Talking Salmons is spinning down.

It’s been a long ride. The purpose of the blog was to give family and friends a chance to keep up with me while I was deployed. When I came back, there wasn’t much else to say.

I don’t want to turn into a political blog—don’t want to get too deep into the religious stuff. So, well, I suppose this is the end.

###

Spent the weekend up at a friend’s house for Memorial Day. She’s that old Army friend of mine that came down the week prior, whom I talked about two posts ago.

Maggie lives out in “Where the hell?” Ohio, nestled in the south east corner, adjacent to just about nowhere.

“Takes 20 minutes to get to any place,” she joked with me when I finally arrived.

She had to escort me in from the highway and, Lord knows, I’d probably not have found the place. County routes, twisting roads, turn offs, and tiny hamlets to weave through did away with any semblance of “third left past the light” sorts of directions I was used to. Beautiful house, though; definitely remote. Cell phone was useless, so I was out of contact.

I got in Friday, the day before the rest of the gang was supposed to be in. Her boyfriend worked at the local steel mill, had another friend who was a country sheriff, an Army friend I’d never met and two single girls (which she gave me winks about), all of whom were slated to drive out for the cookout Saturday night.

She warned me to bring some work clothes—said she had some man’s work for me to get done around the property. She gave me a cowboy hat and a chainsaw and I took to the forest to find suitable wood for the bonfire. I fell two trees, chopped them up and lugged the wood in.

“Think that will be enough?” she asked, in that rhetorical sort of way.

“Guess not,” I said, and headed back out after lunch.

The other Army friend was supposed to be in around noon, but showed up just as I was hauling in the last truckload of timber. I had a hell of a pile of bark, twigs, sticks and logs. Since her house was heated by a wood stove, I figured any extra would just go to keeping her and the little one warm for the winter.

There was food to be cooked. The grill to be prepped, firstly, and the sun was already kind enough to be on its way out, which gave us our cue for when to start cooking. I let the other Army friend tend to the grill since he was bummed out about playing in the woods with the saw. I figured playing with fire would make up for it.

Boyfriend and sheriff were still at work, but the other ladies arrived, each with their dogs and daughters in tow. There was queso dip and beer to tide us over until the deer meat and hot dogs were thoroughly cooked. Definitely a country cook out.

I watched the little one quite a bit to give Maggie a chance to relax—well, a chance to tend to the hundred other things that needed to get done.

Nothing but complaints from her two “single” lady friends, though. The food wasn’t being cooked fast enough. The bonfire wasn’t lighting fast enough. They were cold. Why wouldn’t someone move a truck up and play some music? Why wasn’t someone mixing them drinks? Why wasn’t someone making them a plate?

On and on. They weren’t unattractive, but were definitely living up the fact that they were the only show in town (tiny as it is).

The dogs were also damaging my calm. Maggie’s dog is a saint, but the others….It was a fight to get food in our mouths and the S’mores project was nearly canceled when they got into the graham crackers.

“You’re going to cook all of our marshmallows, right?” one of Maggie’s girl friends asked.

“Um, probably not,” I said back.

“Well, you need to at least make my daughter’s” she snipped.

I proceeded to give a little speech, which probably did not endear me to her, describing how, in the great scheme of the cosmos, I was under about no obligation to cook her any more than I already had. There were stares from her and the other girl friend—whispers, then giggles.

Eventually, Maggie’s little one went to bed, which eased the stress a little (fire+grill+dogs+baby=eek). Boyfriend and sheriff rolled in after dark, and we had ourselves an evening.

The next morning started with Maggie’s little one waking up at his normal time. I rolled out of bed to help with breakfast while the other guests slept. The girl friends’ daughters were up too, hungry, watching TV. Maggie and I cooked some eggs and bacon for the kids and ourselves. Ran out of eggs—oh well, sleep would suffice the others.

Four hours later, the rest of the gang got up, including the women.

Where’s our breakfast? Why aren’t there any eggs? Why won’t someone make me a biscuit? I’m hungry. I need to wash my clothes. I smell like smoke. You guys are going to the lake? What are we supposed to do?

“You can always help clean house,” I said from the kitchen. Again, probably didn’t earn any points.

Sheriff and boyfriend had left before dawn to go to work, leaving other Army friend, Maggie and I to clean up since girl friends were too tired. At least they watched the kids while we scrubbed—or at least sat in the living room and watched TV in proximity of the kids.

The rest of the day was great. Other Army friend, Maggie, the little one and I went to her family’s spot on a nearby lake. I got to take the little guy out swimming, which he loved. Kept waddling back into the water each time I tried to set him out. I let him to his thing until he started shiver and turn blue. Loved that water, though.

Thus endeth my stint at being a quasi-dad for the weekend. Maggie asked if I was interested in her friends. Had to say no thanks, more’s the pity.

###

A friend of mine who teaches photography was walking by me the other day in our schoolhouse.

“Don’t you just love empty hallways?” she asked. We were in one of the tucked-away spans of quiet linoleum.

“Is that a hint for me to duck into this door?” I asked back, smiling. She laughed.

“No, ha ha! I just love the quiet. I don’t know, it feels like…well…I don’t know. You know, with all of the pictures of past leaders here on the walls. It’s like…”

“A sense of hushed majesty?”

She looked at me for a second and smiled. “Wow, you writers. You’re dangerous.”

Disarmingly. Words are picture frames, housing ideas that touch off flash fires in the mind. A properly primed set of words can take a man to his knees, or adjoin a woman’s mind with her soul. Poetry is the swordplay of of the mind. Deft strokes and purposed cuts can winnow away the thickest skin

###

This past weekend, an old friend of mine was in town. “Old” as in we’d known each other from a few years back, yet not “old” as in known that well.

We spent a month together, attending an asinine Army school known now as Warrior Leadership Training, but back then as Primary Leadership Development Course.

The idea is that troops need to know how to be noncomissioned officers. And they (we) do. There’s a lot to cover, going from just another dude to someone who is part parent/disciplinarian/mentor.

So this course was the Army’s answer to that. There were some good tidbits among the month of random cleaning details, uniform inspections and hour upon hour of monotone lectures; but, by and large, PLDC or WLC (depending on how old school you are) is something that is endured. And this friend of mine and I, did just that.

We laughed, we laughed more and we cried from laughing. Apart from the course itself, we had a pretty good time.

Anyways. She was in town visiting a clutch of friends of hers that still hang out in the area and wanted to catch up. She also had her 17-month-old son, who was a cute kid. Many of her friends also had young children. So I spent my weekend in the bosom of young parenthood, among the fights, poopy diapers and frequent screeches.

Which, as you might know, is a very different atmosphere than I’m used to.

Apart from my family, whom I am blessed to be loved by and love wholeheartedly, I have been alone for my whole life. As a military child, I learned to start over every couple of years. There is no home. There is no childhood friendship. There really is nothing consistent other than change.

This is good in that it can make a person very self-sufficient, but it also teaches someone to remain very emotionally distant.

I’ve also been completely alone in my “adult” life—not for lack of trying. Call it bad luck, call it awkwardness, who knows, I swing and miss with the whole relationship thing.

It folds in with the motif of the street urchin looking in someones window to a family enjoying warmth and laughter. It’s just a different world.

So the weekend was a little jarring, to be honest—a good jarring, though.

In little bits, I had someone in my life for a few hours a day. I watched the little guy play. I kept him from falling. I carried him around. It was nice.

I also was completely exhausted after she put him to sleep. Hats off to parents—especially single parents. I knew it was excruciating, but wow, yeah. Still, it was only my first day-ish. I imagine it’s just like running, I’ll have to work up to the longer-distance thing.

So now, back at house, no kids, alone is more alone than ever. Quiet is more quiet. My thoughts resonate too much. There’s no one else to bounce ideas off of. There’s no one to share in things.

Alone has always sucked, to be honest. Sure, there’s freedom in aloneness, which I’m sure is missed by those tied down, but there’s also a cold emptiness, a pins-and-needles numbness from standing in a snowy evening too long. Things are stiff. Laughing at a movie screen feels weird. Sitting by the kitchen at a restaurant never gets fun.

I know God has a plan, and, ultimately, I do trust in it. I throw impatient spats now and again. I just didn’t expect the winter to be so long.

###

The murmur of the trees mention rain.

In the dark, the paved lanes glisten lines of light in rippling pools.

From far, a cricketing, then gone to calm murmur.

Small orange suns cast cones of dappled gloom on shining metal steeds.

A light of distant dull gray drapes its arms atop the trees.

In staggered groups, drops, distinct splashes of sound in the constant conversation, add effect to the script of misty evening. Pause. Suspense. And then a rolling wave of shaken leaves as breeze arrives.

Leaves in shadows one and two play upon the layered glass—a flattened forest in reach, upon the layered glass.

In the chair, across from open screen, bathed in the scent of rain, there, at last, is sleep.

###

Friday we had our latest graduation. Forty six new journalists were fired off to the field and fleet, ready to start their careers.

Apart from the royal FUBAR of the actual ceremony, on which I’ve been forbidden to blog, afterward there was enough small talk and well-wishes to make the remainder of the day as amicable as we had originally planned.

One of my students came up, thanked me for not being a total bastard and asked, “When do you pick up your new class?”

“Two weeks,” I said.

“Wow, how do you do it? How do you keep teaching the same thing over and over?”

“New class. New people. New experience.”

“Seems like it would get boring.”

I shrugged.

Boring? Naw. Every day is new. Every day is unique. Honestly, there will never be another evening like this one—not ever another breeze, or another rain like this one. The clouds will never align and sparkle in the fading day light as they are now, nor will ever there be that hue of green or purple or red in that pattern across the sky in the history of man.

It’s the same with work. It’s the same with most matters in our lives. Every day is new. Every conversation is a completely new experience. Every talk is a chance to learn something about someone and thus increase awareness about those we love.

Part of it all is the will to find enjoyment in things. For as insurmountable of a task as it might seem to be, honestly, a lot of it is in simple will. I will myself to enjoy things. I will myself to find happiness in smiles and the in betweens. Sure I have a mountain of things that keep me busy, but ultimately, I can choose to dread the day or find satisfaction in my work.

I’m not talking about going hippy and hugging every blasted thing around, but there comes a moment where you or I can choose to get up on the board and ride the wave. It’s a joining with life, rather than trying to redirect it.

I know so many people who spend so much time decrying every moment they’ve lived. Such-n-such didn’t work out, who-n-who turned out to be a prick. There’s a healthy time to reflect and learn, but the world is full of a million reasons to stay miserable and never get up out of bed. In my corner of the universe, I can choose to complain at the drudgery of everything, or I can adapt to a new perspective that sees the beauty in nearly everything.

I know, still hippy-ish, right?

Okay, look at a kid. A kid can experience the same story, read a thousand times, and scream with glee each and every time. A child can hold on to the wonder of life. A child can kick her legs and enjoy the breeze on the swing, then kick her legs for an hour more and love each time. Again! Again! Again!

But as we grow up, we forget. We forget how to hold on to happiness. We’re worn down from reality. We abandon happiness for realism. We convince ourselves that there is nothing to smile about, only the doldrums of the never ending cycle of life.

Meh.

Some say that the universe is a cold and dead machine, spinning and gyrating with predictable forces and mechanisms that force the same pattern. The sun rises; the sun sets. Surely, some say, God does not exist, because, otherwise, why the boring pattern?

Ah, but what if God has never given up his child-likeness? What if he sees the magic of a sunrise and yells “Again!” each and every day? Is it such a crime to value the beauty of every day?

So, two weeks, new class. I’m stoked.

###

I may have talked about this before. After two-plus years of blogging, many perspectives change, but a few stay the same. I remember realizing his particular number back in college—now some six years ago. Wow. Long time.

Anyway.

Do you ever get the feeling like you’re nuts? I mean, like your ideas are just way too far out there? Like you’re weird for thinking or feeling something?

I felt that way all through high school and into college. Part of it was the typical teenage angst, but I had some serious spiritual concerns and unsettling issues.

For the longest time, I just ignored the lingering questions or initial reactions to situations or circumstances—preferring to go along with the immediate group, thinking that my ideas were just crazy.

Whether it concerned sexuality or God or even friendship, I had my own flavor of things—my own faith or my own outlook on life. When it vibed with others, it was cool; but more times than naught, people would bring up points of view or political dispositions that I was flatly expected to espouse.

And I’d resist, sometimes internally, sometimes being outspoken. Whenever I did argue for a new perspective, it never ended well. I had some blow ups at church, some arguments with friends. I was different, and it was unsettling.

Then I started meeting people. One or two in high school, then a few in college, more beyond, who were wired in the exact way I was. We’d finish each others’ sentences. We’d be passionate about the same areas, approach problems in the same way, and feel the same general unease about the larger world.

I came to realize that I was not completely crazy, but that God had wired me and dozens like me for a reason. I don’t think any of us really know what that reason is. And I don’t think that it’s some sort of club or exclusive thing.

The Christian Scriptures talk about how followers are the body of Christ—that we are the mechanism that expresses God to the world. Love, charity, compassion, justice, truth, beauty, humility—the essence of God, is transmitted to the world through believers.

The Scriptures talk about how, like a human body, there are parts that serve different functions. The eyes do things the ears can’t. The arms and joints work in ways the feet and hands don’t. Each serves a purpose. Each supports each other.

There’s a notion I hear sometimes from people that describe a general malaise with the current times. “I was born in the wrong century,” or, “If only I lived back then.”

You and I were born to live now. Fully present. Aware. Now. Not just to dream of yesterday or what may come, but to be here.

And you and I were wired with personality and disposition to mirror our purpose. Our passions are aligned with a focused determination of the creator to minister in a specific function to a purposed segment of the sh*tstorm of life.

Alone this is hard to see. With others, especially others with whom we share a certain connection, this becomes easier to perceive.

Who am I? Why do I think or feel this way? Where are my passions? What need I create? Where should I go?

It’s terribly exciting to explore our part in the revolution—the restoration of humanity. Every second makes you and I who we are and who we will become. With the proper perspectives, every second grows us, every second pushes us closer to our purpose.

It helps to find others, to build relationships. It’s tremendously encouraging when you can find others of like minds. Helps us realize we’re not so close to crazy as we thought.

###

Controversial, I know, but I usually put schoolwork second while I was in college.

Uber peep Seth and I had traditions. We’d often head out in the evenings to a convenience store (not necessarily convenient as it was a bit far, as I recall) to get a Jones soda. Jones makes those quirky-flavored sodas with the unique photos…

Anyway, we’d put aside our schoolwork to spend some time together, talking about life, liberty, whatever.

A lot of people stopped by my room back then too. I’d make it a habit to put down my books and talk. Usually it was girl-related, sometimes God stuff. But, regardless, I’d make time to talk things through. Sometimes the talks would last well in to the night. There was still mountains of classwork to do, but I got to know a lot of people during those talks.

For me, life experience was much more important than GPAs. Not to say I didn’t do well, got a little “with honors” sticker on the ol’ diploma, thank you; but I was zealous in not letting tedium take me away from the genuine moments of humanity that grow in between the stuff we consume ourselves with.

In the West, we focus on the destination—the end state of things. College equals diploma, which equals job, which equals money, which equals stability. Religion equals beliefs, which equals salvation, which equals a ticket to paradise.

But what is missing is the journey. To the Eastern mind, the trek is far, far more important than the destination. It is much better to experience and endure the race than to simply cross the finish line.

And I agree. What’s the point of anything without the journey? Might as well skip to the credits of every movie we watch if we just want the ending. It’s the struggle—the minute by minute drama that inspires us.

For some, being rich is the end goal. They just want money and to hell with how getting there will grow or change them. For some, it’s getting married, or getting divorced, or getting a degree, or a type of car.

Often when a person runs out and gets that new car, or runs headlong into marriage, the unhappiness is still there. I think that’s because the person is in love with the idea—in love with the concept of “arriving.”

There’s a scene in Fight Club where Brad Pitt is talking to Edward Norton about a conversations he had with his father, growing up. He graduated high school and asked his dad, “Now what?” Dad said, “Go to college.” He graduated from college and asked his dad, “Now what?” Dad said, “Get a job.” He got a job and asked his dad, “Now what?” Dad said, “Get married.”

Like that’s all there was, a careful series of steps that led to fulfillment. Like happiness would just automatically come.

What’s missing was the process—the sting of life; how we are altered by each day and grown by the people we meet.

I love conversation. Each time I ever talk with anyone, I grow. Each time I ever spend any time with anyone, I grow. After 10 or 12 years of careful introspection, I’ve noticed that there’s never an end to the race. Life always has another hill to climb.

That’s what’s so tragic about people who focus on the destination—the race goes on forever. There is no finish—no magic line that makes everything perfect.

It can be discouraging and daunting if a person focuses on the distance and the unending miles; but if, instead, the company kept was the focus, the journey itself was the joy rather than the promise of some ideal destination, then the sh*t of life stepped in isn’t so bad, ’cause it’s on all of our shoes.

And that’s the secret. That’s where life is, I think. It’s in those magic in between moments that let us discover who we’re in this struggle with. That’s why I never sacrifice conversation for “productivity.” That’s why I’d much rather spend time talking than go out on “a date.”

It may seem trivial, but one is the pursuit of a goal, the other is a careful cultivation of relationship and understanding. And the latter is more meaningful, I think, more genuine.

###

There it is. May. Last post…February. Wow, how about that?

WordPress has grown more svelte. Nice little buttons and do-hickeys on everything. Looks like they’re continuing to expand their features, which is awesome, considering it’s all free.

A lot of things have been going on in and around Josh Salmons. I won’t get in to everything, suffices to say I needed a break from blogging, obviously.

There’s an interesting dynamic when people around you begin to absorb your blog. I fancy book authors experience this on a deeper level, yet more infrequently. Running into a random person and discussing the intricacies of the kitten in chapter four or the choice of detail on the sunset before the protagonist suffered a setback…that sort of thing; verses having a blogger who just has people pipe in daily and drop a few sentences, constituting a “yea” or “nay.”

In Iraq I was spoiled, concerning readership. No one around me cared about the blog, so only those searching for either my name (friends/family) or for keywords surrounding content found it. Here, students, coworkers and an expanding litany of family, church friends of family, and family of friends all send emails, asking about things.

And that’s great, albeit a little stifling. Have to keep things PG. Can’t really talk about anything that would remotely offend anybody who might remotely be on the RSS feed. For a cynical SOB like me, that limits things to a discussion concerning my choice of a lunch venue.

So, as the winter continued, I allowed the blog to fall asleep. Not that I’m trying to shake loose unwanted readers—everyone is welcome. I just needed a break.

Once or twice I caught the itch—even wrote a couple of posts in the interim. The first tickle of desire came at a traffic light, the second one day at work. Though I hashed out some sentences, it never grew into anything more than a few paragraphs of nothing.

I was worried I had lost the fire.

I heard an author on NPR the other week. She was finishing her fourth or fifth novel—romance writer, very popular and unorthodox, considering she’d just decided one day to become an author. The host of the show read some submitted comments and asked for the romance writer’s feedback. One comment was from a person who was a technical writer (someone who fills the pages of all those operator manuals no one ever reads). The commenter was asking how he could break out of his doldrum routine into create writing. The romance author said she thought this guy’s job was perfect, despite the drudgery of it. His job taught him to produce coherent work, despite whatever his disposition or feelings were for that day. Regardless, he had to write.

There was something to that. And something to this blog, despite itself.

So, here we are, those that are left We’ll keep at it.

Roommate Adrian just purchased his own copy of some Adobe toys, which is inspiring me to dig out my own. Maybe I’ll start incorporating some Photoshop creations on this thing. More artistic expression will probably be what I need to get out of the rut.

###

Do you know what heat is?

Heat is energy. It travels in waves like other forms of energy. It transforms matter it touches–either by causing atoms to vibrate (heating it up) or by causing a chemical reaction that causes burning.

Heat, simply perceived, is the vibration of atoms. Absolute zero (0 degrees Kelvin) is the theoretical point where there are no vibrations in atoms.

There is no such thing as “cold”; there is only the absence of heat.

Isn’t that weird?

When someone says, “Wow, it’s cold outside,” it’s actually a misconception. It’s implying that the cold itself exists, but, in reality, there is no cold. It has no power. It can’t advance, or take something over. Heat simply is or is not.

It is the same with sound. There is either sound or no sound. Silence is just a name given to an absence of sound. Silence itself does not exist.

And light, the same. There is no darkness. There is only light and no light.

Our history is full of tales of darkness versus good–implying that both sides can hold sway over each other. It suggests that there’s some equality between them.

But, in reality, darkness can only be where light is not at that moment. It has no power of its own.

This has wide-sweeping implications. Think about it.

There is only substance or the lack of substance. And the lack of substance has no substance to affect substance. This is why it is written in the Christian texts, “Resist the Accuser and he will flee from you.”

Even we, in our supposed frailty, have substance, enough to occupy and command the space where we exist, like heat transforming matter, or light illuminating a space.

And that is why, when the proper perspective is achieved, fear is irrelevant.

###

With the workers and corn fields behind us, we turned left on a path that angled us into some woods. The day wasn’t hot, but the shade was refreshing. Tall, thin trees shot up from the valley below, passed us and stretched high above our heads. The path began to climb, and we started to surmount our first mountain.

Through the vale of flora, the fields of crops continued past us, washing down the valley in a flood of leafy green. Thin brown strips marked property boundaries and modest houses peppered the area around the village, but were more sparse farther down.

We found our way through the patches of woods. Felix stopped after a hill and asked if we wanted to take a break.

“No, we’re good,” we each echoed. Felix stopped anyway and began to tell us about a plant along the path. It was a sort of mint that, when the leaves were rubbed together and smelled, helped altitude sickness, apparently. It did smell minty. Adrian joked that Felix could have just made it up as an excuse to stop. Regardless, it was good to see even the veteran hiker needing to stop. Though, I suppose our enthusiasm was carrying us farther than normal. For him, the routine probably wore early.

Continuing, we walked along the path that snaked counterclockwise across the mountain. It wasn’t especially huge, but the steep draws and spurs were enough for me to crane my neck to take in. What was trippy was the cows and horses grazing on the slopes. How’d they stand up? Must have one set of legs shorter than the other.

After a time, I heard water in the distance. “Is that the river we’re going to cross?” I asked Felix.

“That? No,” he said, laughing.

A few minutes later I laughed too. The rushing torrent I had predicted in my mind turned out to be a modest stream, gorged with rain, plunging down a nearby draw, with a small 10-foot bridge crossing the small divide. The river I had anticipated was much farther away.

Eventually we started to break free of the forest and reached higher ground. As we rotated around the faces of the mountain, we saw more of the neighboring range. The valley fell away farther below us and blended into the distance. Clouds slowly marched through the range, hitting peaks and shifting.

Looking back, I don’t remember the minute-by-minute weather. That’s an unfortunate side-effect to waiting to write. Overall, it was perfect for hiking. The days usually started a little chilly, the nights cool enough to warrant the sleeping bag or long pants but nothing to cold. As the morning grew, there would be some drizzle, sporadic rain and mists. There would be a break around midday, with some clearing of the fog. In the afternoons there would often be another spell of drizzle, enough for a poncho on occasion. Then, in the late afternoon and early evening, things would clear off enough to see the landscape.

I do remember on day one wasn’t overly socked in with clouds. I fancied myself like an adventurer in Tolkien literature, walking and marching for days and weeks, passing the uncountable miles with just a song in my head. Then I fancied myself like an actual adventurer, soldiers or natives of old, traversing mountains and nations by foot. I was struck by how much of our lives is full to the brim with activity. That the prospect of taking days to walk somewhere is so unpleasant. The silence is a hard sound for modern man to hear.

There’d be some jokes, but a lot of the trek that day was left to each of us, our own thoughts and our own experience. I was relatively pain free that day–more would come.

Things began to get a little rocky. It was still relatively flat–obviously climbing, but nothing that drew too much heavy breathing. We got to a couple of lookout points, and Felix talked a bit about the apus and the worship of the mountains. The lookout spots had stone benches and covering, which we used to escape the drizzle and drink some water. Felix pointed to a very distant outcropping and said we’d stop there too. I could see the pavilion-type cover of another lookout point.

Centipedes. Lots of centipedes. They enjoyed the red dirt, apparently. They crossed the path every few feet. For the most part there weren’t too many bugs. Felix said there would be some biting flies closer to the river and our campsite, but that there weren’t too many bugs on higher ground.

We got to the second lookout point and stopped. Felix looked far into the distance and pointed out a stone wall, barely visible. “There. See that? That is Choquequirao. That is where we are going.”

Wow. I could see we were on the wrong mountain.

Looking ahead of us, I saw the path suddenly plunge in a series of sharply cutting switchbacks. Back and forth, back and forth, the dirt path cut a zig-zag swatch through the tall, waving grasses of this face of the mountain. It was serene, the breeze and the shimmer of silver from the lighter heads of grass as the wind sighed against the slope. The path eventually curved left and out of sight.

“There’s the river we will cross,” Felix said.

Sure enough I could hear it, faintly, as loud as the stream was when I first noticed the sound earlier, but, as we were much farther away from the river, I figured the sound would grow a bit louder.

Looking way down the river, I could see a tiny splinter of black crossing the water.

“Is that the bridge?” I asked.

“Umm, yes very far,” Felix said. “We will camp a little higher than the river, to keep away from mosquitoes. Then, tomorrow, we will climb down to the water and cross.”

I visually traced a path from where the bridge hit the far shore and noticed a similar dirt path, going in a zig-zag up the mountain, just like the pattern we were about to walk down on this side of things. I started to count the switch-backs on the far mountain. One, two, three, five, nine, 12, 17, 30. Then I lost sight. It’d be a ways.

###

There are two Bible studies that are held each week at the Defense Information School. The Tuesday session, if you remember, is dedicated to showing Noomas every week. Thursdays are the more-typical study of a passage of Scripture.

I’ve been going to the Tuesday meetings off and on, and not so much to the Thursday ones. It’s not that I don’t have an appreciation of Scripture, but a couple of months ago the chaplain announced that he would be working through Revelation, the final book of the Bible, which deals with the end times, the apocalypse and all that business.

Revelation is a book that has messed me up for years. There is so much symbolism, historical allusions, borrowed mythology and contested aspects of the book, that it’s hard to get through. Moreover, there are at least a dozen interpretations of how to understand the prophecies. The whole thing just gives me a headache.

And, just like how I start to waiver in my Tuesday attendance after seeing argument take over the discussions on the true meaning of each Nooma, I wasn’t terribly enthusiastic about wading through the same murky debates concerning Revelation. So, I just never went to the Thursday sessions.

This past Wednesday, however, that trend came to an end. The chaplain was on leave for the week, and his temporary stand in, a Marine major who was an instructor for the officer’s course and a good friend of mine, came to talk to me.

“Hey! Sergeant Salmons, what are you doing tomorrow for lunch?” he asked.

“Thursday? Um, nothing at the moment, sir.”

“I really need you to lead the Bible study for me. I have to brief the commandant and won’t be there.”

“Err…sure. I can do it. What part are we at?”

“Revelation 12.”

Yikes! Revelation 12. There are several parts of Revelation that trip me out, and Revelation 12 is definitely one of them.

Why is Revelation itself so troublesome? Some people just tell me to read the “Left Behind” books, a series of novels outlining the events that are described in Revelation. It seems pretty straightforward, and there’s a movie to go along with it, what’s to be confused about?

Problem is, that particular view of Revelation, with that particular interpretation of the sequence of events, is only 100 years old. Many modern evangelicals take the most recent view as THE correct view, plan it out, and go from there.

But there are a lot of other viewpoints, all with Biblical backing. Pre-trib, Mid-trib, Post-trib, Pre-millennial, dispensational pre-millennial, A-millennial, Post-millennial, preterism, futurist, continuous historical, historical background…all have different takes on the book’s meanings.

Then there’s the book itself. Some people think Saint John wrote it. The church has waffled on that for centuries. There is the inclusion of imagery and word-for-word phrases from Egyptian and Greek/Roman mythology (especially with the woman listed in Revelation 12…”clothed with the sun, with the moon under her feet and a crown with 12 stars over her head” as the same description that describes the Egyptian goddess Isis, mother of Horus, who was attacked by Set, the ancient serpent, while she was pregnant. Horus was destined to do battle and kill Set…eerily familiar).

Martin Luther, the man who began the Reformation and started the protestant movement, hated the book of Revelation. He said he found Revelation to be “neither apostolic nor prophetic” and stated that “Christ is neither taught or known in it.” John Calvin, another huge Christian figure, thought it should be included in the canon of books making up the Christian Bible. However, it is the only book he did not write a formal commentary on.

…So. All that to say there was a huge weight that slumps on my shoulder any time anyone asks me to “explain” Revelation. And, especially with the extremely varied backgrounds of those who attend the Bible studies at my workplace–students, teachers, Catholics, Mormons, protestants, wiccans, new Christians, old Christians; it’s hard to elicit a discussion on vastly uncertain and symbolic passages without it turning into a shouting match.

…But, I did some prayer time. I remembered the wisdom literature that says “a kind word turns away wrath,” and I arrived on Thursday, quite frankly unsure of how to go about anything.

I started with a simple reading of the passage. I let the students take turns with it. After finishing I rehashed it through, letting the students sit, wide-eyed, tripping out at the strange language. I didn’t go into all the Egyptian or Roman stuff, but outlined how typical Catholics interpret things, how the Jews would have reacted to certain mentioned numbers, and how protestants typically take it.

One younger student had a question, “Sergeant. I don’t see how this helps me on my day-to-day life.”

I could have kissed her. “Exactly!” I said.

That led to a couple of points, which took up a good chunk of the remaining time.

Knowing how people throughout the centuries have interpreted the symbols and tripped-out sayings within the book are one thing, but, ultimately, transmitting love to others with the Spirit of God is hardly influenced by how a person interprets the number 1,260, or ten crowns on a dragon’s head. “Honestly, in the end, to answer your question, there’s not a huge amount that relates to living every day.”

Being compassion, being love, cultivating patience, engendering generosity, learning to be more selfless…that is the work we’re to dedicate ourselves to, if you go along with Scripture.

And ultimately, it’s far easier and more beneficial to humanity to teach kindness rather than dispensational pre-millennialism. It’s how the Messiah did it, and I think it’s a pretty good plan.

###

If you hadn’t noticed from the Flickr widget on the bottom right, I put up some pictures of our Peru trip. Feel free to check out the set [here].

That particular group of photos are a sort of combination of Sarah, Adrian and my shots. We pooled all of our photos when we got back and, since we were frequently taking pictures of the same thing at the same time, I don’t remember who took what on certain occasions.

Adrian has his own gallery of shots. He takes much better photos than I, so the better pics in the above album are probably his!

On a more somber note, one of the public affairs instructors died suddenly over the weekend. He was the Navy chief I wrote about earlier concerning the refrigerator. He chilled out considerably since that incident and I’m really sorry he’s gone. I’d talked to him on several occasions as we worked together. He spent time on the same base in Japan where I lived as a kid—stuff like that.

It’s crazy how things just happen like that. In the military I’m used to hearing that so-n-so was badly injured—or was killed, as it happened in Iraq often enough. In college there were a few freak deaths.

But it always sort of takes your breath away when it happens. I’m not so jaded as to not feel anything just yet. It’s interesting how unnatural death seems. It’s like we’re not ever ready for it. It just comes and we’re left to adjust. It’s inevitable, as the current march of mortality goes; but as God never meant for man to die, the cold chill of it is striking.

###

We arrived at a small town, which sat on some higher ground in the valley we’d traverse later that day.

I don’t remember the town’s name—and probably never will, since I nearly got lost on the return leg and actually could have used that bit of information. And now, just like when you learn someone’s name incorrectly and forever have doubts whether it is actually “Mike” or “Matt,” despite seeing the poor nameless bastard seven or 20 times, now the small town’s moniker will be forever lost on me, recalled easily enough by my friends, but refusing to stick to my own gray matter.

Anyway, I’m ahead of myself. We pulled in to the town. Quiet. Not another gringo in sight. We were in a genuine Peruvian town. Larger than a village, there was a town center, complete with a church and huge tree that draped the center grass squares and benches in shade.

Several paved roads stretched in a small grid system. On several of the town’s central buildings, a relatively fresh coat of paint shone through the day-to-day accumulated grime. The buildings looked in pretty good shape. It was a town on the cusp of becoming a tourist spot.

We talked with Felix. “How long until XXXXXXX becomes large and built up.”

“Eeeeh,” Felix said, thinking and scratching his head. “Probably a couple years. Then it will be big.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“Mmmmm. Both, maybe.”

He went on to talk about the jobs that would come, the money that would come, and left it at that. We could fill in the blanks on the rest: the trash, the peddlers, the cameras, the gawking white people, the removal of the genuine soul of the place.

But that was years away. For the moment, the four of us hung out in the bare-bones home and adjoining office/room/storage area/dining room of the indigenous workers of the trekking company we’d hired for our trip.

We walked around the town for a bit, taking some pictures. No one was on the streets, save for an occasional person with an animal. A few dogs slept along the streets. A kid sat in a nearby doorway, watching. There were a couple chickens too.

I prepared my pack. Got my bag ready for donkey travel. We’d really be pampered this trip. Our cook with his assistant would lead three donkeys with the supplies to the night’s camp site. We’d just have to carry our cameras, water and rain gear—a pretty light load, considering. We kept all of our clothes and extra stuff in the donkey bags. I had a small school book bag for my rain gear, my camelback water backpack, which rode on top piggyback style, and my camera bag at my side.

I also sported a wide-brimmed hat. As a veteran of a few harsh sun burns in my life, I was well averse to that damned fusion explosion in the sky, pouring all manner of life-ending radiation and hurt on the surface of the world.

After a light lunch, we piled our donkey bags onto a tarp and got ready to leave.

I was a strong supporter of walking sticks and Felix had brought two from his personal stash. They were nice—that kind that compressed a bit when you leaned on them. No one else wanted one, initially. Fine by me. I’d keep mine. Eventually, as we started off, Felix handed the remaining one to Adrian, who agreed to take it along. It would be an extra $2 a day to rent it—not a huge amount. Adrian, Sarah and Sean all agreed to shoulder the debt.

The trek started simply enough. We just started walking down the street. I guess I was expecting some sort of starting gun or banner. It seemed sort of anti-climactic to just start walking. But I suppose that’s how all journeys of a 1,000 steps start, blah blah blah. I looked back after a minute, then another, and watched my first reference point—our starting room, blend into the town, then the town itself to begin to shrink.

The paved road stopped, and we were among corn fields, which washed through the valley like a green, leafy river, following the contours of the surrounding mountains and lapping onto the stepper parts.

These Peruvians farmed seemingly impossible slopes, as I’d see much more dramatic examples of later. This stems from the relatively minute percentage of Peruvian land that’s “suitable” for farming, if you can call a 30 percent grade at 4,000 feet still “suitable.” Still, these crazy guys farm and farm.

Passing a gang of tillers, Felix stopped and said hello. There was a car parked on the dirt road with water, it’s hatch back was open and several gas cans sat around the back. Some men hung around the car, but most had their backs to us and they bent to their work, hand tilling the soil, working their way from the road across the large corn field to the mountain a few hundred yards away.

The work slowed as Felix chatted up the…well, I guess foreman, from the looks of things. We were a bit of an oddity—four gringos, especially Sarah, the blond, which even Fodor’s travel guide said was a rare attractive treat for Peru.

One of the men picked up one of the gas cans and poured a yellow thick liquid into a cup for Felix, then beamed as he offered another cupful for the rest of us to try.

“Mmmm,” Felix said, drinking. “It is okay to have only a little. It makes your stomach go…” and he gestured a swirling motion around his abdomen. Felix spoke English well, but he missed out on a larger vocabulary. The swirling gesture was enough to get the point across. “…makes you go to the bathroom,” he eventually completed.

We each took a turn trying it out. Again, I’ve misplaced the name. It wasn’t bad—sort of a corn chowder with vinegar. It was a fermented corn alcohol drink. The bitter metal taste of the cup added a bit of character. Definitely not palpable from a plastic bottle or in large quantities. It’s the sort of drink you need with 20 coworkers in the sweat of the day.

After a few more minutes of talking, we kept on and left the farmers to their chores.

###

The trek to Choquequirao was the highlight of the trip–the reason for going. Getting to Cuzco was so that we could get to the starting point for the four-day hike in the Andes.

Choquequirao itself was an Incan city built after Manchu Picchu. Whereas Manchu Picchu served as a city for the royal class and a religious center, Choquequirao was an army center in addition to having a royal estate and religious significance. It was built in the final days of the Incan empire, as the Spanish and their allies finished off the Incans.

We would set off from Cuzco on Sunday. Two days there; two days back. It was to be difficult. I’d brought my broken-in combat boots from Iraq–the most comfortable footwear I owned. The idea was that, since I could ruck miles and miles in the things, they’d serve me well on a more vertical hike. Eh. Not so much. More on that later.

A Sunday exit of Cuzco for the trek meant that Saturday night would precede–normally not a huge obstacle. We’d planned on facing it like every other night: by going to bed.

Little did we know the Loki hostel tradition of “80s night” on Saturdays, complete with costumes and good times (i.e. yelling, music and dancing).

It started out innocuous enough at 9 when we tried to go to bed. I dozed for a few minutes. By the time 1:30 a.m. rolled around, however, we had experienced every stomp, song and shout, courtesy of the bar directly above our room.

Four and a half hours of aggravated bed sitting was enough to frustrate me to the point of further insomnia even after the music died down. The eventual snores of my roommates let me know I was missing out on what little sleep I had left. Four forty five would come way too soon, but not so quickly as to curb the exasperated five minute spans between me checking my watch. I think I finally settled down enough to sleep around three or four. I awoke some 20 minutes before the alarm time. I was tired.

We each got up, bitching about the clog dancing they seemed to incorporate into the evening. We brushed by each other, packing the last few things, making sure all of the things we weren’t taking were stowed in our leave-behind bags.

The Loki people opened up the storage room for us and we stowed our bags. We’d be back to the hostel after the trek, made our reservations already. They were nice enough to let us keep our things there.

It was a little chilly. Although summer, the two-mile elevation pushed us up above the outright warmth, leaving residual hints at the season. It was perfect hiking weather–70s-ish through the day, some drizzles and 60s at night, enough for a light jacket. Morning still brought along some of the evening chill, and I was eager to get this thing started.

Eager and nervous. I’m a redhead, computer geek and theater guy, the complete antithesis of outdoors-man. I sunburn, am accident prone, attract mosquitoes like a Red Cross truck, and generally don’t like the prospect of encountering all manner of painful ailments. I also wasn’t a huge hiker. I could run, but I wasn’t conditioned for long-distance trekking. This would be a first for me.

The van that would take us to our starting point eventually appeared at the top of the hostel’s hill.

We hiked up with our packs to a small Hyundai van. The driver was a man by the name of Mario, who spoke a tiny bit of English. Adrian was able to chit-chat a bit in Spanish. Felix, our guide, whom we had met two nights before when he came to the hostel to brief us, was also there; as was Herbert, our smiling cook.

Herbert never spoke any English on our trek, but that man smiled every second of the day. Takes a man touched by God to smile that much, I’d imagine. It was more than just politeness, he hurt my face with his smile so wide. Crazy.

Our trip down the mountains of Cuzco into the mountains near Choquequirao was interesting. The pavement itself was in good shape for the most part. Mountains are temperamental hosts of roads, however. There were some washed-out parts and eroded holes that I said a prayer or two as we slowly plodded through in the laden van.

Three hours…and a half maybe, to the town where we’d meet up with the donkeys and such. Adrian, Sarah, Sean and I all caught naps on the way, taking in the winding hairpin turns up and down the mountains.

Beautiful. Words can’t say. Tuffs of clouds held back the orange wash of sun. Without it, gray light cast a pallid hue on the slopes of dirt and brush. Cacti sprouted up in the upper slopes. The valleys opened up below us in winding channels that wrapped around the mountain like a huge skirt. Rivers ran along the bases–unassuming powerhouses that sculpt the massive mountains. When the sun did burn through, it breathed life into the Andes. The dirt burned brighter and the emerald greens of the bushes, trees and fields also bloomed.

Farmers began to work the slopes. We sped through little villages and towns perched on the slopes along the road. Animals made their way to and fro at their master’s prodding. Life glided on.

###

(editor’s note: this entry is one of several composed during a recent trip to Peru.)

Jan. 11, 2008

After spending the first four hours of our Peru trek snoozing on the Lima airport floor, we flew to a high-perched clutch of South American culture.

Cuzco, a town in the southeast of Peru. Elevation: 11,000 feet. Very high. Makes Denver seem like the lowlands.

Nestled in the Andes, Cuzco is a city hewn from the hills. There are abundant spans of green—fed by the ample mists and light rains. That said, a lot of the city reminded me of Iraqi towns. The roads were a mixture of old and new, in various stages of disrepair. Dirt, broken curbs and stones collected in sports along the roads like twigs and leaves along a stream. Surprisingly, the roads themselves were pretty smooth and free of trash.

The buildings were a hodge podge of styles and quality—again like Iraq. Some had crappy walls, good windows, maybe a driveway. The mud and grime went up to every door frame.

Our taxi dropped us at the bottom of an impossibly steep cobblestone street. The hostel was up that way, the driver said. Understandably, the taxi would not be attempting the ascent. Common enough, though, a car would barrel down the slope to the intersection at the hill’s base—faith in brakes, I imagine.

The hostel was great. Stepping through the the small, in-cut wooden door of a much larger gate, we entered a lush, green courtyard that was framed by a two-story array of rooms. The far side of the courtyard led to a mirrored copy of this first half.

The whole complex was like a block-letter figure eight, with the center span’s second floor holding two common-area rooms—one bar and one dining room/lounge, the lounge windows providing quite a view of the entire city, as the hostel was so far high on a hill.

The staff was a mixture of locals, some permanent administrative types and several long-term guests, who worked a number of shifts in exchange for free lodging and a meal a day.

Our room was on the first floor of the center span. The bar was directly overhead—a fact that we didn’t mind at first, as things weren’t generally too loud. However, we’d regret out closeness to the party action in nights to come.

###

I’m in South America for a few days, starting tomorrow. You all be good and I’ll see you soon.

###

Reheated. One week old. From a well-to-do, posh-ish steakhouse. Sonny ordered the rotisserie chicken—the “specialty.” It came with green beans and mashed potatoes.

He didn’t finish it, and put it in the fridge. There it sat, with leftover paella and two blocks of cheese.

Fast forward to an hour ago. I’m talking with Uber peep Seth, mapping out the meaning of life and sh*t, stuff most people can’t begin to wrap their minds around, and I’m munching on the now warm leftover Sonny meal consisting of said chicken, beans and potates.

Frikkin’ outstanding. The consistency is firm, like a pudding, with flakes of red skin laid in, flecks of pepper that pop like sultry, snide remarks in the creamy potato conversation. There’s garlic there, in the back, dressed well, not making a scene, but noticed. I nodded my head toward him, paying homage.

I cried when I finished them. Frickin’ chicken, leave me! And find me more potatoes!

###

Good news, people!

A few days ago I testified before a committee. The subject of what to call the new year was discussed.

I proposed adding a one (1) to the current tally. I felt that this was the best and easiest way to transition from one period of time to the next. It just made sense to me.

Well, there were several old curmudgeons on the panel, each with his or her own spin on things. My words were largely ignored, at least I thought so.

You can imagine my surprise when I awoke this morning to find those sneaky bastards not only accepted my proposal, but forwarded the new number on to New York and cities worldwide in anticipation of the turning of the date!

Pretty awesome, eh? 2008! Woohoo! I hope they’ll invite me back next year. I think I might be able to push for a recurring numbering system for this year situation. If I can push it through, that’d be one less thing to fret over at the close of each December.

On a more serious note, I received my January/February issue of the Army Logistician today—a formal trade publication that serves the Army officer corps involved with supplies and—well, logistics.

It’s quite a thing to have one’s work published in the publication, at least in the small circles of officers who read it. To supply and logistical unit commanders, it’s pretty much The New Yorker.

As I worked for such a logistical unit while assigned to Fort Hood, Texas, it was my duty to strive and strive to author works of sufficient weight and poignancy to earn the right to be published in this coveted magazine. My pedestrian weekly stories chronicling individual soldiers or specific unit missions could hardly elbow room in the hearts of my commanders as would a byline in the Logistician.

At the direction of my colonel roughly a year ago, I began work on three mammoth articles that spanned our entire deployment to Iraq and efforts upon our return. After dozens upon dozens of interviews, hours of interviews transcribed, weekly meetings with the colonel, rewrite after rewrite, I finally finished all three in the closing weeks of my incarceration at Fort Hood.

The November/December issue of the Logistician carried the first of my articles and the latest issue carried the final two.

There, published three times in a magazine read by colonels, generals and adoring majors. Two of the articles even have my name on them, in a magnanimous gesture by my old commander. Usually senior officers use these bylines to grease the wheels for future promotions. The appearance of “staff sergeant” among colonels and warrant officers is pretty funny, I think.

Still, although it’s about as exciting as giving a tour of a bedroom, the damn things represent months of my life and the final, now closed, chapter that was Fort Hood. I shudder at the mention of the possibility of ever having to be assigned there again.

May God have mercy on those still stop-lossed there.

###

A few days ago, it hit me–Christmas was almost here!

I remember waking up on the 20th or 21st, looking over at the pile of gifts for the family I’d picked up weeks before, and realized I had nearly missed the holiday.

Luckily, companies like UPS exist because of people like me.

Roommate Adrian and I went through our days in December with little holiday fuss. Work was work, the number attached to the days or the greenery around the lampposts and signs didn’t play much into our routine.

He did break down and drape a string of white lights around the bookshelf. It sat next to the windowed wall, thus showing a twinkle of spirit to the outside. It would suffice.

The remainder of the lights wrapped around an adjoining chair and, with the addition of one of Sarah’s bowed teddy bears and a smattering of presents, I arranged a very sharp-looking Christmas chair. Festive. Subtle. Perfect.

Uber peep Santino flew in on Christmas Eve to spend the holiday with me. Always good times with that guy. He had to bring some work with him, busy as he is, filming and editing a thousand projects; and fate saw fit to crash his computer’s hard drive upon arrival, which grounded any work efforts for the time being.

So came Christmas day, with Adrian up north at his brother’s and Sonny and I rousing in the morning-ish. I thought I’d make some paella–a Spanish dish I’d come to adore from a few holiday’s spent with Sonny’s family. It was a tradition with his crew and, I thought, would compliment our oddity of holiday.

The day after, we began our quest to repair his computer–finding a service center, tucked away in an office park, willing to rush and fix things within a day, as a late Christmas present to Sonny (as under warranty, mind you, so a generous spirit was encouraged).

In the evening, Sonny and I decided to head out to see the latest sure-fire classic “Alien verses Predator 2.” I’d looked up initial reviews of the thing–including a whopping 13% score at RottenTomatoes.com. We both knew it would be pretty bad, but, as avid fans of the original movies (not necessarily the scores of sequels, since), we had an innate sense of duty to see it.

Well…yeah, pretty bad.

It reminded me of a 10-year old boy trying to tell a scary campfire story. All the subtlety of a rock concert and the flair of a club-footed moose. Whereas the old-school originals were terrorizing and creepy enough to be ensconced as pillars of the genre, the franchises both have been reduced to campy side-shows, with all the allure of C-list celebrity has-beens.

However, to ensure the movie lives on in water-cooler conversations and commentaries, the director saw fit to throw outright offensive scenes at the audience, including killing the token black guy (again?!), having a horrified young boy watch his father die before being dispatched himself, and the new habit of said Aliens to feed on the unborn babies of the mothers in a hospital maternity ward.

Wow. If you can’t be enthralling, just up the shock value, I suppose.

Regardless, I can see why some countries would prefer if American forms of entertainment stayed within our borders.

So, with that, Merry Christmas?

###

Monday morning:

Student has some sort of eye infection. I notice it while “coaching” my students through an assignment.

In our current potion of the course, the day’s lesson is given in the morning and the students have the remainder of the day to complete the assigned task. We’re on design and layout, so they hear a little bit about what they’re doing and have at it. They come to me in the back, one by one. This guy came back and sat down.

“Wow, are you crying?” I asked. He had moisture around his eyes and some weird caked crap lining his eyelashes like clear brownish clumped mascara.

“No, I have an eye thing,” he said, obviously having endured about a thousand questions about his eyes thus far in the day.

“Ah, you get medicine?” I put forward.

“Yeah I have some, but I’m not going to medical. I can’t miss out on class.”

We put the students in a bit of a bind. We tell them they should go to the doctors if they’re ever sick, then we put so much material into the curriculum (as dictated by the actual services), that, if a student misses a day or two, it is terribly difficult to get them caught up before the next round of assignments. This particular student had already been “recycled”, that is, sent to the beginning of the course to start over. Now that he was just two weeks away from completing our three-month course, I didn’t blame him.

“Ah, well, take care of that stuff. Don’t want it to spread.”

Tuesday morning:

My eye itches.

More than the normal itch. It was the sickness.

“Crap,” I thought to myself and said out loud a few times. I didn’t dare rub it and send the oozing fluid to my hands. My eye was watering more than usual. Yeah, looks like I had the pink eye.

“I better get this checked out,” I said to one of my fellow instructors.

“Check what ou–Wow! Why’s your eye all red?” he said, having noticed.

“Uh, I think one of my students gave me pink eye.”

“Which one was it,” he asked, looking around the room. All of our students were in the same room that morning for a large lecture.

“That one,” and I pointed out the culprit.

“Got it. I’ll watch him,” my fellow instructor said. Good on him. Don’t let the carrier out of your sights.

Later that morning (as in five or ten minutes–the time it took me to get to my desk and look up the clinic’s appointment-making phone number), I called the local clinic to see if I could be seen.

Ring one, two, five, click click, ring one, click, ring one, ring three, pickup.

“Hello this is *Smermishmanmandsam* how may I help you?” the lady managed to sigh out with the enthusiasm of an invalid’s wave.

“Yes, I’m an instructor here at the Defense Information School and I think one of my students gave me pick eye. I need to be checked out,” I said. Rookie mistake when calling for military care: the person at the other end cares little for the circumstance. State your reason for calling and end the sentence. Revised statement: I need an appointment.

“Are you active duty?” she asked.

“Yes,” I replied, realizing all of those clicks during the ringing process probably had me talking with someone in Jersey.

“What is your social?”

I gave it.

“What is your address?”

That too.

“What is your date of birth?”

Yup, offered.

“Where are you stationed?”

“Fort Meade.”

“Fort Meade shows no appointments available. Would you like to schedule something at Walter Reed.”

Good God, no! Walter Reed was 20 miles and about seven hours away in the D.C. traffic.

“I’d rather not go to Walter Reed. You said there’s nothing at Kimborough?” I asked for verification, though I needed none. Kimborough, our local clinic, was famous for never having any available appointments. Either our fort had an inordinate amount of malingerers, or the clinic was understaffed. It was a source of constant ire, at least for those who occasionally needed medical care, which was looked down on by big Army (everybody at sick call was just trying to get out of work, after all), thus the low priority to get more staff, I suppose.

“The computer says there’s nothing at Kimborough. Would you like the phone number to call them yourself?” she asked, even more flatly than before.

“Yes, that would be great.”

She gave it to me and hung up. I called the number.

Ring one, ring five, ring seven.

“Hello this is *Smermishmanmandsam* how may I help you?” the lady asked. I sensed a pattern.

“Yes, I’d like to get an appointment,” there, lesson learned.

“Are you active duty,” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“What’s your social.”

Gave it.

“What’s your address?”

Done.

“What’s your date of birth?”

There you go.

“Where are you stationed?”

“Here on Fort Meade.”

“What’s the problem?”

“I think I have pink eye. I’d like to get some medicine so I don’t spread it,” I said. Zing! Punchline.

“Pink eye?” the lady said, well, exclaimed, actually, with a vigor I had not heard in some moments. The phone almost distorted the audio, I think.

“Yes ma’am, can I come down to get checked out.”

“Yes sir, please come down right away.”

So I did. I washed my hands a few times, hopped in my car, and drove the mile or two to the clinic. Parking, I strolled into my portion of the facility.

“Hello, welcome to *Smermishmanmandsam* how may I help you?” a lady called to me as I waited behind the “Please wait until called” sign. This wasn’t the person I talked to, but the other lady at the desk, the only other person in the room, was speaking to someone on the phone and did sound like my contact in the organization.

“Yes, I called about an appointment.”

“You called here?” she asked, looking over at her office companion, who was now watching a video on her screen, vacant stare, not paying attention to either me or her coworker.

“You called here?” she asked, again, in a slightly unbelieving tone.

“Um, yes, I called here,” I said again.

“Are you active duty?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“What’s your social?”

Gave it.

“What’s your address?”

There we go.

“What’s your date of birth?”

Done.

“Are you stationed at Fort Meade?”

“Yes.”

“What is the problem.”

“Pink eye. I think I have it.”

She eyed me for a moment, perhaps trying to discern which eye was infected–my clear one or my pink, irritated one.

“The nurse will be right with you, please take a seat.”

I did and, sure enough, about 15 minutes later, the nurse was right with me.

“What seems to be the problem?” she asked.

“I think I have pink eye,” I said.

“You’re active duty?”

“Yes.”

“What’s your social.”

Given.

“What’s your date of birth?”

Done.

“You stationed at Fort Meade.”

“Yes.”

She took my vitals and told me that I’d have to wait for a no-show on the appointment gig–that all available ones were filled. I asked if it was one of those “wait all day” deals or “wait for a couple of hours” situations. She said it wouldn’t take too, too long.

A few minutes later, a male nurse called my name.

“Here,” I said, and followed the direction where his voice came from. He was leading me to another section of the clinic.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asked.

“I think I might have Pink eye,” I said.

“Oooh, don’t touch anything, I don’t want that,” he said, laughi