A Dixie Carpetbagger

Merry Christmas, everyone who’s eating seconds (or thirds)!

Not Santa, me.  Not only was this past semester hectic, the next appears to have the potential of being a whirlwind.  I have three classes, one pair of which is Tuesday night to nine and Wednesday morning at ten.  With a two-hour drive each way, that would give me 9 hours to eat, sleep, eat and get ready for the day.  Not to mention the 750 miles a week in travel.

Enter me renting an apartment, and all that entails.  (Oh boy, getting to know– and trust– new people, moving stuff, maintaining two sets of EVERYTHING, contact info, etc., etc., etc.)  Luckily, a friend of mine knew of a guy moving out of his apartment, so I found one close to campus, cheap, and in a decent location.  (I owe her.  Hmm, let’s see if she’d take range time as a form of repayment… )

So, yes, I’ve been slacking on the writing.  My apologies.

Wow.  Umm… okay, I’m still here.  Last week has kicked my butt– four trips to college (grand total: 800 miles) for group meetings, plus work, a presentation, and working on the Paper of Doom and Madness for my Civil War class.

Also, Curt’s family needs some prayers.

If my dear papa were still alive, he’d be 73  years young.

I get to celebrate by taking a couple of finals… but, seeing as it was my father’s dream for me to finish my education, I’ll just treat them as a memorial to him.

I’ve gathered all of you, the people I email in my business and educational life, here for a little chat today. As you can see, I am the very model of a modern major general student and future business-man.  I am neatly dressed in my suit and tie, my shoes are polished, and I am– by the miracles of modern technology and constant vigilance– in continuous contact with those who need my input on decisions or output on schoolwork.  Oh, I don’t dress like this every day (although, the shades are becoming more and more a part of my wardrobe– shades make any attire cooler), but to use a phrase from one of my favorite writers, I “eat pie with a fork.”

The reason I’ve gathered you here today is to discuss your recent performance.  You see, I have had trouble recently staying in contact with you… or, to be more blunt, keeping you in contact with me.  While I am something of an agoraphobe, and I am not the most sociable person, I am, indeed, available 24/7.  If I happen to be asleep– and I assure you, I do sleep– then a message can be routed to me which will be in front of my eyes or flowing into my ears in less than 8 hours.

Thus, I find in damnably difficult to understand why my messages to you go days or weeks with no response.  For those of you whom I do business with, it looks as if you do not want my business; for those of you whom I work with, it looks as if you do not value my labor and desire me to quit exerting myself to do an excellent job.  In either case, it offends me.

I understand that you have personal and social lives and other efforts needing your attention… but I have found the time to respond to messages during some of the most stressful and harried moments in my life, and it upsets me to think that that effort is not returned on your part.  An email sent at 1 in the morning Thursday saying (in essence) “our classwork is due Monday morning, we have the weekend to do it” is, in fact, a heads up to do the work over the weekend.  I assure you that the work in question will not delay your weekend party (or more likely, parties), and prompt submission of said work will ensure that I do not make your Monday morning more unbearable than the hangover does.

To emphasize my words here, I shall end this little missive with a small graphic to illustrate a possible solution I propose for our little situation:

To all the veterans who have served and are serving this country, and whom have borne the burden of our defense, I thank you.

Genes or environment? Who’s to say. It’s both, it’s neither, it’s something we can only watch in wonder. But whether they are like us, or simply their own person, we see something in them. — Brigid

This weekend, I began the slow process of catching up on yardwork and getting the place ready for winter.  At one point, I sat down to sip some water and looked down to check that my bootlaces were still snug… and I stopped, stunned.

I saw my father.  The perfect crease running down the insides of my work pants (2 o’clock on the left, 10 o’clock on the right), the way I looped the laces over the grommets, even the particular scuff marks on the toes, made when you ride the clutch just so on a machine.

I saw my father… I do all these thing, and have done all of these things… but in an instant, I saw all the little touches and tricks he showed me.  I saw the things I’ve begun to do– some of them without thinking about them– to emulate and honor him.  The way I’ve begun to set tools in a certain order in a toolbox, the way I’ve begun to chuckle more, the way I’ve begun to stand up for myself and others more…

I saw my father.  I realized I’ve begun to do that particular “thousand yard stare” he used to do, when he began thinking of “the old days.”  I’ve begun to have silent times, when I just think, with no music, no noise, no talking around me.  I saw the way he brooded over things, planned and plotted and moved things into position just so… and the way he (almost!) obsessed over some things.  I see the paternal streak in me, that has now fully matured– it advises, it recommends, it suggests… but it doesn’t attempt to control.

I saw my father.  I see now the urge he felt to have a family, to build something that would outlast him.  I see the passion he felt towards his sons, what he wanted for us.  I hear his cautionary warning: “she’s nothing like my mother!”  And I understand what he meant…

In all this, I saw my father.

I’ve talked about RangerUp and their T’s (none of which I own… yet), but I haven’t talked about 7.62 Design yet.  When I was at the airshow back in April, I picked up a shirt from one of their retailers– more specifically, the “Superior Firepower” shirt.  I check back every so often, looking at their new products, and they’ve come up with one I want, badly– “Doomsday Damsel.”  Let’s see– hot babe, zombie/disaster theme, nice selection of firearms… and an axe.  Yes, please…

And remember, black goes with everything… (chuckle)

Dixie – I like the flag. Careful posting it on a Yankee blog though.

Right about the time you read this, I’m going to be finishing up a stint in my university’s library, digging through the stacks while trying to find some source material for a term paper.  You see, I foolishly let my Civil War and Reconstruction professor know I knew about the Republic of West Florida and the Bonnie Blue Flag… and now I’m doing a term paper on that subject.  (Please note: this is the same Doctor who first tied Toussaint L’Ouverture to the Civil War, so me tying the Republic of West Florida in with the War Between the States has him excited.  Beware excited history professors!)

Please note: geek that I am, I got sidetracked and spent an hour doing research between the last line and this one.  But it was productive…

I am finding out, though, that the Bonnie Blue Flag has… negative connotations to some people.  (shrugs)  I use it as a symbol for state’s rights and libertarianism, not for the Confederacy.  You know, maybe if the Yanks hadn’t a’ gone all annexation-happy, we wouldn’t have this problem…

Robb and Miguel are carping about the weather.  I have something to say about that, but give me a second, I need some props.

Dixie drags out a soap box and stands on it, insulated socks poking out from under the bottom of his flannel pants and housecoat.

It was 31 degrees last night.  Without the wind chill.  Humans aren’t well adapted to living where water freezes.  That goes double if you have to wake up in the middle of the night to pee.  (Because you were drinking coffee and hot cocoa all day, natch.)

The worst of it is the fact that this winter, I’ll go out into this weather for fun.  I’ll wake up pre-dawn, climb into a blind, pray Bambi (or one of his relations) shows up, then hope I can feel my fingers to shoot.