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About that present

From the beginning, you must know that all of this would be frowned upon as too much of a fuss. This would be disproved of because this is not the right thing to do. It is vainglorious. It would be dismissed because it didn’t fit the man. All of this is ostentatious. But, sometimes, a man is bigger than he realizes.

These are my great-grandparents: Tonice and Ocie, and their oldest of four children, my grandfather, Clem:

That picture has landed here before, but it is important to introduce them again today to wrap up a story that went untold for 60 years, research that was unfulfilled for a decade and a mystery that was unraveled off-and-on over the last 12 months and is being presented tonight.

My great-grandfather, Tonice, was, to me, the archetype of a Christian man. (He would probably object to that, and really would not like all of the things I’m about to say.) He was a humble fellow. He was a farmer, a pillar of his church and the kind of guy I’d do well to be like. He was a quiet guy. He had a voice that I remember as a loud whisper, the kind you lean in for. He was a kind, giving man. He’d rather you didn’t notice that he did his earthly work without fanfare. That’s probably part of why he came home from the war, like so many others, and didn’t want to talk about it.

The day we buried Tonice, in 2001, the preacher talked about how he’d been visiting people in the hospital even as his own body was being worn away. His preacher told us an anecdote about his wartime service, a topic he was always careful to avoid. His children learned perhaps as much about what he did in Europe in the church’s bulletin that day as they had in a lifetime with the man — and even then it wasn’t much. It just wasn’t important to talk about. Or perhaps it was important to keep to himself.

Before he died he’d asked for a simple funeral. As pallbearers we put his casket in the earth and covered it ourselves. It was one of the saddest and simplest and greatest honors of my life to be a part of that. He was, by rights, entitled to a military funeral, but he demurred. He simply wanted someone from the VFW to come out and present a flag to his wife. They did and it was all done simply and efficiently and he would have liked that.

I stared at that church bulletin for a long time. I’d come back to it every few months and then again around the time of year he died. My appreciation of history was in full bloom by then and I tried to find more about this chapter of his life. The man was a farmer and a family man, but there were other important things, too. I found his draft registration online. About five years ago, with my grandfather’s permission, we sent off to the national archives to see what they had on my great-grandfather. The 1973 fire sadly wiped out a lot of records. The title of that document is A Study in Disaster, and that seemed appropriate.

The government sent back word that they had nothing, and would we kindly fill them in? We had nothing, too.

The trail went cold.

Late last year a friend suggested I seek out his discharge papers. Returning troops, I was told, often filed them with the county back then. So I went to that office in his county at Christmas. They didn’t have anything, but they suggested I try the VA next door. I walked over and met an angel who called everyone under the sun until, after an hour or more, she found someone that actually had a copy of his DD-214. Someone, whose name I never heard, on the other end of that phone call had to go out in rain and maybe sleet to dig through files and boxes in an uninsulated outbuilding, but she dug up the file.

They faxed it over and suddenly, in my hands, were details. When he was wounded. When he was shipped back to the U.S. Where and when he was discharged. Some of his medals. His unit. This was the Christmas present of the year. My new friend at Veterans Affairs and I shared a little cry that embarrassed us both, which seems silly in retrospect. This was an important find. From this paperwork things started to come together.

Knowing his unit was the key. I found, online, a roster of the 137th that included his name. Confirmation. From there I was able to make this interactive map, which I shared here last January:

We decided that my grandfather deserved a big birthday present this year, so we continued the research. I found, and ordered, the medals Tonice never talked about. I had a flag flown over the U.S. Capitol on the anniversary of the end of the war in his honor. I took the history of the 137th Infantry Regiment of the 35th Infantry Division and wrote a narrative of Tonice’s days in France and Germany and Belgium, some of which is included in that map. I pulled in other sources, weather reports, soldier stats, the incredible tale of Mr. Michael Linquata a medic from the 134th, historical photos and more. There are now about a dozen or so sources in all. I added photo maps. It grew to over 30 pages, but I trimmed it to 26 for a high-altitude view of Tonice’s time in the war. It isn’t complete. It isn’t personal, but it is a tangible observation of a period he never talked about.

We ordered a nice display box. We worried for hours, it seems, over the proper layout and the precise measurements of things. We managed to keep it all secret. So my parents, my wife and I were able to present that big historical document, the flag and the accompanying certificate in my great-grandfather’s honor and this display case to my grandfather:

That picture in the middle is the one at the top of the post, circa 1944. My great-grandfather was a combat medic, enduring the coldest winter Europe could remember. A weather report I found, and incorporated into the historic narrative, said the ground was frozen four-feet deep. His preacher said, when we buried him, that Tonice was the man that took his field jacket off and gave it to a soldier in a war zone to help keep him warm.

That didn’t surprise anyone in the church that day. The conditions he was in at the time might have. He’d never talked about it. We knew about the quiet, steady nature and nobility of the man. What it carried him through, until now, even his children couldn’t imagine. I’m pleased to be able to give his son, my grandfather, a bit of insight on that. If I didn’t know what the phrase “labor of love” meant before, I have a slightly better understanding of it now.

I’ve been hinting at this and we’ve been working on this project for a good long while. I’d gone through all of the stages — elation at discovering a new tidbit, the fear of finding too many tidbits, pleasure at laying out a handsome display, the misery of wondering whether I had enough tidbits, the uncertainty of how it would be received, all of that — and now we’re finally to the point of getting the glass cleaned and making sure everything is just so and wrapping the box and putting it in my grandfathers hands …

And I’m going to tell you about that tomorrow.

history / journalism / links / maps / things to read / Tuesday / video — Comments Off
29
Oct 13

The Internet’s weakest syllogism

And now a brief lesson on cultural equation, or, the counter to White’s Law. Leslie White argues that “culture evolves as the amount of energy harnessed per capita per year is increased, or as the efficiency of the instrumental means of putting the energy to work is increased.”

Wikipedia goes on to tell us that White rank-ordered technology thusly:

Technology is an attempt to solve the problems of survival.

This attempt ultimately means capturing enough energy and diverting it for human needs.

Societies that capture more energy and use it more efficiently have an advantage over other societies.

Therefore, these different societies are more advanced in an evolutionary sense.

His point being that our goal and job was to “harness and control energy.” White, who helped found the anthropological studies department at the University of Michigan, wrote this in the 1940s, so we can assume that his understanding of controlling and harnessing is similar to ours. So let us consider, briefly, the Romans. Specifically the Romans in modern England. Provincia Britannia existed from about the years 43 to 409, peaking around 150.

An excerpt from Wikipedia on the Romano-British culture:

Thousands of Roman businessmen and officials and their families settled in Britannia. Roman troops from across the Empire as far as Spain, Syria, and Egypt, but mainly from the Germanic provinces of Batavia and Frisia (modern Netherlands, Belgium, and the Rhineland area of Germany) were garrisoned in Roman towns, and many intermarried with local Britons. This diversified Britannia’s cultures and religions, while the populace remained mainly Celtic with a Roman way of life.

Where’s all this going? The lasting of history, and the harnessing of culture, as an energy:

A superb Roman eagle in near pristine condition, serpent prey wriggling in its beak, has been found by archaeologists in the City of London. A symbol of immortality and power, it was carefully preserved when the aristocratic tomb it decorated was smashed up more than 1,800 years ago – and is regarded as one of the best pieces of Romano-British art ever found.

The preservation is so startling that the archaeologists who found it a few weeks ago at the bottom of a ditch, on the last day of an excavation on a development site at the Minories, were worried in case they had unearthed a Victorian garden ornament.

It will soon be on display at the Museum of London, just 30 days from ditch to gallery. This artifact had to do with the death of someone highly valued in the culture.

And now here are modern artifacts dealing with the life of the middle. A fundraiser and fun event that allows students target their professors:

For as long as YouTube around that’s going to be there. As long as there is electricity to harness and and server to point to, culture is going to have videos like that.

And cool videos like this, worth your while if you’re interested in the genre. The groom here is a graduate from our program. The video was produced by two guys who are also veterans of our department. And they are doing some amazing work.

The One Where Drew Marries Kaitlin from Logan Dillard.

So Drew has great form when tying his shoes. Needs work on the dancing. But he’s a good fella, a good part of the culture, you might say.

Things to read … Another guy riding a bike murdered in Mobile. Bicyclist found dead in Lyons Park, Mobile police investigate. A few days ago this father of three was killed on a bike there. How close were the two murders? Close.

Mobile, according to the people in the comments of both stories, has a problem that they should remedy quickly.

A surgeon at UAB and a surgeon in Atlanta do the same procedure. UAB doctor performs surgery using Google Glass. I remember when, about 10 years ago, I interviewed a doctor who was talking about visiting with patients through a digital interface from some office a town or county or state away. It all seemed only mildly fantastical then. You know, possible, but maybe not for you. You could see how the tech would work, but you want the human doctor. And now, today, this stuff just makes you think, “Of course.” The 21st century is amazing:

It was if the surgeon had another set of hands to help during surgery to replace a shoulder.

Floating ethereally over the surgeon’s own hands, the hands guided and pointed as the surgeon worked the scalpel.

[…]

“It’s not unlike the line marking a first down that a television broadcast adds to the screen while televising a football game,” Ponce said. “You see the line, although it’s not really on the field. Using VIPAAR, a remote surgeon is able to put his or her hands into the surgical field and provide collaboration and assistance.”

UAB doctors say the technology allows a veteran surgeon to oversee and instruct in real time surgeries performed by less experienced physicians.

Some quick journalism links:

What happens when a newspaper plagiarizes itself?

Al Jazeera America Announces Accelerated Growth Plan

Code for journalists, or why journalists should learn code

Also, two things on the multimedia blog. One tortured lead and Two quick social media anecdotes. I changed the template there this evening, too. Now there’s a tea background, which is apropos.

That’ll probably be what they bury me with one day in a hundred years, tea bags. I do love the stuff so. I doubt it will last the millennia and more that the Roman carving did.

cycling / Friday / journalism / links / maps / movies / music / things to read / video — Comments Off
16
Aug 13

The Unofficial Unified Swampers Theory

Greasy, if Aretha Franklin says it, is a good thing.

That’s not far from one of the places where I grew up. Aretha, in the Apple promo says “You just didn’t expect them to be as funky or as greasy as they were. This documentary looks great, if only to answer the question ‘Why Muscle Shoals?’

Which is the same as asking ‘Why not anywhere else?’

I have a theory, he said to the surprise of no one. Look at this map:

Think of all of the music that has come from the rough diamond of Memphis, New Orleans, Atlanta and Nashville. All of these places are where the Mississippi basin, the Delta, the Smoky Mountains, countless churches and a wide rural storytelling tradition meet. Inside the diamond is much of Mississippi, Birmingham and, right there, Muscle Shoals. There’s a lot of lyrical fertility in there.

Music comes from all over, but there’s a timeless quality — as pop culture goes — to a lot of the things produced in and around that little diagram.

Rode a bit this afternoon, just spinning little circles with my feet over to the bike shop. Bought new tubes and some drink supplements.

The nice thing is you can go over there in spandex and they don’t even blink. They get you in and out real quick. Can’t have you scaring everyone off.

I hit the last hill, the one we live on, and topped it in one gear. Usually it takes a third of the cassette. And I did it at a speed I can’t even average and that’s going uphill.

So, naturally, I’m going to choose to believe that means I’m improving. But we all know better.

I visited a physical therapist today. He wanted to test out my shoulder. The first thing he did was jab his massive, muscular finger right down onto the tops of the screws in my shoulder.

I do not like him very much.

But he says there are problems I shouldn’t have a year-plus later, so he’s sending me to a nationally renowned orthopedic guy. If I see that person next week as planned that’ll make my third ortho.

I’m starting to wish I’d noticed that chunk of wood that I hit last summer.

Things to read: Counting the Change:

In 2008 Jeff Zucker, then the president of NBCUniversal, a big entertainment group, lamented the trend of “trading analogue dollars for digital pennies”. But those pennies are starting to add up. And even Mr Zucker, now boss of CNN Worldwide, a TV news channel, has changed his tune. Old media is “well, well beyond digital pennies,” he says.

What has changed his mind? The surge in smartphones, tablet computers and broadband speeds has encouraged more people to pay for content they can carry around with them. According to eMarketer, a research firm, this year Americans will spend more time online or using computerised media than watching television.

And a Samford student wrote this one:

According to McCay, until recently, Alabama was seen as a “pass-through” state. Traffickers from other states take their “workers” and travel through Alabama to get to another state.

“Now that you see a Memphis girl being brought to Huntsville or Madison, you begin to think, ‘Ok, maybe we’re not just a pass-through state anymore,’ and we’re seeing more and more reports over the last several years that trafficking is in Alabama,” McCay said.

“It is happening,” McCay said, “and the thing that our task force is really trying to do is just raise the awareness primarily, just let people know that it is happening, get it on their radar. If you don’t know something is happening, how do you fix it?”

And I have to go to bed early tonight because I have to get up early tomorrow. Naturally I’ll be awake most of the evening. But I must try … Tomorrow, we race.

Hope you have a lovely weekend ahead of you.

adventures / I do not know what is happening. / maps / photo / weekend — Comments Off
20
Jul 13

Chattahoochee Challenge

We woke up before the sun. We were at the race before the sun. We were mostly ready to race before the sun. This is a triathlon.

I do not know what is happening.

There aren’t really any pictures because The Yankee and I were both in the race and all of our friends are too sensible to be here. And it doesn’t seem as if there were any race photographers. Though I did see one guy on the river overlook taking pictures, so I cleaned up my form for him.

I do not recall if that was before or after I hit the bridge.

I hit a bridge.

But we’ll come to that. This was a time trial start. Apparently this means you don’t go off in waves with people of your gender and age group, but just whenever you get in the water.

We were here:

On the far side of the Chattahoochee River is Russell County in the great state of Alabama. We are standing in the great state of Georgia. There is a gate in that railing and through it we walked down some stairs, all in rubber swim caps and various amounts of spandex and lycra, straining to not hear the starting instructions.

We walked off the stairs and onto a floating pier. There a woman took your race number and you crossed the timing pad and leaped into the water.

This was only a 550-meter swim, and the current in the Chattahoochee was up so everyone’s times were quite good. Even mine, and I haven’t been swimming a lot because the repetitive motion of the freestyle stroke aggravates my shoulder. No matter, my poor and modified breaststroke, plus this current set a time I will likely never better.

So that’s the good news: I improved my time from the Ft. Benning reverse sprint tri earlier this year. The bad news is that I swam into a bridge.

See that bridge? Just to the left of the margin there is one more support column in the water. They told us to stay to the left shore so we all aimed at the buoys and raced. I was about 10 yards away from the column and still managed to swim into the support structure, cracking my right thigh on the thing, hard.

The only other bad part about the swim was exiting. You had to make a 180-degree turn to a boat ramp, meaning you are now fighting the previously helpful current. And the person in front of me at the time decided to do that on his back. Only he couldn’t, because this was some stiff water, and he was swimming on his back. Guy cut me off twice.

Anyway, out of the water, up the hill, a slow transition and then onto the bike.

We soft pedaled this course last night, and found it a nice mix of roads and bike trails and almost entirely flat. It looks like this:

The only problem being that between miles six and seven I flatted my front tire. After a slow change I realized my two CO2 cartridges didn’t work and I managed to ruin the valve for them, too. So I resigned myself to pushing my bike the rest of the way in. Everyone had passed me by now, which was a shame because I had been making some decent time.

Two locals, not in the race, came along after I’d already walked my bike about a mile and offered the use of their hand pump. They gave me some air and disappeared into the morning mist. I finished my route passing random casual cyclists and runners, dragging a complete and total angry attitude around the rest of the course.

I finally made it back to the transition area and set out for the run. I was the last person to join the course, a meandering thing that weaves through a streets perpendicular to the Chattahoochee in lovely downtown Columbus.

And I learned an important truth. Everyone in Columbus lies.

“Almost there!” doesn’t mean what you think it means.

I crossed paths with the last three runners on the route as they were in a double-back section of the course and the first guy said “The turnaround is at that fence!”

This was encouraging. Made it to that fence and the route continued. The last lady said “The turnaround is at that cop!”

Well. I can see him, so a little more then. I reached the officer and he says, “Around the corner is where you turn around!”

I round the corner and still have half a block to go. But I made the turn and retraced my steps, meaning I had finished half the run.

Now the helpful police officers, ready to go home after a busy morning of protecting us in intersections, are starting to cheer me on. “Almost there! Almost there!”

No, I’m not. I pointed out to one officer that everyone is saying that, and I’d like a number please. About one more mile, he said. That, I told him over my shoulder, is not almost there.

Then a motorcycle officer decided he’d ride his machine behind me and cheer me on. So I’m now a part of the slowest speed chase in the history of Columbus law enforcement. He’s telling me “Almost there! Almost there!” as I’m actively coming to disdain the concept of motorcycle police, and I grew up on CHiPs.

More officers, more cheering and this really is starting to feel like more than a 5K and my leg is going numb. I’d wondered if running blocks would have a positive or negative psychological effect since we’ve been running on a wooded path. Now I know.

“Home stretch. Almost there!”

I was at least thinking clearly enough — remember, I’ve been thoroughly and disproportionately angry since I had a flat tire, which was after I swam into a stupid bridge — that I chose to not say anything crass to an officer of the law.

The home stretch lasted forever, and I tracked down one of those last three runners. I was poised to close the gap, but they started singing to her at the finish line. It was her birthday, so I pulled up. The emcee announced me as the last runner, and I wanted to take the mic and ask the organizers where this supposed SAG wagon of theirs was. And then question the Army Corps of Engineers or whomever put that bridge up because, really. But I got my happy little finishers medal. I found the oranges and the electrolyte drinks.

So in about an hour I went from “This is the stupidest thing ever” to “Maybe I should make my evaluation about the merit of a healthy exercise on a day when things go as they are supposed to. That’d be fair. And why are you mad about something intended to be fun, anyway?”

I didn’t get to see the posted times at the race because I wisely chose a sports massage on my thigh. Later, as I peeled my tri-suit off, I found a red mark on my upper quad, about six or seven inches long and shaped like a hook. The sports therapist said she could feel precisely where it was. Ice and movement, she said.

Naturally we came home and I took a nap.

Later in the evening the race times were posted to the website. My pre-race goals were to survive and finish, to improve “somewhat” on my swim time and improve “significantly” on my run time, to not be last overall and to not be last in my age group,

I achieved the first goal, obviously. My swim time was impressive, thanks Chattahoochee. My run time from the Ft. Benning race was very slow as we’d “trained” exactly three times before that race. In reality there was no choice but to improve, and happily, I did, dropping 20 percent off that terrible time. As it was a time trial start my being the last person on the course didn’t necessarily mean I was last overall. Indeed, I was fourth from the last among the men. In my age bracket, a five-year span, I was third from last. So I’d like to thank the tube that went flat inside my kevlar tire for putting me in such a mood.

If I took The Yankee’s bike time — she had a fine race, of course, burning everyone up in the swim and all but the most serious cyclists on the road — then I would have moved up about 20 slots. But that means nothing. My “bad luck” was a flat. Big deal.

Now I have to set new goals. I’d like to stay close to this swim pace, purely wishful thinking on my part owing to the rapid current of the river. In my next race I’m also going to cut another four or five minutes off my run.

And not swim into a bridge.

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24
Jun 13

The Ring of Kerry, from Kenmare to Dingle

This was breakfast at Virginia’s Guesthouse this morning. Breakfast is the signature of the place.

Breakfast is what we do best at Virginia’s. Noreen is a dedicated “Foodie” and loves to cook. Therefore our varied breakfast menu is constantly changing from season to season, offering only the very best of produce and featuring lots of creative and personalised dishes, as well as the standard Full Irish Breakfast … Noreen’s signature dish is her award-winning “Blue Cheese, Pears & Bacon”.

Turns out the blue cheese on this plate came from the cows we heard mooing at the Rock of Cashel yesterday. They were just telling us we had something to look forward to.

I’d mentioned the narrow roads. This is common. If you convert this, that’s 50 miles per hour. You’ve no idea …

Today was a big driving day. This is our basic route:

The peninsula has several deep glacial lakes. People tend to bypass these if they aren’t careful, but they are peaceful and can offer some great views:

Here’s a brief video from there:

Ah, the old head-on-a-wall joke …

When was the last time you were at a glacial lake?

Evidence! I have it! She started the making-faces game!

We took several of these photos. My eyes are closed in all of them. Uncanny.

She’s showing off her ring, awww.

And now for some potty humor. We stopped at the Parknasilla Resort. The original place here dates back to the 18th century, and once included the Derryquin Castle, which was burned in 1922 by the IRA. The rest of Parknasilla’s history is … complex … and references Noah.

Anyway, I don’t think I’ve ever said this before, but you have to check out the bathrooms:

What was that logo?

Check out the handle.

Enough of that. Just outside of Parknasilla everything feels magical:

But then everything does here, even an hour in the car. You get great treats along the way:

There are wide spots designed for you to pull over every so often. Take advantage of them. Linger.

Or you could be like the typical tourist and hop out, snap a picture and then immediately pile back into the car. Be sure to take your time.

If you don’t you’ll miss a lot of little delights.

Our next stop on the Ring of Kerry was Staigue Fort. You turn off a country road and drive up what amounts to the loneliest private driveway in the world. There are two houses in this valley, and if not for the occasional tourist it would be the sleepiest place you’ve ever imagined.

Rick Steeves’ guidebook calls this a desolate high valley, but I disagree. This place has a lot going for it. Check out these next several shots before I finally show you the fort.

Staigue Fort is believed to date between 300 and 400 AD. It was a defensive fortification, a cultural center and perhaps had some religious significance. The walls are 18 feet high in places and almost as thick at the bottom. It is about 90 feet in diameter. There is no mortar, just stacks of stones, and is thus considered an impressive historical effort of engineering.

If you were standing where I am when taking this picture, you’d be surrounded by hilly terrain on three sides. Over my left shoulder, and down a long chute of this valley, is the sea. No one snuck up on Staigue.

And now to show you how quickly the light changes here, and to give you a slightly different view of the fort, here’s a 360-degree effort I shot on Photosynth. See how parts of the shot are over or under exposed as you move around in it? Cloud, sun, cloud, darker cloud, sun. The sky is very dramatic here:

Later we discovered, almost by accident and visited purely on impulse, the local Skelligs Chocolate factory. They give you samples, and it is delicious:

The next stop is “the best view in County Kerry” just outside of Portmagee. Check out these views:

Of course there is a video. It is the sort of place you could loiter at for a long time, after all.

A few animals we passed on our walk up to that view. There were horses and sheep, too.

And then we visited Cahergall Stone Fort. Some of this is still original, though the upper parts are a historical reconstruction. The sign says “It is likely that somebody of importance lived here about 1,000 years ago.” All of this must be frustrating for historians and archeologists. Some of these forts go back 2,500 years after all. Here’s The Yankee climbing the steps on the inside wall:

Adam demonstrates the height of this fort:

We arrived at Dingle, checked into our bed and breakfast — Eileen Collins’ Kirrary House and ventured out for dinner at John Benny’s Pub, I had a hearty, delicious beef pie. These guys were playing, and you can hear one of their songs in the slideshow below.

We had ice cream at the famous Murphy’s. I was not previously aware that an ice cream shop could be famous, but USA Today called it one of the best in the world. It was good.

Tomorrow we’re riding bikes.