"Sunshine Superman"

SUPER SUNDAY!!

O.K., it's not Christmas or the Fourth of July, but it has been around long enough to conjur memories.

This is my first Southern Super Sunday in years (I don't aknowledge McLean, VA to be Southern.) I've been invited to Bill and Barb's pool house next door to watch the game. Chili and beer will be served. Excellent.

An interesting insight into Knotts Island is that one need not have an actual swimming pool to have a pool house. Bill and Barb do, but Johnny Barnes down the street does not (Johnny is just completing a major renovation of his pool house to include a small bedroom.)

Pool Houses are places where guys go to drink, watch football, and fall asleep in big lounge chairs. They are decorated to look like island tiki bars. I wasn't introduced to the concept until I was too old to get away with it in my own life. Happily, however, I now have an entire garage that serves as my personal pool house. All my stuff is here and I can fall asleep with the TV on and no one gets on my case.

It is warm. Pool house doors are open, guests are arriving (see photo above), grills are being fired up, bags of ice are being dumped over buckets of beer, and all seems right with the world. I'm looking forward to the game and am glad that Bill and Barb invited me over. Who wants to be alone on Super Sunday!?!

I spent my first Super Bowl Sunday in the South and I was, for the most part, alone. I was stationed at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, the sprawling east coast anchor for the United States Marine Corps. I was a Private First Class, attending supply school, and learning the one transferrable skill that I took from the Corps - typing.

That Saturday morning I was granted a 48 hour pass and decided to visit Andover friends that were attending the University of North Carolina in Chapel Hill. I rose early, took the base liberty bus (known as the "vomit comet") into the neighboring town of Jacksonville, and boarded a Greyhound bus for Durham. Eighteen stops and 6 hours later I arrived to transfer and take the final three stops to Chapel Hill on a connecting bus.

I was young, excited, and free so have little recollection of the journey. I arrived, found some friends, drank a lot of beer, and flopped on a dorm sofa. Had I remained on base, I would have found some friends, drank a lot of beer, and flopped on my rack. The contrast seems less obvious to me now that it did at the time.

Sunday morning I was given a brief campus tour that included the college basketball stadium. I was stunned. Basketball was nothing at Andover. Even with the Glory Celtics, basketball was nothing in New England either. Hockey ruled! And yet, here was the home of the legendary North Carolina Tar Heels - a college gym bigger than the fabled Boston Garden itself.

I felt as though I was in a foreign land. Why ever would so many people want to watch a basketball game. Even my former classmates had been converted. Twenty years later, I moved with my young family to Charlotte. Several months after that, I began to understand the allure (the Tar Heels suck - a subject for a future blog.)

Super Bowl I must have begun around 3 in the afternoon as it was being played in L.A. It wasn't all that big a deal. In fact, it probably didn't become known as Super Bowl I until the next year when some genius decided to call the second rendition Super Bowl II. The Vince Lombardi Packers were playing the Hank Stram Kansas City Chiefs. Everybody was a Packer fan.

At halftime, I had to head back. I took a cab to the bus station, retraced my steps to Durham, and after a wait, boarded a Greyhound bus for the eighteen-stop six-hour journey back to Jacksonville. This trip I remember vividly. Every stop.

Raleigh. Zebulon. Bailey.

We reached Wilson at twilight.

I was now the only white person on the bus. It was a foreign country. We'd stop every few miles. People would get on and people would get off. I was miles removed from the Marine Corps and an entire light year from Andover or Chapel Hill, for that matter. The towns were small and ramshakle and the ground was perfectly flat. A single naked light bulb marked the bench that comprised the bus stop in each town.

Goldsboro, Kingston, New Bern.

New Bern?

My great-great grandfather came to the United States from Scotland with his brother. They were stone masons. When they arrived, my great-great grandfather went to Patterson, New Jersey (birthplace of the Industrial Revolution and consequently the epicenter of brick) and his brother came to New Bern, North Carolina. New Bern had been the capital of North Carolina prior to present day Raleigh. I made a point to return to New Bern in the daylight to review my great-great uncle's work. I've yet to go.

Pollocksville. Maysville. Belgrade. Jacksonville.

I disembarked with several other Marines who had joined the trip along the way. The Comet arrived around 11pm and we made the lonely last leg to Mountfort Point, Camp Lejeune. I flopped on my rack and during the brief instant before I fell aspeep, I wondered about what a long strange trip it had been.

Seven hours later, I was sitting tall in Sgt. Lerma's Monday morning class.

"Type 'A', you worthless motherfuckers, type 'A'.

It was good to be back.

"Songs For Beginners"

My Nursery School teacher was Miss MacMaster. The class met three mornings a week in a small brick building adjacent to the Memorial Field playground in Summit, New Jersey.

My memories of Nursery School are fond, or at least uninvasive.

On one particular morning, workmen were banging and sawing away next door while we were singing, of all things, the Marine Corps Hymn. The louder they banged, the louder Miss MacMaster would have us sing. It was lots of fun. We were all singing and screaming at the same time, with her approval and encouragement.

Needless to say, I have never forgotten that moment. One thought that occasionally recurs is that we were in Nursery School and ALL of us - boys and girls - knew the words to the Marine Corps Hymn.
The Fifties were like that.

When I was little, we weren't all that far removed from World War II. There were war movies, war heroes (Audie Murphy), war ship models to be built, old Army uniforms stuffed in the attic, and endless war games to be reenacted with friends throughout the battlefields of the Watchung Reservation.

So why was it a surprise when, during my senior year in prep school, I enlisted in the United States Marine Corps? It had been my childhood. It was how I was brought up. Patriotism, guns, war, and the Marine Corps were all very cool. Given the opportunity, the choice seemed obvious.

That being said, I’d like to turn you my readers, into you my listeners, for a peak at Miss MacMaster’s Nursery School class circa 2007. You can almost hear the workmen next door.

Semper Fidelis.

Thank you for visiting.

Jack

"It's a Small World, After All"

Perhaps your young family endlessly sang this Disney classic. Mine did. It was a reminder that, despite our differences in culture and appearance, we are one as people of the world. Years later, Tom Friedman wrote The World is Flat in which he set forth our global economic interdependence. It had nothing to do with culture or appearance and everything to do with money.

Either way, for better or sometimes for worse, we are one people inextricably interconnected.

November 10, 2007 was a day that continues to remind me of the global village which Disney and Friedman acknowledged. Were I to write the movie trailer, I say that "it was a day of war and peace, love and hate, wealth and power, birth and death, honor and tradition, family and friendships spanning generations, with an all star cast."

My camera would then zoom in on the stars - My Granddaughter, Terry Tillery, Bill Negron, Tim Heck, and - reluctantly - me, all sitting around a table at Tun's Tavern in Philadelphia. The United States Marine Corps was founded at Tun’s Tavern on November 10, 1775. Hence, that day in 2007 was the Corp's 232nd birthday.

To mark the occasion, several survivors of Charlie Company, 1st Battalion, 4th Marine Regiment, 3rd Marine Division were celebrating at a reunion in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Coincidentally, the day also marked 40 years since several attendees (me included) had arrived in Vietnam.

Others were busy that day as well.

In Hong Kong, 7,600 miles to the west, on that very day, my first Grandchild was born.

In Baghdad, Iraq, 7,300 miles to the east, on that very day, an American and a Marine Corps flag were being flow in my honor over Firebase Spiteful in Camp Fallujah - the definition of hell on earth for a new generation of United States Marines. I only became aware of this yesterday when the flags and accompanying citations arrived in the mail.

Margaret came first. Given the time difference, we awoke to the wonderful news. Most of our day was spent visiting Angel Fire, a stunning memorial near Taos created by Victor Westphall to honor his son David, a 4th Marine brother who was killed on our watch in 1968.

That evening we celebrated. Marine Corps Birthday rituals were followed to the letter. I rose to toast Bill Negron, our company commander on this his 71st birthday and Margaret on her birth day. I also read an email that I’d just received from 1st Lt. Tim Heck detailing the activities of his unit during the previous week at Camp Fallujah, Iraq. Bill, Margaret, and Tim each received a standing ovation.

After dinner, a raffle was held. The prize item was a Marine Corps baby quilt beautifully created by the wife of one of our group. In addition to the Vietnam service ribbons and eagle globe and anchor, the date and our unit markings were embroidered in. The winner was Terry Tillery. Terry wasted little time in quietly presenting it to Bill Negron in honor of his birthday. Several minutes later, Bill walked over and, without fanfare, handed the quilt to me.

“Here,” he said in a whisper. “Please give this to Margaret with love from all of us.”

The evening ended, but I had yet to see the actual conclusion of the day until yesterday. In the mail, I received a package from Tim Heck. Tim was a Georgetown neighbor during his undergraduate years. Each fall, as new students arrived to reside on our street, I’d ring several doorbells wearing my Marine Corps sweatshirt to let my new neighbors know exactly how it was going to be for the upcoming year. It was a stunningly effective strategy which gained me hours of additional weekend sleep.

Tim opened his door, gave me a quiet Indiana up and down and remarked,

“I’m going to be one of you.”

I was stunned. This was a first. “One of me,” I responded?

“”Yes sir, one of you. I’m in Naval ROTC. When I graduate, I’ll be commissioned a 2nd Lt. in the United States Marine Corps.”

My first reaction was to ask the poor misguided soul if he was in full possession of his faculties. There would soon be a war going on and Tim wanted to be an infantry officer.

“Semper Fi, brother” were my only words.

“Semper Fi, sir,” he responded.

Tim and I became friends and have stayed in touch. He loves the Marine Corps and thereby, by extension, loves me. I love Tim as well. It’s one of the reasons that the United States Marine Corps is older than the country itself.

Yesterday, a package from Tim arrived. It included a Marine Corps flag, an American flag and two documents. The first document was a formal citation that read:
This Flag was flown over Sierra Battery Gun line at Camp Fallujah, Iraq in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom 06-08.1
Presented to:
Jack McLean
It included appropriate seals and signatures. I was, needless to say, blown away.

The second document was a memo to me, Cpl. Jack McLean C/1/4, on the unit’s letterhead from Gunnery Sergeant M.D. Hamby, Position commander of Firebase Spiteful, Camp Fallujah, Iraq. It reads as follows:

Subj: For Your Loyal Service to the Marine Corps

1. The enclosed flags were flown in your honor by First Lieutenant Timothy G. Heck of Battery S, Fifth Battalion, Tenth Marine Regiment, Regimental Combat Team Six, aboard Firebase Spiteful, Camp Fallujah, Anbar Province, Iraq on November 10, 2007.


2. The flags were flown with the ideals of General Lejeune’s original birthday message animating our thoughts and actions. The Marines of Spiteful Battery are currently carrying on the legacy set forth by the Marines that have preceded us on the battlefields both here and elsewhere and the warrior ethos you have passed on to us. The Marines here are the successors to the legacy of Chapultepec, the walls of the Peking Legion, the wheat fields of Belleau Wood, the volcanic sands of Iwo Jima, the frozen expanse of the Chosin Reservoir, and of your own battles in the DMZ.


3. We hope these flags will be a small token of our appreciation for the heritage and standards you have established for us. The Marine Corps is in good hands as a result of your work.


4. May the Marine Corps enjoy many more birthdays as our legacy for honor, courage and commitment continues to be built daily by the Marines of Spiteful Battery.
   
   Semper Fidelis!
   
   Semper Fidelis to you as well, Gunny, and to Tim and to Terry.
   
   To Bill, Margaret, and the United States Marine Corps, Happy Birthday!

Thank you for visiting.

Jack

"The Ragpicker's Dream"

We have all moved.

Several months ago I moved into an apartment over the Tillery's garage in Knotts Island, North Carolina. (Note: There is no house to this garage. The Tillerys live miles away.)

My relocation to the garage last fall was precipated by a desire on the part of my soon-to-be-former wife that I vacate the marital premises with all due haste.

Our house was placed on the market and, yesterday, sold. Our final act as a couple was to execute a parking lot exchange of the detritus that had wound up in the wrong camps. Mine was contained in a cardboard moving box. I picked it up, bid adieu, and moved on with my life.

Early last evening, I arrived back home at the garage, tired from the long drive, exhausted from the process, and, enormously relieved. I unloaded the car, put the food in the fridge, laundry in the washer, mail on the desk, and the box on the floor nearby.

• Hours later, I became curious about that which I had somehow left behind. I thought that you, my loyal readers, with memories of your own last departing looks at former houses after a move, might have an interest as well in knowing the contents of the box:Seven audio books and CDs including 8 Weeks to Optimum Health, The Odyssey, A Tale of Two Cities, The Iliad, For Whom the Bell Tolls, Surely You're Joking Mr. Feynman, The Anventures of Huckleberry Finn, A Farewell to Arms, and Jim Lizotte's 2005 Christmas CD.
• A small dark Vermeeresque framed print of a lone woman in a white hat reading alone. From earlierst memory, this picture has given me the creeps. Why do I insist on keeping it? It was my mother's.
• A severely tarnished sterling silver Owl Club ice bucket which I have never used and of which I remain incapable of disposing.
• A small red carved Japanesey box that used to live in the top drawer of a mahogony drop leaf side table. Inside the box are four two inch sections of leg, sawed off years ago to assure the table's fit in whatever space it was then accommodating.
• Two Tiffany paperweights, each a parting gift after a speaking engagement.
• Two tire pressure guages.
• A liner adjustor for my ski helmet.
• Dozens of McLean family snapshots, some framed, some in plastic baggies (one, in fact, a Jacobi family snapshot.)
• A single polished stone bookend.
• A beaded keychain with a NATO 7.62 rifle bullet attached.
• Two picture holders swipped from a table at Sarah & John's rehersal dinner.
• A Washington, DC region bike map.
• A cork McLean of Duart coaster.
• Assorted unopened credit card offers touting breathless interest rates.

It was like Christmas, of course. Each item a treasure (I always wondered where those ski helmut pads were...I wonder if they'd work on my bike helmet.) The book end is now holding up books, the paperweights now secure papers from pesky ocean breezes.

As I write, I am transferring items to the most excellent key chain. The family snapshots have renewed immediate interest given my brother Don's recent passion for the subject.

I never did listen to For Whom the Bell Tolls, still have interest in Optimum Health, and REALLY missed Jim's Christmas CD this year.

The Vermeer will be rehung, continue to give me the creeps, and forever remind me of my mother (kindly ignore the association.)

Anybody want a DC bike map - still in the original plastic sleeve?

It goes on EBay next week.

Thank you for visiting.

Jack

"I am a Rock"

This morning I paused while crossing a wooden foot bridge and gazed at the brook below. The late morning sun hung in a cloudless southern sky. My goal was to attempt to understand the effect that the mottled sunlight and slowly moving water had on the objects upon which they played - specifically a rock. It wasn’t that cold and I had time on my hands.

My mother was an artist. She might observe such a scene and, through the prism of her mind, use her hand, brush, and pallet of paints to create her visual interpretation of the scene on a canvas or piece of paper. I’d seen her do it countless times.

I am an artist as well, but possess mostly the ability to write and lead you, the reader, to visualize what I saw through your mind’s eye as opposed to your actual eye.

Occasionally I wonder about such things.

My friend Betsy is an artist – a painter and a singer (she’d challenge me on the latter.) Yesterday during dinner, I asked her how she had become a painter.

“I’ve always been able to paint,” she replied.

“Always, like since always!?” I queried. How far back is always and how do you know when you actually have what might be considered a talent, I wondered to myself?

“Since elementary school, I was the kid who could draw and paint," she went on. “Teachers recognized it and, for the most part, encouraged it.”

In that regard, she was like my mother. A difference was that mom went to art school while Betsy went to a liberal arts college. Both continued their lives while their once burgeoning artistic talents were turned into avocational endeavors. After kids, after dad, mom began to paint again. Betsy kept her skills alive by using vacation time to attend painting workshops with well know artists.

“What would you learn,” I asked? “I mean, what could another artist teach you that would make you a better painter? Is it about the paint, the paper, the brush, the canvas...” I had run out of variables. I was trying to compare it to writing – better grammar, sentence structure, but to me they were incomparable. Perhaps I was also trying to better understand my late mother.

“I had a wonderful teacher years ago who would begin each day with a fresh piece of (very expensive!) water color paper and he’d just go.” Betsy had removed herself to a faraway place as she fondly recalled an act of learning.

“One day,” she continued, “it was a stream. He’d move some blue-green paint effortlessly across the paper. A gray tree would be added, then more trees. We’d all watch. It really was amazing see him work, Jack.”

I visualized the class huddled around the master’s easel and wondered how they learned whatever they were learning.

“In an hour or so he’d be done, she went on. We’d then spend the rest of the day at our easels painting our own streams while he walked around giving us individual pointers.”

“What might he say to you when it came to be your turn,” I asked? Betsy smiled. I wasn’t certain if she was nurturing a memory or patiently indulging my boundless curiosity. “Am I being a pest,” I continued? “You’ve got me going. I’m just really curious.”

“Not at all.” She laughed out loud. “Let’s see, what might he say?”

She thought for several seconds, took a sip of her drink, glanced at the desert menu, and returned her eyes to mine. “A rock looks different underwater than it does above the water. It’s a different color and the sunlight plays on it differently. The water has motion that both reflects and absorbs the light in different ways. Sometimes a stick will get stuck behind a rock. That changes everything. It’s so much about the light, Jack.”

The light.

Her words faded as her eyes lowered.

And so I paused this morning while crossing a wooden foot bridge and gazed at the brook below. I focused on a submerged rock. I watched the water slip over and around it while the sun twinkled and played on it through the trees. Betsy had reminded me that it was important for a painter to remember that the light always comes from the same direction.

To my eye, on that brook, this morning, there was nothing but light. There was even light in the absence of light. A thousand shades of light danced in every crevice and every corner.

It was blinding.

It was a moment.

I lingered until I felt that I could linger no longer and moved on.

Thank you, Betsy.

Thanks to the rest of you for visiting.

Jack

"My Father's Eyes"

On April 4, 1946, Lt. Col. Donald H. McLean Jr. and five U.S. Army colleagues, while on a visit to Rome from their headquarters in Berlin, were granted an audience with Pope Pius XII. The following (edited) account is taken from his diary.

Having agreed to meet at 11AM, we rose at a reasonable hour and had a casual morning. Several of us went shopping for gifts. The main drag had all sorts of tourist items, especially leather goods. I got a bottle of perfume (2,000 lira) and a set of wooden band figures. I also purchased several rosaries for the Pope to bless.

At the appointed hour, we were driven to St. Peters in two cars under the leadership of a representative from the American Embassy. Driving in was like entering a castle. We passed through several gates, each positioned with the famous Swiss Guards who saluted smartly as we passed. We stopped in an inner courtyard, were ushered inside, and had our hats and coats checked.

After a brief wait, we began our trek through the 12 rooms that lead to the Pope's anteroom. They were all very ornate in a quiet red plush medieval sort of way. Several had chairs set up, apparently for Papal audiences. The Swiss Guards were everywhere, dressed in their distinctive costumes. We encountered another brief wait in a room about four removed from the main one where the Pope sat. We all stood by. We were then ushered into the anteroom, lined up, and waited again.

A Cardinal and several clerics of lesser stature filed out as we were ushered in to greet the Pope. As instructed, we knelt on one knee, held his hand, kissed his ring, got up, and took our seats which had been arranged in a semicircle around his desk.

He wore a pure white vestment, skull cap, and a beautiful diamond studded ivory crucifix on a chain. His sapphire ring was surrounded by small diamonds. I noticed that he had lovely hands with long fingers. He spoke in English and seemed to understand it as well. At the center of his desk was a box of blue (for boys) and white (for girls) rosaries as well as a small stack of envelopes about one inch square.

After greetings and introductions, there ensued a brief discussion about the dire food situation in Germany. The Pope had recently met with former U.S. President Herbert Hoover who had been appointed by President Truman as a special envoy to determine the food status of the occupied nation. The Pope was complementary of all that America had done in this regard and was to give an address on the subject that afternoon.

The Pope asked each of us where we were from and listened carefully and attentively as we spoke. He then asked if we'd like a rosary. I took 2. He blessed them with a wave of the hand. He similarly blessed the ones that we had purchased earlier. After about 15 minutes, the he slowly rose to his feet, came around the desk, shook our hands, and gently (but firmly!) let us out. We then filed back quickly through all 12 rooms again. It had been a most impressive event which words are inadequate to describe.

We were then led into a room jam packed with about 700 standing people who had come to see the pope for a public audience. The crowd included some 100 young Italian children (5-7) in white dresses. We were led to chairs along the side that were in front of the rope that separated the crowd from the Pope's chair.

With all carefully arranged, the Pope entered through a side door. The children clapped loudly and broke into a chant which I did not understand. It sounded like a college cheer. He blessed the crowd, went up to the dais, and sat down. He spoke in English then repeated his words in Italian. He concluded with another blessing, rose, and slowly departed through the same door. The children again clapped and cheered loudly.

The Pope had an obvious human touch that reminded me of General Eisenhower. There was nothing pompous about him. He appeared to be very friendly and kind.

The Wheels on the Bus (Redux)

Readers here may recall the Byzantine challenges faced by the school children of Knotts Island (The Wheels on the Bus, 12/7/07.)

Readers may also recall my anticipated participation in the Most Excellent California Christmas Ever (12/12/07) in Davis, about 10 miles west of Sacramento.

In what unlikely way are these two entries related?

Davis sits in the Pacific Flyway, a major migration route for waterfowl and other North American birds. The Yolo Bypass Wildlife Area provides habitat for thousands of resident and migratory waterfowl on more than 2,500 acres of wetlands.

Knotts Island sits in the Atlantic Flyway. The MacKay National Wildlife Refuge provides a sanctuary for thousands of migratory waterfowl on more than 8,000 acres of primarily wetlands and marshes.

Davis and Knotts Island are flat and low (elevations of 51 and 10 feet respectively.) Agriculture dominates both areas. Big green John Deere farm equipment dots the landscapes. Ginormous pickup trucks are also common to both areas. Many in this area have Confederate flag licence plates on the front. California requires a state issued front plate.

Davis covers about 10 square miles. Knotts Island covers perhaps 20 square miles, with better than half being the MacKay Refuge.

Davis bills itself as a "a university-oriented city with a progressive, vigorous community noted for its small-town style, energy conservation, environmental programs, parks, preservation of trees, red double-decker London buses, bicycles, and the quality of its educational institutions."

Knotts Island describes itself by acknowledging that "not many people have ever heard of us. We're generally unknown to the travelers who visit North Carolina's Outer Banks every year."

The City of Davis was founded in 1868. Knotts Island is unincorporated, so was never really founded, per se. The Outer Banks were formed about 8,000 years ago after the glaciers melted.

The population of Davis is about 65,000. The population of Knotts Island, by my guess, is about 1,000. I could be way off.

Davis has more than 50 miles of bicycle paths and more bicycles per capita than any other city in the nation. Knotts Island has no bike paths. I am one of, perhaps two or three adults that I have seen publicly riding a bicycle.

Davis has 10 elementary schools in addition to secondary schools ,alternative schools, etc. Knotts Island has a small elementary school. Period.
O.K., so Davis is a comparatively large progressive place with thousands of kids, a Starbucks and a Borders, and probably a Gap. Knotts Island is a backwater with a couple of hundred kids, a small post office, country store, and a restaurant (of sorts.)

What's the point?

Knotts Island school children are bussed to schools, some across state lines - some by ferry, that lie in two states and are as much as 40 miles apart.
The City of Davis, California does not own a school bus. Not one (they do lease several from a bordering town to transport kids with special needs.) Every child walks, rides a bike, gets driven, or (in the case of some high schoolers, I suppose) drives.

I am at a loss to draw a conclusion from this except that Davis probably has healthier kids.

Thank you for visiting.

Jack