Sunday, January 11, 2009
Umm Qasr 01032009
I was waiting for 14:00 to go out with the Major to check the passenger ferry info and looked at the training stuff I have- good powerpoints on vehicles, baggage, etc. Bored a bit, I looked in my recycle bin to see what I might dump. Somehow there were lots of photos there. I clicked on one and it was a shot of Richie, last summer, playing with his new smoker. His hair is down and he’s smiling into the camera, holding some tongs. I dragged it to the desktop. Not sure why, but I right-clicked and there was an option to put it as my desktop. So I did. And then I had a big photo of a happy, smiling Richie. I surprised myself a bit when my voice said, “Hi, Richie!” I don’t usually talk to computers but this time I couldn’t help myself. One moment I was OK with what I had- a decent hooch with a good job and plenty of money coming in and the next moment, I was missing him and hoping for a warm summer in Hayward. Strange, these metaphysical moments.
15:10
We found Sandbag near the gate and he went out with us. I petted him and he seemed to enjoy the ritual. He parked is butt on the ground and looked at me. He sure could use a bath but it wasn’t about personal hygiene; it was about physical contact. He put his body next to my knee and leaned on me while I rubbed his ribs and head. In my next care package from home, I want some flea pills so I can find a way to get them to him.
Earlier today, on my way to the helipad, a grey cat with a ring tail scurried across my path and stopped under a container. He turned around and looked at me a bit. Not quite afraid, nor hostile, just cautious. That’s fine. I’m not able to make his hellish life heaven. So if any of the cats will let me pet them, that’s fine. If they don’t want that, then it’s OK, too. After all, I’ve got cats at home who know me and like me.
At two PM we went to the port. The purpose was to get information about the passengers. I think we didn’t have a lot of success. But at least the weather wasn’t quite so bitterly cold. Sure, I wore gloves and a thermal vest with my long-sleeved shirt over my long-sleeved US Customs turtleneck. My ears stung a wee bit but not too badly. When I left, my feet were cold. Walking kind of circulated a bit of blood and now my feet feel fine. In a bit, I’ll go check mail at spawar. Maybe I’ll find something from Richie, though maybe not. It’s 04:12 for him (from the readout on my laptop) so he may be asleep.
My iPod is playing Johnny Cash’s “Walk the Line” and I’m amazed at how my life has flowed: In 1969, this song played through large metal speaker at the Hayward Speedway’s track. I hear this song and I smell Castrol R in the air, mingled with hot dogs and onions, while two-strokes buzz and whine. And today, Johnny’s singing through some very nice-sounding speakers that I bought in Camp Bucca, while I sit in my hooch, trying to stay warm.
Val sent me an email saying it seems I’m building a nest here. She may see something I can’t: I took a dirty, dark trailer and changed it to suit myself using what resources I had- the empty trailer next door. I scavenged a heater, dresser, chair and lamp. Once I hung my clothes in the closet, I freed up an entire drawer and now I’m organized. On the floor of the closet is my duffel with the NBC gear that I have to turn back in and on top is my large rucksack, stuffed with my small ruck, canvas bag and laptop bag. My 511 boots are on the floor next to my tennies and krocs. My sleeping bag is on top of the shelf next to the box the speakers came in. My Romanian punga is on top of a cardboard box that held water bottles. One small joy is that my cammo poncho came back from the laundry looking very nice indeed. It’s hanging on a hanger over my too-tight 30-30 511 pants. Those pants fit very well when I got to California but they’re a bit snug now. Right next to that is my red-and-white checkered cowboy shirt. That’ll likely be my “getting on the airplane for California” shirt. Darn, I need one more. Well, it’ll be June, so I may use my Disney T-shirt for the first leg, the Baghdad-to-Amman leg. And I may carry that shirt in the cabin, putting it on in Frankfurt so I’ll look not too disheveled when I arrive at SFO, to see one more time my large, smiling son, the one who’s now on my desktop.
Strange musings, no? I started this piece talking about Richie and ended with him.
15:10
We found Sandbag near the gate and he went out with us. I petted him and he seemed to enjoy the ritual. He parked is butt on the ground and looked at me. He sure could use a bath but it wasn’t about personal hygiene; it was about physical contact. He put his body next to my knee and leaned on me while I rubbed his ribs and head. In my next care package from home, I want some flea pills so I can find a way to get them to him.
Earlier today, on my way to the helipad, a grey cat with a ring tail scurried across my path and stopped under a container. He turned around and looked at me a bit. Not quite afraid, nor hostile, just cautious. That’s fine. I’m not able to make his hellish life heaven. So if any of the cats will let me pet them, that’s fine. If they don’t want that, then it’s OK, too. After all, I’ve got cats at home who know me and like me.
At two PM we went to the port. The purpose was to get information about the passengers. I think we didn’t have a lot of success. But at least the weather wasn’t quite so bitterly cold. Sure, I wore gloves and a thermal vest with my long-sleeved shirt over my long-sleeved US Customs turtleneck. My ears stung a wee bit but not too badly. When I left, my feet were cold. Walking kind of circulated a bit of blood and now my feet feel fine. In a bit, I’ll go check mail at spawar. Maybe I’ll find something from Richie, though maybe not. It’s 04:12 for him (from the readout on my laptop) so he may be asleep.
My iPod is playing Johnny Cash’s “Walk the Line” and I’m amazed at how my life has flowed: In 1969, this song played through large metal speaker at the Hayward Speedway’s track. I hear this song and I smell Castrol R in the air, mingled with hot dogs and onions, while two-strokes buzz and whine. And today, Johnny’s singing through some very nice-sounding speakers that I bought in Camp Bucca, while I sit in my hooch, trying to stay warm.
Val sent me an email saying it seems I’m building a nest here. She may see something I can’t: I took a dirty, dark trailer and changed it to suit myself using what resources I had- the empty trailer next door. I scavenged a heater, dresser, chair and lamp. Once I hung my clothes in the closet, I freed up an entire drawer and now I’m organized. On the floor of the closet is my duffel with the NBC gear that I have to turn back in and on top is my large rucksack, stuffed with my small ruck, canvas bag and laptop bag. My 511 boots are on the floor next to my tennies and krocs. My sleeping bag is on top of the shelf next to the box the speakers came in. My Romanian punga is on top of a cardboard box that held water bottles. One small joy is that my cammo poncho came back from the laundry looking very nice indeed. It’s hanging on a hanger over my too-tight 30-30 511 pants. Those pants fit very well when I got to California but they’re a bit snug now. Right next to that is my red-and-white checkered cowboy shirt. That’ll likely be my “getting on the airplane for California” shirt. Darn, I need one more. Well, it’ll be June, so I may use my Disney T-shirt for the first leg, the Baghdad-to-Amman leg. And I may carry that shirt in the cabin, putting it on in Frankfurt so I’ll look not too disheveled when I arrive at SFO, to see one more time my large, smiling son, the one who’s now on my desktop.
Strange musings, no? I started this piece talking about Richie and ended with him.
# posted by rich @ 12:52 AM 
