"She's got a light around her and, everywhere she goes, a million dreams of love surround her. Everywhere

Thank you Margaret, Sarah, and John for the time of my life.

It has been remarkable for me, as father and grandfather of daughter and child to see them together, separately, and as one.

Margaret is Sarah and that makes me laugh and cry all at once.

Margaret's morning coos are Sarah's.

Her wet diapers are Sarah's.

Her brand new giggles and laughs are all Sarah's, but of course they really belong to Margaret.

Wherever did the time go?

It has been an extraordinary three weeks filled with our cherished past, loving present, and hope that the future forever brings.

I am at a loss to describe my feeling about the woman that Sarah has become in my life, so I will close by again resorting to Billy Joel:
She comes to me when I'm feelin' down
Inspires me without a sound
She touches me and I get turned around.
Thank you, Sarah.

And thanks to all visitors.

Jack

"And when I touch you I feel happy inside. It's such a feeling that my love I can't hide"

Thank you for visiting.

Jack

"It's Just the Luck of the Draw, Baby, the Natural Law."

Images that enter our eyes do so upside down.

It is, thereby, up to the brain to sort things out. What we know to be true is that, for the most part, the brain then turns things right side up. The two go on to form an impressive partnership that allows most of us to stay alive (hot stoves bad, smiling babies good.)

Occasionally, our brain cannot make sense of what our eyes are seeing - it can find no experiential context. This happened to me occasionally in Vietnam. My brain had a tough time knowing where to put a pile of dead bodies or a 122mm rocket incoming at close to the speed of sound.

Such a happenstance occurred to me again about ten years ago while driving through the Connecticut countryside. I was lost, late for a meeting, while on a beautiful stone wall-lined New England back road that was going nowhere. Then, all of a sudden, I came around a bend and - whoa! - There was Oz...No, Xanadu...no Oz and Xanadu in one.

What I was seeing for the first time was the Foxwoods Casino – now the largest single gaming facility on the planet. It was so enormous, so completely misplaced, and out of context that I could do little but pull over to the side of the road and gape.

Gambling. Wow!

I'd been to Las Vegas years ago and ogled at what I thought was a well regulated local phenomenon. I have a vivid recollection of older normal looking people dropping money without restraint at all imaginable venues. It was sort of cool, but mostly scary - particularly the scale of it. I knew that politicians hoped that gambling would save decaying Atlantic City. Most states had by now begun to rely on lotteries to augment revenue. I knew that Native Americans were using loopholes to build casinos on their land with little concern about local laws, regulations and, obviously, community standards.

But this? My eyes were blinded on that October morning in 1997. Foxwoods was beyond all imagination. I understood that if this could be happening in Ledyard, Connecticut, it could be happening anywhere.

And it is.

Yesterday I visited the former Portuguese colony of Macao, an hour south of Hong Kong by jet ferry. The guide books say it is a good one day trip to see several worthy historic sights and dine on Portuguese cuisine. I knew that gambling was legal in Macao as was prostitution. I knew they also had an annual Formula One automobile race. The idea of it all seemed sort of James Bond-sy.

Macao was both the oldest and the last European colony in China. It was settled by Portuguese traders in the 16th century and returned to China in 1999 - two years after Hong Kong. Like its neighbor to the north, Macao enjoys the political status of a Special Administrative Region. What this means, in both cases, is that anything anybody wants to do to make loads of money for China is O.K.

For Hong Kong? International finance.

For Macao? Gambling

Prior to turnover, Macao gambling was tightly controlled by Stanley Ho to his enormous benefit. Ho kept things in check. Revenue poured into him and growth was modest. After turnover, the Chinese felt that the only way to break Ho's hammerlock was to open Macao gaming to international competition. Since then, all hell has broken loose.

There are 34 casinos in Macao. Enormous new palaces by the giant American gaming companies such as MGM Grand, Steve Wyn, and the Sands have sprung up almost overnight. There are at least 8 more under construction by my count. Like Las Vegas, each is trying to outdo the other in scale and perceived opulence. Huge areas of the old colonial city have evaporated as massive casino construction abounds. As with my first sight of the Foxwoods Casino a decade ago, there was little for me to do during my day-long visit than simply walk around and gape. Busload after busload of Chinese tourists poured in forming an endless stream that no doubt continued day and night. There was no integration with the old Macao, architecturally or otherwise. The whole place had had the look and feel of a mad, greedy, pathetic free-for-all.

I read the papers. Banks are in trouble, the world financial system is teetering, and credit is tight. There appears, however, to be no shortage of cash for casino construction in Macao and no shortage of people to fill them when they are completed. I suspect the situation is the same the world over.

You may want to take another look at that little innocent town down the street from you that you just found out was largely owned by a long forgotten Indian tribe. You may also want to take another look at your own town council or state government. It can happen in a heartbeat.

Strapped localities need cash. Gambling is a simple solution.

Ledyard, Connecticut

Macao, China

The power and appeal are enormous.

Like global warming, the trend will not be reversed in our lifetimes or those of our children

Thank you for visiting

Jack

Wannabes, Valor Thieves, Poseurs, Fakes, Frauds, Scumbags, Low Lifes, Imposters,Charlatans, and Cheats

When I served with the Marine Corps in Vietnam, I was part of an infantry company that spent a predominant amount of time in harm's way. That's what infantry companies do.

Of all of those who served in country during the Vietnam war, it is estimated that perhaps only 30% or less were involved in actual day to day combat activities. The rest were engaged in the critical support functions. That percentage may be higher with the Marines, but still.

Shortly after my 19th birthday, I enlisted in the United States Marine Corps. Parris Island was as tough as its reputation. Infantry training was unbearably long and taxing beyond anything that even my fertile mind could have conjured. Then, one day, over a year later, I stepped off a plane in Danang and spent most of the ensuing year shooting or being shot at. It wasn't every day. There were times when we'd go weeks with little or no action at all. But they were always out there looking for us and waiting for their moment. At those rare times when we found each other, the dance was macabre.

It was a long year. Friends were killed and injured. We were exposed to cancer and diabetes causing Agent Orange. Most from my unit carry government disabilities for mental and physical wounds received. Lives were never the same.

To a man, however, we are proud that we served, honored that we served with each other (living and dead,) and will ever stand tall that we earned the title of United States Marine. Consequently, we get angry - VERY angry - when some poser wannabe tries to hitch a free ride on our bus.

An article in today's New York Times triggered me. Senator Hillary Clinton admitted that she lied about being exposed to sniper fire while visiting Bosnia with her husband, the President, in 1997...check that...she didn't "lie" she (in the current hot lexicon of Washington, DC) "misspoke."

Speaking from my own experience and that of my many brothers - trust me on this - when a sniper is shooting at you, it is not a "kind of pregnant" sort of deal. Every orifice opens and closes and opens again, adrenaline spews and you instantly make yourself so small that, in the lexigon of the day, you'd have to look up to look down. It is the scariest fucking moment that you can possibly imagine.

Mrs. Clinton has now joined the vomitously long list of wannabes who would like to make the public think that they stood tall in harm's way. You may say or believe whatever you will about Senator John Kerry and his swift boat experience in Vietnam. There is not one person who questions that he was there, got shot at, and served with honor. Medals? No medals? Wounds? No wounds? Big deal. He served.

War Wannabes are obviously a subject about which I feel strongly, so let's pull back the rocks and see who climbs out.

Iowa Senator Tom Harkin (at the time a Congressman) said at Congressional Vietnam Veterans' Caucus that "I spent five years as a Navy pilot, starting in November of 1962. One year was in Vietnam. I was flying F-4s and F-8s on combat air patrols and photo-reconnaissance support missions. I'm proud of my Navy service. I put my ass on the line day after day. (WSJ 12/29/01)

Liar liar pants on fire. Mr. Harkin's Navy record shows his only decoration is the National Defense Service Medal, awarded to everyone on active service during those years. He was never within half a world of Vietnam.

Professor (and Pulitzer prize winning historian) Joseph Ellis of Mt. Holyoke College fabricated his alleged war record for years. According to the Boston Globe (6/20/01) he told students and anyone else that would listen, that, while serving under General Westmoreland, he saw action clearing out the area around My Lai as a platoon commander of combat paratroopers from the legendary 101st Airborne.

Liar, liar pants on fire. Ellis never left the states. He also lied to his students and in numerous television and press interviews about his work as an anti war activist (not), a civil rights worker in Mississippi (not) and as the scorer of the winning touchdown in the last game of his senior year in high school (not.) He wasn't even on the team. Oh, and during the Vietnam War? Ellis was teaching history at the United States Military Academy.

Incredibly, then Mt. Holyoke president Joanne Creighton supported Ellis and said he was a "man of great integrity, honesty and honor." No kidding, you can't make this up. How can a blatant liar be a man of "great integrity, honesty, and honor." Where was she educated?! I remained stunned that he wasn't tossed out on his ear. Where were groups like the American Legion when we needed them to defend us?

The American Legion? Oops.

Paul A. Morin is the National Commander of the American Legion. In the lead sentence of his campaign biography, according again to the Boston Globe (12/3/06) he describes himself as a "Vietnam veteran of the US Army." When he testified before the House Veterans' Affairs Committee that fall, he was also introduced as such. He went on to say, "When we came home (from Vietnam), life was a little different. We do not want to see any veteran ever returning to what we did, so we'll be there to be welcoming them home with open arms,"

Liar, liar pants on fire. The closest he got to Vietnam was Ft. Dix, NJ.

Had enough?

I haven't.

Former Toronto Blue Jays manager Tim Johnson fired up his baseball teams with bloody tales of his days as a U.S. Marine in Vietnam. He had killed a little girl and her brother who happened into the line of fire.

Liar, liar pants on fire. He served in the Marine Reserves. An exemption for baseball players had kept him out of combat.

Former U.S. Rep. Wes Cooley told reporters he'd fought in Korea as a Special Forces demolition expert trained in mountain climbing and escape tactics. The Oregon Republican said he'd engaged in countless secret missions.

Liar, liar, pants on fire. He never left the states. He hadn't even finished his training when the Korean conflict ended.

Actor Brian Dennehy said he served five years in Vietnam. He'd been hit by shrapnel. Combat, he told Playboy magazine, was "absolute f---ing chaos."

Liar, liar pants on fire. Dennehy had been a Marine, but his only overseas assignment had been as a football player on a service team in Okinawa.

There are groups and individuals who are ever vigilant for Wannabes. One among them is Stephen Burkett, co-author of "Stolen Valor: How the Vietnam Generation Was Robbed of its Heroes and its History." My hat is off to all who are vigilant for evidence of such unspeakable fraud. I encourage each of you to join the ranks. Posers are your friends, neighbors, and co-workers. It has been said that there are more people who falsely claim to have served in harm's way in Vietnam than those that actually did.

I feel strongly that an early post World War II American public would not have stood for the swift boating of Senator John Kerry in 2004, the "unpatriotic" moniker hung on Vietnam War triple-amputee Senator Max Cleland during the Georgia primary the same year, or the Republican sliming of Senator John McCain (former prisoner of war) during the South Carolina primary in 2000. To this day, few people stand tall to protect and defend the service of those who served in harm's way during the Vietnam War.

We have the power to change that.

Perhaps a good way to begin is to boycott all books written by Joseph Ellis. To Vietnam Veterans, he holds a dubious place of honor that heretofore had been the exclusive domain of Hanoi Jane Fonda.

He lied about himself, for goodness sake.

Did he lie about Jefferson?

This Imposter is teaching our kids.

The list follows:

Founding Brothers: The Revolutionary Generation
His Excellency: George Washington
American Sphinx: The Character of Thomas Jefferson
American Creation: Triumphs and Tragedies at the Founding of the Republic
Passionate Sage: The Character and Legacy of John Adams
After the Revolution: Profiles of Early American Culture
Thomas Jefferson, Genius of Liberty
School for Soldiers: West Point and the Profession of Arms
Something That Will Surprise the World: The Essential Writings of the Founding Fathers
What Did the Declaration Declare?

Thank you for visiting.

Jack

"Oh, I Wonder, Wonder Who, Mmbadoo-ooh, Who, Who Wrote the Book Of Love?"

Thank you for visiting.
Jack

"So Remember, Every Picture Tells a Story Don't It?"

Hong Kong March 21, 2008
(Click on picture to enlarge)

Thank you for visiting.
Jack

"Glory Days"

Most tourists are eager to see that which they ought to see in the first several days (given they have the luxury of time that I have in Hong Kong.) Guidebooks understand this and customarily outline the first 48 hours in detail (lunch here, shop there, ogle at this, be sure to see that, etc.)

New York? The Statue of Liberty.

Boston? Old North Church.

Hong Kong? The Peak.

Delving more deeply into a guidebook, hotel concierge, and in my case family, tourists next want to know where the locals hang out. Where do they eat/shop/do local stuff? Where can I go to see locals doing what ever it is that locals do so that I might better understand the fabric of the place?

Hong Kong is all about money, so it is easy to spot a local financial type bursting out of an enormous office building, yakking on his cell phone, sucking down a cigarette in two drags, while knowing that civilization itself may hinge on his next deal. In fact, given the state of the U.S financial market this week and its impact internationally, for once he may be right.

Hong Kong is also about eating. There are more restaurants per capita here than anywhere else in the world. Getting to them is another matter. The early evening streets and intersections in the more popular destinations are unimaginably clogged with people. As in Tokyo, cars drive on the left. People are encouraged to move in the same fashion (IE., 'up' escalators are always on the left.) Left to their own devices, however, pedestrians walk wherever they please on whatever side they want. There is no right side, so to speak. Pedestrian traffic is chaos everywhere - all the time.

My first look at locals hanging out occurred during my walk through Victoria Park on Sunday. Sunday is nanny's day off. Most of the nannies are either Philippino or Indonesian. The Philippinos flock to the Catholic churches. The Indonesians, on the other hand, flood to Victoria Park. Indonesia has the largest Muslim population in the world. Along every pathway, in every nook there were clusters of a dozen or so brightly-clad, head-covered Muslim women on plastic sheets reading, praying, laughing, talking on cell phones, and eating volumes of exotic (to my eye) foods of all colors from every imaginable kind of container. Were such clusters spotted in an American park, the Homeland Security level would instantly go to red.

Yesterday, with Margaret's help (you knew I'd work her in somehow,) we took the #25 bus up the hill to see where the locals go to school. Coincidentally, her mother also teaches there. It was a win-win deal for Margaret and me. She got a mid-morning feeding and I had a chance to burst with pride as I walked around Sarah's (empty - remember the flu) classroom. It expressed the energy and excitement of a vital 5th grade class. Her creativity and style oozed from every corner. On the hall wall, just outside of her door there is a plaque with her name written in both Mandarin Chinese and English. Father-wise, it does not get any better than that!

The most popular local spot that I have identified to date is the Hong Kong Central Public Library. This morning, I arrived 30 minutes prior to opening. What I saw when I escalated to the plaza, were about 800 people (really, I counted) waiting eagerly in a line that wrapped around and through the plaza in a manner reminiscent of the security operation at LaGuardia Airport on the Wednesday prior to Thanksgiving.

Officials patrolled the scene to be certain that order was maintained. When the doors opened, people poured in as though it were festival seating at a Springstein concert. Half shot for the three elevators and the rest to the escalators. My goal was a window cube overlooking the harbor on the 9th floor. The elevator was chancy, the escalator a sure thing. I joined the throng tearing up the escalator steps two and three at a time. When I arrived, I got the last spot - the others already comfortably occupied by the more seasoned elevator people.

There is nothing particularly special about the 9th floor. There are probably 1,000 working cubicles in the library and each has power and an Internet connection. By 11am all were filled and, based on past experience, will remain that way until closing time at 10pm.

There is no mention of the Hong Kong Central Public Library in my Fodor's guidbook, and yet here may lie a clue about that in which the locals are engaged.

Where can I go to see locals doing what ever it is that locals do so that I might better understand the fabric of the place?

The Hong Kong Central Public Library is such a place and serious learning, education, and self improvment are the activities.

Thank you for visiting.

Jack

“As you wish”

In the closing scene of The Princess Bride, Wesley asks swordsman Inigo Montoya about his plans, having avenged the death of his father. "You know,” Montoya responds, “it's very strange -- I have been in the revenge business so long, now that it's over, I don't know what to do with the rest of my life."

I know how he felt – not about revenge, but about achieving a long sought, all consuming singular goal.

Five years ago, I set out to become a writer, although I didn’t know it at the time. I was unemployed, recently married, and struggling with the dormant torment of my United States Marine Corps service in Vietnam. My writing career began with the transcription of the 102 letters home written during my two year enlistment. Somewhere along the way, the letters began to morph into a book and I dared to dream that I could be a writer.

Slowly, I became consumed – some might say possessed – by the book and the process. Six months later, I got a job. During lunch and after work, I worked on the book and thrived in the writing process. After a year, I lost the job.

I continued to write, research, and network the book while looking for another job. It had now become a product that I wanted published, both for my own validation and that of my fallen brothers in arms.

Two years later, I got another job. During lunch and after work, I worked on the book and thrived in the writing process. After a year, I lost the job. A month later, my marriage ended. She said "I never want to hear the word 'Vietnam" again."

Oh well.

Broke and now homeless, I accepted the generous invitation of Nancy and Terry Tillery to live over their garage in North Carolina. The completion of the book was near and, as throughout the process, I was filled with hope. My family, friends, and Marine Corps brothers believed in me without condition. They provided the enormous positive strength that I required to complete the book.

Over time I had acquired the services of a brilliant editor and a top New York literary agent. Three months ago, with the book completed to the satisfaction of my editor and me, I hand delivered the finished product to my agent. Last week, thanks to her efforts, we received word that Random House will publish the book in May, 2009. It will be positioned as “a good beach read.”

The story will be told.

Now what?

I am sitting in a cubicle on the ninth floor of the new Hong Kong Central Library, listening to Bonny Raitt, and looking out at the full expanse of the magnificent waterfront and skyline. I will be visiting with my daughter and her family for two more weeks before returning home to a wonderfully uncertain future.

Another book? A writing or teaching position? A carpenter’s assistant?

I have never been happier.

Amid the ferries, container ships, and mammoth cruise liners that I can see plying the harbor below, an ancient Chinese Junk with two red masts is slowly working it’s way northward with the wind. It is an incredibly incongruous site. It ignites my fertile daydreaming mind to a career idea that makes me smile – laugh.

“Have you ever considered piracy?" Wesley responded to Inigo in the closing scene of The Princess Bride. "You'd make a wonderful Dread Pirate Roberts.”

A pirate?

Of course.

Thank you for visiting.

Jack

"Well rock my so-oul, how I love to stroll"

Margaret and I went to Victoria Park this morning in her stroller.

We used to take Margaret’s mother to the park in what we called an umbrella stroller – a flimsy fold-up piece of canvas held together by a cheap aluminum frame. It moved, so to speak, on four Stone Age era wheels for which every pebble or poorly laid brick was a major obstacle. But, it was the latest in baby stuff. What did we know about space age metals and aerodynamics?

Margaret’s stroller is the modern kind with which you are familiar. It moves with the smooth precision of a monorail and has more stuffed stuff hanging off it than a Christmas tree. Little Margaret is strapped in like a flight attendant on airplane jump seat.

The Hong Kong that I have seen so far is stroller friendly. Our outing was impeded by not so much as a curb. Here’s one for you old-timer stroller pushers - Victoria Park actually has a “pebble walk.” People of all ages take off their shoes, and walk around a lovely path of smooth rocks and pebbles. Perhaps its something one does after Tai Chi to maintain Fung Shui. Remembering the old umbrella stroller, I took off my shoes and pushed Margaret in her stroller along the pebble walk because…well, because I could. I thought it was a riot until the bumps gave Margaret the grumps. Then it wasn’t funny anymore.

The park was particularly busy since all of the elementary schools are closed due to a flu outbreak (don’t say epidemic!!) Additionally, Victoria Park is the site of the annual Hong Kong Flower Show, so groups of mostly elderly ladies in bright color-coordinated baseball caps were being led around by a tour director with a similarly colored flag. We see this all the time in Washington DC this time of year, but the groups tend to be comprised of school aged kids wearing bright color coordinated tee shirts that might say, “The East Jefferson Tigers Annual Cherry Blossom Special – April 2008.”

Lot’s of people were playing tennis in the park and there was evidence that a tournament was in progress. We also passed playground after crowded playground (schools closed,) each more beautifully laid out than the last. I gave passing thought to giving Margaret her first swing ride in one of those baby plastic seats, but decided it best that her first emergency room visit not occur on my watch.

We took an elevated walkway across to the harbor to look at some old Chinese house boats and paused to drink the most spectacular city view on earth. Hong Kong, built as it is on a steep hill, is remindful of San Francisco in that you walk a block, turn a corner and whammo – you are hit with one breathtaking view after another. Hong Kong – for architecture, scale, culture, parks, and overall civility - gets my vote as the most beautiful city in the world (I’ve now been here for two days).

My last visit to Hong Kong was in 1965 on a trip with my family. Dad had business and we all got to come along for the ride. It was a different Asia then. The war in nearby Vietnam was just beginning and Hong Kong was still a British Crown Colony. I remember how big and crowded it was even then. I remember the Peninsula Hotel in Kowloon with the bell boys in the funny hats. I remember the near blinding phosphorescence in the water during a late night boat excursion. I particularly remember the ride up the funicular railway to the Peak – the highest point on Hong Kong Island. The views were and remain, absolutely breathtaking. The area around the Peak was developed by the British during colonial times as a resort of sorts where they could escape the stifling summer heat on the water far below.

In returning to Hong Kong, I am making my first true visit to China. The British have been gone for a decade. The Peninsula Hotel still exists, but without the colonial swagger. My daughter Sarah looked askance when I mentioned my memory of the phosphorescence. Perhaps pollution has taken its toll on one of nature’s magnificent spectacles. Suffice to say, tourists no longer come for the midnight glow of the water.

The funicular railway IS still here, however, literally unchanged in 45 years. The guide books insist that it is THE first morning outing, so off I went yesterday (without Margaret.) I took the subway to Central and found my way up the hill to the terminus. The bottom terminal is all new and fancy, but the railway cars, tracks, cable, and employees remain frighteningly unchanged. As with a San Francisco cable car, I’d have preferred more evidence of investment in the actual cable operation. Not to be outdone, the new terminus on the actual Peak is crowned by an enormously precarious edifice that is right out of the Jetsons.

I took the funicular up, gasped at all the views, and dodged a formidable gauntlet of 21st century marketing madness (Bubba Gump’s Shrimp Company??!!) Prior to my descent, I took a magnificent wooded walk of several miles around the top of the mountain. Every hundred yards, a break in the trees would expose yet another breathtaking unbroken view. I was lost in a once colonial refuge of extraordinary peace and beauty. It was simple to close my eyes and pretend that it was one hundred years ago. Unlike the rest of busy Hong Kong, there are areas on the Peak where time has in fact stood still.

Later in the evening, after Margaret had been bathed and retired, I recounted the events of my day to Sarah and her husband John, who were excited about what I had seen. They shared stories of their own visits up there shortly before Margaret was born. There had been some hope that the air, the altitude, and the breathtaking beauty might somehow induce labor.

The Peak will, consequently, always be a part of Margaret’s life, regardless of how long she lives in Hong Kong. She will hear these stories from her parents and pass them on to her children, much as the tales of Sarah’s early days in New York have become the stuff of our own family lore.

There is, however, a sobering side to the Peak as family history. One hundred years ago, when Hong Kong was under British colonial rule, Margaret would not have been permitted on the Peak, because she is Chinese.

Margaret and I were now making our way back through Victoria Park from our foray to the waterfront. We watched the earlier scenes take on a more frenetic pace as the morning approached noon. The playgrounds were busier, the paths more crowded, and the baseball capped flower show groups were now being herded into holding pens designed to manage the overflowing crowd.

Nearing the end of the park, I lost Margaret. Glancing down, I saw the eyes gently closed and the little head listing lightly to one side. I wanted the moment to last forever, but knew that she would need her mother in time. As we approached the large lawn bowling green, I decided to make our final stop of the morning. There were several teams of Chinese men intently playing a game, brought over and left by the British colonials over a century before. Lawn bowling was no longer for whites only. I wasn’t certain if this was fitting, ironic, or something else. I found a nearby bench and watched the activity (as in paint drying) for nearly an hour as Margaret snoozed away.
Margaret and I had a most excellent first morning together.

Thank you for visiting.

Jack

"And my China doll down in old Hong Kong, waits for my return."

Why would a sane person leave Knotts Island for three weeks on the cusp on the most beautiful season of the year??!!



May I introduce you to Sarah and Margaret (John not pictured.)

Thank you for visiting.

Jack

"And we would all go down together"

Forty years ago, I was a Lance Corporal serving with a United States Marine Corps infantry company in Gio Linh, South Vietnam. Gio Linh was a coastal outpost hard on the DMZ that separated the two Vietnams.

I remember two things about Gio Linh. First, forty years ago last Saturday, I scrambled into a bunker during an enemy artillery barrage. The bunker, which we had been reinforcing, sustained a direct hit and, incredibly, barely held. Being on the receiving end of a direct artillery hit is, well, indescribable, so I won't try.

My second recollection of Gio Linh was the ongoing the aerial spraying of the dioxin laced defoliant Agent Orange around us, on top of us - everywhere. Secretary of Defense Robert MacNamara had decreed that the entire DMZ be defoliated so that enemy penetration could be monitored.

Where was Rachael Carson when we needed her?

This past weekend also marked the annual Knotts Island Hunters' Feast - several thousand men wandering around the bay eating all manner of meat and game, drinking beer, and generally having a good time. It is a fundraiser for a local children's home. The gross this year was over $100,000. The weather was spectacular.

Several years ago, Terry Tillery decided that he would use the Hunter's Feast as a destination for our Charlie Company brothers. This year we attracted brothers in arms from California, Oklahoma, Texas, North Carolina, and Virginia. We had a blast.

The group began arriving Wednesday. I spent the morning having routine blood work done at the Veterans Administration in Hampton, then beat it over to Norfolk airport to begin grabbing the guys. By Thursday evening we were assembled in a small hunting lodge not far from my garage. Knotts was and is a serious place for duck hunters.

I thought it might be fun to have everyone over to show off my new grill, but I was seriously trumped by Johnny Barnes, son of the lodge proprietor, denizen of the pool house without a pool (across the way from the lodge), and without argument, griller extraordinaire. It would be easier to describe the aforementioned 155 mm enemy artillery round than to even touch that which Johnny produced for us over the following days.

Thursday was fish - fried fresh (like just pulled from the water) scallops, ma hi ma hi, some things I wasn't sure of, and grilled fresh tuna steaks with a freshly made crab sauce. Add to that corn bread, cole slaw, beans, etc. All but the tuna were deep fried. The tuna was cooked in a cast iron skillet over flame (this is all outside, now.) We stayed up most of the night dancing and keryokiing to an Eagles concert CD on John's home theatre setup (we're still in the pool house without a pool.)

Friday morning was bacon, hash browns, and eggs on the skillet (I'm sure I forgot something.) Friday night was steak night. Pound upon pound New York strip thrown on the Green Egg (oval green grilling device heated with some special wood.) Baked potatoes, backed beans and - well - please forgive any gastronomic details that I may have overlooked.) Somewhere in there we spent several hours with a tape recorder laughing and mostly crying about the grand young sons with whom we served. Each year it becomes increasingly unimaginable for me to process that these were all teen aged boys.

Saturday was the Hunters Feast on nearby Blue Pete Haven. It was a glorious day.

As the sun set, after a needless stop at Pearl's Bay Marina, we struggled back to Johnny's to be greeted with Egg fired Italian sausage slathered with his outrageous caramelized onion thing that he does on the skillet.

Incredibly, we all eat again and that is that.

Nobody moves.

Nobody speaks.

The Eagles concert is running on a closed loop, but few are singing.

We've all been had.

Sunday, the trips to the airport began anew. My last drop was Tuesday morning. Limping back to Knotts Island, I stopped by the post office to say hi to Bonny and pick up my mail for the first time in a week. I was greeted by two envelopes. I opened the one from the Veterans Administration without interest or curiosity to scan my lab results from the previous week.

Several sentences on the second page struck my eye, "your diabetes is directly related to you Agent Orange exposure..." "you will get a meter to check your blood sugar at home," I've referred you to our diabetes support group."

Blah, blah, blah.

I have diabetes.

Forty years ago this week, as I ran for cover, all of our young lungs absorbed the deadly dioxin around us. I survived an enemy artillery attack, but my real enemy was in the air, just as surely as if it had been a 500 pond bomb.

Forty years from today, a 60 year old Iraq/Afghanistan combat veteran is going to walk into a local Veterans Administration Hospital because he doesn't feel right.

Then it will be his turn.

This does not stop.

As long as we insist on fighting wars in strange faraway places, we will expose our troops to strange faraway ailments - like those eminating from the dioxin laced defoliants and napalm manufactured by the Dow Chemical Company of Midland, MI, USA.

Thank you for visiting.

Jack

"Days of Future Passed"

I was in the second grade at Brayton Elementary School in Summit New Jersey in 1955 when the day came to get our polio shots. Our class was summoned to the auditorium and stood frozen with fear in a line that wound into the nurses office. I recall a conversation with a friend in which I said I'd rather risk polio than get the shot (I hated shots.)

Foolish?

Completely.

Polio was the scourge of the 20th century. It was one of the most feared of many childhood diseases that, to a great degree, no longer exist. Polio epidemics crippled thousands of people, mostly young children. All related to polio was horrific. In April, 1955, Dr. Jonas Salk announced the development of a vaccine and, within a year, nearly every American child had been vaccinated. Within a decade, the disease was largely eradicated from the United States.

Those were the days.

We were the first wave of the baby boom. Our fathers had defeated the Japanese and saved Europe. Anything was possible. We would have men on the moon and bring them safely home prior to my college graduation. To us, the power of American scientific achievement and (occasionally blind) hope for the future wasn't really amazing, it was assumed.

Five years after my first polio shot, while having a Coke at a diner across from the Strand movie theatre in Summit, I made the idiotic decision to have my first cigarette. Not long into my tenure as a smoker, the Surgeon General of the United States announced that there was a direct link between cigarette smoking and lung cancer. I remember saying to a friend at the time that, by the time I got lung cancer, science would have found the cure. It was not a preposterous assumption, given the times. It was my own blind hope for the future. It also allowed me to continue smoking cigarettes in full denial of the personal repercussions (and, as we've come to find out, the significant second hand smoke repercussions of those that were around me.)

Unlike polio, however, lung cancer was not cured. Our school headmaster, who announced the Surgeon Generals report to us at an assembly in 1963, died of lung cancer nine years later. He never quit. My father died of lung cancer twenty years later. He quit only near the end. These were two intelligent and accomplished men. Several years later, I finally quit. Science was not going to win this one.

Smoking = death. It still does.

So much for blind faith in the future.

I was in denial about polio (I'll take my chances rather than the shot) and cigarette smoking (science will figure it out.)

Man defeated polio, cigarettes defeated man.

So now I am thinking of Thomas Jefferson. Jefferson is one of history's great individuals - on a par with Da Vinci, Gandhi, or Shakespeare. He was an accomplished diplomat, farmer, scientist, architect, inventor, and author. We all know Jefferson as the drafter of the Declaration of Independence.

"All men are created equal."

Jefferson was also a slave owner and fathered children by at least one slave (Sally Hemming.) He was not a wealthy man. He felt that he needed slaves to live a life that permitted him to be all of the things that he was and aspired to be. Many historians agree that Jefferson, although tormented by the institution of slavery, felt that, over time, it would die a natural death in the United States. This hope was based on my aforementioned cigarette argument. Somebody would think of something.

The ideals which Jefferson espoused were incompatible with his personal behavior. And, as far as his prognostication about slavery, he could not possibly have been more wrong. Slavery did not did a natural death. Its hideous end cost hundreds of thousand of lives and very nearly destroyed all that Jefferson envisioned.

Because the cure for polio came at my young age, I had reason to believe that lung cancer too would be defeated. Jefferson had drafted the Declaration, defeated the British, and achieved almost unimaginable personal accomplishments during his young lifetime and yet died alone as the owner of slaves.

So what?

Days when I drive the 25 miles from Knotts Island to Virginia Beach to do errands, I pass several enormous sand quarries with holes in the earth that are nearly unimaginable in scale. Sand is used for everything in road and housing construction. This is where it comes from. Sometimes I pretend that those holes contain granite, or oil, or coal, or all of the other natural resources that we consume to an unfathomable degree. The end products are in the skin of my car, my tires, the gas, the book on CD to which I listen, and the very the road upon which I drive.

Dr. Jonas Salk is nowhere to be found to cleanly solve that which we are bringing upon ourselves.

Like Jefferson, we will all be dead prior to the time of reckoning.

Thank you for visiting.

Jack