull, other hands slack, and other hearts cold in the solemn trust, ours shall keep it well as long as the light and warmth of life remain to us.

Let us, then, at the time appointed gather around their sacred remains and garland the passionless mounds above them with the choicest flowers of spring-time; let us raise above them the dear old flag they saved from hishonor; let us in this solemn presence renew our pledges to aid and assist those whom they have left among us a sacred charge upon a nation's gratitude, the soldier's and sailor's widow and orphan.

It is the purpose of the Commander-in-Chief to inaugurate this observance with the hope that it will be kept up from year to year, while a survivor of the war remains to honor the memory of his departed comrades. He earnestly desires the public press to lend its friendly aid in bringing to the notice of comrades in all parts of the country in time for simultaneous compliance therewith.

Department commanders will use efforts to make this order effective.

By order of

JOHN A. LOGAN,
Commander-in-Chief

N.P. CHIPMAN,
Adjutant General

Official:
WM. T. COLLINS, A.A.G.

From the Memorial Day website.

Summer semester

There are three types of college students that go to summer semester.

The first type is the "I'm majoring in three degrees, four minors, and will still graduate in 4 years" guy. This is the person that buys his books and pocket protectors the semester before taking the courses. This guy always sits on the first chair of the row, lest he be blocked from view of the board and start to tick off his fellow classmates by doing a Stevie Wonder to get that last letter then professor wrote up on the board. He's first in his seat on test days, the last one to leave the room, and many times will attempt to strike up "friendly" conversations with the staff, constantly shmoozing for a future reference letter. In a given classroom, there's mercifully only one or two of these (at least, at my little school).

Type two is the complete opposite. Most of these guys have taken the class several times before. They've also failed several times before. They come in on day one of summer semester, laughing about how they hope this professor will cut some slack b/c it's the summer (only 10 weeks as opposed to 16). When they realize that he doesn't, they whine and complain about being there. Sadly, this group comprises about half of the classroom. Happily, most of them drop (again) before the end of the semester.

That leaves type III, the category I fall most in. Type III's are beaten. They walk the halls of classrooms looking like Jacob Marley. They don't keep track of classes based on the day of the week - they keep track of the days of the week based on classes. They often consume massive quantities of caffeine without it ever seeming to help - yet they never fall asleep in class. For that matter, they rarely sleep at all. For them the end is in sight - graduation.

Phone pic dump

I'm running out of memory on my camera phone, so I picked out a handful of the most entertaining and pasted them below.

First off, this was my Alternate Energy project from last semester, a bicycle used to power a flywheel (in this case, the suspended rear tire filled with water). This in turn would power a generator which would turn on our radio - no batteries or power cords.














My niece, Maggie, styling my hair. Note that I'm bald. She gets her brains from her mother.














My dog Jesse, caught in mid-wag.














What I come home to just about everyday. At 6pm. In the summer.














Popsicle impersonating my wife and nearly blending in to the couch.














Work formal for my wife, wearing a dress made by her mom. She was the most stunning woman there.





























My brother showing his prowess with a Dirty Harry .44 Mag. For 50 points, see if you can find his neck.














Val showing us how it's really done with my Walther. If I ever go missing...

Sasquatch sighting

With spring finally returning to the Northeast of the country, it's a time of birdwatching, picnics, and taking walks through town. Naked.

Spring has arrived in this southeastern Vermont town known for its live-and-let-live culture. The trees are less bare, and some local residents are more so.

Resident Theresa Toney said she was dining at a downtown restaurant when she spotted this spring's first naked person. She looked out the window "and saw a man in his 60s walking up and down Main Street totally nude," she told the Brattleboro Reformer newspaper. "This is indecent exposure where it doesn't belong."

Vermont has no state law, and Brattleboro no ordinance, against public nudity.

Some are worried about the town's image.

"How do you want to be viewed as Brattleboro?" asked the Rev. Kevin Horion. "We want to welcome families with small children."

Ok, so invite blind families. Take their walking canes from them and tell them to just feel around. Ending this post here before it goes R rated.

Arming the shepherds

S.C. lawmakers consider allowing concealed weapons on campuses:

To prevent school shootings, some South Carolina legislators want more guns on campuses.

A House subcommittee approved a measure Wednesday that would allow concealed weapon permit holders to carry guns onto public school campuses, from elementary schools to universities.

To obtain a concealed weapon permit in South Carolina, a resident must be at least 21, undergo at least eight hours of handgun training, and pass criminal and mental background checks.

The 8 hours of training, to me, seems a bit light. Granted, the teacher would only be the first line of defense, someone who could immediately respond and hopefully end the threat. However, those 8 hours will probably consist of safety, cleaning, and legality. Personally, I'd like to see them tack a few more hours on - only for the teachers - to focus on tactics, specifically shooting with a lot of targets around.

So what does the opposition have to say?

Opponents fear more guns will mean more accidental shootings.

"You can't call a bullet back," said Democratic Rep. Seth Whipper. "It's a bad idea."

When does an accidental shooting happen? When the gun is in the hands of a small child or an idiot. Idiots don't get carry permits. Neither do kids.

More opposition:

College police chiefs across South Carolina said such a law would make it difficult to pinpoint a criminal. "Today, if we respond, we know the person with the weapon is the bad guy," said Ernest Ellis, the law enforcement director at the University of South Carolina.

While many in my tribe have gnashed a lot of teeth over his statement (gun=bad guy), he has a point b/c of the current law. If the law changes, that won't be a valid point anymore.

I think Mr. Ellis does, though, raise a bit of a valid point, especially concerning guns on a college campus - when the good guys do arrive, how do you tell who the bad guy is if there are more than one with a gun? Waiting to see who's shooting what could be disastrous, as could taking immediate action and going after the wrong one. I'm not sure I have the answer right now. What I do know, though, is that in many cases, the shooting will most likely be over by the time they arrive, and every packer knows the procedure when a shooting goes down - isolate yourself (unless seriously wounded), safety on, holstered weapon, sit down, and immediately put your hands up when the police get there.

Interesting things about the number 8

The classic pool hall game 8 ball - in my humble opinion, only suitable for frat houses and people that don't play real cough*9-ball*cough pool.

8th grade, that horrendously awkward year, like when girls suddenly start to, like matter to boys and like, boys so start to totally, like be soooo immature.

Spiders have 8 legs. So do octopusses.

8 is the atomic number of oxygen, something I think we all like very much.

There are 8 Beatitudes.

8 notes to a scale, which creates an octave. In music, whenever an arranger wants a lot of pop and power out of the orchestra or choir on a particular melody, they will arrange it so that each part is sung on the octave nearest them.

At Christmas time, there are 8 maids-a-milking.

8 is the number designation for the center fielder in baseball.

Most computers, especially older ones, were/are built on 8 bit architecture.

8 bits equals a byte.

8 furlongs to a mile (it was a physics question last semester that stuck)

It's the 2nd number in this sequence - 4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42. (If you know, you know.)

8 years and 7 days ago, my wife graduated college.

8 years ago today, we said I do.

And we have for 8 years.

Happy anniversary Babe!

Papa

I've tried to write this post a couple of times, to be a bit more poetic, maybe even Mark Twain-like in describing the events of this past week.

The only problem is, I'm not a writer. A storyteller, maybe - but not a writer.

My wife and I both took last Friday off for a trip back home to Milledgeville. Normally, we don't take a day off for such a trip - we work the Friday, and mosey on down after the work day and enjoy a weekend of slower paced life, fried foods, and some occasional yelling between my sister and mom. This time was different - we were going to learn how to make my grandfather's Brunswick stew.

I guess at this point, I should provide a bit of background - on the stew. Papa was a Cook - note the use of capital. This doesn't mean that he knew a thing or two about the kitchen - it means that the things he knew he probably invented. Little measuring, rarely kept track of times - it was add a bit of this, a little of that, and let it cook awhile.

I really don't know when he created it. It was probably after my grandmother laid down the ultimatum that he needed to cook something other than chitlins (that's another blog post...). Nevertheless, one day he put shredded meat, chopped onions, pork stock, corn, and several cans of crushed tomatoes all in a big pot. At the end of that day, my grandpa's legacy to his family, friends, and pretty much the entire town was created. Some people might be taken aback by that statement, that a man's legacy through the generations could be tied to food; those people were raised in the city - and none of them ever touched the sweet taste of this stew to their mouths.

Because this recipe made so much - about 5 to 6 gallons - my grandparents would store it in the freezer to have at future family functions - depending on the family - or just whenever they would get the hankering for a taste of the good stuff. It was also usable as currency. You read that right - in my lil' bitty home town, a bucket of this could get you just about any service done on your car, house, or lawn.

I took my truck to a welding shop to get some step rails welded on. I also took my grandfather. When the guy was finished welding and my grandfather was asking how much it was going to be, the man shook his head, "Not a penny. Just bring me a bucket of stew next time you're out this way." In the words of Jerry Clower - if I'm lyin', I'm dyin'!

The downside to making this? Time. Lots of time. Two days worth. And some.

Thus the reason we departed early for home - the meat needed to be cooked, chopped, and shredded the day before the rest of the cooking. My grandparents were already on the ball by the time we arrived, having cooked most of the meat anyway, so my uncle, brother, and I headed out to the pond to get a bend in our poles - for the record, we caught 13 catfish.

After getting some breakfast Saturday morning, we commenced to making the stew - chopping onions, stir, peeling potatoes, stir, slicing potatoes, stir, mix it all together, stir... you get the picture. My grandmother spent most of the time going back and forth between Papa's bed and the kitchen, passing on orders, tips, and generally reminding us to stir.

He was sick, recovering from two more heart bypasses (four were done 7 years ago) performed back in December; a month after that, he was hospitalized with pneumonia; the next month, he was on the border of congestive heart failure; three weeks ago, he had a pacemaker put in. Compounding it all was a case of emphysema brought on by years and years of smoking. In short, he was laying there dying - but we didn't know it yet.

Around the middle of the afternoon, most of the ingredients needed to simmer for a while. Truth be told, I think Papa just needed a rest. We may have been doing the grunt labor of it all, but even in his bed-ridden shape, his body slowly failing him, he was still cooking. We left the house to go make some noise (read: we went to the gun range, where my wife proceeded to fire a .44 Magnum. Once.) and to give Papa a chance to rest.

Upon returning, it was time to start taste testing it, quite possibly the best job in the entire world. Taste a little, add some salt, stir. Taste, add, stir. Taste, stir. And finally, done. We set the pot off to the side to let it cool a bit before transferring it to containers - currency, remember? That night, we went to bed knowing the feast in store for us the next day, a glorious Sunday.

And that's how I spent the last day here, on this earth, with my grandfather. At 4am Sunday morning, he went Home. I couldn't imagine it any better. On this occasion, time wasn't the downside - it was the blessing.

Two Goliaths too much

Sad story out of New Zealand, where George, a yappy Jack Russell terrier took on two pitbulls to defend some children walking down the street.

The tragedy unfolded Sunday afternoon on New Zealand's North Island, in the town of Manaia, where a group of children — and George — were walking back from a trip to the candy store.

Out of nowhere, the children told police, the two pit bulls lunged at them.

One of the kids, Richard Rosewarne, 11, told the local paper that George never backed down against the pit bulls, doggedly refusing to let them get at his little brother, 4-year-old Darryl.

"George tried to protect us by barking and rushing at them, but they started to bite him — one on the head and the other on the back," Rosewarne said. "We ran off crying and some people saw what was happening and rescued George."

It was too late, however, to save the little 9-year-old terrier. Steven Hopkinson, the veterinarian who treated George, said the dog's wounds were the worst he'd seen. Putting him down, Hopkinson said, was the only option.

I guess that's proof positive that it's not the size of the dog in the fight, but the size of the fight in the dog.

Mutated sea bass (ill-tempered, at that)

Tis the end of the semester, which means it's time for the bookstore to pay me back for the books I've used all semester long and paid over $100 for. I then take the pennies they return and do a small school supply shopping spree - on this day I needed a new pencil.

Not just any pencil - a Pentel Icy .7mm mechanical pencil. For what I do and in my hand it's the perfect pencil. Only one problem - they had none.

Target doesn't have them; Wal-Mart doesn't have them; Kroger doesn't have them.

The only place that has them, to this point, has been my university bookstore.

You know, I have one simple request. It's not like I'm asking for sharks with fricking laser beams on their heads - just a pencil. All other times of the semester, I come in, do the dance, pay for my over-priced but almost obsolete school books, and the occasional Cherry Coke (which is another rant entirely - they charge $1.26, one penny more than the entire rest of the campus vending machines that somehow, mysteriously stay broken, out out of order, or deliver hot sodas).

So I ask a young lady nearby if this is all of their pencils, and describe to her the exact ones I'm talking about.

She looks at me blankly, and offers me mutated sea bass. Now I'm ill-tempered.

(Ed. note: if you're not familiar with Austin Powers movies, this post will not make as much comedic sense as it should)