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« Must Reads | Main | DOG DAY »

November 9, 2003

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Days of Faded Hardwood Glory

By Greyhawk

The cool edge to the air is expected, and its absence today is noted. The morning sunshine through the big front glass warmed the house to the point the Mrs. thought the heat was on. We'd attended a big hail and farewell party the night before, featuring a cloudless sky and spectacular view of the red moon and goodbyes to folks moving on; such things are no less difficult for being routine after so many years. We'd slept in this morning after last night's big to-do (the eclipse began at 2am our time), and once we were up and about the dogs demanded walking before the coffee had a chance to boil.

Off we went, the Mrs. and I and the big dumb puppy and the crazy little dingo, the four of us through the woods where the multitude of colors on the hardwoods, peaked about one week ago, now approach the unity of pale golden brown. Inevitable. The top branches of some trees are bare, as are all of others. The path under foot is plush-carpeted in leaves; the rich smell of autumn seems fine to me today, as fine as the coffee I'll have back at the house.

No rush, the day is warm with a fine breeze, unbelievably warm for 50 north. But such days are altogether too short this time of year. We get back and drink coffee and read news and the daughter calls. She'd spent the night at a girlfriend’s, with four other girls too. Now it's time to get her, so we hop in the car and cruise the Autobahn, taking the dogs along. They love car rides, of course, and their enthusiasm is strangely contagious. Through forest all the way, with a few spots still at that peak color, those bright yellows, the mellow deep reds, the burnt orange, and the contrast of the evergreens...

Her friend lives alone now with just mom. Five more girls in the house for the night was probably a welcome diversion. Dad's an Army Surgeon deployed to Iraq since May. Daughter's making her way through sophomore year in High School in Germany without him. On the way home my daughter mentions her friend's excitement over her dad's stories. "He got to ride in a Blackhawk!" We say nothing much in reply.

Home again. As previously planned it's bike time. I bought the Mrs. a bike for our anniversary last month. Though she may claim the present is mine, and having her along on rides through the countryside is indeed my pleasure. A hard ride up hill to the ridgeline that runs behind our house brings the reward of the view. And what a view today! Under almost-summer-like warmth of cloudless blue skies (what do the Europeans call Indian Summer?) everyone is out. A large group of older folks volksmarches along; we ring bells and pedal slowly through. Riders on horses, people with dogs, the usually empty road is a bustling thoroughfare on this rare November day.

As we pass a group of parents and young children going the other way I hear a father say something about "balloons". I coast a bit further away then stop and turn. The horizon is dotted with hot air balloons, grey and small in the hazy distance. I've seen them before; they will put down in fields not far from here. But that is still some time away, judging by the distance, and we are moving on, riding along on the top of the world.

The view from those gently floating platforms must be indescribable. The view from the ground is nearly that. A rare day in autumn is a treasure; to have nothing making immediate demands of my time is sweet beyond compare.

I've many things to tell you, but they will wait for tomorrow. Tomorrow when I leave before dawn and return after sunset and consider myself fortunate to be here at all.

Thanks for stopping by.


Posted by Greyhawk / November 9, 2003 3:00 PM | Permalink
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November 26, 2010


America@war
[Greyhawk]
I think anyone who's ever pondered the "comment" option - once only available on blogs and bulletin boards, now ubiquitous on almost any web site - will appreciate this:
The so-called faculty of writing is not so much a faculty of writing as it is a faculty of thinking. When a man says, "I have an idea but I can't express it"; that man hasn't an idea but merely a vague feeling. If a man has a feeling of that kind, and will sit down for a half an hour and persistently try to put into writing what he feels, the probabilities are at least 90 percent that he will either be able to record it, or else realize that he has no idea at all. In either case, he will do himself a benefit.

That's wisdom from the past, captured for posterity at the US Naval Institute, shared via the web on the institute's 137th anniversary.

From their about page:

The Naval Institute shall remain

INDEPENDENT - A non-profit member association, with no government support, that does not lobby for special interests;

NON-PARTISAN - An independent, professional military association with a mission, goals and objectives that transcend political affiliations; and shall encourage

IDEAS - Through its respected journals Proceedings and Naval History, its conferences, its books and its online content, in support of those who serve.

"The Naval Institute has three core activities," among them, History and Preservation:

The Naval Institute also has recently introduced Americans at War, a living history of Americans at war in their own words and from their own experiences. These 90-second vignettes convey powerful stories of inspiration, pride, and patriotism.

Take a look at the collection, and you'll see it's not limited to accounts from those who served on ships at sea, members of the other branches are well-represented.

I'm fortunate to have met USNI's Mary Ripley, she's responsible for the institute's oral history program (and she's the daughter of the late John Ripley, whose story is told here). She also deserves much credit for their blog. ("We're not the Navy nor any government agency. Blog and comment freely.") We met at a milblog conference - Mary knew (and I would come to realize) that milbloggers are the 21st-century version of exactly what the US Naval Institute is all about. Once that light bulb came on in my head, I mentioned a vague idea for a project to her - milblogs as the 21st century oral history that they are.

"Put that in writing," she said (of course - see first paragraph above!) - and here's part of the result.

Shortly after the first tent was pitched by the American military in Iraq a wire was connected to a computer therein, and the internet was available to a generation of Americans at war - many of whom had grown up online. From that point on, at any given moment, somewhere in Iraq a Soldier, Sailor, Airman or Marine was at a keyboard sharing the events of his or her day with the folks back home. While most would simply fire off an email, others took advantage of the (then) relatively new online blogging platforms to post their thoughts and experiences for the entire world to see. The milblog was born - and from that moment to this stories detailing everything from the most mundane aspects of camp life to intense combat action (often described within hours of the event) have been available on the web...

And et cetera - but since you're reading this on a milblog, you probably knew that. And you know that milblogs aren't just blogs written by troops at war, that many friends, family members, and supporters likewise documented their story of America at war online in near-real time, as those stories developed.

The diversity in membership of that group is broad, the one thing we all have in common is the impulse to make sense of the seemingly senseless, and communicate the tale - for each of us that impulse was strong enough to overcome whatever barriers prevent the vast majority of people from doing the same. Everyone at some point has some vague idea they believe should be shared - we were the people who, from some combination of internal and external urging, found and spent those many half hours persistently trying to write it down.

*****

But where will all that be in another 137 years? Or five or ten, for that matter. That's something I've asked myself since at least 2004 - when I wrote this:

Closing Blogs is nothing new. So many site's owners just give up on their own. They come and go, you know, these MilBloggers do. Like any other sort of blogger. Many post in the lonely down hours far from home, spill their guts for the world, then abandon their spots when the tour of duty is up. They have lives again somewhere in the world, and no need to share the details. So it goes.

Many are truly gone - no site left at all. "The page cannot be found." Other blogs remain, like abandoned defensive positions in shifting desert sands.

Membership in the ghost battalion has grown in the years since, and an ever growing majority of those abandoned-but-still-standing sites are vanishing. Have you checked out Lt Smash's site lately? How about Sgt Hook's? If you're a long-time milblog reader you know the first widely-read milblog from Operation Iraq Freedom and the first widely-read milblog from Afghanistan are both gone from the web. If you're a relative newcomer to this world you may never even have heard of them - or the dozens upon dozens of others who carried forth the standard they set down.

If you have a vague notion that something should be done about that, (a notion I've heard expressed more than once...) then you and I and the good folks at the US Naval Institute are in agreement. Preserving the history documented by the milbloggers is just one of the goals of the milblog project, the once-vague idea that we're now making real.

And it's a big idea, if I say so myself - too big to explain in one simple blog post, so stand by for more. Likewise, it's too big a task to be accomplished by just one person. So if you're a milblogger (and exactly what is a milblogger? is a topic for much further discussion on its own) I'm asking for your help. All I'll really need is just a little bit (maybe just one or two of those half hours...) of your time, and your willingness to tell the tale.

We've already made history, it's time to save it.

(More to follow...)




Posted 4:02 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) |

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The Mudville Gazette is the on-line voice of an American warrior and his wife who stands by him. They prefer to see peaceful change render force of arms unnecessary. Until that day they stand fast with those who struggle for freedom, strike for reason, and pray for a better tomorrow.
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The Mudville Gazette is written and produced by Greyhawk, who recently retired from 24 years of active duty in the US military, but will maintain this disclaimer: Unless otherwise credited, the opinions expressed are those of the author, and nothing here is to be taken as representing the official position of or endorsement by the United States Department of Defense or any of its subordinate components.

Furthermore, I will occasionally use satire or parody herein. The bottom line: it's my house.

I like having visitors to my house. I hope you are entertained. I fight for your right to free speech, and am thrilled when you exercise said rights here. Comments and e-mails are welcome, but all such communication is to be assumed to be 1)the original work of any who initiate said communication and 2)the property of the Mudville Gazette, with free use granted thereto for publication in electronic or written form. If you do NOT wish to have your message posted, write "CONFIDENTIAL" in the subject line of your email.

Original content copyright © 2003 - 2011 by Greyhawk. Fair, not-for-profit use of said material by others is encouraged, as long as acknowledgement and credit is given, to include the url of the original source post. Other arrangements can be made as needed.

Contact: greyhawk at mudvillegazette dot com

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*****

Tending Distant
Fires


Far from hearth and home, watching
Cold alone but not alone
On distant shore and only wanting
Safe return and little more

What tales we'll tell
When that time comes
When tales can be told

When things grim
Seem far away
When other fires go cold

Some distant sunset, vision fading
Memories remain
And tired eyes gaze 'pon folded flags
While distant drums beat their refrain

Saluting fallen friends whose names
And youth will never fade
Here's to those on other shores,
for them live well, the price is paid

- Greyhawk,
Baghdad,
December 2004