good fences - bad neighbors

A couple of years ago, during the debate on how best to secure our borders, someone came up with the brilliant idea of building a fence. Now, anybody in Texas can tell you barbed wire doesn’t deter cattle rustlers in the least, but for some reason the powers that be thought it would prevent illegals from crossing the border. And so millions of dollars were spent erecting a chain link barrier that stretched from CA to TX. It did little, if nothing, to stop the onslaught. While hubby was stationed there, the patrol logged about 50 intrusions a day in the hundred-mile stretch along the Rio G. Or perhaps I should say each night. Like ghosts, the huddled masses yearning to breathe free would creep through segments of wire cut by the coyotes and then scatter like windblown smoke into the green pastures of local farms.

The ranchers were literally up in arms, and rode fence every night, rifles at the ready, hired cowboys at their side. But their vigilance was to no avail. And so, at the points where the highest number of crossings occurred, a bigger better fence was built, using not wire, but panels that could not be cut. Not to be denied their income, the coyotes devised portable ladders that could be erected lightning fast, extending up and over and down to the ground on the other side. If there was time, the last man (or woman) crossing pushed the ladder back up, so it could be used again. But if the patrols were too close, the ladders were simply left in place, to be discovered and then discarded in whatever way deemed fitting.

Three years ago I paid an enormous amount of money to have a 6-foot cedar stake fence erected along my back property line. The fence is still good today, thanks to the materials and the extra fine craftsmanship of the builders. But all things have a finite life expectancy, and the winds in our little corner of the country have been particularly harsh this spring. About 8 am one morning this week, armed with hammer, screwdriver, baling wire, and cutters, I set out to repair the damage as best I could. Discovered that back neighbor had nailed nightlights and trellises for trees and plants along every section of fence. Each time I hammered back in an errant nail, something flew off the other side of the panel and landed in their yard. Undeterred, for, after all, it IS my fence, I continued until all was again secure.

Two hours later heard hammering. Watched, through the blinds, as neighbor re-attached the geegaws. This morning, surveyed the damage. Nails again popped, sections of fence again swaying in the stiff breeze. She had even cut one of the wires and thrown it into my yard; evidently baling wire is not esthetically pleasing to her sensibilities.

I think Mr. Frost got it wrong. Good fences do not necessarily make good neighbors. A bad neighbor is still a bad neighbor, no matter how good the fence. And any good fence ceases to be good when those on both sides don’t respect it.

anticipate, adapt, overcome

Fourteen years, total, in the military. Lots of hard work, moments of ecstatic joy over a job well done, particularly with the hurricane evacs in Biloxi, and upper echelon briefings in DC. And some great life-long friendships, not to mention (but I will) some killer lunchtime games of double-deck pinochle.

Recent stories of abuse in the military led me to review my enlistments. I can honestly say there were only two times I was ever really afraid. Oh, I had heard several horror stories from both women and men in the military, and lived through a few trying times with a couple of gals who were active duty at various bases while I was just a wife. But despite being so closely aligned with the military before I actually joined, there was nothing that could have prepared me for real, up close and personal, actuality.

A young woman in my basic training flight took it into her head that she didn’t like me. And she made it known to anyone who would listen that “dumb chief” was headed for a fall - - literally - - if she could ever find me alone on the stairs. Of course, this meant I was extremely hesitant about going to the basement to launder my clothes. Necessity being a mother, I discovered I could wash items while I showered, wring them out by hand, put them in a bucket, dress, and then hang them on the clothesline in the yard. It took a little longer for things to dry, but the amount of time was practically negligible considering the weather in San Antone. The situation resolved itself when Donna, from Pearl, MS, bless her, decided that even though she couldn’t put an end to the nonsense she could, at least, affect the outcome, and so, whenever she headed for the laundry room, she came by my bunk and got my stuff, too. But the fear for me was still there, and graduation day was more than just the relief of finishing basic training, it was an end to that situation. Oh, I saw her again, the Air Force at that time was still pretty small, and there were a limited number of bases where women served. But by the next time she was on "my turf" and it was my ball, my game, my rules, my outranking her, and she left me alone.

Assault of any kind, sexual or otherwise, is not limited to women. Even less likely to report abuse are the men, but it happens to them, too. As one COB told me, “There are places on a ship you simply do not go alone; and you better really know the guy going along with you.” For that matter, even a 24/7-armed Marine is not immune. One friend related a time in the Med when he was “propositioned” by a Marine Corps major. No way to resolve that sorta thing equitably, so friend told Major he’d kill him and dump his body off the boat if he ever again tried anything.

But I was a landlocked old frog and pretty much thought myself out of harm’s way. Until, that is, my second instance, a day when I was on library duty at NAS Millington. Two young sailors with too much time on their hands, way too much testosterone, and the mentality that after all I was only a woman (it didn’t matter I wore more rank than the two of them put together) and therefore they could do as they pleased. They were loudly vocal in their explicit plans for me after my shift ended. Ah, but those guys had no idea with whom they were dealing! I had a whole “boatload” of buddies, and a single phone call brought three of them to serve as my escorts.

The way I got through the first example was by constantly telling myself that my enemy was not an actual enemy, but a DI plant, simply a training device, to help me learn how to handle threatening situations. And, indeed, it did just that. Because by the time the second instance rolled around, I had learned to always have not just a plan but also at least two backups for every situation. And when you absolutely cannot anticipate, you adapt and overcome.

Brother Larry had a pocketknife. On one side was written TRUST IN THE LORD. On the other side was BUT KEEP THIS HANDY. Good advice. These days when I’m out running around I have to leave my pistol in the car. But there’s always a knife in my purse. And a cell phone in my pocket.

When is an NCO not an NCO?

I, quite frankly, am thoroughly tired of negative press. The Marines in the picture were NOT “forced to break their own code” by holding an umbrella for the Prez. After all, he IS the CIC.

Marines do not hold umbrellas for themselves simply because it makes it difficult to salute. For that matter, I can’t remember a single time I carried an umbrella when I was in uniform, despite the typical tropical weather associated with coastal Mississippi, Okinawa, SoCal, Tennessee, and Carolina. We were issued raincoats and appropriate covers for our head. And wore them when necessary.

Besides that, look closely at the picture, and notice the hands not holding the umbrellas. If there was not a previously established protocol for this sort of occasion, do you think the two Marines would have assumed mirror positions?

Just goes to show, no matter how you translate it, whether it’s “je suis prest” or “semper paratus” the USMC is “semper fidelis.”

When is an NCO not an NCO? Never. And as an NCO, or any soldier, for that matter, the mission always comes first. Whether it means getting wet, holding a brolly, taking a hill, or taking a bullet.

journey

The blue bonnets on our Texas highways are now a fading glory. But I do not mourn their passing, for next Spring, there they’ll be again.

And so it is with all of life.

Maturity is the growing awareness that you are neither wonderful nor hopeless. It has been said it’s the making of a place between “what is” and “what might be.”

It isn’t a destination. It is a road. Maturity is knowing that no matter where you go, there you are.

It is the moment when you wake up after some grief or staggering blow and think, “I’m going to live after all.”

It is the moment when you find out that something you have long believed in isn’t so, and parting with the old conviction, find that you’re still you; the moment you do the thing you’ve always been afraid of; the moment you realize you are forever alone, but so is everyone else, and so, in some way, you are more together than ever; and a hundred other moments when you find out who you are.

It is letting life happen, in its own good order, and making the most of what there is.