The father slowly smiled, winked and said gently, “Welcome to the Republican Party, honey.”

My friend from college, Dr. Bertice Berry, did me a great favor last summer when she emailed a copy of her latest book, The Ties That Bind, A Memoir of Race, Memory and Redemption (published earlier this month), her 11th (I believe) book.  I had no idea how poignant and beneficial her shared experiences would be for me in this demanding environment. 

She has always been an incredibly generous and open minded person, and my hope now is to return some of her good will by sharing a bit about her with those of you who may not have heard of Bertice Berry.  BTW, if you haven’t read any of her books, you’ve missed out.  She really hits home, regardless of your personal background, and she does it with wit, grace, sarcasm and true passion/feeling.

Bertice Berry is from Wilmington, DE, and received her higher education at Jacksonville University (BA - magna cum laude/1982) and Kent State University (MA/1986 & PhD/1988).  She has been a social worker at shelters for battered women and rape victims, a teaching assistant at Kent State University, a lecturer and stand-up comedian, co-producer and host of The Bertice Berry Show (1993-94) and  author.  She is also the co-owner of Iona’s Gallery and Great Finds in Savannah, GA.  It is also worth mentioning that she became an instant mother not too many years ago, but that’s another story.

The halls of academia are not usually considered a breeding ground for comedians, but the university environment inspired Bertice and served as the first stage for her performing talents.  She has consistently devoted her talents to helping people solve common, everyday problems - a true gift.  To give you a better idea of her energy and perspective, she once commented that,  ”Everybody should be a multicareer person.  It makes life more interesting.”

The sixth of seven children, Bertice Berry grew up in a single parent home, recalling times with no electricity and no heat.  I think that her upbringing and growing experiences help her to connect with all sorts of people today, including the poor and homeless.  Bertice has occasionally described herself as an angry and bitter child - perhaps a reflection of her past pain, but her friends know her as warm, caring and considerate.

I remember from college that Bertice always took the time to talk to everyone; the janitors, workers, teachers and students.  She was the first in her family to attend college, and once she got going she never slowed down.  As luck would have it, her application to Jacksonville University arrived the same day that university officials received a letter from a wealthy philanthropist who wished to sponsor a student, and Bert was given a full scholarship from her anonymous donor, a fact she never took lightly or failed to acknowledge.

Bertice’s talents for comedy were evident at an early age.  As a teaching assistant at Kent State, she began trying to inject a bit of humor into her classes, and the results were encouraging.  Soon her lectures were standing room only as students responded to her enthusiasm and wit.  Berry’s humor did not mask her serious intentions, however.  She earned her Ph.D. in 1988, with a thesis entitled Black-on-Black Discrimination: The Phenomenon of Colorism Among African Americans.

In 1992, Bertice was named “Lecturer of the Year” by the National Association of Campus Activities.  As a talk show host, she endeavored to bridge some gaps and help people to make connections to others and find solutions, injecting her own dynamic personality into the mix.  Her ambition continued to drive her forward into the realm of writing, and she began churning out a string of bestselling books, discovering that writing was the best way to connect with her feelings. 

Bertice expresses few regrets about her career and business decisions, and she welcomes an uncertain future, stating that, ”My life has turned out beyond my wildest dreams.  I haven’t a clue as to what will happen next, but I’m sure it will be interesting.”  In her latest book, she skillfully relays the evolution of relations between the races, from slavery to Reconstruction, from the struggles of the Civil Rights movement and the Black Power 1970s, and on to the present day shedding light on a picture of the past that not only liberates but also unites and evokes the need to forgive and be forgiven. 

I have intentionally and painstakingly paced myself through the reading of this novel in order to be transported to another place over time as this deployment progressed.  Along the way, I have savored every bit of this book and owe the author a debt of gratitude.  No matter who you are or what your ethnic background, you cannot help but find some connection to this great work of literature as I did.  Many thanks, Bert!

Well, I’d like to tell you I’m as unbiased as the next guy, but the next guy is Mason and, of course, this is his contribution.  Nothing wrong with a little humor, right?  Besides, I’ve got Afghanistan in my rear-view mirror and I have neither the motivation nor where-with-all to compose anything original, so enjoy this brief swipe at an organization I respect and despise all at once.  By the way, these are all 99% true: 

YOU MAY BE A TALIBAN IF……

1.  You refine heroin for a living, but you have a moral objection to beer.

2.  You own a $3,000 machine gun and $5,000 rocket launcher, but you can’t afford shoes.

3.  You have more wives than teeth.

4.  You wipe your butt with your bare left hand, but consider bacon ‘unclean.’

5.  You think vests come in two styles: bullet-proof and suicide.

6.  You can’t think of anyone you HAVEN’T declared Jihad against.

7.  You consider television dangerous, but routinely carry explosives in your clothing.

8.  You were amazed to discover that cell phones have uses other than setting off roadside bombs.

9.  You’ve often uttered the phrase, ‘I love what you’ve done with your cave.’

10.  You have nothing against women and think every man should own at least one.

11.  You bathe at least monthly whether necessary or not.

12.  You have a crush on your neighbor’s goat.

                

“The Warrior Transition Program (WTP) is designed to assist in heightening awareness and/or management of combat and operational stress by providing our soldiers & sailors with education, programs and tools that will strengthen them through the mental and logistical transition out of their assignments in Iraq and Afghanistan.  The WTP provides an opportunity to reintegrate back into normal life, begin the transition home and receive some of the best pastoral care and counseling in a safe setting.  After being embedded with an Army unit for 6 to 12 months, you will have the opportunity to rest and decompress while being granted exposure to classes, counseling and support in preparation for your return home.  It is our objective to send you home properly prepared to re-engage with family while being proud of your selfless service rendered to this great nation.”

Like I need that happy horseshit.  Trust me, it’s no Club Med.  Let’s get on with it, and get this kinder, gentler brainwashing B.S. out of the way.  I’ve got banks to rob and shit like that.  What do you mean, I can’t take a weapon home with me?  No, no really, I’m GTG (good to go).  Really.  Where do I get my mental health affidavit signed?  Oh yes, I see, first I have to demonstrate that I’ve made the appropriate adjustments?  OK, whatever, sign me up. 

Well, once that’s completed, they fly us into BWI (Baltimore), and turn us loose from there.  Scary, but perfectly acceptable.  So here’s a litte story that’ll let you all know I’m already well adjusted.  I was recently spilling my guts to Mason via email…. it was like I was drunk-dialing at 3:00am only - no, wait, that doesn’t make sense - put yourself in that sort of bent frame of mind, though (without the booze or ex-girlfriend), and imagine you’re just spewing some emotive drool. 

I must have been feeling a bit emotional at the time; in fact, I’m sure I was, all things considered.  A couple of months ago I bought this Clint Eastwood collection of movies at the local Haji mart - 7 discs and about 40 movies for $20.  Every once in a while, I get a little down time, just hanging out in my hootch, unwinding from an op, trying to put myself somewhere else or just relax enough to get some sleep, etc. 

And I’ve got this little TV with a DVD slot, so I pop in whatever movie I’m in the mood for.  I love the old westerns.  And I’ve worked my way through all the “Dirty Harry” movies - good stuff - and those damned ape (orangutan) flicks with that damn Sandra Lock chick he was dating for a while (man, I really didn’t like her).  Shit, I even had to stop watching a couple of his movies because they were so bad - The Gauntlet, Paint Your Wagon (actually, it’s pretty good, but it’s a fucking musical). 

Anyway, I kept coming across this one movie, and saying to myself, “maybe later,” or ”perhaps another time.”  And I knew it was a good movie - I had seen it at the theatre when it first came out - but I also knew I had to work my way up to it, be in just the right mood and all that.  Well finally, I got through all the other 39 Clint Eastwood flicks - even that dumbass, old guy romp, Space Cowboys, and the Russian MIG pilot shit (Foxfire/Firefox?).  And I was left with just one CE movie, the one I seemed to have some trepidation over, The Bridges of Madison County.  

 

Last night, I finally watched it, and it snuck up on me - the whole reason for my apprehension.  It’s a great movie - and Meryl Streep is awesome (and I’m not a M.S. fan) - but, man, it is so f%$#ing painful.  Jesus, I broke down; I was sobbing toward the end - it hurt, I mean, it really stung.  And it brought back all of these painful memories of past things that physically hurt my gut.  I was wide awake after that, raw, just laying there thinking about things - feeling sort of good that I was actually able to feel something, but feeling kind of miserable as well because, well, shit, it just plain hurt.

 

Not sure where I’m going with any of this.  Just sharing, I guess.  But I think I’m ready for the transition.  Hey, how about that Favre retirement?

             

So, here I am, back in Iraq; behind me now are the beautiful mountains of Afghanistan and the cold, snowy winter.  Ahead of me, in just a few more weeks, is a one-way ticket back to the States.  So I will tolerate this miserable Shawshank existence a little bit longer…. until my departure.  And, in the meantime, I will seek to find the positive aspects of this less-than tantalizing place that is my temporary home. 

Upon returning to Iraq the other night, I encountered some light precipitation.  Rain here is always a good thing, though not always cleansing.  The smell of damp dirt has such an earthy quality that it is almost refreshing; refreshing mostly because it beats blowing dust boogers out of your nose.  Appealing, I know.  But at least it represents change.  And I’m all about change right now.

After a brief walk in this light rain, though, I looked like a spotted owl or something.  There is so much dust in the air this time of year that the rain grabs the specks on the way down and pelts you with brown spots that resemble splashed mudwater.  The problem is that it’s not just on your pantlegs and boots - it’s in your hair and on your face and …. wow, I’m really whining here….. does it sound like I’m bitching?  Again, it’s a change, so that is a good thing.

Back to a peaceful state.  In my quest to find the good in all things, I was stopped dead in my tracks when I approached the Sprung (my office in a tent) to get out of the rain, and caught the unmistakable aroma of fresh cut grass.  (Note to the 5 of you who are reading this - yes, we’re up 1 from last week! - I have not seen actual grass in Iraq since arriving here last summer.) 

I couldn’t believe it!  What a sensation - fresh cut grass!  I quickly looked around and saw this little patch of green that had apparently been “weed-whipped” that day.  Ah, the little things.  Now if only a glass of fine pinot noir would miraculously appear before my eyes, I would be in absolute heaven.  Thank God I’m close to enjoying that sensation again soon.

Be careful what you wish for, right?  BTW, if anyone asks me if I’ve ever quit drinking, I suppose my answer might be, “not intentionally”.  Not sure where that came from, but thought I’d throw it in.  Add to that the fact that this cute little Royal Air Force captain with the summer teeth has apparently departed theatre without saying goodbye (it was a mere distraction for me, but certainly not in any physical sense…. well, not in any “shared” physical sense), and I’m flat out ready to bolt. 

Alas.  But there was the fresh cut grass.  I can embrace that one for a while.  Just a couple more weeks really.  Hell, I even got down on my hands and knees to smell it.  I really did.  You all know that smell - it’s a good one!  Am I the only one who’s getting excited about this?!  Christ, it must be time to go home.

My mom was recently telling me (via email) about a movie she had seen.  I was struggling to grasp the concept.  Not the plot of the movie or anything like that, but the simple concept of seeing a movie.  I was at a loss.  Yes, I have some movies to catch up on, I suppose.  And some good wine to drink….. did I mention the wine?  Scotch? 

And those damn USA Today crosswords that I like to work on while I’m sitting in my neighborhood diner early in the morning having breakfast.  I miss those too.  And perhaps there’s a woman in my future, or even five!    Sorry, I get excited easily.  That was just the seventies alpha-male Clint “Hang ‘em High” Eastwood coming out of me.  Of course, I’m just thinking out loud - it’s that whole blog concept… immediate and unretractable.  

Hey, I’m not sure what the statute of limitations is on the whole “returning war veteran” sympathy factor, but chances are good that I’ll milk it for all it’s worth.  It’s been a long haul, and I’m near ready to make my exit.  Man, I have a lot of crap to do when I get back.  I’ve got vehicles and furniture scattered all over the countryside. 

And I’m sure there’s undoubtedly another Beverly Hillbillies like drive across the United States in my pickup truck to get to my next destination.   There’s a good segue in here somewhere, but the hell if I can find it.   BTW, who the hell sent me a postcard from Europe?  Whoever you are, your handwriting is so illegible that all I could make out was something about getting naked in a hot tub with your neighbors, a ham that got overcooked, and something about farm animals.  But thanks! 

           

From politics to intoxication, naval terminology has filtered into every area of modern discourse.  The English language is filled with words and phrases that were derived from naval history.  Here are a few noteworthy phrases and their nautical derivations:

“Cut and run” originated as a naval warfare term that signified a sudden escape from a superior foe.  Some naval historians believe that this term derives from the act of cutting a boat’s anchor line and quickly sailing away.  A more likely derivation was the practice of tying up square sails with stringor yarn that could easily be cut away and the sails unfurled if a quick escape was necessary.

“Figurehead” - This term is derived from the ornate figures that decorate the bows, or heads, of most wooden sailing ships.  These figures are part of a seafaring tradition that dates back into antiquity.  Ancient mariners would carve images of their gods onto the bows of their ships to curry divine favor.  The tradition of carving figures onto the heads of ships survived well into the 1800s.  However, by that time, the figures had lost all religious significance and were merely decorative.  As a result, the term figurehead has come to mean someone with a title and no real power.

“First rate” - In the Royal Navy, ships were classified according to the number of guns they carried.  The term “first rate” was the highest classification and usually signified an enormous ship with more than 100 guns.  First rate still means top of the line today.

“Fly by night” - The word fly means “to sail” in nautical jargon.  Sailing at night was a difficult and dangerous task.  Therefore, when the night watch began, the elaborate sails used during the day were replaced by one large sail.  This “fly by night” sail was easier to operate in the dark and didn’t require the constant attention of the other sails.  This freed the sailors to attend to other important duties, like navigation.  The term “fly by night” has come to refer to a shadowy attempt to elude responsibility.

“Footloose” - A sail had to be properly secured to the boom if a ship was going to catch the wind.  If the bottom, or foot, of the sail was not properly secured, it would flap free in the wind.  The term “footloose” has come to mean a person who is happy and carefree.

“Hasn’t got a clue (or clew)” - Clue (clew) refers to a metal loop that is attached to the corner of a sail.  The clue is used to fasten the sail to the boom.  When the clue is not properly fastened, the sail flaps in the wind and the ship is unable to function.  We now refer to someone who is foolish or inept as someone who “hasn’t got a clue.”

“Keelhaul” - “Keelhauling” refers to a brutal punishment that was inflicted on sailors during the early days of sailing ships.  It involved tying the sailor’s hands and then pushing him overboard.  He would then be dragged under the keel of the boat and hauled up the other side.  The half-drowned sailor would then be dropped overboard again and the process repeated until the punishment was complete or the sailor expired.  This was eventually phased out in favor of flogging with the cat-o’-nine-tails.  However, the term has survived and continues to refer to a harsh punishment.

“Three sheets to the wind” - Many people are surprised to learn that this expression for drunkenness was born on the high seas.  ”Sheet” is the nautical term for a rope that controls the tension on a square sail.  If the sheets were loose on a three-masted ship, the sails would flap “in the wind.”  A ship with its sails “in the wind” would drift out of control until the situation was corrected.  Thus, the modern phrase “three sheets to the wind” has come to signify a person who is drunk and out of control.

“Cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey” (my personal favorite) is often said to have come from brass ship’s fittings or triangles (called “monkeys”) that supported stacks of iron cannon balls on sailing ships.  In cold weather, the metal fittings would supposedly contract or shrink, causing the balls to fall off.  The derivation of this phrase is difficult enough to determine without such tosh; however, the Royal Navy records that, on their ships at least, cannon balls were stored in planks with circular holes cut into them - not stacked in pyramids.  These planks were known as “shot garlands”, not monkeys, and they date back to at least 1769, when they were first referred to in print.  

Now, back to the real origin of “cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey”.  Of course, the way we now understand the phrase is that it is cold enough to freeze one’s testicles off.  There may have been some journalistic coyness about using the current version of the phrase.  ”Cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey” appears to have originated in the USA in the first part of the 20th century and is clearly based of earlier variants. 

The earliest citation of that precise phrase is from as late as 1979 in the biography of Tristan Jones - A Wayward Sailor:  “A cold fit to freeze the balls of a brass monkey.”   There’s little doubt that the phrase was circulating almost the general public before WWII - some years before it appears in print.  Interestingly, many early versions refer to heat rather than cold.  But always there’s the inclusion of a “brass monkey.”  

All of these combine to suggest that the brass monkey in question wasn’t a particular beast or object but merely a synonym for a generalized inanimate object.  Young boys who helped with the loading of cannons on naval ships were called powder monkeys.  Other seafaring monkey business relates to ancient forms of cannon called a brass monkeys, or drakes, or dogs.  This was a lever that was used to aim a cannon.  

Anyway, enough monkey business.  Here are a few others I’m sure you’ve heard:  The Bitter End, A Shot Across the Bow, All At Sea, By and Large, Close Quarters, Hand Over Fist, Hard and Fast, High and Dry, Shake a Leg, Shiver my Timbers and Taken Aback, to name a few.  Each has an equally interesting historical origin.  

Luckily for us, in our endeavours to distinguish truth from falsehood, activities at sea have been scrupulously recorded over the centuries, in insurance records, newspaper accounts and, not least, in ships’ log books.  Just thought you should know! 

So, I’ve come to a real understanding and appreciation of what blogging is all about these last 8 months (thanks, mostly, to Cindy Toda) and, I must say, that I’m quite impressed.  Early on I was a bit self conscious about putting myself out there (yes, even me).  But, frankly, it is very easy to just type out some thoughts or ideas or random emotional dribble, and hit “send” (or, in this case, “publish”), and voila! 

And, of course, the more I typed, the less apprehensive I became about what I wrote or who might be reading.  And I seemed to find this little niche, once a week or so - if I could find the time and inspiration and solitude - that was all mine and that transported me to some different or better place.

Even if you never really know who’s out there reading (well, generally speaking, I have a pretty good idea), you know that you’ve somehow connected with someone when you get a kind remark or witty barb on the post.  And it’s not just anyone you’ve connected with, but someone you love, miss and care about. 

This is a great feeling when you’re halfway around the world and somewhat isolated in a fairly unforgiving environment.  The need to connect and feel connected is essential…. And I’ve certainly been surprised on more than a few occasions by the heartfelt or downright hilarious responses by many of you. 

Anyway, I came across some interesting (though not surprising) history recently regarding blogs and, like most things with me, I thought it was more than a mere coincidence that I would happen upon this information at this particular time.  So now, as my time here starts to draw to a close, I feel compelled to share this bit of trivia with you all.  Please read on…..

The word “BLOG” is a conflation of two words: Web and Log.  It contains a concise, accurate self-description - a log of thoughts and writing posted publicly on the World Wide Web.  Yes, yes, yes, you know this, of course, but do you know the real history of logs?

I could stick to my basic pattern of excitement regarding this instant form of self-publishing as it relates to a spontaneous expression of automatic thought, accountable in immediate and unavoidable ways and unlike any piece of print journalism, with it’s essentially porous borders and its truth inherently transitory, but fuck all that.

Let’s get to the meat of this post before the consequences of my random acts of writing start to really sink in, particularly as I will soon rejoin the real world, your world, where I might have to answer for some of my offerings, in person no less.  As long as we’re in a pub.  

Anyway, here it is, in a nutshell - it’s all about naval heritage, customs and tradition like so many other things in our vernacular.  True story, look it up.  Do you want to hear more?  Good….

A ship’s log owes its name to a small wooden board, often weighted with lead, that was for centuries attached to a line and thrown over the stern.  The weight of the log would keep it in the same place in the water, like a provisional anchor, while the ship moved away.  By measuring the length of line used up in a set period of time, mariners could calculate the speed of their journey (the rope itself was marked by equidistant “knots” for easy measurement).

As a ship’s voyage progressed, the course came to be marked down in a book that was called a log.  These logs were an indispensable source for recording what actually happened in journeys at sea, especially before radio, radar, sonar and satellites.  They helped navigators surmise where they were and how far they had traveled, etc.  They also provided accountability to ship’s owners and traders, and were designed to be as immune to false entries and inaccuracies as possible.  This tradition of a hand-written log continues today in navies and military units around the world.

As you read a log (or blog), you have the curious sense of moving backward in time as you move forward in pages - the opposite of a book.  You piece together a narrative that was (perhaps) never intended as one.  Logs tend to be more truthful, a form of human self-correction, amended for hindsight.  Anyone who has blogged will recognize this world.  You write down your thoughts as they emerge, in free form, more or less out loud.

And you inevitably end up writing about yourself, no matter how hard you try to avoid doing so, because you are a relatively fixed point in this constant interaction with the notions and facts and details of the outside world.  You are capturing something that is essentially a part of yourself.  In this sense, it is like a diary, though not nearly so private (one would hope). 

But a blog is instantly public, exposing the author at once to judgment and potential criticism.  Oh well, we’re among friends, right?  And isn’t it really all about friendship, that humanness conveyed and accepted, ensuring a link in a visceral, personal way?  Whatever.  I’ll stick to the easy stuff…. come back tomorrow to learn how naval tradition has shaped the English language!