Jody and "Home Defense"

The army trains using a variety of methods. One of the tools that is used and is freely and frequently messed up in movies are "jody calls," the cadences that the army uses to build teamwork and a sense of unity while marching and running.

I'm unsure of where the term "jody call" came from, but it shares the title with the ubiquitous "Jody." "Jody" is the guy who shows up at your home or apartment the day after you leave on deployment or training or duty.

My wife and I are in our thirtieth year of marital partnership and bliss. Even early in our marriage and military career/partnership, we were able to joke about infidelity. Even after the birth of our children, we embraced the military life much like the wonderful .38 Special Top-40 hit "Hold on Loosely" (but don't let go), and continued to joke around. And that's what we have done for 28 years now.

In early 2004 my unit was alerted for deployment to Iraq. Deployment is tough, even on families who are used to it. Factor in the word "combat" or "war," and, well, things get a tad edgier and more nerve-wracking. In the life of my children, I have been on the road in my civilian job or on military duty on more occasions than I, and probably my family, can count. Alabama, Florida, Georgia, Iraq, Kuwait, Louisiana, Mississippi, North and South Carolina, Spain, Tennessee, and Virginia have been darkened by my professional and military shadow in the lifetime of my children.

Through it all, my wife and family have held on loosely and kept that odd military sense of humor. So it was that just weeks before my departure to train for the upcoming deployment my wife and I were joking about "Jody."

"When Jody comes by, honey, just make sure the grass is mowed and and hedges are trimmed." We both smiled.

At that very moment, our 15-year-old daughter walked in hearing our conversation and asked the big, loaded question. "Who's Jody?"

...

...

The Pregnant Pause.

I looked at my wife, and she looked at me. Our daughter stood waiting patiently for an answer. Finally, I spoke.

Slowly.

"Uh, well, you see, uh, Jody is the, uh, (more quickly now) imaginary character who shows up the day after Daddy goes on deployment..." Big smile!

Our daughter's eyes narrowed, her left hip shot out with her left fist planted firmly upon it, and straight out shot shot her right arm, hand extended, index finger up and waving back-and-forth. "NOT in THIS house!" she stated emphatically and forcefully. I just looked at my wife and smiled.

She smiled right back.

Free Market Example for Airlines?

Imagine for a moment what would happen to America's and the World's airlines if they were forced off the government dole. Seriously.

Since 9-11 America's airlines have received billions of our tax dollars in subsidies, law-suit protection from terrorism (which in and of itself is ridiculous that any airline, person, or other business or entity could have foreseen and stopped such a sneak attack), tax-supported security (TSA), et al. And before that, those same airlines were subsidized with government air traffic control systems, government-owned and operated airports, and any number of programs bought and paid for by you and I. I've always wonder why in the world I have to buy a ticket when I've been helping to pay for it since I was fifteen (I'm at least three times that old now)!

What would happen if airlines had to own the airports? What would TSA be like if they had to treat you, the customer, as if you were actually a customer, instead of a crazed, terroristic maniac? What would occur if the air traffic control system was owned and run by the airlines? What if they had to manage the air lanes on their own because they owned them?

And what would happen if they had to pay property and other taxes on the items they used, instead of paying piddling amounts to the government owners - which is eventually you and me?

What would happen?

Today, right now, as you read this, there is a transportation mode in America that fills all these criteria!

Seriously? Really?

Yes. And today, these private companies are in better financial and physical condition than they have been in seventy years! Additionally, they pay substantially higher wages, benefits and retirements than most other businesses. And, their work force is generally less educated than similarly-compensated employees in other businesses inside and outside of transportation .

These companies own their means of transportation almost exclusively, paying property taxes to local and state governments. They control these routes with their own employees, controlling traffic all over their systems. They own most of the equipment, and buy and maintain it in their own shops, with their own employees. When they need new or expanded facilities, they build it themselves, and maintain it. If a piece of property is damaged, they will have it repaired and operating within days. They even have their own police forces that are required to be fully certified federally and in the states in which they operate. And they have been highly profitable, even through the nation's current financial difficulties.

That's America's freight railroads today.

Surprised? Most people are. But, these are the reasons that men like Warren Buffett and Bill Gates have invested heavily in railroads recently. Buffett stunned many when he bought, with billions of dollars, all outstanding shares of BNSF Railway, a company that operates from Birmingham to Seattle, San Diego to Chicago, and most placed in-between.

Incidentally, Buffett HASN'T been investing in airlines.

Perhaps it is time for airlines to emulate success, and demand that the government turn over the Federal Aviation Administration's TSA, Air Traffic Control, airports and buildings, and other pertinent items to them. It is clear that these things can't get managed much worse, and I'd be willing to bet that they could do it much better.

Maybe then Warren Buffett and Bill Gates would by an airline.

Parental Pride

I'm a parent. My son Ian is a truly unique individual who makes me proud.

Ian has struggled through his young life, especially in school, and it has been a great frustration to his parnets and other family. A great deal of it has been poor parenting on my part, and errors on his. And without a doubt, the local school district can take a lot of blame.

The first real indication of problems was when he was in first grade. I was at work and got a call from the school saying Ian had been in a fight with three second graders. I asked why nothing had been done after the first fight? The answer was that there had been only one fight, and that he had hurt the other three boys (broken nose, sprained anothers arm, and had injured the other in some way I don't recall). I was amazed, to say the least.

"So, you're telling me that my son beat up three older boys at the same time?"
"Yes, Mr. Baird."

Thus began ten years of counseling, IEP conferences, talks with counselors, psychiatric evaluations, et al. I recall the elementary school principal saying, "We to find a way for Ian to redirect his anger." And frustratingly, it seemed that the counselors were constantly pushing for we parents to find the solution, despite our current and past efforts, and despite the fact that they had the Masters Degrees in Early Childhood Everything.

Now, I had never been a good fighter, often being the loser of the few fights I got into. So, I was amazed. I had told Ian years earlier that he should never, EVER, start a fight. But should anyone ever start one with him, make sure he ended it. He took it to heart. But, what I didn't find out till nearly a decade later was that Ian FINALLY told me why he fought.

The first fight with the three second graders was caused by racism. Ian and his schoolmates were at recess, when he stepped around a corner of the school building and saw a young black boy cornered by three white boys. He knew none of them except for the fact that he had seen them at school.

"Hey ya'll. Whatcha doin'?"
"We're gonna kick this nigger's ass."
"Why?" asked Ian.
"'Cuz he's a nigger," came the reply.
Ian stepped between the three and their victim and told them emphatically that the would have to get through him first. They tried. They failed and he ended up hurting all three. He was reported for fighting and told that it was bad to fight. So, by the time we parents were able to speak to him, all he did was shrug his shoulders when asked why he was fighting.

Later, in the third grade he smashed a kid's head into a desktop. It was about eight years later, at the same time he explained the first grade fight, that he told me that he was defending a young classmate from a bully.

Typically, a bully was picking on a girl. The girl did all the things she was supposed to do, going to her teacher, then the principal, parents, etc. And typically, all that was done was to tell the children that "You have to find a way to get along with each other." Of course, all that did was to empower the bully.

One day, the boy was picking on the girl and Ian told the boy to leave her alone, or Ian "would deal with" the boy his self. When the boy continued to pick on the girl, Ian dealt with him.

In both cases my son was suspended from school.

I was amazed that a boy, just six years old, had the wherewithal and the sense of justice to decide to step in front of three white boys to defend a single black child he didn't know. I'm proud that he stood up for a girl who couldn't stand up for herself.

Nevertheless, the actions of the school and myself as his father affected my son greatly. For a decade I did not understand my son's "anger," when in reality it was justifiable outrage at injustice. How could I not be proud of that?

My great regret is my inability to understand this. I'm half-a-century-plus in age, and I realize that I still don't have the insight I need to truly be the father I wanted and want to be.

But, I also know that I'm proud of my son, and that he is an amazing young man.

And I wish that I had the sense of honor, courage and justice that my son has.

My Pets.

I was born into a family with pets. My father had dogs and my mother had a bevy of pets including three flying sqirrels!

My first pet may well have been the dumbest of the lot. I can't remember this floppy-eared beagle's name, but he just could NOT be house-trained. So at the age of four I lost my first pet. I remember lying in the back of the station wagon (back when there were station wagons, car seats didn't exist, and seat belts were mostly for decoration) holding my dog and crying my eyes out, begging my mom to let him stay. Little did I know that this initial loss would be a trend for years to come.

I also had a turtle and a fish-or-two.

My next furry pet I shared with my brother, a seal-point Siamese cat whose name I can't remember, either (it's been 45 years - give an old guy a break). He lived and endured us for a few years in Des Moines, Iowa. He loved affection, a bit odd for a Siamese, and would actually crawl into bed with me every night, creep under the blankets or sheet, and curl up next to me. We lost him when we went on vacation one winter to visit family over Christmas. Left with friends, he got out of the house and was later found frozen to death under their house.

Dad located another Siamese cat that we named Petey. Petey was a bit more aloof, but was still a great cat. We sent him away when we moved into a new home in Council Bluffs, Iowa, and he decided that he would rather mark the territory with his feces, especially on Mom's shoes. Dad found him a home with a major dog breeder. That scared me, but Dad assured me everything would be fine. I didn't ever find out for sure if it was fine because soon afterward Dad went off to Vietnam and Mom insisted that we move closer to 'home.'

We soon found ourselves in Mississippi, in the same town as my Dad's father and stepmother, and just 45 minutes away from my Mom's closest sister who lived in Alabama. It was in Mississippi that we adopted a kitten that will likely be the most unique cat that I've ever called a pet.

Rosie was a slight, black-and-white, female cat that we later found had nearly died when she and her mother had been chased into a stream by a dog. Rosie nearly drowned but made it out to became the single greatest feline dog hunter I've ever known, as well as perhaps the smartest cat I've ever seen. We named her for her bright-red nose.

Small, about five pounds, she made the move with us to a large wooded lot in South Carolina. We lived way out in the woods, the daily bus ride to school took an hour-and-half one way. She would follow us every morning to the bus stop along US Highway 601 and wait until we were on the bus. Then she would go home, into the woods, or on a few occasions, stand or sit beside the road till traffic passed, and stroll across the highway. In the afternoon, she would go to the door to be let out by Mom, and would go up to the bus stop to meet us and walk us home.

We would hunt rabbits and birds, my brother and I, and wherever we went, Rosie followed along, much as a dog would. She had a hatred of dogs, though. I watched transfixed one day as I saw a lost deer-hunting dog walk up to the edge of the woods at our yard. He quickly spied Rosie lying still in the middle of the yard, sunning herself. Dogs being dogs, the poor pooch charged. Rosie didn't move. The dog very quickly closed and just when he thought his prey was his, Rosie sprang on him with all twenty claws! The dog quickly turned tail and ran as Rosie took chase, fur flying from the dog's haunches! It was amazing to watch as this 60-to-80-pound dog ran yelping through the woods as this miniscule cat took chase, hissing and growling till the dog was gone. And I saw her do this on at least two other occasions, too.

Rosie moved with us again to a brand-new home just off US Highway 1. She stayed with us many more years, but was later killed alongside the highway, apparently by a car.

After moving into our new home we got a beautiful, black Labrador Retriever pup. Before his first birthday we learned that he had a fast moving form of arthritis that was quickly destrying his hips. Dad and I took him to the vet to be put down. We buried him beside Rosie in the yard.

After that, we got a wonderful Golden Lab puppy we named Princess. One of the smartest dogs I've ever known, she was an amazingly protective animal who knew absolutely the limits of our yard. And she protected that yard and the house from anyone she didn't know. A wonderful dog, she and Cyclops, our one-eyed cat (he apparently lost it in a fight - we got him at the pound)lived at our home for years, well after I had left for college, bought my own home and gotten married.

In the new home of Darlene and I, we got a dog I named Frodo, and a beautiful, gray, female cat named Natasha. The dog we soon had to give away, but Natasha stayed. She even provided my parents and sister a new cat to replaced the recently-deceased Cyclops with one of her first litter, a black male named Brando. His identical brother I named Jet.

Natasha moved with us to Hawaii, but disappeared one day. She would occasionally show up, but eventually she never returned. We kept one of her second litter, a very affectionate, but very dim male I named Gimpel, after a short story of the same title named after the mentally-challenged hero. He also died early. Our move to Colorado saw us take along yet another cat from Hawaii. That cat was there for our daughter Samantha's birth, followed us back to South Carolina, then accompanied us to Washington. It was on our way home from Washington that he was lost in a car accident that destroyed our van and his cat carrier. I went back to the accident scene on a couple of occasions, but we never found him, dead or alive.

Upon our return home to South Carolina, we bought a home and soon took in Mudge, a very large Golden Lab-Chow mix, and Sami, a cat our daughter named after herself ("Sami-cat"). Sami cat met a quick and untimely death. She is buried in the front yard. Petrie came next, a large, long-haired, black female. She was a very happy and affectionate cat, who loved to groom herself and whoever happened to be around. I have short hair, and Petrie would like to crawl into bed and onto my pillow at night and groom me. Darlene hated it, but it didn't bother me in the least.

Mudge grew into a 100-pound dog who was an incredible hunter. He brought home over the years mocking birds, blue jays, moles, muskrats, possums, raccoons, a deer, snakes, squirrels and rabbits. He loves guns and fireworks, chasing rockets and Roman candles, and jumping all around in the midst of popping fire crackers. He kept strays out of the neighborhood for years and loved little children, being a fixture during the years of my wife's home daycare as children, beat, pulled, tugged, and jumped on him. He would just lie there with his tail just wagging.

Our other cat is Lola, a gray stray we found one day. She became my cat and can be quite aloof, though she has a hunger for affection.

Mudge is old now, and I have instructed Ian, our son, to fire off fireworks and then take Mudge out to the woods to hunt squirrels on his last day. Mudge's last thought will be a happy one as he hears the gun go off. I don't want him at the vet's, a place he hates. That, I believe, would be too cruel.

Petrie, though, is the reason for this. My daughter called tonight to say that Ian had found her under the house, dead. She was old for a cat, about 14 years. A wonderful pet, she is the first pet I ever have kept from birth to death. I'll miss her and her careful grooming of my occasionally sunburned head.

Suicide Is Not A Military Innovation

I have been amused, if not amazed, by the attitudes of people concerning suicide bombings and the like as practiced by our most current enemy. In the north of Iraq in 2004 I tried to instill in my colleagues the necessity of vigilance and care in the defense of our compound perimeter due to the possibility of an assault. Most answered with comments along the lines of, "That'd be crazy. We'd kill em all."

Well of course.

This isn't the first time that we, as Americans have encountered an enemy so filled with hatred and a desire for glory in their Heaven that they would willingly die to kill us. World War II in the Pacific, especially in the Phillipines and Okinawa, showed a Japanese ability to die for their cause through suicide. Kamikaze (suicide attacks by aircraft), Banzai (suicide charges by infantry) and harikiri (self-disimbowelment), and similar naval tactics, were standard in the Imperial Japanese military. Thousands of American, British, Australian and other allied soldiers, sailors and Marines were killed by these tactics.

The Korean War saw United Nations Forces, led by the US, fight against human wave attacks by Communist Chinese forces. These were clearly suicidal, though probably not what one would consider suicide attacks.

But, just a few years later in Vietnam, US soldiers encountered suicide assaults in conjunction with Viet Cong and later North Vietnamese attacks. These troops would throw themselves across barbed and concertina wire barriers, risking sure death, to ease the way for their comrades to charge through the defensive perimeters. Other communist soldiers would strap satchel charges to their bodies and rush into command bunkers and ammunition stores, triggering their explosives once inside. Ask any old American infantry Vietnam veteran about these tactics. They were real and they were tactically effective.

This is an old tactic used in the modern day today by Muslim terrorist suicide bombers. Why should anyone be surprised?

Grafitti Surprise

There have been a few surprises here in Germany for me. I was caught off guard at the high cost of living, for one. If their is anything I've found truly surprising is the prevalence of grafitti everywhere. And what is really surprising is the quality of the artistry!

Now we've all seen the variety of grafitti all over America. Most of it really is of poor quality, much of it being gang symbols and marks. The closest thing I've encountered to gangs here in Europe was a couple of young teenage boys on the local trolley. Dressed in the current gang attire, with baggy pants, bandanas, and hats worn sideways, they were listening to hip hop as they sat. My first thought was, "you two wouldn't last two seconds in South Central (Los Angeles)." Of course, it would occur to anyone that a 'drive-by' would be a bit tough from a trolley!

So, without the gang grafitti, the art is quite good, and apparently tolerated. Bright, colorful, cartoon-like, serious, beautiful, frightening, realistic, graphic - it's all there. And unlike in the States, though, there seems to be a sense of discipline with grafittists here that American "practitionists" lack. Trains roll by here generally unscarred by "spray bomb," though solitary buildings, walls, posts, and the like are mostly covered and 'tagged'. Some efforts are made by owners to clean and repaint vandalized areas, but as in America, the efforts are mostly useless. I saw a building that had had construction completed one day, and was completely covered by grafitti within two days!

The biggest shock was the discovery in Old Heidelberg of a grafitti store! This shop had clothing, and mostly spray paint cans of nearly every color! It was an amazing display of acceptable vandalism!

Only in Germany, I guess!

Gibraltar Expoundage

OK. I don't really think that "expoundage" is actually a word, but I did promise to say more about Gibraltar in a previous post, so now I will:

Wikipaedia states that Gibraltar "...is a peninsula of 6.843 square kilometres (2.642 sq mi)" and that it has a "densely populated city area, home to almost 30,000 Gibraltarians." Considering that The Rock, as the towering peak is known, takes up about two-thirds of the peninsula, that means that all the citizens of the town are crammed into an area of about a square mile.

Gibraltar sits at a very southern point of Spain, jutting into the Straights that divide the Meditteranean Sea from the Atlantic Ocean. Captured in 1704 from Spain by Dutch and British forces during the War of Spanish Succession, the subsequent peace treaty granted the small plot of land to Great Britain in perpetuity, which of course means forever in "realspeak."

Gibraltar is a piece of England that may be more English than the Home Country. I drove into the territory directly from the Spanish city of La Linea de la Concepcion, past the customs house entrance, and south into Gibraltar. This was not possible for fifteen years between 1970 and 1985 during the fascist Franco regime. The irony was that Spain and Britain were both NATO allies then as they are now! Incredibly, the only road connecting the place to Spain crosses the airport runway, with stop lights at each side to stop auto and pedestrian traffic when airplanes line up to land.

Spain has demanded a renunciation of the peace treaty for years and years, and the return of the territory to Spain. Two referenda on returning Gibraltar have been held and the last was defeated by 99% by the citizens of the territory! The irony is that Spain maintains six "plazas de soberanía" (places of sovereignty) on and along the Mediterranean coast of Morocco, the two largest and most famous being the cities of Ceuta and Melilla. Morocco is just as adamant that these territories belong to them, and that Spain needs to leave. My suggestion is that the British invite Morocco to any negotiations with Spain about Gibraltar and include the plazas in the talks. Seems to me that the discussions would be really intersting.

The first surprise to me in Gibraltar was that everyone drove on the right side of the street. The standard in Britain, of course, is left-side driving. It matters little, though, as many roads there are one way, and there are so few (it's only a square mile-or-so, remember). The roads are small and curvy and packed.

After driving to the south end of the peninsula and shooting a number of photos of Morocco and the abundant sea traffic, I drove to the center of town, parking at the cable car station and rode to the top of The Rock. The views of the town, the Spanish mainland and the surrounding seas were spectacular. The monkeys were cool, too.

Legend says that British garrisons years ago brought Barbary Macaques as mascots to the outpost. There is some evidence that they were there before the British conquest. Either way, they are the only outpost in Europe of any type of wild monkey.

In town, everything is tight. It is the type of place that would make a New Yorker feel comfortable, except that the roads are minimally sized, much as all roads in ancient, European towns. It was at once vibrant and claustrophobic. And fully British, with everyone talking in a wonderfully English accent. I heard not a word of Spanish!

It made a great afternoon trip from our quarters at our hotel in Rota, Spain.

German Update - 18 October 2010

I've been in Germany now for half-a-year. I certainly have seen and learned a lot. And the most exciting thing to date is my wife's, Darlene's, arrival in Europe.

The cuisine here is amazing. I have yet to have a bad meal outside of a US Military compound. The food here is at once eclectic and varied. The "Mexican" restuarant in Germany is Turkish, with a "doener" stand on every corner. Then there are the Chinese restaurants, too, along with (of course) McDonald's, Burger King, Kentucky Fried Chicken and Taco Bell. To date, outside of military posts, I have yet to indulge in American fast food.

We live in a gasthaus in a little Mannheim suburb called Viernheim (FEARN-hime). The people here are quite nice, and as varied as the food. Poles, a Yugoslavian (by her description), Bulgarians, Brazilians, and Germans work here. Darlene is now a stay-at-home wife, though she is preparing to return to college next month. Wonderfully, just the other day, as the Brazilian and Bulgarian came in to clean the room, she found herself dancing with them both.

Another wonderful woman here is a Pole who moved to Germany as a two-year-old in 1944 at the height of the Soviet advance west through what is today the Ukraine. Her mother, after seeing the Soviets and Nazis in action, decided that Nazis were better than Communists.

There are surprising things I have encountered, despite what I had heard from my Government and from the US media. First of all, Germans smoke like chimneys. They also "drink like fish." On top of it all, due to a history of ancient warfare and invasion, most meals involve pork and fried foods. This despite all the reports I had heard that Western Europeans live and eat more healthily that we Americans.

Soft porn and sex-phone adds are easily found after midnight on television. Nudity is easily found in full view at the newsstand, but there are sharp and hard limits on the nudity one can find in those magazines.

Libertarianism is an essentially unknown political philosphy here.

The Polizei have very broad powers, and there is no concept of police brutality. The Polizei will use as much violence as they feel necessary to control the situation.

Public transportation is common nationwide, though I have recently seen that more rural areas have fewer options. They DO have options, though, but taxes are high here, with a Value Added Tax of 19% on ALL items, to include groceries. The irony is that groceries here are surprisingly cheap, due to tax-supported subsidies to farms.

Overall, Europe has been quite the adventure and so far we are enjoying it greatly. The Lord continues to bless me, and I don't know why.

Deutschland Update - 14 July 2010

I’ve been in Germany now since 27 April, or eleven weeks, and I have finally had my first major encounter with European wildlife today. First there was the hare that hopped across my path. But, I was in for a much bigger surprise a few minutes later.

First, let’s update since my last post.

Since then, I have traveled to Southwestern Spain for twelve days/eleven nights for work. It was interesting to see Rota, as I had passed through some ten years ago. There were quite a few changes to the US/Spanish naval base, and the town. Much has been added to both and it still kept its charm.

Additionally, a colleague and I took full advantage of a day when we were released early and took a short trip to the British bastion of Gibraltar. This small outpost of all that is the Empire, is at once vibrant and claustrophobic. I will expand on this encounter in the future.

I took the break in working in Germany to move to another small city outside Mannheim, Viernheim. It is a quaint and cozy town and I find that I am enjoying the move much. I ride my bike about 12 kilometers (about 7 miles) to work every day through the Kaefertal Wald (“Wood”), and return in the evening. The small forest is the home of numerous biking and walking trails, paved, graveled and grass, and holds a restaurant, rec areas and the Mannheim Wasserwerke (water works).

The city water here is terrible, and I am able to taste the bromide and fluoride, along with the hint of mineral within the water. It is truly bad. But, across the trail from the Wasserwerke is a natural spring that has been properly plumbed and I stop daily and fill my water bottles with tolerably good water!

Recently, there was all of five hours of darkness due to the northerly location. This and the performance of the German Soccer Team in the World Cup had most Germans up very late! I couldn’t participate, even if I had wanted, as I am currently working 6 a.m. to 4:30 p.m. and go to sleep rather early at 9 p.m., or so.

So, I awoke at 4:30 this morning, prepped, dressed and grabbed my lunch. I am usually on the road no later than 5:15 for my 35-to-40-minute ride to work. The ride was quite enjoyable, as the morning temperatures here have been in the 50’s and 60’s. I saw my hare and continued through the Wald. Suddenly, I saw a large boar trot out of the woods in front of me. Standing about three feet tall and sporting tusks at least four inches, he quickly got my attention and I hit the brakes.

The skidding of my wheels got his attention and he bolted just as I saw the other six-to-eight pigs that had yet to emerge form the woods! The big boar bolted across to the right and the rest of the sounder bolted in the direction that I was traveling. We all moved quickly in three parallel paths before my flanking escort broke off their flight, and I continued on my way to work.

There I continued my work on helicopters and had other encounters today with US, Dutch, German and French military personnel. But, all that was quite anti-climactic. The trip home was uneventful. Thankfully.

My New Life?

Well, I have now been in Germany for over two weeks. My wife swears it's a month. I suspect she's trying to make me feel good...

When I was offered this job, I was unsure whether it was what I needed to do. Last year I discerned within the Episcopal Church for the priesthood, and was found to not yet be ready. It was disappointing, but I trusted that the committee was under the Lord's influence. Therefore, I told the company on the day I spoke with them that I would have an answer that Thursday morning, after talking with my family and praying. That Wednesday, over a period of fourteen hours, I watched as the Lord tied up every end that could possibly keep me in the US.

I told my wife, Darlene, that we should sell off everything we own (except for family heirlooms which we'd put in storage) and "become gypsies for the next fifteen years. We'll retire when I'm sixty-five, buy or build a little bungalow, and retire to our rockers, hobbies and travels. She readily agreed. We already have our first weekend trip to Liechtenstein planned for when she arrives later this year.

I'm living currently in the southwest of Germany in the Mannheim area. I have been enjoying exploring my new job, the area, and this interesting, new language. One of the things that has impressed me about Mannheim is the transit system. This place is somewhere between the size of Columbia, South Carolina and Charlotte, North Carolina. The RNV (Rhein-Neckar Verkehrsverbund, or Rhine-Necker Traffic Group in English) is a thoroughly modern transit organization that covers the Mannheim and Heidelburg areas and the area in between. For about $300-a-month I can buy a pass to take me anywhere on the system for that month. Not too bad, but I also, along with everyone else here, pay a 19% Value-Added-Tax on EVERYTHING that is bought here. That's on top of all other taxes Germans pay.

Ford and Chevrolet market models here unseen in America, as does Smart Car. They have at least two other models, one of which is a nifty, little sports car. You can also buy a Peugeot (French), Skoda (Czech), though I've yet to see a Lada (Russian) or a Yugo (Thank God!).

Even with all the choices, I doubt I will buy a car. You can get nearly anywhere in the area on RNV, as long as you are in Baden-Wurttemburg state. I am staying across the state line in Hessen, in an old town named Lampertheim. Founded in 832, or thereabout, it is a clean and comely, bedroom community that contrasts with a grittier, industrial Mannheim. My first impression was The Village from the AMC mini-series "The Prisoner." My second thought was the town in the movie "Truman." Clean and quaint, though the scourge of spray-paint graffitti is quite prevalent.

I am living currently in a hotel room that is small. The room is approximately 10x15 feet including a small bath. But I have German TV, and CNN Europe in English. I have the ONLY balcony room in the place. At 20 euros-a-night, I can't beat it or complain.

I work on an American Army compound, Coleman Barracks, for a defense contractor. I am doing essentially what I have done for the past fifteen years for the South Carolina National Guard, working on Army helicopters. Ironically, my first job on the hangar floor was on a Koninklijke Luchtmacht (Royal Netherlands Air Force) AH-64D Apache.

Some of the things I've encountered have raised my eyebrows. There's the "Everything's a Euro" store, and yes, it IS what you would think. There's also Woolworth's stores still here. There's also footbal, American-style. The Weinheim Longhorns play here. And a convertible Mini Cooper will cost you $24,000.

The weather here is everything I've ever heard. The week I arrived it was quite warm (highs in the 80's, lows in the fifties.) More recently, it has turned into Seattle weather - cold and damp. I've joked that they should have contests in the papers: "Draw the Sun, Win a Prize!"

Nevertheless, the area has entertainment possibilities that blow my mind. I could never imagine such back home in my area. Mannheim has a ballet (I've met one of their ballerinas, a 21-year-old Australian who also tends bar at a local Irish Pub). The city is currently co-hosting the International Ice Hockey Federation World Championships. Additionally, upcoming concerts by Skorpions, a-ha, Deep Purple and Simply Red, to name just four, have caught my eye.

Culturally, the Turkish population in Germany is to this country what Mexicans are in the US. Turkish restaurants abound, and like most food, I like it. I've also discovered a wonderful Italian store in Lampertheim that specializes in meats, wine and cheeses from Italy. And an ice cream stand near that store has wonderful treats.

Most importantly, I have found a church. The English Church Heidelberg meets in a former convent chapel in the old portion of the city. This area was spared allied bombing in World War Two. The building is small (four rooms if you consider the narthex/lobby, the bell tower, and the main parish), but the church membership is vibrant with a Briton raised in California and his family, some German Anglicans, a wonderful lady from Sierra Leone, to name but a few. Additionally, we have a world-circuit riding Kiwi priest and his wife, who will be here for five more weeks. The building is shared with an Old Catholic church, whose priest serves communion twice-a-month to we Anglicans when we lack a priest.

So, here I am. I'm still unsure about exactly what God wants of me here. But, whatever it is, I am anxious to enjoy Europe as do His work!

Whatever that may be.