Growing Up Southern: September 12, 2018

I’ve never been in a hurricane. Can’t imagine the horror. I experienced what they termed a “tropical storm” once. Close enough for me. I have no stomach for the real thing.

For someone from the rural hinterlands, the terrifying thing about winds connected with the sea is that they just don’t stop. On and on and on they go. We are used to a few minutes of violence, and then, like in a Beethoven symphony, the sun breaks through. None of this blowing for three days crap.

The storm I experienced originated in the South China Sea and poured over the little compound where I was stationed about three-quarters the way up Monkey Mountain outside Da Nang. We had two towers and an entry shack to guard. We were doing a fair job of it until the storm hit.

One tower stood across the road from us and some 50 feet above our compound. It provided a good view of the compound and the lands beyond the mountain. It was isolated and a bit scary around midnight, but provided a magnificent view during the day.

When the storm hit its peak, a man from Oklahoma we called “Preacher” Hargraves was on duty in the tower. Of course we couldn’t see it for the driving, sometimes horizontal, rain. The wind had blown some of the roof away on our barracks so we were huddled up anywhere we could find a dry spot. Someone said, “Look yonder.”

Oh, by the way, we called him “Preacher” because he spent every spare moment reading his Bible or delivering his testimony while he cut our hair or expounded upon our wicked ways. He tended to get on people’s nerves.

Anyway, we looked and saw Preacher Hargraves running full-tilt down the hill, his M-16 slung over his back and his Bible flapping in one hand, all getting soaked. We fully expected to see a full company of NVA regulars descend the hill behind him.

When he reached where we were, he stopped to catch his breath. Our leader, a First-Class Machinist Mate named Webb asked him why he left his post. “You’re supposed to be in Tower One.”

“The storm blew the damned roof off,” Preacher explained in a manner totally inconsistent with his normal comportment.

Tower One got off easy. Tower Two was up the road a piece. We manned it with an M-60 machinegun, but only at night, and not anymore. When we went up after the storm subsided, there was no more Tower Two. It was gone completely and we never found a scrap of it.

We lived on snacks and hoarded gifts from home for three days when downed trees prevented supply trucks from reaching us. I don’t remember how long we wore rain-soaked clothes and boots. Later, we found that the storm had moved the base supports of our rather large elevated water tank a couple of inches. I suppose they rebuilt the towers, but I don’t know. I left the country soon after that.

Since then, as I say, I never wanted any part of a real hurricane and my heart goes out to those who have seen the worst of them.

Here’s an uplifting bit from Ludwig Van. Starting a 22:40, it is a masterful bit of work where, in a few seconds, he takes us from dark and brooding to a magnificent outburst of hope. It’s for our friends in Texas and Florida.

Modern view from near where our compound stood

Sailing to Oblivium: September 11, 2017

Sad, but it takes a disaster, maybe even two or three, to make people proud of the people I’ve worked with for over 45 years. I’m talking about the people who work for the local, state, and federal governments. I don’t know if you have noticed, but they’ve been in the news lately. Oh, and they were in the news 16 years ago today when our most memorable national tragedy occurred. You may not have recognized them then, behind the dust and soot, but they were there.

These are the people who brave, daily, the antipathy of many Americans and talk-show hosts. They withstand the jokes, jibes, and slander hurled at them like bitter breaths of wind. These are the people about whom Ronald Reagan was talking when he said, “The nine most terrifying words in the English language are: I'm from the government and I'm here to help.”

Oh yes, these are the folks who stormed into the burning Twin Towers to rescue people. They were there to help, and it was terrifying.

They are the ones who, along with brave civilians, rescued victims of Hurricane Harvey from swirling floodwaters. They were there to help, and it was terrifying.

They are the ones who, albeit with more time to prepare, performed a marvelous job of forecasting, planning, and oversight in dealing with Hurricane Irma. They were there to help, and it was terrifying.

And on any given day, they perform less publicized heroics, from teaching our children, to making our neighborhoods and country safe. They don't live in gold-plated penthouses. They just keep those places safe before going home to mortgaged homes in modest neighborhoods.

It saddens me when I must endure the denigration of public servants by folks who scarcely go an hour without benefiting from their service. It’s terrible to say, but the only respite from the insults comes during, and for a short time after, a disaster. The so-called libertarians grow silent, conservatives admit how lucky we were that the forecasters and rescuers were there, and even Hate Radio takes a break … sometimes. Then they’re all at it again.

Rudyard Kipling noticed it in 1890 in the attitude the British had toward their soldiers, when he wrote, in his immortal poem Tommy: “For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Chuck him out, the brute! But it's "Saviour of 'is country" when the guns begin to shoot;”

Since I work, and have worked, with these folks, I appreciate them every day and feel proud when I call them friends and colleagues. I don’t wait until the buildings are on fire, the waters are rising, or the winds are toppling buildings, to appreciate them.

The work they do is not the problem. The work they do is the solution. There should be a national day of appreciation for our public servants. Don’t count on it, though. The winds are already subsiding. Calm will come, and once again we’ll hear, “Chuck them out, the brutes.”

Lest we forget