I am Indiana Jones.
At least I feel archaeological these days digging through the layers of my life.
Yesterday I hit a mother lode of memories. Most of you know I was on active duty with the Air Force in the early 70s. With assignments in Texas, Colorado, California, Greece, and England.
When I left the Air Force, I returned to law school in Oregon. And then decided to join the Air Force Reserve as a judge advocate general -- where I served for 23 years.
The Air Force is big on education. So big that to ignore getting a master's degree, or attending Air Command and Staff College, or Air War College is to guarantee no promotions and an early retirement.
I had almost forgotten I had accomplished all three. Well, not so much the master's degree in International Relations -- while I was in England -- which was one of the most enjoyable years of my life.
But the two Air Force schools were -- what is the word? oh, yes -- a colossal waste of time. As interesting as the Air Force procurement system is --. Why finish that sentence? The adjective "interesting" simply does not belong there.
While digging through my office closet, I found three five foot piles of course materials and law office manuals. I had not touched any of them since I completed the courses.
And they would have remained untouched to this day if an attorney friend who was studying to be an Episcopal deacon had not requested material on just wars. At least, they found some practical application.
They are now all on their way to the local dump. Something I should have done a decade ago.
When I opened the law deskbook, I had what I thought was a far too revealing moment. The then-new ethical regulations were safely wrapped in plastic. Untouched by Steven hands.
Really? I was that cavalier about ethics?
The next notebook answered the question. I did not open those regulations because I was teaching a course on the regulations and had a dog-eared version of my own.
That chapter of my life ended in 1999 when I retired. My pension check now barely pays the ongoing expenses of the Salem house. One reason the house needs to go on the market. I can use that money for a few more Mexican adventures.
So, you now have the Air Force chapter of my life.
With more little surprises to come.
My blogger pal, John Calypso over at Viva Veracruz, recently complained in Three of the Worst Movies Ever: "Whoever is behind dumbing down the populace is doing a fine job." And that was without seeing Taken 2. Perhaps the most technically-inane movie of the decade.
He then noted he was looking forward to seeing Skyfall -- the new James Bond movie -- even though it would contain some of the same elements he found so offensive in the three lemons he had recently watched.
He needn't have worried. This is the best Bond film I have seen in a long time. Sure, the women are there. But they are three-dimensional characters. And there was violence. But not of the amoral variety that seems to populate most American action films.
The movie is an interesting bridge piece. Not as dark as the other Daniel Craig installments. And it is certainly far more personal with its Cain-Abel dispute between Bond and arch-villain, former MI6 agent, Silva, vieing for the affection of Eve. In this case, in the guise of Judi Dench's M.
And because the conflict is so personal between the three of them, we feel as if we have something invested in the outcome.
The film is beautiful. In Istanbul. Shanghai. Macau. London. Scotland. Sites that seem both glamorous and familiar.
Even the fight scenes seem simultaneously realistic and exotic. Such as a two-man duel filmed against the lights projected on a Shanghai skyscraper.
I was a big fan of the early Bond films in the 60s. Somewhere around Thunderball, I began to lose interest. Then, I could not take any Moore.
It has taken me a bit to warm to Daniel Craig. But I am back in that Aston Martin DB5 with him.
Welcome back, James. We missed you.
On 5 August 1620, 121 passengers set sail on two ships -- Mayflower and Speedwell -- from Southampton, England. Their destination was the Hudson River in the New World.
It was a false start. The Speedwell proved to be so unseaworthy, that after two overhauls, it was abandoned in Plymouth. On 6 September, 102 of the passengers crowded onto the Mayflower to begin their adventure of finding religious freedom.
The voyage did not quite go as planned. Storms blew them off course, and they landed far north of their destination in Massachusetts. Within one year half of them would be dead. All of them may have died without the assistance of the local Wampanoag -- who used the English settlers for their own political purposes.
At the end of their first year, the Pilgrims celebrated a good
harvest with a Thanksgiving celebration.
It may be a little early to write of Thanksgiving. At least, in its traditional sense.
But I am thankful to my brother who stopped by yesterday to share Costco apple pie with me. He was interested in why I was thinking about keeping the Salem house and spending more time in Oregon.
He reminded me that I left Salem because I was feeling too comfortable here. That I wanted to live the rest of my life being challenged, not coddled. And even though I have not had many visitors while living in Mexico, I was obviously having a good time there.
So, like the Mayflower, I am back on my original voyage. And I may end up someplace unexpected.
Cleaning out the inside of the house may not be done by the end of November. That simply means I may not be able to get the house on the market this month. But on the market it will go.
And I will be back to Mexico to live some more adventures. I have trips to Oaxaca and Chiapas planned for February. There will be plenty of posts to share from what I have heard.
Having a brother to play the role of the Wampanoag is reason enough for me to be thankful.
During the past two weeks, I have been spending more time in lunches and conversations with friends than I have spent sorting through my worldly goods.
That is not a complaint. Relationships are far more important to me than sending old possessions to the dump.
Yesterday I had lunch with a retired attorney friend. She is thoroughly enjoying retirement by throwing herself into activities she enjoys. Cooking. Art. French. Gardening. Travel.
On the walk home, I caught sight of my house from about a block away. It is looking quite snazzy with all of the yard and siding work. And that made me think of a question left on a post two days ago.
Why not stay in the house you own, with the books you love, the weather
you prefer, among the friends and family whose company you enjoy? Seems
like a no-brainer. But that's just me thinking outside of the box.
This morning I attended a meeting of the Salvation Army Advisory Board. There has been a large turnover in membership during the past four years. But it was good to be back with them. Probably because their work makes a difference.
Nothing this month has helped me answer the commenter's question. I enjoy my adventures in Mexico. But the question is whether it is time for me to enjoy retirement elsewhere.
Or, at least, be able to answer the question credibly.
At the rate it is taking me to sort through sixty years of acquisitions, it was obvious I needed to hire someone to start taking care of the outside of the house.
Not a lot needs to be done. It is a pretty house that has held up rather well over the years.
But it really needed a bath.
I live on a main street in Salem. Twenty years of dust, algae, and moss has built up on its bright white exterior.
On Friday my yard man hired a fellow with a power washer. His initial plan was to power wash on that day and then do a thorough cleaning today.
The project is a bit bigger than that. He is out there today finishing the third side of the house -- including cleaning out gutters.
I would like to think I could have done all of that. And given enough time, I could have.
But not as well as this guy and his assistant. And if I learned anything as an attorney, I know to defer to the expertise of people who know what they are doing.
If I am going to get the house on the market by the end of this month, I will most likely need a couple more professionals like this.
Well, here it is. The decision every person pulling up stakes dreads.
What to do with the things we cherish most?
For some people, it is photographs For others, correspondence. For me, it is books.
I have kept almost every book I have ever read. Their contents are part of me. When I lived in this house, I would often re-read passages that popped to mind in the middle of the night when my memory starts doing cartwheels and will calm down only with an appropriate passage. Such as, where is Charles I's head buried?
As a result of my my tome acquisition syndrome, I have books corralled in at least three rooms in the house. What you see above is merely a sampling.
Before anyone says it: yes, I have lived in Mexico for almost four years without having daily access to my collection. And it would be extremely difficult and expensive to send the library south -- where it would quickly disintegrate in the heat and humidity.
So, I need to turn loose and allow the books to find new homes. But where?
My mother has offered to take a few of the biographies and historical books (no fiction, thank you very much). But what happens to the rest?
This is not really an urgent problem. Most of them can stay in the house while it is on the market. But a day of reckoning is coming. Soon.
And if any of you have some good ideas, I could start divesting myself of them while I am in Oregon on this trip.
I am ready to book out.
I thought the election was over. But the discussion continues on the Melaque discussion board.
The chat is no longer about candidates. My neighbor, Bill, made an interesting point about American presidential elections.
"I have never voted for a US presidential candidate in my life and I have
never known any person that has ever voted for a US presidential
candidate, either. Common people are not allowed to vote for the US
president."
His point, of course, is that voters do not vote directly for presidential candidates. They vote for a slate of electors. And the electors then vote for president and vice-president.
But Bill was wrong. He does know someone who has actually voted for a presidential candidate. I did. In 1984.
I re-discovered proof of that day amongst some papers in the desk from my old law office. It has all of the style of a third grade spelling bee certificate. Signed by the principal.
But it is cool enough to take to Mexico. Where the humidity and heat will undoubtedly reduce it to its constituent pulp.
And if I need to finish that analogy, you have been ignoring my libertarian riffs.
