“Happy? Purple Heart Day!”


(August 7, 2018)

It’s #PurpleHeartDay!

And I near-missed it. Again!

I’m sealed ‘gainst that day!

 

  • (Except for a post by one Donald John Trump never would I have learned that August Seventh is another in the parade of federal holidays orbiting the military condition of some few Americans.  The best thing about knowing the day this first was writ was that so few of us have those little strips of George Washington first-awarded purple ribbons (for military merit) on the obverse side of mine which still so says, though actually it is for mistaking the yelled warning “Duck” with a less-appropriate but more-welcome word of similar structure.  Wow. Never knew I go a ‘nother spare day.  Oh, what to do? How to sell O brate?  Lessee: Memorial Day, July The Four, Purple Heart Day, Veterans Day…all we need now is a day truly I could celebrate…the day we turn all our weaponry toward the edge of This Here Solar System as if to say “what is out there may or may not be friendly, may or may not cause harm, but we here humans (and earth and maybe Titan-worms) would rather knock out impending doom before it pokes its ugly head out of this Oort Cloud before us, say at Saturn’s short border, than keep pointing our sticky and shooty thingees at each other instead. ‘Til that Day: Happy Purple, pals!)

17 thoughts on ““Happy? Purple Heart Day!”

    • Thanks, dear lady. Read once and believed; been one and believe better – those who’ve been shot at in war – and hit…and lived make the best kinds of pacifists. The explanation for that is a mite militaristic and seemingly oxy-moronic and definitely quixotic. Ain’t humans fun! And frolicsome? And foibledly full of contradictions?

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  1. War, like butter for bread, ain’t going away. The trick is to do both – buttering bread and bettering an enemy – so well no one else would think it mindful to intrude themselves in your fun. If there’s room only for one bad-ass in your neighborhood, be that Bad Ass: kind of like if you’re neighborhood is run by committee, be on that committie – and better, be that committee’s chair and write its bylaws. As to badly breaded butter, why bake your own until you get it right. Like beer, however, butter is better done solitarily: I sometimes get illegal un sterilized and un homogenized raw cow’s milk’s very topmost cream and give it a whirl in one of my food processors until I have both buttermilk and butter. Real buttermilk is not made by factory and sold in cartons: it is the leavings forming lakes around small sharp mountains of yellow-white butter which flings itself at a crust and crumb of flour, salt, water and yeast and thus with butter becomes holy and wholly. Amen. Let’s eat!

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  2. gubbing mountains….now that sounds rather scrum-ish. And must such mountains reside always in Glencoe? We have a Glencoe earby – that is, by Florida standards, some 20 or 30 miles North of the Jacksonville/Duval County and thence Nassau County Line into Georgia…another of The Colonies, this one founded by one George Oglethorpe for unrepentant British Isles scofflaw castoffs of whom it seems did not qualify for The William Wallace Solution.

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  3. Vicious, as one writer of serious short science fiction scribbled once, is a synonym for smart. As to forgiveness…a broken spine above the ridge or the mountain itself is mere metaphor methinks as I go pimply and kneewobbly at the tought of anything higher than the floor upon which I grip to keep the world from spinning away. How ever I managed to complete combat Marine training…and actually enjoyed flying about in big slow-moving – 230mph assault helicopters – in Vietnam is beyond me, but there are pictures so-proving: must have been alcohol or better is all I can giggle-figgure.

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    • Lol… I think our younger selves often did these things without thinking, or if we do we are in a situation where we have no choice. Anyway we changed hill plans after we were nearly killed on the damn road and opted for one near the hotel as opposed to one back down through the glen. Just couldn’t face getting back on that road for any distance at that point. Way too many ‘eedjits’ in cars at this time of the year.

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      • Try Zero-Town, or O-Doh as I call it, Orlando is the mecca for all the world’s worst drivers. Why, we even have to add fencing to surround our pedestrian overpasses along the ever-never-to-be-finished interstate Orlando got the feds to bend to run downtown instead of through orange groves and swamps en route to Tampa. And had righteousness ruled, mayhap Disney World would have be much further past us…naah, we’d still be that pre-apocalypic patch between Tampa Bay and Daytona Beach. Which is why so many of the “heeled” here pitch their weals in mountainous North Carolina for Summer digs – the avoidance of all things Disney is a much-sought-after experience. I went decades declining free passes to The Rat Factory – Mouse House is the officially frowned-upon moniker – and as my father’s second career involved running that good place’s water pumping systems and landscaping equipment when he wasn’t fishing for smallish largemouth bass or skinning and butchering road-kill deer gong bonkers in population since hunting – and fishing – is disallowed in the NeverNever Land Disney enjoys with near extraterritorial rights granted by the state legislature(s) in the late 1960s before a shovel ever was first-turned…ever considered: no one reports a mosquito “bite” whist at Disney World and the site is on one of the more fecund edges of a place called “The Great Green Swamp” which is a vast undeveloped and supposedly undevelopable patch of marsh, swamp and woods stretching from well North of western Orlando to far South of the next county southward of Orlando’s Orange County and running westerly more than halfway to Tampa? Hundreds of thousands of gallons of assuredly non-threatening (to humans or beasts, only mosquits andother bad buggies) ever Summer from October ’til October each annum. Dad also ovesaw the cleaning of the tanker trucks hauling the safe solutions. He talked too much when I lubricated his elbow at times. But I waited until he was safely dead before spreading the treachery.

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  4. It ain’t cheatin’ if you confess early enough: my preverse take on our 5th Amendment right to eschew self-incrimination: if you “confess” prior to your Miranda (mid-20th Century Supreme Court decision regarding right to counsel and self-incrimination) Rights warning what you say can not be used in evidence…and if you confess truly and completely, what has the law got with with to club you? Impeccable reasoning, no? No. But it is fun to contemplate whilst not-doing (at least in catchable circumstances).

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    • Well you know, see after last time we tried that hill, I took us the wrong way up…it’s a sort of thing everyone does on these hills, in fact I see I am not alone on comments on Walkhighlands about how you can always make the instructions fit even when you are on the wrong hill or trek entirely. Anyway, I took us off the forestry path too soon cos I thought this is boring. Anyway, as if that wasn’t bad enough, the Mr was afflicted by that I will get there insanity that comes on you when you are so near the top and he went up on this rock I told him not to go on without a rope and got stuck. Anyway, trying to see a way off that rock,. I stepped into a hidden gully and was left hanging to a tree root, largely thinking that I never left any kind of note in the hotel room as you should do to say what hill we were on…. When we got out of that mess and having wandered way off any kind of path, we eventually came back down that hill by clinging for hundreds of feet to a deer fence and not looking down too often either. Our reward on finally getting off that fence was hundreds of more feet through an ocean of felled trees. I later learned that just the week previously some man had fallen hundreds of feet from that very rock spot and had to be airlifted to hospital. So..this time round sufficient to say, we stuck to the set of instructions n that said, follow the forestry path to the bealach, then cut up from there…. .

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      • Just something about instructions and paths and plans and why root-hanging often is just the cure and if not carving one’s way through an impromptu abattoir might convince all but the terminally conceited that taking the car a viable alternative to risking one’s life in wilderness. Such a state. I hope you some times continue the process of giving the calms to caution’s winds, but do try to let The Mr. hold onto reality’s roots and fencing for deer and the like. After all, you probably were but The Goad, no?

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  5. Oh we both held onto that fencing and there were many moments where we just did not look down cos of the drop where it crossed gullies. It was quite interesting really…. Life’s rich tapestry and all…. Anyway we found the walk to get to the bealach this time was long but it sure was good on getting there to see how high up we already were and how much easier it was to get to the top from that point…..

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    • Successfully risked life sweeter even if sweatier. And shared the feeling multiplies. But in your cases I am sure – and several of mine as well – falls into the Once Is Enough category. My bin grows full but every time I say “Enow!” the bin finds a few more inches in height and leers at me with a knowing wink from it gaping maw! Enjoyed that tale. I do hop it has been – or will be – incorporated in you work(s – in various guises, perhaps?). Sounds North-by-Northwest Alfred Hitchkock(sp?)ina and worthy of a long movie scene.

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