Many people get to be in their sixties and wonder where all the time went. Especially common is the observation that time seems to go faster as you age.
Me? I know where all of it went. It’s in the time-stamped files on my various computers. Some of it is homework from my students in the courses I mentor. Some of it is things I write that are heading toward publication. But by far the greatest volume has been the audio book work that I’ve done in the last few years.
I have spent hundreds of hours recording and editing audio books. Some my books, others for authors who have hired me. The quality at the beginning of the run was spotty. Largely due to the computer issues and sound problems of an old house. The last few years were much higher in quality: better microphones, better sound baffles – and better narrator.
Yes, you learn as you go. I know I do a way better job now than I did at the beginning. For one thing, I’m more versatile. I’ve purposely read books for others that challenged me. I found out that I can do a good job on almost anything, but it takes extra work on some things.
I spent about 120 hours recording and editing this work. My accuracy rate is about 99.996% – and when I screw up it is usually spectacular. The author found a blooper this morning – the day it went on presale. One word was wrong, but it will drive some people crazy. I won’t say what it was, but most people will will never spot it. He did, because he wrote the danged thing. But I did wait until I was about 10% into the book before I screwed up. And going back to change one word out of 209,000 is problematic after it has been put on sale at Amazon.
I hope you get the book and the audio book. Kindle and Audible usually offer a good deal if you buy both. This book garnered a starred review in Publishers Weekly. That’s a big deal. It is Michael’s first book in 16 years and I’m very proud to have narrated it.
And, remember: you can give audio books as a gift. It comes out December 14th and would make a great Christmas Gift for the fan of military fiction in your life. I promise any submarine sailor in your life will enjoy the book.
This morning I watched a video of the airport arrival of the remains of a United States Marine, Corporal Hunter Lopez. My eyes have dried enough to write this blog, but it will leave a little bit of my soul in California for the rest of my life.
I’d like to tell an abbreviated story of his life. I never had the honor of meeting Mr. Lopez in this life, but in the next I suspect we’ll run into each other. The picture above is from basic training. The weary recruits are marched to a photo studio where a set of Dress Blues are waiting for them, devoid of medals and rank, as befits a recruit. You stand in formation and peel off one-by-one to go into the studio where they put a partial uniform on you. It is usually a “break-away” uniform, with no back, just a couple of velcro straps that hold it together at the collar and chest so it looks right. Takes less time. You do not smile for the photo: you’re a warrior. They don’t smile. In less than a minute you’re back out in formation. The whole training group runs through the photo in under an hour. Way under an hour. But now you have a picture to send to mom and dad, and if you’re lucky to your girlfriend who’s waiting at home for you.
Basic training photos stick around your whole life. Mine is on my wife’s dresser. My mom has one. I probably have one as well. In Hunter’s case, his mom and dad are both Sheriff’s deputies, so they would admire their son in uniform and know that kinship that cops and the military share.
It is debatable which one is the most proud of the other in this photo. Dad’s a Captain in the department, Hunter is a Corporal. For those not in the military, being a Corporal in the Marine Corps is a big deal. You are finally a Non-Commissioned Officer. You are someone.
I love this photo. The exhausted young recruit is gone. This is a young man who knows exactly who he is. He’s ready for the world. I can’t tell from the photo what his rank or the location is, but he’s a handsome young fellow. The salt of the earth: he is America.
Here we see Corporal Lopez arriving home. Surrounded by his brothers in the Corps. He is already gone on to his destiny, but his remains are being moved around one last time. He’s already made the long trip from Kabul to Dover and then home to Southern California. Soon his travels will be complete and his body can be laid at rest.
In watching the arrival of his body at the local airport, I thought of how that might have played out if it was me and things were different. I tried to imagine my mother and father attending to the side of an aircraft, next to the hearse. I couldn’t imagine it. Perhaps, given the time in which I served and the missions we did, I would be forever where I fell. And that would be okay as well, for I’d be with my comrades in eternity.
The assemblage on the tarmac was quiet. A mix of military and law enforcement, as well as Hunter’s family. As the aircraft began preparing to surrender his body, the deputies presented a salute. A lone Highlands Piper played a tune to greet the warrior at the end of this leg of his travels. Pipers are significant to warriors, and I’ve had them at funerals and weddings alike. It is part of who we are, and the haunting skirl of the pipes is as much a part of that identity as the uniforms we wear.
When the remains were brought out of the aircraft, and put on the stand, the family came forward. The rending grief was palpable through the screen. His mother knew that a part of her was inside that casket, and yet her son was not really what was left. Just a body. His father and siblings were present as well, and they all leaned on each other, and the Marines, to steady them as the move to the hearse took place.
Now, with everyone presenting a salute, six Marines lifted the casket and solemnly carried it to the hearse. Not a cover (hat) tilted too much, every seam aligned, perfect uniforms in honor of a young man of their tribe.
Once the body was in the hearse, they backed up, aligned formation, and waited. Stock still. Not moving any more than their comrade in the back of the long-black vehicle.
His mother approached the hearse and leaned against the side window, looking at the flag wrapping her son in his final journey. She’s a lot stronger than me. I could see the toughness it took to do that. But she’s a cop, and a Marine mom: both rare birds.
And that may be the thing I will carry away for the rest of my life: the image of her leaning against the hearse.
You see, freedom isn’t free. Orders have consequences. And Corporal Hunter Lopez paid the piper for all of us.
Thank you, Corporal Lopez. I salute you and ’til Valhalla….
The last year has been incredibly hard for First Responders. I know this for a fact, because I have more than a few that are friends of mine, and I’ve got 100 of them in my class that I mentor on resiliency.
Consequently, I have a suggestion for you: adopt a substation/fire house/precinct.
I don’t mean you have to let those characters in on the inheritance, but pick a group and do something nice for them.
Now, in 2021, you have to do this the right way. They aren’t always receptive to you showing up with a pan of brownies. Besides the fact that a couple of the readers might load them up with funny edible substances that contain THC, there is a justifiable concern for contamination on purpose, or disease.
Here’s how you do it in a few short steps.
First, decide who to support. Law Enforcement, Fire, or Paramedic/EMT.
Talk to the person in charge if you don’t know someone at the location. Find out how many people work there (*they may be touchy about providing this information, so make sure you can provide references*) and if it’s an organization that has shifts reporting/living there, find out when they eat dinner. Firehouses are a great bet for this, they cook for themselves and usually try to eat at the same time. Law enforcement and medics have a shift change, and if you bring a meal, cookies, ice cream sundaes, whatever, you could do it an hour before shift change so both oncoming and offgoing can enjoy the food.
Next, plan a menu when you know what the needs are. If you are a church or social group, you can get together and do a couple of pans of lasagna, hot dish, ribs, whatever, and the assorted salads and deserts. Throw in a couple of beverages for each person to be served and disposable plates/silverware. Saving them the cleanup is a big help.
If you aren’t part of a group, but just want to do this because it feels right, you can find a restaurant they like and cater it in. A full meal for 15 people is about $200 at an inexpensive but good Mexican place around here, because it’s way cheaper when it’s a pan of enchiladas, beans, rice and tortilla instead of individual servings. Not a lot of money if you plan for it.
Now, don’t wait for Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving: do it next week. Yes, they work hard all year long, and Sunday the 19th is every bit as big a blessing as a holiday.
I know morale is low in many of these organizations. Partly because since the Chinese Virus hit, people call them out for the smallest malady. One fire department I know has seen its calls more than double in the past 18 months. It’s wearing these folks down. Your plate of rigatoni and garlic bread will do more for morale than a dozen other things you could do.
That’s it. Just do something nice for them because you can, and they need the boost. Doesn’t have to cost a bundle, but the dividend for them is huge.
The other night I was watching a British series, CALL THE MIDWIFE. In this episode, there was a horrible incident of child neglect/abuse which greatly impacted the midwives, nuns, and police. All people who were used to misery and sadness. But this was different because it was children.
It brought me back to a morning four decades ago where I was dispatched to an elementary school in our city. I entered the school and was brought to a room where my roommate was already talking to a couple of little children. My roommate, the “Kiddie Cop” for the department, was a good guy. And I only had to take one look at him to see he was really upset about what he was hearing.
As per our protocol, I waited for him to finish before approaching, and then interviewed the children myself. I don’t remember if it was the principal or a school nurse who was there to provide protection for the children involved, but there was a third person in the room as a witness.
I knelt down so I could look the little boy in the eye, he was about eight or nine at the most. His younger sister was in the room as well, sitting rather frozen in a chair by the third person. Clearly she was in shock.
The reason for us talking to the boy separately was so that we could validate the story he was telling independently. It was not a good story. It turned out that the childrens’ teachers had suspected abuse on other occasions, but the children clammed up and wouldn’t say anything. The usual “I just fell, I’m okay” sort of thing. Mind you, this was four decades ago, and a lot of things just didn’t go much past the classroom. Reporting standards were quite different.
On that day, however, there was irrefutable, undeniable evidence of abuse that had to be addressed.
You see, both children had sheetrock embedded in their scalps.
It turned out that they had a puppy, and the puppy had scratched at the door to go out. I never even asked what happened to the dog, but Daddy Dearest (and this was as told to me by the boy) had warned them they were responsible for the dog and its actions. When the dog scratched the door, dad decided to bounce their heads off the wall as a punishment. He did it a lot, and consequently the sheetrock broke and pushed under their scalps.
My roommate and I did the usual investigative steps, gathered photos, and then stopped cold. The children lived just outside the city limits, and thus the crime had been committed outside of our jurisdiction. We only found this out as we were readying a complaint to get an arrest warrant. At this time, in New Mexico, the courts were very rigid about the proper agency pursuing the crime.
We had no option. We had to call the County Sheriff and let them pursue the case. We waited with the kids until the county sent someone to take the case, handed over our notes and departed. We could do nothing.
I still remember, through a haze of anger, how we stood in the lot of the school smoking a cigarette and discussing the fact that we could get to dad and deal with him before the county could get a warrant. It would have been so simple, yet so wrong. And, as it turned out, instead we ate our anger and rage and went back to our jobs.
I never found out what happened with those kids. The boy would be closing in on middle age right now. I have wondered a few times over the years if they were removed from the home, if there was a mom who took them, and how badly they were damaged from the evil presence that was their father.
I am blessed in that while it’s still a strong memory, it isn’t a “trigger” for me like so many other people in the First Responder field who deal with that sort of thing over and over again in a career. For me, it’s a moment of reflection and sadness.
So, to all of you out there reading this, keep an eye peeled for little children who are just a note off, and suffer an unusual amount of random physical damage. You might be the only one standing between them and a sheetrock wall.
I’m not prone to sadness and depression. I’m actually one of the most resilient people I know. Sure, I have bad days like anyone else where the world closes in for an hour or two. I don’t know anyone who’s not manic who can make that claim.
But this last week has been a real bitch. Lots of dark and angry days. More than I have experienced in 40 years. That’s quite a stretch of time.
My problems are not the issue here. I think I’m like a lot of veterans in that I just let a lot of things roll off of me and ignore them. There’s a saying in the military from after my time: “Embrace the suck.”
That phrase usually covers it. It’s going to be lousy for a while, just dig in and embrace it. You’re out in the rain and the mud, quit worrying about your white tennis shoes.
This past week was different for most of us. I say that because I’ve talked to people I’ve known for years and they all seem to feel the same. I was thinking about avoiding the political in this post, and I will for a few more paragraphs.
Let’s get to the nub of this: someone you know is probably hurting way worse than me. You have a brother, sister, cousin, spouse, coworker or friend who served in the military. They need you to call them RIGHT NOW (time zone permitting) and check on them. You don’t have to give them a basic inventory for suicidal ideation on the phone, but just ask how they’re doing. Tell them you know it’s a rough time for veterans right now, and they were on your heart. That’s it. Then shut up and listen. You will probably hear them say they’re good. Pissed off, sad, whatever, but their voice will tell you they’re going to be good.
If that isn’t the case, ask them if they’re getting some help. If they can’t dredge up the energy to do that, give them the number above: 1-800-273-8255. If they are below that threshold of energy, add them on as you call that number. Your cell phone should make it easy. Figure out how to do it before you call them. Yeah, they may be really mad at you by the time it’s done. But imagine the gut-wrenching feeling you’d experience if you didn’t call and the next thing you heard was that they’d killed themselves. I’ve been that guy. Didn’t know it was going to happen. I’ll do anything to avoid that feeling again.
Now, assuming you’ve done the above, it’s political time.
I’ll be fine. Today is way better than yesterday, and the day before that one. I had lunch with two great fellow veterans today, and we shared our lives: that’s what gets us through to the next day sometimes.
But if you’re wondering why this set of deaths in Afghanistan is so demoralizing to people who haven’t even been in the military for 30+ years, there’s a simple answer: Nobody in charge cares. They view the troops as disposable pieces on a political playing field. They are more concerned with their careers than the lives of the people in uniform.
The most despicable thing you can do, in my less-than-humble opinion, is leave people behind. It is closely followed with needlessly sacrificing them on a political altar. The feckless generals, admirals, and resident of the White House have openly admitted that we PLAN TO LEAVE AMERICANS BEHIND. I am so freaking mad over that that my blood pressure just jumped 20 points. This was completely avoidable. It still is. We have the greatest military force in history, and we should flood the place with whatever troops and weapons it takes to crush the opposition, evacuate every American, destroy all the things we built, and leave not so much as a friggin round of ammo behind for the vermin who are taking over.
We have entrusted the security and well-being of our troops to the FREAKING TALIBAN. 8TH CENTURY BARBARIANS WHO HATE US. Yes, all caps. It’s like asking the SS to make sure wounded soldiers from Malmedy were cared for properly. It’s political, because the cowards in Washington won’t object to this insanity. Cowards with multiple stars on their shoulders. You want to know what a leader looks like? I’m not finding an example in our military above the O-5 level. But go to the end of this blog to see what one man has said. His opinions are mine as well.
None of this had to happen. It was all preventable. Don’t even bother to say we should never have been there: I agree. We should have swept in after 9/11 and flattened every one of the swine who caused it, leaving smoking rubble behind. And then left.
But we were there, and there is a moral obligation to take care of our allies and our people. That was not done. We lost any moral high-ground we had with the behavior of this administration.
I will be fine. But don’t expect me not to be angry and talk trash about the scum in charge. I plan on doing that for a long time to come. The tables with 13 beers and the people honoring the dead are a good thing. But it’s not enough. We need to demand change and demand it loudly. We should never again place our people in such a precarious position voluntarily.
I never minded the thought of going bad places with my people. I always knew President Reagan would come for us, and if he couldn’t, he’d destroy those who hurt us. That was enough. I pray for the dead, but even more so for the people still serving who have to serve under a leadership team that places so little value on their lives.
I can’t even imagine the personal dilemma of Lt. Colonel Stuart Scheller. I don’t know his heart, but what I’ve seen of him in the last 12 hours impresses the heck out of me. He resigned his commission today as a Lieutenant Colonel in the Marine Corps so that he could speak freely. I hope and pray he’s not a fraud, as he really touched my heart. Here is his video:
