My Thoughts on Bin Laden

I first heard about Bin Laden this morning on the way to work. Doc got out the driveway before me, then backed up with her window down a said “We killed Osama.” I smiled, gave a little fist pump and said “Awesome.” Then I got in the car and went to work.

I enjoyed catching NPR’s coverage on the way in to Elon, and quickly scanned the blogs and news feeds (Small Wars Journal, Opinio Juris, Abu Muquwama, CFR.org and the regular collection of bureaus) for what details were percolating up about this.. What struck me immediately in the comments to these articles, trending on Facebook and Twitter, and in discussion forums was the meathead, ugly American, “we got him and you can rot in hell, Islam” attitude that suddenly came to the forefront of so many people’s minds. I guess this underscores how sensitive an issue Osama Bin Laden represents. Apparently not so sensitive that many people (prior to today) gave it much thought in their day to day fretting over jobs, the economy, the price of gas, the 2012 election, Lindsey Lohan, etc. I guess the spontaneous celebrations are more of an emotional response by people looking for a bright spot in the news. I'll say I prefer a more considered, thoughtful, and insightful response of people that have worried and worked for years over these ideas and the role of America's power in the world. But of them all I liked Andrew Exum's post the best, about his gathering at the bar Sunday night for the press conference, because it hits close to home:

We went around, all of the veterans, each of us naming friends we had lost. I offered up Joel Cahill's name, and then that of Joe Fenty. I thought of the wives and young daughters those two men left behind, and I thought of so many more men and women who I never got the chance to know but who have given their lives since 2001.

I had told myself for years that the death of Osama bin Laden would not mean anything. Decapitation campaigns against sophisticated, mature terrorist networks, I knew, rarely yield strategic effects. But standing in that Washington bar, I was overcome with emotion.

If you consider the single-minded dedication with which the task force responsible for yesterday’s accomplishment has worked over the last decade, I think this reaction of the general public is a bit out of place. Certainly, those guys deserve a beer and a chance to celebrate. But I suspect, quiet professionals that they are, and given the investment they have in the mission in regards to training, lost friends, lost time at home, etc, that they will not be parading around waving the American flag and singing God Bless America on the steps of the White House. In fact, my first thought after “Awesome” was a quiet word of thanks to those guys and their families – not that there is no more work to do, but just the relief of a job - this job - well done. I bet among those gallant men there is some reflection, a strong sense of satisfaction, a remembrance of those lost along the way, and then a desire to kit up and get back out there.

As the details unfold of the mission, you’ll hear that they mocked-up a full scale compound for months of raid practice, (much like the Son Tay raid) and then had to pivot on the objective when an airframe had a mech failure. These are the best and brightest of America, as much or more as the denizens of any other tech, investment, industry or education sector of our county. You'll also hear about the intelligence yield from our program at Guantanamo and elsewhere, and the persistence and patience of our collection community in the targeting and planning of this operation. Try to remember about this stuff when you go back to your day to day lives and the worries that accompany them.

Now that everyone is paying attention to the War on Terror again, questions resurface about the character of our fight. What does this change? Certainly it is not the end, or even a big shift in the meaning of Al Qaida – AQ 2.0 has been in the game for several years and seems to have already executed their succession plan when Bin Laden was driven deep to hiding following Anaconda. Organized international terrorism is still a persistent and existential threat for the foreseeable future – instability across the globe still has the potential to breed unrest and sanctuaries in regions that we do not engage in a productive manner.  Will we continue to pay a billion (seriously) dollars a year to Pakistan? I bet not.

I do think that the one key achievement of the killing of Bin Laden is this - the US is now free to exit Afghanistan on the terms of our choosing, defining military and diplomatic goals, and even victory, free of the symbolic albatross that has hung ‘round our necks for so long. I haven't seen this mentioned much - perhaps it is just obvious. But this is really the #win in my mind – that the guys with 1/5 deployed to Sangin can go about their mission of engagement and COIN and stability operations – even “nation-building” – not as a placeholder for the greatest manhunt in our history, but because it is our enunciated national security policy. Or, if it is not, they can come home. But we can have that national conversation about what is an important exercise of our wealth, and power, and blood, independent of any iconic search for evil.

Hopefully this will also raise to the surface the continued work ethic and incredible sacrifice of our fellow citizens in uniform. If you have not heard of LtGen John Kelly, he has some particularly poignant remarks on the investment that these folks and their families have made in the future of our nation, at great peril to themselves and with increasingly little awareness of their real involvement. A friend reminded me just this weekend of one such example from my old haunt of Ramadi, where two young Marines from different worlds went face-to-face with the devil with fingers on the trigger. Cpl Yale and LCpl Haerter received the Navy Cross, posthumously, for their intrepidity, valor and dedication, but we don’t talk often enough about how important that spirit of service is to America. And we should, every day, consider that there are folks we call our neighbors that do not run from their post. Not for how long it takes to get the job done, if it takes 10 years or 6 seconds.

Semper Fidelis.

Semper Fidelis

November 10th, 1775. 235 years ago today our Beloved Corps was born in Tun Tavern, Philadelphia, when at the decree of the Continental Congress, Captain Samuel Nicholas, first commandant of the Marine Corps, offered guts and glory and a small tankard of ale to those few, proud strapping young men that came to be known as America's 911 Force: The United States Marines.

Not since the Spartans has a band of warriors had such a reputation for ferocity in battle and generosity at home. A breed apart, the Marines represent a fine distillation of what can be sustained by the fruit of democracy. The Marine Corps exists for two reasons alone: Making Marines, and Winning Battles.

I have always loved the imagery and cadence in the writing of John W. Thomason, a Marine Captain in World War I with the 1st Battalion, 5th Marine Regiment. His book, Fix Bayonets, if some of the finest American writing (and battlefield sketches) to come out of that war, and his essay, Leathernecks, excerpted below, is a great example.

***

LEATHERNECKS
by John W. Thomason 
THEY tell the tale of an American lady of notable good works, much esteemed by the French, who, at the end of June, 1918, visited one of the field hospitals behind Degoutte's Sixth French Army.  Degoutte was fighting on the face of the Marne salient, and the 2d American Division, then in action around the Bois de Belleau, northeast of Chateau Thierry, was under his orders.  It happened that occasional casualties of the Marine Brigade of the 2d American Division, wounded toward the flank where Degoutte's own horizon-blue infantry joined on, were picked up by French stretcher-bearers and evacuated to French hospitals.  And this lady, looking down a long, crowded ward, saw on a pillow a face unlike the fiercely whiskered Gallic heads there displayed in rows.  She went to it.

"Oh," she said, "surely you are an American!"

"No, ma'am," the casualty answered.  I'm a Marine."

The men who marched up the Paris-Metz road to meet the Boche in the spring of 1918, the 5^th and 6^th Regiments of United States Marines, were gathered from various places.  In the big war companies, 250 strong, you could find every sort of man, from every sort of calling.  There were North-westerners with straw-colored hair that looked white against their tanned skins, and delicately spoken chaps with the stamp of the Eastern universities on them.  There were large-boned fellows from Pacific-coast lumber camps, and tall, lean Southerners who swore amazingly in gentle drawling voices.  There were husky farmers from the corn-belt, and youngsters who had sprung, as it were, to arms from the necktie counter.  And there were also a number of diverse people who ran curiously to type, with drilled shoulders and a bone-deep sunburn, and a tolerant scorn of nearly everything on earth.  Their speech was flavored with navy words, and words culled from all the folk who live on the seas and the ports where our war-ships go.  In easy hours their talk ran from the Tartar Wall beyond Peking to the Southern Islands down under Manila; from Portsmouth Navy Yard-New Hampshire and very cold-to obscure bush-whackings in the West Indies, where Cacao chiefs whimsically sanguinary, barefoot generals, with names like Charlemagne and Christophe, waged war according to the precepts of the French Revolution and the Cult of the Snake.  They drank the eau de vie of Haute-Marne, and reminisced on sake, and vino, and Bacardi Rum-strange drinks in strange cantinas at the far ends of the earth; and they spoke fondly of Milwaukee beer.  Rifles were high and holy things to them, and they knew five-inch broadside guns.  They talked patronizingly of the war, and were concerned about rations.  They were the Leathernecks, the Old Timers; collected from ship's guards and shore stations all over the earth to form the 4 ^th Brigade of Marines, the two rifle regiments detached from the Department of the Navy by order of the President for service with the American Expeditionary Forces.  They were the old breed of American regular, regarding the service as home and war as an occupation; and they transmitted their temper and character and view-point to the high-hearted volunteer mass which filled the ranks of the Marine Brigade.

It is a pleasure to record that they found good company in the U. S. Army.  The 2d Division (U. S. Regular was the official designation) was composed of the 9^th and 23d Infantry, two old regiments with names from all of our wars on their battle-flags, the 2d Regiment of Engineers-and engineers are always good-and the 12^th, 15^th, and 17^th Field Artillery.  It was a division distinguished by the quality of dash and animated by an especial pride of service.  It carried to a high degree esprit de corps, which some Frenchman has defined as esteeming your own corps and looking down on all the other corps.  And although it paid heavily in casualties for the things it did-in five months about 100 per cent-the 2d Division never lost its professional character.

Seven years after, across the world from France, I met a major of the American General Staff, who was on the Paris-Metz road that last week in May, 1918, and saw the Marine Brigade.  "They looked fine, coming in there," he said.  "Tall fellows, healthy and fit-they looked hard and competent.  We watched you going in, through those little tired Frenchmen, and we all felt better.  We knew something was going to happen-" and we were silent, over Chilean wine, in a place on the South Pacific, thinking of those days and those men.

There is no sight in all the pageant of war like young, trained men going up to battle.  The columns look solid and businesslike.  Each battalion is an entity, 1,200 men of one purpose.  They go on like a river that flows very deep and strong.  Uniforms are drab these days, but there are points of light on the helmets and the bayonets, and light in the quick, steady eyes and the brown young faces, greatly daring.  There is no singing-veterans know, and they do not sing much-and there is no excitement at all; they are schooled crafts-men going up to impose their will, with the tools of their trade, on another lot of fellows; and there is nothing to make a fuss about.  Battles are not salubrious places, and every file knows that a great many more are going in than will come out again-but that goes along with the job.  And they have no illusions about the job.

There is nothing particularly glorious about sweaty fellows, laden with killing tools, going along to fight.  And yet-such a column represents a great deal more than 28,000 individuals mustered into a division.  All that is behind those men is in that column too:   the old battles, long forgotten, that secured our nation-Brandywine and Trenton and Yorktown, San Jacinto and Chapultepec, Gettysburg, Chickamauga, Antietam, El Caney; scores of skirmishes, far off, such as the Marines have nearly every year in which a man can be killed as dead as ever a chap in the Argonne; traditions of things endured and things accomplished, such as regiments hand down forever; and the faith of men and the love of women; and that abstract thing called patriotism, which I never heard combat soldiers mention-all this passes into the forward zone, to the point of contact, where war is girt with horrors.  Common men endure these horrors and overcome them, along with the insistent yearnings of the belly and the reasonable promptings of fear; and in this, I think, is glory.

In Charles the Second's time the English formed the first sea regiment-soldiers equipped as infantry, to serve on the sea in the fleet; to clear with musketry the enemy's decks and fighting-tops when the ship's of the line went into close action; to go ashore, and take up positions when the naval forces seized a base preliminary to land operations of the army.

Here by the way, comes the quip of old time:  "Tell it to the Marines."  They relate of Charles the Second that at Whitehall a certain sea-captain, newly returned from the Western Ocean, told the king of flying fish, a thing never heard in old England.  The king and the court were vastly amused.  But, the naval fellow persisting, the Merry Monarch beckoned to a lean, dry colonel of the sea regiment, with a seamed mahogany face, and said, in effect:  "Colonel, this tarry-breeks here makes sport with us stay-at-homes.  He tells us of a miraculous fish that forsakes its element and flies like a bird over the water."  "Sire," said the Colonel of Marines, "he tells a true thing.  I myself have often seen those fish in your Majesty's seas around Barbados-...."  "Well," decided Charles, "such evidence cannot be disputed.  And hereafter, when we hear a strange thing, we will tell it to the Marines, for the Marines go everywhere and see everything, and if they say is is so, we will believe it!"

The Continental Congress, on 10 November, 1775, authorized a corps of American Marines.  This was the first Federal armed force to be raised by the young nation, and it antedated both the Federal army and navy, which had until that time, been matters of individual commonwealths.  And since that date Marines have participated honorably in all American wars, and in some affairs, more or less interesting, where powder was burnt but which do not rate as wars.    

Captain Richard Dale's Marines served with John Paul Jones, and manned the fighting tops of his ship, the Bonhomme Richard.   The task of the Marines was to shoot down on the enemy ships, attending, in particular, to enemy officers.  When the crew of one ship boarded another, it was difficult or impossible to tell friend from foe from high above.  For that reason Marines officers adopted the peculiar device that resembled an embroidered cross so that their marksmen could tell friend from foe.  Look at any Marine officers barracks or dress hat.  You'll continue to see that same device embroidered there as a tribute to those long ago Marines who fought so gallantly some two-hundred years ago.  Marines love tradition. 

Those Marines in the fighting tops were also tasked, when possible, to drop explosive devices on the decks, or better yet through the hatches of enemy ships.  Such a device thrown from the fighting tops of the Richard set off the powder-magazine of H. M. S. Serapis. This event turned the tide of events in favor of the poor old Richard, in the fight off Flamborough Head.  There were United States Marines in Barney's naval force, formed across the Bladensburg Road, when Admiral Cockburn's people marched to burn Washington; and they stayed there until the line was turned by British regulars and they were all, including Barney, casualties;  it was the only material resistance the British met.  Marines marched to Mexico City in 1846; the red stripe on the blue trousers of officers and non-commissioned officers commemorates to this day service in that war.  Marines served in the Civil War very widely:  Marines died on Henry Hill at First Manassas  and on the fire-swept beaches in front of  Fort Fisher, and on the Mississippi around Vicksburg and Island No. 10.  Colonel Huntington's Marines took Guantanamo, landing from the U. S. S. Marblehead in 1898.  They marched to Peking in 1900, and were in the legation guard shut up there during the Boxer trouble.  Cuba knows them, and the Philippines.  They were ashore at Vera Cruz in 1914; every uneasy and volatile Wet Indian and Central American republic has become acquainted with them in a professional way, and their appearance at storm centers has always produced very presently a sweet tranquility.  The navy takes them there, and sends bluejackets and chow along always.  Every capital ship carries a guard of them.  Aboard ship, besides forming the nucleus of the ship's landing force, they man the secondary batteries, the five-inch guns; furnish guards of honor for the comings and goings of the admiral and distinguished visitors, and so forth; perform all manner of curious and annoying details; and post ship's sentries whose meticulous ideas about the enforcement of orders lacerate the souls of jolly mariners, seamen, and engineer ratings.  Normally, the strength of the corps is twenty per cent of the navy; just now there are about 19,000.  They constitute an organization within an organization, with their own commandant, who functions under the Secretary of the Navy, as a separate and distinct service like the U. S. Navy, as in the past, in time of war, the U. S. Coast Guard.  The rank and file are good enough Latinists to know what "Semper Fidelis"-which is their word-means; and any private will assure you the Marines are a corps d'elite.

In 1917, when trained Soldiers in the United States were at a premium, the Navy Department offered a Brigade of Marines for service in France; it was regarded desirable for Marine officers to have experience in large operations with the army; for it is certain that close co-operation between the army and the navy is a necessary thing in these days of far-flung battle lines.  The British distress at Gallipoli is a crying witness to this principle.  In a navy transport, therefore, U. S. S. Henderson, the 5^th Regiment of Marines embarked for France in June, 1917,with the first armed American forces.  The 6^th Marines followed.  The two regiments constituted the 4^th Brigade, and served in the 2d Division.  U. S. Regular, until the division came home in August, 1919.  About 30,000 Marines were sent to France; some 14,000 of these were replacements to maintain the two regiments of the 4 ^th Brigade.  A brigade musters some 7,500 officers and men; this brigade took part in some very interesting events.

Elsewhere, I have written of the Marines in the war with Germany; how they went up, and what they did there, and how some of them came out again.  Being a Marine, I have tried to set forth simple tales without comment.  It is unnecessary to write what I think of my own people, nor would it be, perhaps, in the best taste.



And I have written of Marines in this war because they are the folks I know about myself.  Those battle-fields were very large, and a man seldom saw much or very far beyond his own unit, if he had a job in hand.  As a company officer, I always had a job.  There is no intent to overlook those very gallant gentlemen, our friends, the U. S. Army.  Their story is ours, too. 

***

This is what happens...

When Daddy makes poor little Caroline's bottles for school:

How am I going to explain this excessive esprit-de-corps to the ladies at daycare? I thought we had learned our lessons with the flippers episode..

Eating my words

I was delighted to post back in January that I had sat through my last first day of school. I thought to myself that day, "surely if I can only get through the 19th Grade unscathed, I will finally be smart enough to be unleashed on the world!" Now, only 9 short months later, I regret to inform you that I am at it again. Like eating boiled crow, indeed.

I had my first day of work at Elon University today, bolstering the already talented Advancement Office's bench strength by filling the post of Assistant Director of Gift Planning. Just so youse know, any of youse out there want to be giving away money, you come and talk to me first. So long as you are giving to Elon!

Not only that, but I am blogging right now because I am halfway through my assigned reading for my first class at NYU Law's famed Tax LL.M. program, which I am pleased to be taking via teh internets. Ah technology. Actually, it may not be too different from actually attending class - half of that felt like I was just watching a videotape of the professor, anyhow.

Seriously, this is exciting to be doing, even if tonight's reading is all about cash and accrual accounting methods and how they are treated under the Internal Revenue Code.

Oh well. Wish me luck.

Matilda's New Clothes

Faithful readers:

You will notice as you read this post that Waltzing Matilda has gone through a recent redesign. I have been trying out some of Blogger's new design templates, primarily to increase the width of the post column to support the 16:9 YouTube format. I know you will miss the custom photo header of the old design, but rest assured that the photo backdrop you see is just another in the series of pictures I took along the Black Mountain Crest Trail, looking West over the Cane River valley, just north of Mount Mitchell.

I am interested to get your feedback about the new formatting, the readability and how the blog displays in your browser. We're happy to receive your remarks in the Comments section, and if there is something that looks effed up on your screen, please let me know what browser/resolution/etc you are using.

Cheers,
The Management

The Power of Facebook

So, I have posted before about my unbridled eagerness for more blog statistics, which Google/Blogger has handily provides with their built-in stats tool. And I have watched with excitement as people the world-over travel to Waltzing Matilda at the rate of about 25 people per day. But as cool as the stats are, they don't make their own traffic.

WM gets a lot of referrals from the Schueler's, the Williams', and Meredith Daniels, as well as random Google searches that stumble across our unique, varied, and enigmatic content. But imagine my surprise to log on today and see over 250 pageviews yesterday! Thanks to Rachel's Facebook post highlighting Callie and Caroline's recent photo shoot, over 100-something different people clicked the link.

Just goes to show, you can put whatever you want on the internet and it will just languish in semi-oblivion. But as soon as you dump it into the stream of social media with your stamp of approval, you might just hit the jackpot.

Fix Bayonets!

On the evening of June 1st, 1918, Marines from the 5th Marine Regiment serving under the command of the U.S. Army Expeditionary Force conducted a forced march along the road to Chateau-Thierry, and plugged into the line against the Boche. One of my very favorite books is Fix Bayonets!, written by Captain John W. Thomason of First Battalion, 5th Marines. The cadence and imagery of his prose and his battlefield sketches do credit to the esprit-de-corps of the Marines in a way that few other authors have, before or since:

There is no sight in all the pageant of war like young, trained men going up to battle. The columns look solid and businesslike. Each battalion is an entity, 1,200 men of one purpose. They go on like a river that flows very deep and strong. Uniforms are drab these days, but there are points of light on the helmets and the bayonets, and light in the quick, steady eyes and the brown young faces, greatly daring. There is no singing—veterans know, and they do not sing much—and there is no excitement at all; they are schooled craftsmen, going up to impose their will, with the tools of their trade, on another lot of fellows; and there is nothing to make a fuss about. Battles are not salubrious places, and every file knows that a great many more are going in than will come out again—but that is along with the job. And they have no illusions about the job.

There is nothing particularly glorious about sweaty fellows, laden with killing tools, going along to fight. And yet—such a column represents a great deal more than 28,000 individuals mustered into a division. All that is behind those men is in that column, too: the old battles, long forgotten, that secured our nation—Brandywine and Trenton and Yorktown, San Jacinto and Chapultepec, Gettysburg, Chickamauga, Antietam, El Caney; scores of skirmishes, far off, such as the Marines have nearly every year—in which a man can be killed as dead as ever a chap was in the Argonne; traditions of things endured and things accomplished, such as regiments hand down forever; and the faith of men and the love of women; and that abstract thing called patriotism, which I never heard combat soldiers mention—all this passes into the forward zone, to the point of contact, where war is girt with horrors. And common men endure these horrors and overcome them, along with the insistent yearnings of the belly and the reasonable promptings of fear; and in this, I think, is glory.

THEY LOOKED FINE, COMING IN THERE . . . THROUGH THOSE LITTLE TIRED FRENCHMEN.

Semper Fidelis, Marines.

Bonus Update: On tonight's edition of Jeopardy!, the $1200 question in the category "Woodrow Wilson's War" featured the 5th and 6th Marine Regiments at Belleau Wood.

Juris Doctor

The older I get and the more children I have, the less I can remember things, especially dates. So now I sequence my life based on events and today was one such occasion that will forever be a mile marker on my life path. My beautiful husband graduated law school.

Three years of legal pads and law books and late night clackety-clacking on his laptop into the late hours of the night have surprisingly gone by in the blink of an eye. Today, with our families in tow, we proudly watched him walk the stage Magna Cum Laude and become Stephen Shaw, JD. Even Jack seemed to feel the importance of his entrance to Pomp and Circumstance which will always give me goosebumps for the instant recognition of the work needed to get to march to that beautiful song.

I just couldn't be more proud of my husband, not only for his accomplishments (which I could list for pages only to get edited off this blog once he saw them posted) but also for the way he's managed to take care of us, his little nuclear family, while he himself was under the strain of pencils, books, essays, and exams.

Perhaps the very best part of this weekend was watching Stephen's father beam with the pride only a father can know whilst Jackson sat atop his shoulders with the carefree glee only a son riding high on his father's strength can feel. It was a generational portrait of the way men are supposed to be raised. Excellence and respect by example. And our son could not be any luckier than to have these men to be his guide.

I also couldn't help but think, as I watched our young little family mingling in the park reception, that it will be way too soon when I am sitting in a living room not yet laid out, with a photo album in my lap, thinking of how much has happened since today and how we had no idea how much fuller and richer our lives were going to get.

Today is one of my milestone days that I will pivot my memory around and I can't thank you enough for it, Matilda. Congratulations and I love you.


[Editor's note: Amazingly, I have refrained from removing anything from this post; more pictures located at http://picasaweb.google.com/stephen.forest.shaw/Graduation02# /Matilda]

Badass Extract

Sweet shot:

U.S. Special Forces are extracted from a mountain pinnacle in Zabul province,

Afghanistan,by a U.S. Army UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter from Company A,

2nd Bn, 82nd Aviation Reg't,82nd Combat Aviation Brigade after executing an

air assault mission to disrupt insurgent communication.

Read more: http://kitup.military.com/#ixzz0n0Z8HOYD; High-res is here.

Gotta love the Aussies...

Matilda owes much of its lineage to the fighting prowess of the ANZAC warriors. So we were not surprised to see a preview of some of the latest sniper-training technology show up at this western Australia SOF training facility.

The Rover system by Marathon applies state-of-the-art robotic technology to live-fire sniper training. This approach simultaneously improves realism and challenge of training while reducing the overall cost of ownership.

With the Rover system, a single instructor can conduct complex long-duration scenarios with multiple free-ranging targets. No need to use a joystick – just give the command and off they go, following a pre-orchestrated scenario. When a target is shot, it provides instant visual feedback by stopping and dropping its mannequin. It simultaneously sends a message to other targets, who can react by running for cover.

Fast-forward to 4:45 for some real "action". My favorite part? When one robot is shot, the others "run for cover." Awesomeness.

Apparently, the Segway is more useful than just giving cops another way to do their job without having to actually walk..

Bridge Running

Last weekend, we made the long but much needed drive to Charleston for what I would like to become a reliable annual pilgrimage.

At the 33rd edition of the Cooper River Bridge Run in Charleston SC, I finished my 8th Bridge Run in a time of - well, a respectable time given my "relatively advanced age" (as my father tends to characterize it). At least, I think it was my 8th running - may have done more, but my records are a bit spotty.

Thinking back, I realized my first race was in 1992, the last year the race was held on the oldest of the three spans, the John P. Grace Memorial Bridge (which opened in 1929). I still remember the unnerving sensation of running on a bridge rocked by undulations as 7,000 runners made the crossing.

The next year, 1993, and the races following in '94 and '95, the race was held on the Silas N. Pearman Bridge, a luxurious three lanes in width. This testament to modern engineering had only been around since 1966.

College interrupted my running for a while, particularly since most of our crew races were held in the spring. I returned in 2001 and 2002 to post a PR of 43:07, and then again in 2007 for my first race on the "new" Cooper River bridge, the Arthur Ravenel Jr. Bridge. I have to say, it took some getting used to, adjusting to the width and substance of the one-humped iteration this span represents. I think the race was more interesting on the old spans, to be honest, even though they are (were) steeper in grade than the Ravenel bridge and had two spans (read: uphill).

This picture and the one preceding are terrific shots showing all three spans as they co-existed before the demolition of the Pearman and Grace bridges in the fall of 2005. These photos were taken from Charleston Harbor by my friend Will Bean.

2010 was my first race in Charleston since Jack was born, but I wasn't too much worse for wear - faster than '07, at least. Just over 33,000 of my closest friends finished the course this year, and Simon Ndirangu of Kenya crossed the line to win while I was nearing the halfway point. Oh well - there's always next year!

NB: Older photo courtesy Wikipedia; modern shots by Will Bean.

Down the British!

Last weekend we had the good fortune to attend the annual re-enactment of the Battle of Guilford Courthouse, ca. 1781. There, 4000 Continentals and Militia under the leadership of Gen'l Nathanael Greene laid a whooping on the damn redcoats, relinquishing the field but at the cost of such extreme casualties that the British Southern Army was eventually required to withdraw to Yorktown.

Jack had a pretty good time too. He didn't even flinch much when the cannons went off - he may have a little warrior in him yet. At right, you can see the neatly covered and aligned tents of the 2d No. Carolina Regt. (the 6th was also in attendance).

Tradition!

Who, day and night, must scramble for a living,
Feed a wife and children, say his daily prayers?
And who has the right, as master of the house,
To have the final word at home?

The Papa, the Papa! Tradition.
The Papa, the Papa! Tradition.

Who must know the way to make a proper home,
A quiet home, a kosher home?
Who must raise the family and run the home,
So Papa's free to read the holy books?

The Mama, the Mama! Tradition!
The Mama, the Mama! Tradition!

I had to laugh a bit tonight when Doc raised her eyebrows at my invocation tonight of "The Papa, the Papa! - Tradition!" Of course I didn't realize she hadn't seen the movie. L'll be the first to admit that my comments were a little (ok, a lot) tongue-in-cheek, since there is only one person in this house with a job and it ain't Good Ol' Matilda. But it is the very fact that we have our own very wonderful traditions - partnership, equality, appreciation - that makes this sort of exchange something we can really laugh at. Kaynahorah!

Happy Birthday, Banjo Paterson!

Today, this blog pays tribute to the Australian A.B. "Banjo" Paterson, the original author of the folk song "Waltzing Matilda." Banjo was born on Feb 17th, 1864, and also wrote the famous poem "The Man From Snowy River," later made into a movie.

Incidentally, this is also the birthday of Thomas Malthus, noted British economist and evidently the co-inspiration for most of Andre Bauer's opinions on welfare and free school lunches. Mr. Bauer's other inspiration? His grandma.

A sad day..

I know this is a bit of an odd time to post a September 11th remembrance post, but I just stumbled across the most incredible set of photographs that I just had to share.

On that star-crossed Tuesday, airspace control was understandably tight and NYPD Detective Greg Semendinger was the only photographer aloft in a police helicopter. As a result, this series of photographs are the only aerial shots of the attack and the ensuing disaster. Heartwrenching? Yes. Critical to our national understanding? Absolutely.

Courtesy of NYPD and the New York Times:

Remember the Maine.

Got. To. Have. One.

You know that I have posted previously about the wondrousness that is the world of anti-personnel mines - my favorite of course being the M18A1 Claymore, which includes the helpful instruction of "Front Towards Enemy."

I know it is wrong to covet. But Quantico Tactical is one of those great stores that you just feel compelled to support, and the ad I got today in an email is just one of those "must have" occasions. Imagine how cool it would be to have your very own Claymore attached to the receiver hitch on the back of your car. Well, thanks to the brilliant folks at QTS, here's your chance:

My order's been placed. Support your local "hero store" and order one today.

Last First Day of School

I got started off this morning with an introduction to the Law of Remedies, or more precisely “The means by which a legal right is enforced, or the manner by which a violation of a legal right is prevented, redressed, vindicated or compensated.” Fun stuff.

As I sat there, it occurred to me (mainly by noticing everyone else's Facebook and Twitter posts) that this is my last First Day of School. Kind of a milestone, and while no one knows what fate and happenstance may bring, I expect I will not find myself sitting in a classroom again as a student for quite some time. I have to say, both the intellectual pursuits and the pace of life these last three years have been a treat and I have tried hard to enjoy this phase of my life.

Bar prep starts Tuesday and late July will begin looming over the horizon. But for now -particularly after a wonderfully tasty gyro at Jack's Corner Grille with Doc - this has been a pretty good day.

"Three Lessons of Fatherhood" and "Lost In Space"

1. Feeding bananas to a toddler, particularly as a matter of habit, has a fairly substantial constipating effect;

2. Not feeding bananas to a toddler for approximately two days substantially diminishes the aforementioned effect;

3. "Danger, Will Robinson, Danger!"

Thirty one reasons

1) I love your Barry White voice and how little old ladies melt when you talk.

2) I love that you can bench press me, even if you do workouts named after other women.

3) I love your crooked smile that you give about freely and the twinkle in your eye when you're trying to get something you know you shouldn't have.

4) I love how you can stand up and give a fire-cracker speech about absolutely anything off the cuff.

5) I love your ingenuity and watching you fix just about anything, except maybe the toilet.

6) I love how well you can pack 1000 square feet of my luggage into our car.

7) I love that you don't (usually) complain about my excessive luggage.

8) I love you for that first picnic and that first run in the rain.

9) I love your hair and all the different directions it points at various times of the day.

10) I love the conversations we have in the middle of the night when you are sleepwalking, even when you tell me to go get into the dishwasher.

11) I love you for that time at your apartment right after graduation when you made everything perfect.

12) I love you because you've loved me since before I knew it and still now when sometimes I don't deserve it.

13) I love you because you're so funny, even when you don't mean to be.

14) I love you because you're _always_ happy and that makes me happy.

15) I love how tenderhearted you are and that you've given that trait to our son.

16) I love your height and that somehow you make my giant frame feel dainty.

17) I love your laugh, especially when it's so hard you can't breathe.

18) I love how you chase our son with as much joy as he gets from crawling away from you.

19) I love your sense of direction and your ability to tell which way is North just by looking out the window.

20) I love that you've fought overseas for our country just because you thought it was the right thing to do but gave it up when I asked you to.

21) I love that you know how to kill a man with your hands but that you have the most gentle soul of anyone I've ever known.

22) I love your unparalleled integrity.

23) I love that we have the same music tastes and I adore that I can predict when you're going to belt out to Willy Nelson or Johnny Cash when you start banging on the steering wheel.

24) I love how open you are to trying new things, even if they are green and leafy.

25) I love that you hate to argue and love to make up.

26) I love that our son has you as the example for all that a man is supposed to be.

27) I love how selfless you are no matter how tired or hungry or pained you are.

28) I love your cooking.

29) I love that you are my partner in absolutely everything and that being with you is the only place I really ever want to be.

30) I love how endless your memory is and how much of an asset you are when I need to impress someone.

31) I love you because I always have, beyond my understanding, and always will, beyond this life and the next.

Happy Birthday, dearest.

I love you.

November 10th, 1775

Happy Birthday, Marines!

(and kudos to Maj Smith for making a guest appearance at 0:25!)