My man Hal Walter chats on camera with The New York Times about the great outdoors, racing burros, and raising an autistic child.
Hal is also working on an expanded edition of his book “Endurance,” and I’ll post a link to that when it goes live.
Our long national nightmare is at an end.
I’m not talking about The Hilldebeast’s emails, which continue to be the gift that keeps on giving, even when they’re apparently not even hers. No, I’m talking about the imminent return to El Rancho Pendejo of Herself, who has been road-tripping for two weeks through Tennessee, Colorado and Utah.
The Boo will be ecstatic, or as close to that state as is Boo-manly possible (an excitable boy he is not).
Herself is the only human he really cares about. I am deemed suitable for short periods as a food delivery/excretion collection specialist (second class), but when she is around The Boo wouldn’t piss on me if I were on fire.
Oddly, though, his favorite spot for daytime naps — even if she’s home — is my office, just behind my chair. Go figure.
Meanwhile, yesterday in my capacity as commander of the 29er Jones Mechanized Infantry, I seized the Hillsdale Loop in the name of the people. Being a heavily armed elderly white guy I went unmolested by law enforcement. But I eventually gave it back anyway. Hey, somebody has to let The Boo out.
And finally, Khal checks in from scenic metropolitan Bombtown, where he is recovering from some medical experiments and limited to hollering at Siri via iPhone:
I am in an immobilization sling for another month so typing is “hunt and peck” with my left hand. Hence I don’t do too much of it.
It’s getting to the point where I might be able to take off the sling in a couple weeks to carefully work the right arm so might regain my voice, so to speak, and that will be a relief.
Probably no biking till January except on the stationary torture setup.
—K
P.S.: All the best to you and the gang.
It rained like a mad bastard here yesterday, just as Herself was driving (more like hydroplaning) home from work. If a fella wanted to waterboard someone, well, that would’ve been the time to do it. Just hold ’em face down in the cul-de-sac until they bubble “The Star-Spangled Banner.”
Just that morning we had air-shipped Herself the Elder back to Tennessee after a five-day visit, and a lucky gal she was, having hit the sweet spot, weatherwise. The three of us spent an inordinate amount of time on the back patio with Mister Boo and the cats, watching the birds go to town on their various feeders. Though Mister Boo was mostly watching the door, being aware that his food was on the other side of it.
We have a couple more days of this sort of thing before the weather returns to normal, but I’m not complaining. As some of you noted earlier, the lawn is looking pretty a’ight, and if God is watering it, that means I don’t have to.
Meanwhile, stay tuned for some exciting news from Apple! Word is the new iPhone may not have a headphone jack! Film, as they say, at 11.
There was bad blood on my dad’s side of the family. We never learned the cause of it, and while we met his mother, sister and various cousins from the O’Grady clan, his brother remained a mystery.
The two men didn’t speak for something like a quarter century, and while a reunion was finally arranged while I was off at college, I don’t have the impression that the hatchet was ever completely buried, though my uncle and I share a middle name.
Dad rarely discussed his World War II service beyond the light bits, like occasionally ferrying some celebrity around, and while we got some hints as regards his war years from Mom, I came to think of her as something of a fabulist, a storyteller, putting a bit of spin on every tale. As a copy editor I retained a healthy skepticism.
But whaddaya know? While casting about for a fresh take on the old man’s war for today’s Memorial Day post, I stumbled across a newspaper report confirming pretty much everything I’d heard about his brother, Charles Declan O’Grady.
Like Dad, Uncle Dec was a member of the U.S. Army Air Corps, but assigned to the 504th Bombardment Group, 313th Bomb Wing, operating from Tinian in the Mariana Islands. While Dad flew C-47s out of New Guinea, Uncle Dec was occupying the other end of the aircraft as a tail gunner in a B-29, the “Dinah Might.”
He was credited with destroying a Japanese fighter during a mission to Aichi Prefecture in Japan, on June 25, 1945. The very next day, Dec’s bomber was shot down over Ise Wan bay, near Nagoya, one of the largest centers of the Japanese aircraft industry; he bailed out and was rescued by a Navy sub, one of seven crew members to survive.
Twice wounded during the war, Dec was honorably discharged in August 1945, returned to his law practice in Perry, Fla., and eventually was elected Taylor County judge.
Dad, as you will recall, stayed in the Air Force until his 30 was up; he didn’t retire until I was in my first year of college.
And I didn’t meet Uncle Dec until Dad’s funeral, eight years later.
The Crud is undefeated and still champeen. It finally got Herself, the last holdout in the Maryland Four, and as I understand it the past couple of days have been as unpleasant as a close working relationship with Ted Cruz.
She’s on her way home as we speak, and I hope she (a) left The Crud back in Maryland, and (2) in her weakened condition doesn’t collect another bug from the pressurized aluminum test tube busy folks use as transportation in these modern times (que viva Air Subaru, baby).
Freelance rumormongers don’t get sick days. We don’t work, we don’t eat. Especially if we’re too busy barfing to cook.
Mad Blog Media 